What She Found in the Woods Page 6

  As I switch stations and change out my cloth apron for a rubber one, I can’t believe the day is half done. And I didn’t even think about anything. Nothing. Just . . . vegetables, I guess. Working one afternoon in a shelter is not restitution. There is no restitution for what I’ve done. But I do feel something that’s almost like peace.

  Mila and Aura-Blue are doing the side-work out front. I nod to the older woman who supervises pots and pans. She’s wire thin, her skin is rough, and she has the ever-shifting gaze of a recovering addict. She doesn’t talk to me, but she does call out to one of the other women at another station. Their conversation carries.

  I take up a lump of iron wool and scrub a pot big enough for me to crawl into. I try not to butt in. They’re talking about who is showing up to meetings and who is back out there. They ask each other when was the last time either of them saw so-and-so. They aren’t surprised that Sandy, who’s still pretty enough to trick, took off a few weeks ago and didn’t come back. They talk about who has died, and who hasn’t died yet. Neither of them expects anyone to get out of this alive. Not even themselves.

  I finally run out of pots and go look for Maria. She flips through pages on her clipboard and checks my work.

  ‘Good job,’ she says, her eyebrows raised in surprise. ‘You work hard.’

  ‘I like it here,’ I tell her. I try not to sound too desperate, but now that I know what an afternoon of almost-peace feels like, I’m not sure what I’d do if I had to give it up. ‘Can I come back? Regularly?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she replies.

  ‘Thank you.’ I turn to go find Mila and Aura-Blue, and Maria stops me.

  ‘They sell these goggles to protect your eyes for when you’re chopping onions. Cost about twenty bucks, but you don’t tear up,’ she tells me. And she’s smiling now. I haven’t seen her do that all day.

  ‘I’ll get a pair,’ I say, and I walk out back where Mila and Aura-Blue are waiting in the car.

  21 AND 22 JULY

  I get home from the shelter, shower, and fall asleep.

  In the downy haze of a guilt-free sleep, I hear voices. They pull me up, fighting, and I roll over, trying to grasp at the imageless sensation of being worth something again. But it’s gone.

  I wake up drowning, as usual. I take my meds and gulp down two glasses of water. I stand in the bathroom and wait to feel nothing again. I look out the window.

  When I go downstairs, Grandma and Grandpa are still lingering over coffee. I pour myself a cup and greet them.

  ‘Rob came by last evening,’ Grandma tells me. I nod, only now recognizing the sound of his voice at the door.

  ‘Thank you for not waking me,’ I say. ‘I was exhausted after yesterday.’

  ‘He wanted to let you know that he was going to his mother’s place for the next two weeks,’ Grandpa tells me.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ I say. ‘He mentioned something like that.’ I trawl my turbid memory and dredge up our first date when Rob told me about his divorced parents. ‘His mom lives in Seattle, right?’

  As I talk, the details, which have become more fluid for me lately, take shape based on the context I’m pouring them into. Now that I think about it, I can almost remember Rob telling me about this.

  ‘Rob goes back and forth between his parents so his mom doesn’t get lonely,’ I say, to prove to no one in particular that I was listening to him.

  ‘Nice boy,’ Grandma says, like she’s reminding me.

  All I can think about is two weeks with Bo minus the irritating thought that Rob will be waiting for me in my grandma’s parlour when I get back. And I know that’s not right. I’m going to have to do something about Rob when he gets back, regardless of whether or not anything ever happens with Bo.

  Grandpa misreads my dark expression and says, ‘Don’t be too disappointed, dear. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.’

  ‘Oh my Lord,’ I groan. ‘You’re worse than a greeting card.’ I go back up to my room with their snickering trailing behind me.

  I can hardly dress fast enough. I throw on a shirt and shorts and tie my hair into a low braid. I put on my hiking sandals when I get downstairs and go out the back to say goodbye to Grandma on my way to the trailhead.

  ‘Please don’t stay out after dark. There are some bad characters in that forest,’ she tells me.

