Edge of Flight (4 page)

He stands and reaches his hand down to help me. Rusty's grip is strong, and even after I'm on my feet, I don't feel like letting go. The cave is damp, cool and eerie. Apart from Rusty's headlamp, the only light comes from a small air shaft at the far end.

“Jeb?” Rusty calls.

A hand comes down on my shoulder. I jump.

“Boo!” Jeb shouts.

“You idiot!” I scream.

Rusty spins around. In the beam of his headlamp, Jeb is doubled over, laughing. “Knock it off, dude.”

“Sorry, Vanisha,” says Jeb. “It was too temptin' to pass up.” He sweeps his hand around, motioning to the cave. “Cool, huh?”

“Cool,” Rusty says.

“We oughta sleep here tonight. Bring our bags down. A pack of cards,” says Jeb. “We could hang out.”

“No way,” I say.

It's one thing lying in the open woods, a few steps away from the safety of Jeb's truck. But sleeping here, in this creepy cave, would feel like being buried alive.

“Why not?” says Jeb. “It's clean. It's dry. It's safe.”

“It's only safe till momma bear comes back,” says Rusty. He shines his light on a gnawed bone lying in a corner.

That does it for me. “I'm out of here,” I say.

“Aw, it's prob'ly just a possum,” says Jeb.

But I don't care. I'm heading for the exit.

“C'mon, Jeb. You've freaked out Vanisha enough for today,” says Rusty. “Let's get back to camp.”

chapter eight

Back at the campsite, we put up a tarp and start a fire from some dry wood we stashed under Jeb's truck. Rusty and I roast wieners on sticks. Jeb builds some kind of rack out of branches and duct tape to toast the hot dog buns over the fire.

“Dude, that's never gonna work,” says Rusty.

“You be quiet,” says Jeb, laying a bun on the rack. “I learned this here technique from my Cherokee ancestors.”

“You don't have Cherokee ancestors,” Rusty says.

“My great-great-grandpa was a Cherokee warrior,” says Jeb. He makes a warrior face at Rusty. The rack collapses, dumping the bun into the fire.

“Your great-great-grandpa was a lunatic,” says Rusty.

Jeb ignores him and shoves a hot dog on a stick to roast. “What're we gonna climb tomorrow?” he asks.

“Edge of Flight,” I say.

Rusty nods, stuffing the end of a hot dog into his mouth.

“Jeepers, Vanisha,” says Jeb. “I dunno how you pull that balancy stuff. I can't get more'n two feet up that climb.”

“Ten years of ballet lessons,” I say. “Comes in useful for some things.”

“Seriously, Vanisha? You do ballet?” asks Rusty.

“Used to. I quit a couple of years ago.”

“Why?”

Why? I bite into my hot dog. There were all the usual reasons—the hours of training, the obsession over weight, the gossip and backstabbing. But it went beyond that. I didn't enjoy memorizing steps and performing them over and over and over again. There was no room to be creative or to think for myself.

That's one thing I love about climbing—each new route is a new puzzle to be solved. There is no single, right way to get from the bottom to the top. Like Chuck's Crack. The way Rusty climbed it was different from the way Jeb climbed it. The route taken depends on personal technique, strength and inspiration.

In climbing, too, there is the risk of a fall, which scares me to death but also draws me in. I feel this need to overcome it. To prove that I can. That's how it is when I stand at the crux of Edge of Flight. Part of me always wants to chicken out, but part of me says,
Do it, try it, risk it.
I want that second part to win. I want to train myself to be brave.

All that's too difficult to explain to the guys though.

“I guess I just got bored,” I say instead. “Then I did cheerleading for a year.”

“You were a cheerleader?” Jeb looks at me in disbelief, as if I'd just told him I was an invader from planet Zork. I stand up and throw a backflip to prove my cheer credentials.

Jeb whistles. “Wow, Vanisha. That's hot.”

“Why'd you quit?” says Rusty.

“Don't even get me started.”

“Bad?” says Rusty.

“Those girls can talk for hours about mascara and bra sizes,” I say.

“Sounds great,” says Jeb. “Where do I sign up?”

I'm about to give him a punch on the shoulder when a pair of headlights cuts through the woods. Car tires crunch to a stop on the dirt road next to our campsite.

