Adrenaline Crush (8 page)

“That's what you want your education to be? A ‘piece of cake'?”

“No, it's not like that.” I try to backtrack. “Dad, there's all sorts of research showing how homeschooled kids are high achievers. Besides…” I clutch the bowl to my chest and walk my hand along the counter toward the table. “You saw how great Harley did in high school and what's he doing with his life now?” It's true. Harley's so smart he got excellent grades without even trying, but he's been killing off brain cells since graduation.

Dad sighs and studies his oatmeal, and I'm hit with guilt. Harley not living up to his potential is a sore spot, especially since he was offered several academic college scholarships. Instead he enrolled in the nearby Culinary Institute of America, claiming he wanted to be a chef at the Mohonk Mountain House. It seemed like a cool plan, but then, half a semester later, he discovered skydiving and quit. The supermarket is just the latest in a string of local McJobs he's had over the past two years. He's developed a reputation for not showing up for work on clear sunny days.

“I'm not talking about your brother,” Dad says. “Dyna, if you're looking at homeschooling as an easy way out, well then, that's not the girl I've raised.”

I blink at the sting. “Homeschooling was Mom's idea.”

“Okay, firstly, I love the woman to death, but your mother has completely lost her cheese over your accident. I'm only going along with this crazy voodoo therapy place to keep the peace.”

I say with fake ditziness, “I can't understand why talking about my feelings isn't making my ankle better yet.”

Dad lets out a chuckle that fills me.

“I have to go camping with them next Saturday,” I groan. “What is that about?”

He raises a fuzzy eyebrow at me. “Since when do you not like the outdoors, Dyna Glider?”

“It's not that. Some girl in my group got mauled by a bear and now we're all supposed to go hold her hand out in the woods. Like that's going to prove something.”

“Okay, so the asylum is being run by the lunatics. I get that. But going camping won't kill you. And neither would high school. Maybe you can stick with therapy until school starts and then we can find you some sort of evening and weekend sessions.”

I knew homeschooling was too easy.

I think fast. “Dad, I'm supposed to graduate this year, and with hiking and climbing out of the picture I don't even know what's next. Homeschooling will give me a chance to figure out what to do with my life. I'll work hard on my education as I explore other interests.”

Dad grumbles, “If you think for one moment that watching television on the couch next to that moldy slice of white bread counts as
exploring other interests
, then you need to think again.”

“Please stop,” I plead. “If Jay knew you called him Whitebread he'd probably break up with me.”

“Good.” Dad looks pleased and I slap his arm right below the naked angel tattoo. I always ignore the fact that the angel has Mom's face on it. “I'll stop calling him Whitebread when he faces me and starts acting a little whole grain or rye.” Dad chuckles. “Maybe shows a nice swirl of pumpernickel?”

“Oh yeah?” I say, flustered. “Well, I think Jay is
Wonder
bread.” Dad laughs so hard at that I eventually crack up, too. “Okay, so that didn't sound so dorky in my head,” I say. “But Jay's really a nice guy.”

Dad grunts and mimics me in a girly voice, “Nice guy.” He levels me a look. “You are much too special for some
nice guy
, Dyna.”

“He's a
special
guy, too, Dad.”

“The only thing that kid has going for him is the fact that he's ass over tits for you, sweetheart. But you need to ask yourself this … What do
you
see in
him
?”

I crinkle my nose. “I like him.”

“Well, a person who's in love with you can be a pretty likable thing.” Dad leans over his bowl and adds, “Especially when you're feeling vulnerable.” He points his spoon at me as if he's just made a startling point and shovels a heaping bite of oatmeal into his mouth.

I swallow my smart-ass response with a spoonful of cereal and the thought
He's just upset to see his little Dyna Glider so in love
.

 

10

Polly clutches a can of “bear spray” that's almost as big as her head as she climbs from the van at the campsite. It's only four o'clock and we're all prisoners of the outdoors until tomorrow morning.

I'm thinking this excursion is too soon. Polly hasn't exactly had any sort of healing circle
breakthrough
in the past two weeks of sessions. In fact, she usually spends her sharing time talking about getting dumped by her ex-boyfriend.