  I pause and shift under my backpack. ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

  She looks up at me and purses her lips, reluctant to talk about unpleasant things.

  ‘You know,’ she says, and lowers her voice. ‘Druggies.’ She looks back down at the row of berries at her feet. ‘Some bad characters are out there making all sorts of things from the mushrooms and the weeds and heaven knows what else. I don’t want you running into any of that sort,’ she says. Then a thought occurs to her. ‘You haven’t seen any of those people out there, have you?’

  Actually, I think I might have. Bo did mention that his father made holistic remedies that he sold in town. But my grandparents don’t have any concept of gradation when it comes to drugs that aren’t prescribed by a doctor. Put it in an orange bottle with a printed label on the front, and Grandma will chug her uppers and downers religiously, but smoke a little pot, and you may as well carjack a nun.

  ‘No,’ I lie. ‘Just me and nature.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad. Nature can be very healing,’ she says, indicating her garden with a proud smile. Gardens aren’t nature any more than a tree by the side of the road is a forest, but there’s no point in arguing with her. ‘I’ve been worried about you out there,’ she says. ‘You come straight back here if you do see any druggies, and we’ll report them to the authorities.’

  I don’t say I will. I feel bad about lying to her already, and I can’t make myself do it again. I thought I was done with that, but there’s no way I’m going to narc on Bo just because my grandmother is old-fashioned.

  ‘I’ll be back before dark,’ I promise instead. That appeases her, because everyone knows ‘druggies’ only come out after sundown, and then I’m racing down the trail to the woods.

  There’s no reason for him to be there this early. I’m fully expecting to have to wait for him, but I don’t mind the thought of waiting for Bo. I wade through the river, spread out my blanket, and take off my sandals to let them dry. I pull some books out of my backpack, fully intending to read the John Stuart Mill Bo had suggested, but the only book that seems to stick to my palm is my journal. It flops open automatically to where my pen is sandwiched between the pages, like a dog rolling over to show you its belly.

  I’ll have to get a new notebook soon. This one is nearly full. That can’t be right.

  ‘You’re early,’ Bo says.

  I look up, and there he is, standing in the ferns like he grew there. He’s wearing the same camouflage pants I first saw him in and an old T-shirt that’s so faded, I can’t tell what colour it used to be. Although I’ve only met him twice before, I’m starting to realize all of Bo’s clothes are so old and out of style they’re almost in again. Not quite, but you could make a case for him being mistaken for cool by someone. I don’t want him to be cool, though.

  ‘You’re early too,’ I reply.

  ‘I couldn’t wait to see you,’ he says. Then he blushes, second-guessing his honesty. It’s as if someone’s coached him to hide what he feels from girls, but it doesn’t come naturally to him.

  ‘Me neither,’ I admit.

  Another awkward silence that we have no idea how to fill up. He looks around, growing more uncomfortable.

  ‘You know, we don’t always have to be talking,’ I tell him. He looks at me sceptically. ‘I’m serious,’ I say. I stand up and go towards him. ‘If you don’t have anything you really want to say, you don’t have to say anything.’

  He frowns, like he knows that can’t be right. ‘But women find emotional connection through dialogue,’ he says. ‘They are impressed by a man’s ability to express his thoughts and feelings.’ He speaks in a clinical way, like he’s lear
ned all this stuff out of a book. It’s adorable.

  ‘Because that’s what women want in a man,’ I tease. ‘A large . . . vocabulary.’ He looks confused. I try to recover from the failed dick joke. ‘So, what do I do to impress you?’ I ask him.

  He laughs. ‘Um . . . stand there?’

  ‘Like a decoration?’ I say, raising an eyebrow, inviting a rebuttal from him.

  But he doesn’t bite. Instead he shifts from foot to foot, looking miserable again. ‘I was trying to give you a compliment. I don’t think you’re . . . inanimate.’

  ‘I know. I was just . . .’ I break off, and I realize that Bo doesn’t do banter, sexy or otherwise. I don’t think he’s ever learned how.

