Dan Versus Nature (25 page)

Charlie does a double take. “Excuse me. What? No. Why?”

“Don’t you think she’s going to figure out what we’re up to eventually? And once she does, you know that she’ll call us on it. She could ruin everything.”

Charlie has been shaking his head the entire time I’ve been talking.

“Absolutely not,” he says. “I don’t trust that girl as far as I can throw her — which, as we know, with my carpal tunnel, is not very far.”

“I just think that with our lives in the balance here, that she might —”

“Oh my God, you’ve done what I told you not to do,” Charlie says. “You’re smitten with her. That’s why you want to tell her! So you won’t be embarrassed in front of her.”

“That’s ridiculous.” I force a laugh. “I so am
not
smitten with her.”

“You know that I only want what’s best for you. And what’s best for you is that we leave that harridan out of this. She’s a wild card, and this is a high-stakes game of Doppelkopf, my friend.”

“Doppelkopf?”

“It’s a very challenging and complex German card game. With
no
wild cards.”

I sigh. “Look, Charlie. All I’m suggesting is —”

“She will destroy everything we’ve worked for,” Charlie says. “I’m going to have to put my foot down on this one. I’m sorry, but it’s absolutely imperative that we remain steadfast, strong, and in control of the situation.”

A fluffy brown rabbit darts in front of us.

Charlie screams, leaping into the air like he’s been anally probed.

“Right.” I nod. “In control. Got it.”

“It’s not the stream,” Hank says, standing next to a trickle of groundwater. “But if we follow this little creek, I bet we run into it eventually. Anyway, it’s something.” He looks up at the late-afternoon sun. “And it’s the best we’re going to do for today. We’ll set up camp here. At least we’ll have water to drink.”

Charlie scoffs. “Not unless you expect us to risk exposure to cryptosporidium parvum or giardia lamblia.”

“I’m sure the odds of that are very small,” Hank says. “In fact,
Outdoor Life
recently reported that water in remote locales is much cleaner than previously thought. And I don’t think anyone would argue”— he looks around at the vast wilderness —“that we are in a very remote locale.”

“What about nourishment?” Penelope asks, grabbing her stomach. “All we’ve had to eat for two days is a can of chili.”

And some of us voided our chili before it could be absorbed for nutrients,
I think, glaring at Charlie.

“Yeah, um . . .” Hank looks around. “We might have to forgo eating tonight.”

“Seriously?” I say, my belly grumbling. “What about setting up some traps? Like a snare or something? You could show us how.”

Hank rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t know if that’s the wisest use of our time. Even if we managed to catch something, we can’t cook it without a fire. And we don’t have any way to start one. We should build a shelter for warmth. That’s our first priority, just like Max said.”

Charlie removes his glasses. “We could use one of these lenses as a magnifying glass.” He points to the sky. “Focus the sun’s rays on some sock lint or moss or something. Once we’ve got a flame, we simply add dried twigs, sticks, and then logs. If we have fire, then we have warmth
and
a means for cooking, yes?”

“So you’re terribly farsighted, then?” Penelope asks archly.

“No, nearsighted,” Charlie says, putting his glasses back on. “Why?”

Penelope rolls her eyes. “Because, mollusk, you can’t start a fire with diverging lenses — which are what they use to correct nearsightedness.”

“I know,” Charlie snaps defensively. “My mind’s just a little muddled after nearly being beheaded by a seven-hundred-pound beast. Of course I meant we’d need converging lenses. I don’t suppose you’re farsighted?”

“Me? No. My glasses are strictly for style. I happen to have twenty-ten vision. Far above the average person. But it wouldn’t matter even if I were.”

“What? Why not?”

“Oh my God, this is excruciatingly embarrassing for you,” Penelope says. “OK, let me impart some basic knowledge of optics: Unless you’re, like, legally blind or something, a converging lens isn’t going to cut it either. What you
really
need is a biconvex lens — that means it’s convex on both sides.”

“I know what
biconvex
means,” Charlie mutters, his face crimson.