Rusty shines his headlamp on the car. “It's the cops.”

“Don't look at me,” says Jeb. “I'm clean.”

“You'd better be,” says Rusty.

The deputy gets out of the car. He's wearing a heavy raincoat and a sour look on his face, like he's not too pleased to be out patrolling the woods on a soaking-wet night. He comes up to stand by the campfire.

“You kids got a valid hunting license?” he says.

“We're not hunting, sir,” says Rusty. “Rock climbing.”

The deputy nods and walks around the fire. He makes a big deal of sniffing the air. All I can think of is how glad I am Jeb didn't take any of that weed.

“Y'all got any restricted materials in that there truck?” asks the deputy. “Alcohol? Fire arms? Illicit drugs?”

He draws out the last word, the way Southerners do for emphasis—“druuuuugs?”

He glares at Rusty, Jeb and me.

“No, sir,” says Jeb.

“Then y'all don't mind if I have a look.” The deputy unhooks an enormous flashlight from his belt and opens the truck door.

Rusty shoots a look at Jeb, like,
Is he going to find anything?
Because we're in big trouble if he does. Arkansas isn't exactly known for being soft on crime.

But Jeb opens his hands wide and shakes his head, like,
I'm innocent. There's nothing there.

Before today, I would have trusted Jeb without question. But his idiocy in the marijuana patch has shaken my confidence in him. What if he's got a stash of weed in his glove compartment, or hidden under a seat? What if he's got a couple of cans of beer hidden among all the junk in the back of the truck? Can we get charged with underage possession, even if we aren't drinking?

Would my mom have to come and pick me up at the police station? That would be embarassing. She'd probably go into a long rant about how bad the drinking laws are in America, and how Europeans have a much more sensible attitude, and how the ancient Greeks used to let their babies drink wine. She'd start quoting poetry. “A jug of wine, a book of verse, and thou…”

Please, spare me.

The deputy is definitely doing a thorough job of checking Jeb's truck. He rummages under seats and floor mats, hauls out mounds of stuff from the back. He tosses them on the ground in a careless pile—
CD
s, sports magazines, sweatshirts, dirty socks, half-empty packs of gum, broken sunglasses, climbing rope, take-out burger wrappers, football gear.

No drugs. No booze.

Thank goodness.

After he's finished, the deputy comes back to stand at the campfire. He seems a little friendlier toward us.

“You play football?” he says to Jeb.

“Yessir,” says Jeb. “Tight end.”

“I'm a fan myself. Got season's tickets to the Razorbacks,” says the deputy.

“Go, Pig, SOOOOOIEEEE!” Jeb hollers the Razorback cheer so loudly, it startles a flock of blackbirds from the trees.

The deputy almost cracks a smile. “Look, there's a mess of trouble you kids could get into up here. And I want y'all to stay out of it, you hear me?”

“Yessir,” says Jeb.

“Just stick to your climbin', y'hear?”

“Yessir,” Jeb says again.

Satisfied, the deputy leaves.

Nothing else happens that evening, except a lot of marshmallow-toasting and storytelling. But later on, as I snuggle into my sleeping bag for the night, I think back to Jeb's promise to stay out of trouble.

I hope he means to keep it.

chapter nine

The rain tapers off and finally stops by midmorning, but it takes until afternoon before the hot Arkansas sun has burned the cliff face dry. At 3:00
PM
, we rappel down the cliff and walk to the base of Edge of Flight.

“You ready?” Rusty asks.

I look up the arête—that perfect corner of rock that runs from the base to the top of the cliff. There's the crux—that smooth patch just below the pistol-hold grip. I pinmy eyes to it, as though I could stare down the solid rock.

“I'm ready,” I say.

“Commit to the move, Vanisha,” says Rusty, as if he's read my mind about the crux. “You can do it. You've just got to commit.”

I nod. “Right. I can do this.”

I change into my climbing shoes and rope in, while Rusty sets the belay. Jeb, meanwhile, is wandering down the hiking trail that runs along the base of the cliff.

“Where are you going?” Rust y calls after him.

“Just takin' a li'l walk,” Jeb says.

“Stay out of trouble!” Rusty shouts.

“Don't worry!”

