Gravediggers (2 page)

“You cool?” says Coach Leider.

Pfff. Am I cool. “Yeah, whatever,” I tell him, hoping he hears how
lame
this is.

“Good.” He hisses through his teeth. “There's something else, too. Don't get upset, but . . . I heard that you have a history with someone else in Ms. Brandt's group, so I should probably talk to you about her. Apparently, the two of you had a fight in Ms. Dean's class once—”

Oh no. I feel my stomach sink and my heart melt into goo. Off in the distance, marching toward the girls' cabins, I see her big brown pom-pom of hair, and it's bad, man, it's worse than a million and one PJs.

Anyone,
anyone
but her.

Chapter Two
Kendra

A
ccording to my
Field Guide to Montana Animal and Plant Life
, there are fifteen species of owl that are native to the mountain ranges that we are currently camping at the feet of, the Bitterroots. And while they only hunt at night, some owls have been known to come out in the evening and scare up prey that gets confused by the dim light but enjoys the warmth of the evening sun. Therefore, the evenings are when I have to be most alert. That is one of my goals for the trip—to see an owl in flight, specifically the flammulated owl, who looks notably like Yoda from the
Star Wars
movies.

There is something about owls that fascinates me, perhaps because they are historically symbols for wisdom or because they just appear statelier than most birds, their eyes huge and their chests puffed out. I can only hope that when I see an owl, the owl will see some wisdom in me. We'll recognize each other's brilliance. And it doesn't hurt that they're
extremely
pretty.

But I'm
ideating
(that's three; two more times and I've filled my vocabulary quota for the week).

Once we've dropped all our stuff off at our bunks—it appears I'm the only girl who didn't bring any lip gloss or hair accessories (as though I care)—we have lunch at the mess hall, its wooden walls lined with art projects that consist of twigs and leaves glued to construction paper. I use the time to text Jutta and David from the braintrustfund.org message board about DEET (N, N-Diethyl-meta-toluamide) levels in the insect repellents they've used, and about which berries they've eaten on past camping trips. David tells me he usually uses DEET-free spray—his parents prefer organic alternatives—and that he generally enjoys thimbleberries, but that my trip might be too mountainous to find them. No word from Jutta, but that's understandable. David's from Portland, Oregon, while Jutta's from Hamburg, Germany. She's probably eating dinner.

After lunch, we all return to the campfire pit, where we're split up into our sections and sent to stand next to our assigned teacher. Ms. Brandt checks us off her attendance list, beaming. In the classroom, Ms. Brandt is overly rigid—the sight of her small, spherical form next to your desk is worrisome—but the seventh and eighth graders who I spoke to say that she becomes a kindhearted naturist at Homeroom Earth—
naturist
in this case meaning one who worships nature, not one who walks around without clothes on. Or so I assume.

Either way, her face glows with a wide grin and she rubs her chubby-fingered hands together excitedly. Some of the other kids find this funny and giggle to themselves, but watching her take on such a different persona outside of the classroom gives me a warm feeling in my chest. Today, we can be pioneers!

“Okay,” she mumbles. “Wright, Kendra. Jones, Leslie. Todd, Barbara. Dylan, Jenny. Richter, Tom. Wilson, Peter Jacob . . .” She trails down the names of the kids around me, then looks over to Coach Leider, who gives her a thumbs-up. “Splendid. And Buckley, Ian.”

Excuse me?

Sadly, this is not a mistake on her part—there's Ian Buckley, all skinny muscles and messy blond hair, crossing his arms and looking completely miserable as Coach Leider leads him over to our group. (Let it be noted that Coach Leider's outfit is astounding. I will never own that much camouflage.) Blood instinctively rushes into my face as I catch sight of him—he's all boy, all stupid, lanky, mean, sexist little
boy.

“Weren't you supposed to be in Coach Leider's group?” asks Tom Richter.

“Well,” says Ian, “I definitely wasn't supposed to be here, with . . .” He trails off.

“Go on, Ian,” I ask, “with who?”

He laughs and shakes his head, but refuses to look at me.

Relax, Kendra. So, yes, you're in an Activity Group with a loudmouth jock whose primary goal in life is to jump off a cliff and see how it feels. This may be
inauspicious
(that's two for inauspicious, you need three more), but it is by no means the end to your work out here.

