The Princesses of Iowa (8 page)

I snapped back into the present to hear Mr. Tremont talking about workshopping as a process, and how it was supposed to help you grow as a writer, and I realized that the bonfire wasn’t the only thing fast approaching. I was supposed to come up with something for the whole class to read and discuss in a week. Shit. A week? I hadn’t written anything other than essays and papers since middle school. Well, except for the freewriting thing, but that didn’t really count, since I hadn’t known what I was writing about until after it happened, the words just came out of nowhere. And the last part, about us using secrets as weapons — I hadn’t even known I felt that, not really, and yet there it was on the page. But it wasn’t like I was about to hand these scribbled pages in to the class to read — I had to figure something else out, and soon.

Before the bell rang, Shanti raised her hand. “Mr. Tremont? Before she . . . left, Mrs. Mueller gave us the assignment of going to hear a literary reading during the festival this weekend. Do we still need to do that?”

Everyone groaned. “Jesus, Shanti,” I heard Jeremy hiss.

Mr. Tremont watched our reactions with amusement. “Now that you mention it, going to a reading is an excellent idea. So, yes, the assignment stands.”

“Way to go, Shan,” Jeremy whispered.

“Whatever,” she said. “You were going to go anyway.”

“That’s not the point,” he said. “Homework ruins everything.” He pretended to pout, and she rolled her eyes and laughed. I wondered when they’d become such good friends, if she’d just moved back. What else had I missed over the summer?

“So,” Mr. Tremont said, “I guess I’ll see you guys on Monday with some sort of evidence that you attended said literary event? A program? A poet’s signature, perhaps? A signed copy of a book?” The bell rang, and everyone filed out, muttering death threats at Shanti.

As I walked past them, I heard a girl say, “For the record, Shanti? You suck.”

After creative writing, I headed straight for my car, completely preoccupied with the assignment. It was weird — I’d had big papers for classes before, and hard assignments, but nothing had ever stumped me like this before. I’d always been a pretty good student, usually getting all As. My friends teased me sometimes, but the truth was we all got decent grades. And if I occasionally put a little more work into school than they did, it was only because I planned to go to Northwestern, which isn’t exactly a slacker school. Still, it wasn’t like I wanted everyone to see me slaving over the books — it was one thing to get good grades; it was another thing to be totally obvious about it.

But this assignment was throwing me. Not only would I have to work my butt off to have something ready by next week, I’d also have to share it with the whole class. It would be one thing to embarrass myself in front of the teacher, but in front of the whole class — and right before the homecoming vote?

Lost in my thoughts, I got in my car and, for the first time since the accident, turned the key without feeling a hint of anxiety. I headed for the one place I knew no one would find me, where I could get a jump start on trying to write something without anyone watching, where I could freak out in peace. Field after field flashed past me, yellow soybeans and tawny corn, shimmering poplars, goldenrod and bittersweet, red vines twisting around farmers’ fences. In the late afternoon light, everything looked golden, and I could almost forget that Lacey was distant, Nikki was wasting away, and Jake suddenly felt the need to be Lacey’s knight in shining armor.

I parked at the trailhead that led to my favorite spot in the world: a hidden spring, deep in the woods and far away from everything. A circle of boulders marked the place where the springs bubbled up, feeding into a small pool that spilled in a tiny, perfect waterfall to the stream below. Further on, the stream curved around a bend, wound its way under a wooden bridge, and eventually met up with a large lake. As far as I knew, the only other person who knew about the spring was my father, who had introduced me to this spot when I was still a little kid, back when he spent more time at home than on the road. Though the lake, with its boat launches and beaches, was a favorite hangout for fishermen and drunken teenagers alike, I had never seen anyone else here at this spring in the woods, and I considered it to be my secret.

I grabbed a notebook and pen from my bag. If nothing else, I could always follow Mr. Tremont’s instructions:
Keep your pen moving.
As I hiked up the steep path toward the spring, I wondered if I could capture it again, that feeling of freedom and release as my pen skipped across the page like stones over water. The words had come from nowhere, and afterward I’d felt lighter, almost giddy.

The woods were full of dappled sunlight and flashing birdsong. As I walked, I tried not to think about the tangle of my friends and friendships. I did not want to think about Lacey, or Nikki, or Jake. I didn’t want to think about my mother, or my sister, or the fact that I’d barely seen my father since I’d gotten home. Instead, I turned my mind to creative writing class, to Mr. Tremont’s casual posture against the board as he explained freewriting.

It took me longer than usual to find the little path to the springs, but eventually I found my way. I took a deep breath for the first time in forever and just listened. This. This was what I’d missed in Paris. Green all around me; no cars, no people. Just birds and water and quiet.

I climbed up on a sun-warmed boulder and propped the notebook on my knee, remembering Mr. Tremont’s instructions. “Start with
I see,
” he’d said. I stared at the blank page, feeling nervous and more than a little stupid.
I see
. . . I paused, looked up and around me. What did I see? Trees. Um . . . the sky.
I see the sky. I see a pool and bushes.