“Outstanding!” Penelope enthuses. “And do you know what has a biconvex lens in it?” She stares at him like he’s a dog and she’s waiting for him to take the treat she’s holding out.

“My camera,” Charlie says at last. I’ve never seen his face so red before. It’s nearly the color of the rash on my ass.

“Indeed! I don’t suppose you want to smash it, though, so just be sure to open the aperture as wide as possible and point the back end of the lens at your target.”

“Right. Good. OK.” Hank nods. “So, if you want to take care of that,” he says to Charlie, “I’ll go see if I can rustle us up some food. It’s probably better if I’m by myself. Quieter. Dan, Penelope, maybe you two could start collecting material for our shelter. Just like the other day. Big branches first.” Hank looks around and points at a large rock over to our left. “Bring them over there. We’ll use that stone as our support.”

Penelope and I wander through the forest, searching for building materials. This is now the third time the two of us have been alone in the woods together. You would think that I’d start to become immune to her charms, but I can’t help sneaking glances at her low-rise jeans, her form-fitting Squirrel Girl shirt, her —

“What are you thinking about?” Penelope says.

“What? Me? Nothing. Why?”

“I don’t know. You seemed deep in thought. I assumed you must be pondering something. Ruminating on the complexities of the human condition.”

“Yeah, uh, no.” I shake my head.

“You must be thinking
something,
” Penelope says. “Personally, I’ve been trying to piece together the path back to the lake, to see if I could remember anything that might help — landmarks, sun position, whatever. I thought maybe you were doing the same.”

“I wish,” I say, and I really do. It be awesome if I could be the hero that leads us back to the rendezvous point, to reunite Penelope with her mother.

“OK,” she presses. “So if it’s not that, then what’s on your mind? You seem so intense, the way you’re wringing that poor baby sweater.”

I look down at the sweater clutched in my right hand. I didn’t even know I was holding it. “It’s . . . personal.” I slip the sweater back into my pocket. “I’d rather not talk about it.” Understatement of the year!

“All right. I can respect that.”

Penelope crouches down to grab a few branches, and my eyes snap to, laser-focusing on the gaping of her jeans in the back. A ray of heavenly light shines down, spotlighting the glorious suggestion of greater things just a few centimeters below the belt loops. And I swear I hear a chorus of angels start to sing.

I rip my gaze away, my breath snagging in my throat.

Stop it right now. Just stop!

“Why?” Penelope looks up at me.

“Huh? What?”

“Why do you want me to stop?” she says. “Is something wrong with this branch?”

“I didn’t . . .” I swallow. “Did I say —”

“‘Stop it right now. Just stop!’” Penelope stands, her eyebrows raised. “Yes, you did.”

Oh.

Crap.

“I, uh, I . . .” I’m blinking like a madman, trying desperately to come up with a plausible excuse. “I was just . . . talking to myself. In my head.”

“And you were castigating yourself?”

“What? No.” I glance down, cheeks flaming. “You’ve got a warped mind, you know? I think you might have a problem.”

“
Cas
tigating,” she says. “As in reprimanding?”

“Oh. Yeah. Right. Castigating. In my head. That’s exactly what I was doing.”

“Care to elaborate?” she asks. “Or is it more ‘personal’ matters?”

“It’s just . . . family stuff,” I say, picking up an impossibly small twig and throwing it away again. “Hank, actually. My mother’s going to marry him when we get back, and I don’t think it’s a good idea. I just . . . I can’t stop thinking about it. Even though I keep telling myself to stop. That’s all.”

Charlie would not be pleased with me for confessing even this much, but it sure beats confessing to the
other
truth. And it’s not like I said I was trying to scare Hank off or anything . . .

“He seems like a decent enough guy,” Penelope says, picking up an actual usable stick. “What’s your problem with him?”

“I don’t know yet,” I say. “But there’ll be something. There’s always something. My mom has about as good a record with guys as Arkham Asylum has of keeping its inmates locked up. In fact, if we lived in Gotham, several of her boyfriends would probably have been escapees.”