By the looks of things, Ian doesn't seem incredibly pleased to be in Ms. Brandt's group either, since there isn't a single basketball player amongst you, just “pathetic nerds” like yourself, which is what Ian called you in science class before you hit him in the face with your textbook so hard that he had to be sent home and you had to spend your first and only afternoon in detention.

So. Maybe his lack of someone to grunt at will keep him quiet and you can work in peace. Forget him. Take a deep breath of fresh mountain air and let it out. Owls. Keep your eyes out for owls.

Professor Randy sidles over to Ms. Brandt and says, “Everyone here? Wonderful! Guys, I'd like you to meet Maris, your outdoor teacher for the day.” A pale, acne-spotted girl with black lipstick appears next to Professor Randy and waves excitedly at us. “She's going to make sure you kids have a rockin' time on your first activity!” When he's looking away, I take a picture of “Professor” Randy with my phone and e-mail it to my message board friends. Subject:
This guy's our professor????
Multiple LOL responses follow.

“All right, guys, our first activity is . . .wildflowers!” announces Maris. Every boy in our group groans as one. “I know what you're thinking, guys,
flowers
are for girls
, but actually Montana's wildflowers are as fascinating and diverse as its many animal species.”

“But twice as boring,” grumbles Ian Buckley.

“Mr. Buckley,” snaps Ms. Brandt. A few of my classmates giggle, so I shoot Ian a dirty look to let him know his commentary isn't appreciated. He mouths,
What?
at me. My face burns and my hands ball into fists. If only I had a textbook around . . .

Maris leads us away from the main campsite buildings and up a wide hiking trail with deep woods and colorful fields of flowers lining either side of it. The wind is cool but dry, drawing its lazy fingers through the high grass. It's still early spring, but already the air is dotted with mayflies and gnats, early births from the insect world. The trees around us are impossibly tall, their highest branches straining up at least fifty feet overhead; beneath them, in the shadows of the forest, shafts of light dance, birds chirp, squirrels rustle through fallen leaves, and page after page of fascinating knowledge awaits. For some reason, though the sky is blue and bright, a great misty cloud hangs over the mountain, as though it got caught on a tree and can't drift farther without tearing.

This is a researcher's
heaven
, a safe campsite on a nature preserve that was built to provide young people like us with a chance to study the wilderness in all its beauty. Montana is not somewhere like, say, Iowa, some corn-choked wasteland, but instead is home to purple mountain majesties and green woods teeming with life! According to my field guide, there are over three thousand unmarked mountain trails and peaks in this region. I didn't
quite
believe that, but it was interesting to see it documented. Now that I see the size of the mountains surrounding us, I'm inclined to believe it's the case.

I'm about to snap a photo of the landscape to post on my blog when a message pops up. Sender: Dad. “
My computer shows you as online. I thought we talked about this. Turn your phone off! Have an adventure!”
Something like panic sparks within me, and I stuff my phone in my pocket.

Up ahead, Barbara Todd and Jenny Dylan huddle together, whispering about something near a patch of what I think are toadflaxes (toadflaxi? Toadflaces? I make a mental note to look it up later). This is the adventure my father means: the friend adventure, the Normal Kid routine.

Slowly, I approach them, unsure as to why my palms are beginning to sweat, why my mouth feels so dry.

You're an interesting person, Kendra. You know everything about these woods. Just walk up to them and say something.

“Did you know there are over three thousand uncharted hiking trails in these mountains?” I ask as I reach them.

Barbara and Jenny look up at me like my head is on fire. Barbara is all blond and small nosed in a pink sequined shirt; Jenny wears glittered denim from head to toe and has a wholly unnecessary magenta highlight. “What?” says Barbara.

“On those mountains,” I say, pointing to the violet silhouettes in the distance. “I mean, that's a lot of terrain to cover. I feel like . . .” What do girls like this talk about? “. . . like my hair's going to be a total mess after this!”

The silence that follows is
excruciating
. (Has that been a vocab word yet? It should be.)

“You're worried about . . .
your
hair?” asks Jenny, raising an eyebrow and observing the top of my head.

“Of course,” I say, laughing a little, trying to stop the buzzing in my head. “It's just . . . what a lot of ground to cover for one day. Totally ruins my staying power.”