  I’ve never had to work this hard to talk to anyone, and conversation is my forte. I’m good at making people feel comfortable. That’s part of the reason I’ve always been well liked. Well, until you get to know me, that is.

  What a disaster. I’m going to have to totally switch gears or this is not going to work out. And I realize that I really want this to work out. I’ve never cared enough about a guy to want that before.

  ‘You know what?’ I say. ‘I’d rather just learn to shoot, and if we don’t talk, we don’t talk.’

  He doesn’t look like he buys what I’m saying, and I’m not sure I buy what I’m saying, either. How do I connect with a guy when I can’t make him laugh, or subtly compliment how he takes a selfie? I wonder why anyone would want to spend time with me if I’m not entertaining him, or making him feel like he’s an entertaining person. But Bo accepts my no-speaking terms and starts to lead me back to the clearing of the fallen giant.

  What follows is two hours of us not saying anything except small exchanges directly relating to the task at hand. I learn how to stand, how to draw, how to aim, and how to release an arrow.

  I also learn how patient Bo is. How respectful he is of other people’s personal space. How he knows how to correct you without implying that you’re doing something wrong first. I also learn that when he’s not worried about coming off as a misfit, he has all the self-assurance of an alpha, but none of the swagger. Bo is capable of being entirely himself. It’s a brand of confidence I’ve never seen before because it doesn’t require a witness. It’s humble. It’s magnetic.

  I’m sure time passes, but I don’t notice a change in the light. Bo must have, because at some point he looks up to the canopy and says, ‘It’s getting late. You should probably go.’

  ‘OK,’ I reply. We start to walk slowly back towards my blanket. ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  ‘You’re a good shot,’ he replies, like I’m the one who did him a favour, although I’m not too sure what he’s gotten out of today. ‘That was fun.’

  ‘It was fun,’ I agree. ‘I’ve never learned so much from someone who said so little,’ I say, and I mean it. I learned more about Bo just by standing next to him for a few hours than I have about myself after years of self-obsession.

  Bo is quiet the rest of the way back to my blanket. He helps me pack up. His hands shake a little every time he has to touch me to give me something. I strap on my pack and face him.

  ‘May I see you tomorrow?’ he asks haltingly.

  He’s still so nervous about asking to see me. ‘I’d like that, but I have to work tomorrow,’ I tell him. He deflates. ‘The day after?’ I offer.

  His face brightens again, and he nods shyly, still not trusting that I really want to see him. I come towards him and place a hand over his heart. I feel a seismic heaving in his chest, and I lean forward and kiss him very softly on the lips. It isn’t until after I’m kissing him that I realize my mistake.

  I thought this kiss would be a small gesture – my lips briefly brushing past his in a way that is somewhere between friends and more than friends. I know what a tiny kiss like this means in my strata of the world. It would leave a guy not sure where we stood, giving me the upper hand.

  Now, kissing Bo, I’m going to have to start all over again. Go back to the beginning and reshape the way I’ve classified physical contact. Because my knees almost give out and I’m falling against him and he’s holding me up, and a little kiss is not so little any more.

  I rest my head on his shoulder and wait for the trees to stop tilting. I’m wearing a backpack, so he doesn’t know where to put his hands, and that’s a good thing because I don’t know how I would react to him touching me. I’m going to have to get out of this or . . . actually, I don’t know what. I don’t know what will happen if I stay.

  ‘The day after tomorrow,’ I say, and my voice is too breathy and strange to be mine. And I pull away quickly and bound through the river and I’m running home.

  23 JULY

  I’m only halfway through my pile of dirty pots when Maria comes over to me and pulls me aside.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you for a minute,’ she tells me.

  ‘Sure,’ I say. Nervous acid rising up the back of my throat makes the word come out like a chirp.

  Maybe Maria found out about me, and she doesn’t want me here any more. I fumble with my rubber gloves, wondering if I should take them off or just leave them on.

  ‘Do you need me to move to another station?’ I ask, hoping that if I offer her an innocuous course of action, she’ll take it rather than tell me I can’t come back.