Ugh. I drove my pen through the words. This was stupid. In class, it seemed like someone took over my hand, like the words weren’t coming from me so much as through me. I wanted to write something true again, even if it was just describing the woods around me.

Mr. Tremont said it should be difficult.
If it’s easy, you’re not working hard enough.
I looked down at my legs, my black boots. I wasn’t the kind of person who gave up so quickly. At least, I didn’t want to be.

I was jolted out of my trance by the distinctive
flap flap
of sneakers on wet leaves. I listened, waiting for the jogger to pass on the trail above. It wasn’t the easiest trail in the county to run, but every now and then I encountered someone attempting it. I could see feet on the trail above, and a flash of gray through the trees. Instead of turning toward the running trail, though, the feet slowed and turned toward me. My trail. My secret. I’d never seen anyone else down here, ever; the trail was far too steep to run. I froze, waiting for the jogger to realize his mistake and turn around.

But he didn’t. Instead, he half climbed, half stumbled down the trail, grabbing at slender tree trunks and sliding on damp leaves. There was a very specific way to get down elegantly, which involved stepping precisely on certain roots and embedded rocks, but he missed it entirely and slid the last fifteen or so yards, landing somewhat miraculously on his feet.

The jogger looked up and I gasped. “Hello, Paige Sheridan. You come here often?”

Dumbstruck, I shook my head.

It was the Freshman from creative writing class, Ethan. “No? You should,” he said, looking around. “This place is amazing.”

“No, I mean, I do.” I hugged my notebook to my ribcage. “I just — what are you doing here?”

“Exploring. I had a rare free moment, so . . .” He shrugged. “I used to do a lot of hiking on the Missouri, around Council Bluffs.”

He stepped into the clearing, looking past me to the tiny cave and the spring pool. “It really is nice down here.” He seemed different than he had in class. Less weird, maybe. Less staged. But then, I wouldn’t know anything about that, right?

“What?” he asked, noticing my wry smile.

“Nothing.”

He looked at his legs. “Am I covered in mud? Am I trailing toilet paper or something? Am I breaking out in mint chocolate chips?”

I laughed. “What?”

Ethan shrugged. “Hey, there are countless ways I could be humiliating myself in front of you right now. I need to be ready for any possibility.”

“You’re not breaking out in mint chocolate chips,” I said seriously. “But I think I see a hint of praline pecan on your forehead.”

He slapped his hand across his face. “Ugh, it never fails. Run into a girl, break out in pralines.”

I smiled and looked away. For a moment it was silent between us, and I could hear the echoes of geese honking on the distant lake.

“So,” he said. “I guess this answers one of my questions.”

“What’s that?”

“Where.”

I shifted my weight, looking at him. “Where?”

“You know, from class? ‘Where does Paige Sheridan go when she needs to get away.’”

“Oh. Right.”

He looked at me. “So you come here to get away, and the new kid shows up and starts peppering you with questions. You know, you should really keep this place a secret.”

I raised my eyebrows.

Ethan grinned and held up his hands. “Okay, okay. I promise I’ll never come down here again. And I won’t tell anyone about this place. I won’t even think about it, in case they can read minds.”

“No,” I said. “It’s okay. I mean, I don’t own it. You can do what you want. If . . . if you need to get away. It’s good for that.”

“Well,” Ethan said slowly. “Thanks.” He took a step toward me, gesturing to my boulder. “May I?”

“Oh.” I slid off the rock. “Sure, yeah. I was just about to leave.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he said. “There’s room for both of us.” He stopped abruptly, eyeing my notebook. “Were you writing? Crap, did I interrupt you?”

He thought I was writing. No one else in the entire school would run into Paige Sheridan and ask her if she’d been writing. I should have rolled my eyes, but instead, I found myself grinning. “No, it’s totally fine,” I said.

Ethan grinned back. “Are you sure?”

I attempted to get ahold of myself. “Yes. Sure. You — you just surprised me, that’s all. But yeah, I was leaving, and so, um, I will just do that now.” He watched me for a second and I nodded encouragingly. “Really, make yourself at home.”

He shrugged and hopped up on the boulder, pulling out a small notebook from his sweatshirt pocket and waving it at me. “You sure you don’t want to stay? I’m a very friendly writing companion.”

Why was he being so nice to me? After what I’d said in class — I felt my face getting hot at the thought. I was such an asshole. Unless he hadn’t heard me? Unless he thought I was somehow different from my friends? Or maybe he was just a freshman in the presence of a senior, so he wasn’t going to pick a fight.

“Thanks, but I have to get going. Good luck with your writing.” I turned and made my way up the steep hill to the main trail, stepping carefully from root to stone to root.

Behind me, Ethan said, almost to himself, “Is that how you do it?” Then, as I reached the leaf-strewn path at the top, he called, “Your secret’s safe with me!”

I crouched down to see him. “Not if you keep yelling it through the woods, it isn’t!” I heard him chuckle faintly, and as I headed up the path, I realized I was smiling.