Dan Versus Nature (16 page)

“Noticed that,” Clint snaps, still working the instruments like crazy.

Hank and I turn to each other. His face is as white as a blank sketchbook page.

“What can I do?” Max says. “How I can help?”

“By shuttin’ yer trap.” Clint cranes his neck, looking out the window — presumably for a safe landing spot.

“You can restart it, right?” Barbara cries, grabbing my bench back and leaning forward.

“Working on it!” he calls out. “Not looking so good, though.”

Barbara swallows loudly right by my ear. She’s wearing perfume. Something chunky and vanilla. Makes me think of Mrs. Baker, my third-grade teacher.

“OK, OK,” Barbara says, leaning back. “Everyone but Clint, close your eyes and visualize. Surround the plane with white light. Imagine it remaining airborne. Picture the engine reigniting, the propeller spinning . . .”

I glance down at my wrist. My Baby-Real-A-Lot ID bracelet, just below my dad’s broken Timex, blinks a warning, as if it’s reading my level of distress instead of Baby Robbie’s.

Penelope nudges Charlie. “And you thought you were going to be killed by a measly microbe.” Her voice is shockingly calm. “Fat lot of good your mask and rubber gloves will do you when we hit the ground at two hundred miles an hour.”

“Please be quiet,” Charlie begs. “I really do not want your voice to be the last thing I ever hear.”

“And
I
don’t want to die never having kissed a boy,” Penelope says.

I smile. It’s crazy what the mind dreams up when you’re drifting toward certain death. Never kissed a boy. Right. Next Penelope will unbuckle her seat belt and throw herself into my arms, and we’ll spend our last seconds on earth locked in a passionate embrace, wishing we’d had more time to explore our obvious animal attraction and our mutual love of all things anime —

“Dan.” Penelope clicks off her seat belt, leans forward, and puts her hand on my shoulder.

“Huh?” I say, twisting around.

“Pen, what are you doing?” Barbara says. “Strap yourself in, right now!”

Penelope ignores her mother and looks straight at me. “If you wouldn’t mind indulging me before we shuffle off this mortal coil . . .”

My mind stalls, like the plane’s engine. I thought I’d just
imagined
Penelope saying she’d never been kissed. And why’s she asking me? What about Charlie, who’s sitting right next to her in the backseat?

And what about Erin? Can my last moment on earth really be a horrific act of betrayal?

I open my mouth to protest, but I only get as far as “I don’t think —” before Penelope grabs my face and presses her warm, soft lips to mine.

All questions — all thoughts of imminent death and infidelity — are instantly forgotten.

If heaven really exists — and I suppose I’ll find out soon enough — it can’t hold a candle to
this.

I’m just starting to get the hang of it, my first (and probably last) physical contact with a girl, when Penelope pulls away.

“There,” she says, flopping back into her seat and adjusting her glasses. “More clinical than passionate, but it ticks the box.”

How can Penelope seem so . . .
normal
? My brain has been short-circuited. My lips tingle, a faint taste of cherry hovering there. An electric feeling runs down my arms. Does she really not feel any of that?

Just then the engine growls back to life, the entire plane vibrating once again.

“Yes!” Clint hollers. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about! We are back in business, people!”

“Yahoo!” Barbara shouts. “Thank God for the power of visualization!”

Everyone around me cheers, but I can’t seem to shake off a vague sense of disappointment.

Clint brings us in for a nice smooth landing on a small lake in the middle of a valley. There is no dock out here in the bush, so he anchors the plane several yards from the shore.

We grab our gear and wade through nearly three feet of nerve-numbing water. My skin tightens and stings, and my junk seeks refuge up inside me as we trudge toward the beach.

“All right,” Clint says when we reach dry land. “My job is done for now. I’ll be back here Saturday morning, round about ten. This same spot. Don’t be late. I’ve got a vacation planned; don’t want to have to leave you out here.” He laughs, though I’m not sure that he’s joking. “Have fun. And stay safe.”

And with that, he turns and sploshes back into the icy water, heading toward his Kiwi.

“OK, people,” Max announces. “Let’s not stand around getting hypothermia. One of the first rules of survival is ‘Cold kills.’ And nothing will lower body temperature faster than soaked garments. In fact, it’s better to be naked and dry than wet and clothed. How about we all find a bit of privacy to change and meet back here in five?”

But before we can disperse, the float plane’s engine coughs and sputters to life, revving loudly before stalling out with a booming gunshot.

“I am no aircraft mechanic,” Penelope says, “but that sounds problematic to me.”

Clint slides open his window and leans out. “Just a little hiccup!” he shouts to us. “Don’t worry. I’ll get her started up again.”

The six of us go about pulling fresh clothes from our backpacks, then scurry off behind nearby bushes, trees, and boulders.

I choose a secluded shrub and quickly tug off my soaked socks and peel down my wet jeans and boxers. The cool air goose-pimples my clammy legs. I pull off my T-shirt and use it to dry my numbed feet, my cold calves and thighs, and my chilly underlings.

As I stand here swabbing down, I think of Penelope doing the same thing somewhere nearby. I crane my neck, wondering if I can catch a glimpse of her through the trees.

I can’t actually see her, but I can
hear
someone changing. There’s a snap. A zipper being unzipped. A grumbling as whoever it is wrestles with their waterlogged pants. And somehow I just know it’s Penelope. It’s like the kiss made me hyperaware of her, able to home in on her like a beacon.

Yikes! Speaking of beacons! I need to change mental gears here. Can’t meet back at the lake wielding the Odinsword.