  I like it here. No. More than that. I need this. I wipe some perspiration off my brow with the back of my wet glove and smear greasy water across my face.

  ‘I wanted to ask you if you had some more days you could spare?’ she asks, almost sheepishly, like she’s not comfortable with asking for favours from others.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, and then frown. Because then when would I see Bo? ‘Um, how much more time were you thinking about?’

  ‘I need someone to help me with stocktaking.’ She’s lowered her voice, and she’s looking around to make sure none of the resident volunteers hear. ‘Someone I can trust with the keys, you know? The girl I used to trust took off.’

  I nod, thinking that she definitely did not find out about me, or she wouldn’t be trusting me with anything, really. ‘When would you need me? It’s just I have someplace to be most afternoons.’

  ‘You could come in the morning. Early is better. We get some shipments as early as 5 a.m.’ She hesitates. ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘Mornings work better for me, actually.’

  ‘Good,’ Maria says. I feel like that’s the end of the conversation, so I start to move away, but Maria stops me. ‘Maybe don’t mention this to your friends,’ she says, glancing to the front of the house where Mila and Aura-Blue are chatting while they load dispensers with napkins. ‘They might not understand why I asked you and not them.’

  I nod, although I don’t really understand why she’s asked me, either. Maria and I take a few more minutes to sort out when the shipments come and which mornings I’ll need to be here to give Maria a break. I finish up with the pots and meet the girls out by Mila’s Mini. That reminds me. I still have to figure out how I’m going to get to the shelter without a ride.

  After volunteering, the three of us girls have got into the habit of going out for ice cream together. The best ice cream is on the beach at the Snack Shack Rob took me to that first date.

  As we wait in line for a scoop, I have the decency to feel guilty about kissing Bo, but not for very long. I’ll take care of it when Rob gets back. I don’t want to do it over the phone because that’s how all my relationships have ended. Usually by text. Rob has been really good to me. In fact, he’s been one of the best boyfriends I’ve ever had, if you could even classify our time together as a relationship. I want to show him the courtesy of making my break-up with him something special, at least.

  ‘It’s USC for me,’ Aura-Blue is saying. ‘It’s in a terrible part of the city, but I don’t care. I’ll live in a nice area and drive like everyone else in LA. What about you?’

  Aura-Blue turns to me, and I realize I’m supposed to supply m
y chosen college.

  ‘I’m not going this fall,’ I tell them.

  ‘Year off?’ Mila guesses. I don’t correct her.

  ‘My dad was set on me going to his alma mater. Yale. My mom always wanted me to go to Vassar, like she did.’ We reach the counter, and I shrug. ‘I’m thinking neither.’

  Mila and Aura-Blue laugh and turn to order.

  ‘Oh, I forgot to put cash in my wallet,’ Mila says.

  ‘Don’t,’ Aura-Blue says warningly. From the tense look that passes between them, I can tell Mila forgets to put money in her wallet more often than she should for a rich girl.

  Mila glares at Aura-Blue before she faces me. ‘Can you spot me? I’ll pay you back.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I reply as I hand her some bills. ‘I owe you more than this for gas anyway.’

  All talk of my college choice is buried for now. Technically, I haven’t lied to them. Lying is too hard. Lying takes too much energy, and eventually you get caught. It’s so much easier not to lie, but instead to have a different truth. The Five of us realized this.

  Jinka threw her school bag down on Scarlet’s shag rug and flopped down on to the beanbag chair beside it.

  ‘If I have to go to one more stupid decoration committee meeting and listen to PMS-ing prom queens argue about how large fairy lights should be, I am going to lose my mind,’ Jinka said. ‘Can’t we make up something Ali needs us to do every Thursday after school?’

  Everyone looked over at me. At that moment, we were ostensibly at Ali’s house because all our parents knew that Scarlet’s parents were in the Seychelles. The lie we told our parents was that we always went to Ali’s after school, rather than her coming to one of our houses, because she had to babysit her younger brothers. Both her parents worked insane hours because they were poor, but we said we didn’t mind babysitting with Ali. We liked her brothers because they were cute and sweet.