She's huddled beside the Ulysses van now, hugging her backpack with her bear spray cocked and ready. Her beautiful features are drawn in worry as her one eye darts back and forth.

The whole gang's here, except for Workout Barbie, who doesn't do recovery assignments. Too bad we'll miss out on her Camp Barbie accessory kit. I picture a pink sleeping bag, pink lantern, and pink binoculars lined up neatly beside a shiny pink plastic tent.

Miss offered to let Rita take a pass, but Rita seems thrilled to be here, with her braids poking out from her faded black Mötley Crüe baseball cap. Meanwhile, Miss refused to let me stay home despite the fact that I'm still adjusting to the new ankle brace I got at the doctor's yesterday. It's basically a dorky white plastic form that attaches with Velcro straps, and we're calling it Son of Frankenfoot. It doesn't come up as high on my calf, so now the top inch of raw scar shows when I wear shorts, which is most of the time.

The doctor said I'm healing well and told me I'm cleared to put 50 percent pressure on my foot with the new brace, but I miss the sturdiness of Frankenfoot. Mom got me a funky birchwood cane that's actually sort of cool-looking as far as geriatric accessories go, but I brought my crutches camping. The doc said, “Let pain be your guide,” and my pain is guiding me to stay the hell off my foot.

I'm sitting at the picnic table with my backpack on my lap waiting for Miss to finish putting up the girls' tent. Pierce walks by with an armload of tent poles and nods my way. “Hey, Dyna, you mind gathering some kindling?”

I'm not sure if I'm more annoyed by the fact that he's asked me to do something when I don't even want to be here, or if I'm just pissed because he's trying to give me the girly job of collecting twigs.

“Let Polly pick up sticks.” I toss my bag onto the ground. Grabbing one of my crutches, I hobble over to give Miss a hand with the tent. Just because I haven't been camping in a while doesn't mean I don't know how to be useful.

Banging a tent peg into the hard ground with a hammer, I look back just as Pierce finishes putting up the boys' tent with a flourish. I ask Miss, “Hey, do you need me to chop wood or something after this?”

“Glad to see you're embracing the struggle, Dyna,” she says. “Of course we need plenty of firewood, and the workout will do you good.”

Which is how I end up trying to keep my weight off my bad leg as I hack away at logs with the giant ax Miss gave me. Nothing is cooperating. I feel Pierce watching me but refuse to make eye contact. Finally, he comes over and offers to teach me how to chop firewood.

I try to brush off his help, but falter as I swing down. The ax slips away from the wood and Pierce bends and catches it near the head after it barely misses Son of Frankenfoot. I'm shocked by his strength and speechless as he eases the ax from my hands.

“Whoa,” he says. “May want to keep that leg, you'll get it working eventually.”

I don't look at him, but I can feel his smile aimed at my neck. I try to act as if I nearly chopped my leg off on purpose. “I'm used to a hatchet,” I explain.

“Oh, well, in that case, I think I brought one.”

“That's okay. I'm getting the hang of it,” I lie. I'm actually getting worse as my arms get tired, but I refuse to admit defeat to him. I grip the ax with new determination and will myself to channel a lumberjack.

Instead of laughing at me as I expect, he says, “Fine,” and moves to stand close behind me. He puts one hand on my hip and covers my hands on the ax with the other. “What you want to do is find the seam in the wood and really lodge the ax in there hard.” His voice flows through the curtain of my hair. “Then use the weight of it to do the work for you.”

With a firm
thunk
he demonstrates this one-handed, while my fists remain on the handle as decoration. The ax head buries itself in the wood. Pierce guides my hand in raising the ax and the log travels up with it. Together, we drive the ax down against the hard ground, and sure enough, the blade buries deeper into the log. The split is nice and wide now, and it's with satisfaction that I lift the ax to deliver the death blow.

I feel Pierce ease off my hip as he allows me the victory.

Crack!
The log separates and I grin. “See that?” I call out.

“Good job,” Miss says, as she throws a handful of kindling into the fire pit. Somehow, that chore doesn't seem so girly anymore.