I close my eyes and think of the grossest things imaginable: Rick Chuff’s unwashed jockstrap, a vomit-soaked Boogie-Woogie Santa Claus, Alan Moore naked and bending over to pick up a nickel . . .

That’s it. There we go. The blood slowly drains back to my heart.

“T-shirt’s for the torso,” I hear Penelope call out.

My eyes fly open. “Whoa! Hey, now!” I fold over, clutching the shirt to my junk. “Little privacy, maybe?”

“I only mention it,” Penelope says, standing by a tree, “because you appear perplexed.”

“I’m fine, thanks.” I scoot backward, the branches of a bush biting my exposed backside. “I was just . . . thinking.”

She laughs. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days? Well, carry on with your . . . contemplation. I’ll go let the others know you’ll join us when you’re through.”

“No, that’s OK. I’ll be right —”

But it’s too late. She’s already crunching through the bramble, back toward the shore.

My cheeks and ears are burning hot as I scramble to get dressed. What the hell was I thinking, trying to catch a glimpse of Penelope in the buff? I should’ve just focused on the task at hand, end of story. It was the near-death kiss. It screwed with my head. Made me reckless. And not just that — it made me forget about Erin. My destiny. My one and only.

I burst from the woods and hurtle toward the shore to see everyone standing and staring at Clint’s Kiwi, still bobbing in the middle of the lake.

No one gives me a second look as I scrabble up beside them — no one but Penelope. I pant heavily, my hands on my hips.

“That’s some serious ruminating you were doing, huh?” she whispers.

“I wasn’t —”

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Clint is standing on one of the plane’s pontoons, hanging on to the cockpit window with one hand and hammering on the engine with a huge crescent wrench in the other.

“Oh, Jesus,” Hank mutters.

“What’s he doing?” I ask.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Charlie says, snapping a series of photos. “He’s using his considerable mechanical knowledge and years of aeronautical expertise to fine-tune his engine.”

“Come on, ya bastard!” Clint shouts, striking the gearbox with the huge wrench.

He scoots along the pontoon and climbs back into the plane. He shuts the door, settles into the cockpit, flips a few switches, and . . . the engine splutters to life. The propeller flicks and stutters a few times and then begins spinning evenly.

Clint grins big and gives a thumbs-up. “It’s all good!” he shouts as the bush plane pulls away.

The plane picks up speed and then lifts from the water. As it climbs into the blue sky, a stream of black smoke starts to pour from the engine. The Kiwi crests the mountain and disappears.

The six of us wait there. Standing stock-still, listening out: for the plane to circle back, for the sound of a crash, for some sort of sign.

But there’s nothing.

“Is it just me,” Penelope says, her arms crossed, watching the skies, “or is anyone else getting a serious
Lord of the Flies
vibe right about now?” She smirks at Charlie. “I wonder who’s going to end up being our Piggy?”

“OK,” Max says, clearly in take-charge mode. “We’ve all traveled a fair bit today, so I suggest we camp by the lake tonight, smooth the transition from civilization. We’ve got a plentiful supply of fresh water here,” he says, gesturing toward the lake, “so our first order of business should be to build a shelter.”

“Why don’t you wear shoes?” Penelope asks, apropos of nothing.

“Oh.” Max looks down at his brown weathered feet like he didn’t even notice. “Well, I like being connected to the earth. To my environment.” He wiggles his toes. “Keeps me grounded. Makes me more aware of my surroundings. No encumbrances.”

“Yes, but why
really
?” Penelope asks, cocking her head. “Do you think it makes you a more interesting person? Is it an attention-getting thing?”

“Penelope Grace Halpern!” Barbara gasps.

Max holds up a hand. “It’s OK. I don’t mind. I suppose the real reason I go barefoot is because I like how it feels. Simple as that. It reminds me of when I was a child.”

“Ahhh.” Penelope nods. “OK. Got it.
Puer aeternus.
The narcissist as eternal child.”

“I said that it
reminds
me of being a child,” Max says, the cords twanging in his neck. “Not that I wanted to
be
a child.”

“Speaking of children,” Charlie announces loudly, turning to me. “Where’s your baby?”

“Baby Robbie?” I say, looking at Hank. “Hank’s got him. I should probably get him back from you now so I can feed him.”

“What?” Hank blinks at me. “No . . . I thought . . .” His eyes dart this way and that, like he’s going to find the Baby-Real-A-Lot somewhere in the nearby brush. “Didn’t . . . didn’t you take him?”

“Me?”
I say. “No. You had him last, remember? I asked you to look after him.”

Hank shakes his head. “Oh no.”

“Wait a second.” I stare at him. “You
left
him? How could you do that?”

“I was . . . helping Charlie with his bag,” Hank stammers, “and . . . you asked me not to touch him. I just . . . assumed you picked him up. It was a misunderstanding.”

“Oh, God. I can’t believe this. You said you’d watch him! I’m totally screwed.” I look down at my ID bracelet, the LED flashing a cautionary yellow. “Holy crap, my neglect points are through the roof ! The poor kid’s going to die of starvation!”

“If he doesn’t die of a broken heart first,” Penelope says sadly.

I glare at her. I can’t have her making light of the situation.

I try not to think about how embarrassing this next part is going to be with Penelope watching. I feign a sniffle and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to will some waterworks. But nothing comes.

I remember what Charlie said to do. Something he saw an actor talk about once.

And so I forget about Penelope and this trip and even Baby Robbie. Instead, I think back to the day Dad moved out. I picture him hefting a garbage bag full of clothes over his shoulder like a hobo Kris Kringle. I remember standing in the doorway to our house, waving good-bye and crying. And Dad telling me to buck up, that this wasn’t “Good-bye,” only “See you later.”