This makes Penelope laugh, which feels nice.
Really
nice.

“At least your mother is committing to someone. Mine is just satisfied with having a series of meaningless — often quite audible — carnal encounters. I don’t even bother learning their names any longer. Though, sometimes, when she’s in the throes, I have little choice.”

“Earplugs,” I say. “That’s what I use.”

Penelope nods. “Noise-canceling headphones work better. As long as you have something distracting enough to listen to. I’m partial to the
New Yorker
fiction podcasts myself.”

We continue walking, picking up branches as we go.

“What about your dad?” I ask. “Is he still around?”

“He is,” Penelope says. “Around. Just not twenty-four-seven.”

“But you see him?”

Penelope smiles. “Oh, sure. He’s great. I love him. We have a lot in common, he and I. Well, except for the fact that he’s gay.”

“What?” I do a double take. “But didn’t he and your mother . . . didn’t they . . .
you know
. . . in order to have you?”

Penelope laughs. “What can I say? The mind is a powerful thing. My father was living in a state of denial. It’s a big state, Dan. A lot of people live there.”

“I guess. Jeez, that must have been really hard for your mom, huh? When he, you know, finally figured it out?”

“Hard doesn’t even begin to describe it. My mother was devastated when he decided to leave. The worst part was that she actually thought she
turned
him gay somehow.” Penelope laughs, then bites her lower lip. “Sorry. It’s not really funny. But it kind of is, you know? I tried to explain to her that it’s not actually possible to turn someone gay, but I don’t know if she’s ever come to terms with it.”

“What about you?” I ask. “Were you mad at him?”

Penelope shrugs. “Not really. A bit like, ‘Wow, that’s some interesting news.’ But how could I be mad? It’d be like getting angry at him for being bald. Sure, I was sad that my mother was sad. But I was also glad my dad wasn’t living a lie anymore. I mean, he’s an amazing guy. He deserves to be happy. And he loves me. Still loves my mom, even though she can’t stand to look at him.”

I shake my head. “Sounds like you handled it really well. I’m not sure how I would take that news.”

We walk in silence for a while. Collecting more branches.

“How about you?” Penelope finally asks. “Your father? Is he still in the picture?”

“In
my
picture?” I say. “No. He took off when I was ten. Haven’t heard from him since. I think he lives in Florida. That’s about all I know. Well, and that he’s a drunk.”

“Ahhh, OK.” She nods. “That makes sense now.”

“What does?”

“The Hank thing. Why you can’t accept him. Why you’re against the wedding.”

“I already told you,” I say. “Because he’s going to turn out to be a douche. Just like all the rest of them. Except this time it’s going to be even harder for my mom when things go bad. No one’s ever gone so far as to propose to her before.”

“So, it’s your mother you’re concerned about?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Not your inability to let go of the prospect of your father coming back?”

“There’s nothing to let go of. My father isn’t coming back.” I instinctively grab my wrist, as if Penelope plans to steal his old Timex.

“But he could. I mean, it’s not like he’s dead or gay or anything. Your mother and he
could
get back together. Hypothetically.”

“But they won’t. Even if he did show up, my mom wouldn’t take him back. Not after all this time. Not after the way he left.” I clench my jaw. “He’s a screwup. And an asshole. Why the hell would I want him back in my life? That’s just stupid.”

“All right, OK,” Penelope says, raising a hand. “As long as you’re over it.”

I blink hard. “Let’s just . . . look for branches, OK? It’s going to start getting dark soon.”

“Yes. Avoidance. Good strategy. Also known as the ostrich approach.”

“Right,” I say. “And you’re
totally fine
with the fact that your dad left your mom — whatever the reason. Doesn’t bother you at all. Not even a little, you’re so enlightened. That’s not burying your head in the sand?”

Penelope looks at me. “You want the truth?”

“Sure,” I say.

“Ostriches don’t actually bury their heads in the sand,” she says. “It’s a fallacy.”