Trouble
. The same word the deputy used last night. It sets off a warning inside my brain. I want to call Jeb back. He's not wearing his orange hunting cap. It's not even stuck in his back pocket anymore. Rusty and I have ours on. I remember what the waitress said.
Some a them good ol' boys'll shoot at anything that moves.
I should give Jeb my cap. I won't need it for the climb. But who am I, his mother? He would probably just laugh at me. I watch him walk into the woods, ducking branches and swatting mosquitoes.

“Don't bother about him, Vanisha,” says Rusty. “Come on, let's climb.”

I turn to face the cliff. I place my hands on the smooth sandstone, one on either side of the arête. I take a deep breath. All other thoughts go out of my mind. I am focused on Edge of Flight.

“Ready to climb,” I say.

“On belay,” says Rusty.

I reach up for the softball-shaped hold with my right hand. Stretch out my left and grip the arête. I place my right foot on the first microhold, slink my left foot around to find the other hold on the other side of the arête. Now I am perfectly balanced, straddling the corner of rock.

“Climbing,” I say.

“Climb on,” says Rusty. The next holds are vertical cracks—one on either side of the arête. I slide my right hand along the rock face until I feel a jagged gash. I shovemy fingers inside. Good. A solid hold. My feet are solid too, though balanced on tiny footholds. Now it is safe to let go with my left hand and feel for the crack on that side. I find it and dig my fingers deep inside.

Legs are more important than arms on a climb. I know this, despite Jeb's show of brawn on Chuck's Crack yesterday. Legs are strong. Arms are weak. Arms tire out. Arms should be used for balance. Their strength should be saved for desperate moments or for strategic situations where there is no other choice.

My fingers hug the rock. But it is my feet that must do the work. I look down and scout for tiny footholds that will allow me to climb higher, one step at a time, while my hands inch their way up the vertical cracks.

After ten feet, I pause, balanced on two good footholds. So far, I have trusted the rock to support me. But now I am too high to climb unprotected. I need to lay some pro.

I let go with my right hand and unclip a small, metal nut from my harness. My left hand clenches the rock, while my right hand wedges the nut into the crack. I suppress a tremble in my legs. If I lose my balance before clipping in the rope, I will fall ten feet to the ground. I need to lay this pro for safety. But laying it is the trickiest part of climbing.

I wriggle the nut farther into the crack and give it a tug. It stays firmly stuck. I clip a carabiner into the metal wire on the nut and reach down for the rope. Its weight is heavy in my hand. My fingers shake, but I haul the rope up and clip it through the carabiner. The
click
of the 'biner closing sends a wave of relief through me.

“Looking good!” Rusty shouts up at me. I feel him tighten the belay. I stick my right hand back into the crack and lean against the rock for a moment to rest. For now, I am safe.

I can't stop for long though. Even staying still takes energy and strength. I have to keep moving. Five feet farther up, I lay another piece of pro in the right-hand crack. Then I traverse to the left side of the arête, where a series of small ledges and holes take me to just below the crux.

I lay one more piece of pro—a micronut in a tiny crack. Then I reach for the two handholds and step onto the nub of rock, the final foothold before the crux.

I am balanced on tiptoe on my right foot, my left leg crossed behind. My fingers prickle. My forearms burn. I have spent too much energy getting here already. I press my cheek against the rock and look up. The pistol-hold grip sticks out of the cliff face, far above. Too far above. The wind tears at my clothes. My heart beats against the rock.

“Commit, Vanisha!” Rusty shouts. “Commit!”

I straighten my left arm, lock the elbow, lean far to the right.

Do it
, I tell myself.
Let go with your right hand. Do it. Do it.

I can't. What if I fall? What if the pro doesn't hold?

You can do it.

Commit.

I let go.

And then a shotgun blast rips the air.

I jerk backward. I fall.

An incoherent scream bursts from my throat. I brace my hands forward as the rope catches me, and I swing against the rock face. My hands and feet cushion the jarring blow. I spring back. Swing toward the rock face again. Brace myself. Feel the shock of contact. Push off. Swing again. Finally, I'm dangling on the rope. Dizzy. Out of breath.

But relieved. The pro held. I'm okay.

“Rusty? What's going on?”

Rusty is already belaying me down. He lets out the rope at breakneck speed, almost too fast to control my descent.