The girls stare at me, then at each other. Jenny shrugs. “Okay, Kendra,” says Barbara, looking away from me. “Thanks for . . . filling us in.”

Jenny bites her lip to keep from giggling. Barbara nods farther up the path, and she and Jenny power-walk away from me, laughing to themselves. On the wind, I catch one of them mutter, “That was
weird
.”

Then the other replies, “I know. What's her problem?”

My cheeks burn. My heart pounds. The question echoes in my head: What
is
my problem?

It's all Mom and Dad could talk about before this trip.
Make some friends.
Real
friends, not internet friends. Friends you can do stuff with, who can come over after school
.
It's not hard—just walk up to them and be yourself
.
You're so smart and funny!

It sounds easy enough, but here I am, somehow failing, even though I know what I'm saying is
right
, and
interesting
.

Calm down, Kendra. Don't become discouraged just because two girls in your class didn't want to talk to you. Barbara Todd's a ditz, anyway. Distract yourself. Go over the checklist on your phone again, the one you got from Diane from Montreal. You've got your map, compass, specimen jars, granola bars, your notebook, your field guide—

“Ms. Brandt, look!” The voice is right behind me. I whirl around to see Ian Buckley jabbing a finger directly at the screen of my smartphone. “I thought the rules were no electronics!”

Ms. Brandt approaches me, her happy-go-lucky naturist smile replaced by the stern expression we know so well from English class. “Ms. Wright,” she says, ex-tending a hand. “Rules are rules. Hand it over.”

“Careful!” says Ian. “Make sure she doesn't have a textbook on her! She's been known to attack when cornered!”

Before I can say a word, Ms. Brandt snatches my phone from my hands and pockets it. As she walks away, my only successful connection to the outside world in her hand, my heart sinks in my chest. I've been talking up this trip to my whole network, my friends from all over the world, and now I won't be able to post a single tweet of my adventures. No one'll know—not Jutta, not David, not Gerry or Alma or Carter. It'll be like this trip didn't even happen.

When I turn back to Ian, he has a mean little smirk on his face, like he can see the roaring fire that's building in my chest and face. My vision begins blurring red. I don't think I've ever been this angry.

“Uh-oh,” says Ian, snickering. “She's gonna blow!”

Behind him, Peter Jacob Wilson grimaces at me. “Sorry, he's not usually this much of a jerk—”

“Oh my God, PJ, gimme the camera!” Ian snatches a camcorder out of his friend's hand and trains it on me, a little red light switching on over the glossy black lens. “Dude, look, she's actually turning purple. YouTube, here I come!”

“Ian, cut it out,” says Peter Jacob, laughing nervously at me. “Really, I'm sorry. He's not normally this mean. I think it's the air out here, personally.”

Suddenly, my blind rage takes over, and I call out, “Ms. Brandt, he has a video camera!”

Ms. Brandt doubles back over to us, her arms holding a bouquet of wildflowers. Being torn away from her flower picking twice has wiped away all remnants of Excited Outdoors Ms. Brandt. “What is it now?” she asks grumpily.

“Wait a second,” says Peter Jacob, holding up his hands to me. “That's—”

“He has a camcorder,” I say, pointing to Ian, his eyes bulging with faux innocence. “If I'm not allowed to have my smartphone, he shouldn't be allowed to have a camera.”

Ms. Brandt groans and snatches the camcorder out of Ian's hand. “Enough,” she says. “We are not here to play with electronics or tattle on each other; we are here to bask in nature's unending beauty.” She hands each of us a yellow wildflower. “There.
Get basking
.”

We all watch her stomp back toward the rest of the group. When I look back at Ian, however, in the hopes of savoring
his
reaction to losing his precious gizmo, I find him glowering not at me but at Peter Jacob, who stares after Ms. Brandt with a look of pure horror on his face, his eyes bulging, his mouth hanging open.

“I swear, man,” says Ian, “if I'd known she was going to rat us out, I would've—”

“Un
believable
,” whispers Peter Jacob, and then he looks at Ian. “What am I going to do now?”

“Chill, dude,” says Ian, “you'll get it back—”

“And you!” Suddenly, Peter Jacob's eyes settle on me, and his expression goes from aghast to enraged. “You complete
spaz
! Just because you got your phone taken away, you have to ruin
my
trip? What am I supposed to do without my camera?”