“I think you've got this.” Pierce gives a hop backward before turning to help with the giant red cooler Frank and Sparky are carrying. Frank's fake arm sticks out from under the lid so it looks like there's a body crammed inside. I can't help but laugh.

Miss recites a little motivational speech about how proud she is we're all supporting Polly, and then she asks Sparky if he minds getting the fire going.

Despite our sadistic therapist's taste for irony in having the burn-scarred guy build the fire, I'm glad Sparky starts on it right away. We're a week and a half into August, but it's a little chilly up here in the woods by the time he gets it rolling.

The smell of the campfire sets off something deep and happy in my brain. Like a photo album just fell open, I'm remembering a dozen camping trips with my family all at once. I smile at the image of me and Harley catching frogs as Mom and Dad argue about where to set up the tent. The warm days of swimming in lakes and cool nights roasting marshmallows blend together in my mind.

After we've slogged through the rituals of cooking, eating, and cleaning up, the group sits on canvas camp chairs holding our hands toward the licking flames. Polly is busy scanning the black tree line, even though it's too dark to see anything by now.

I'm wedged between Miss and Polly and my leg refuses to find a comfortable position in the chair I'm in. As I shift my weight my crutches slide down with a loud clatter.

Before any of us know what's happening, Polly jumps up, spins around, and frantically starts spraying her bear spray into the empty air behind her chair.

Pssssssssht
echoes through the woods as a growing cloud of fog shoots out of the nozzle.

Polly grunts as she continues gripping the can with both hands, elbows locked. The mist spreads and my nose starts to sting with a spicy stench that reminds me of wasp spray. I watch through burning eyes as a blurry Miss just sits there observing calmly. The rest of us seem stuck to our chairs.

Everyone, that is, except Pierce. He bounds over to Polly and grabs her hands from behind. Polly's face contorts with fear and she tries to turn her spray in his direction. I hold my breath, waiting for him to get a faceful of bear spray, but Pierce continues to hold her hands firmly, all of his muscles flexed.

He whispers something in her ear.

Finally, the spray stops, her arms go limp, and he eases the can out of her shaking hands. Sounds of coughing and gagging fill the air and everyone rubs at their eyes.

Polly stands frozen in the center of the circle while tears from her good eye glint in the firelight. Her face crumples and she turns to bury it in Pierce's shoulder. He keeps an arm around her, smoothing her hair with his palm as he stares into the trees. It's as if he's watching an intense scene play out in the blackness that only he can see.

My throat feels like it's closing up and my sweet campfire memories wither and curl from the sharp smell. If Polly had actually sprayed someone directly I'm pretty sure we'd be on our way to the hospital about now.

“Well, then.” Miss looks around the circle. “That was some breakthrough, huh? Good job, Polly.” Her face pops into a wide smile.

Polly raises her head from Pierce's shoulder and shoots her a one-eyed glare of death.

“And, Pierce?” Miss pulls him back to the present. “I told you those reflexes of yours weren't a curse.” He gives a short laugh and shakes his head.

The coughing slowly morphs into an uncomfortable silence laced with loud frog-chirping, and Pierce and Polly untangle and sit back down. He pokes at the fire with a long stick as she glances in his direction from time to time.

Rita is first to head to bed, commenting that she's had a lovely time but she's exhausted. Miss excuses herself soon afterward. When Sparky announces he's going fishing in the morning, Frank asks to tag along. They discuss inhuman wake-up hours as they drag themselves from their chairs. Based on their groaning and stretching, I'm pretty sure the fish will be safe come dawn.

Frank takes his prosthetic arm in his opposite hand and gives a salute good night before making his way toward the guys' tent. Sparky stops and turns to Polly, his smooth face shining in the firelight. “Polly, I think you are being incredibly courageous.”

She glares at him a moment but his earnest expression must move her. Instead of giving a snarky comment, she nods at him before getting up and walking over to the cooler. I see a flicker in Sparky's eyes as he says good night.
He likes her
.

When Polly asks Pierce if he wants something to drink he calls, “No thanks,” and moves to the chair next to mine. Glancing over at Polly, he puts a hand on my arm and whispers, “Stay up with me?”