The Distance from Me to You (2 page)

Now, as Brendan listed reasons why she shouldn't go on the hike alone, McKenna reminded herself that he was only being discouraging because he cared about her.

“It's called the
wild
for a reason,” he said. “There aren't any safety nets. It's not a joke. There are a thousand ways a person could die out there.”

“Not a person who knows what she's doing,” McKenna said.

“Accidents happen all the time. I'm not saying you're not prepared, but especially for a girl—”

“Why ‘especially for a girl'?” Nothing he said could have made her more determined to go ahead with her plan. Brendan should've known better. His mom had raised him on her own, and was also one of the best surgeons in Connecticut.

“McKenna,” he said, his eyes barely flitting away from the road. “I don't think you need me to spell it out for you.”

“Look,” she said. “It's not like college is the safest place in the world. Statistically, I'll be safer on the trail than I would be at Reed. No cars. No keg parties. No date-raping college boys.”

They passed under a streetlight, and McKenna could see he was frowning.

“I'm a smart person,” she went on. “I'm not going to take unnecessary risks. I'm going to camp in designated spots, stay on the trail. I won't camp within a mile of any road crossings. I know what I'm doing, Brendan.”

Brendan reached out and took her hand. “I wish you'd let
me call you, though,” he said. “It's going to be so weird, not talking to you.”

“Just think how happy you'll be to see me at Christmas break,” McKenna said, “when all that absence has made your heart grow fonder.” He looked dubious, but McKenna pressed on. “So you'll help? You won't tell my parents?”

“I won't tell your parents,” Brendan said. “But that doesn't mean I like this. That doesn't mean I think it's a good idea.”

She picked up his hand and kissed it. Maybe he wasn't in total agreement. But she knew he wouldn't do anything to stop her. For now that was all she needed.

• • •

The next day, McKenna got home from her last day of work for the summer. For three years, she'd been waiting tables at the Yankee Clipper, a breakfast and lunch place. During the school year she just worked weekends, but summers she worked six days a week, and this summer she worked right up to three days before her big departure. Not many Ridgefield Prep students had a job like this. Most of them had parents who were hotshot lawyers, or hotshot stockbrokers, or hotshot surgeons. The Burneys could afford Ridgefield thanks to Whitworth's tuition reciprocity program. Because Whitworth would pay McKenna's tuition at any participating university, her parents didn't have to save money for college, but could use the money for Ridgefield instead. Not that the Burneys were poor—far from it. Her mother picked up extra money consulting for an architectural firm, her father wrote a blog for a national political magazine
(“Just the Facts,” by Jerry Burney), and both of them pulled in decent salaries as tenured professors. McKenna knew she was lucky. She didn't envy her classmates, at least not much, for their trips to Europe or their Marc Jacobs handbags. For one thing, she liked working. And material things didn't particularly matter to her. At home, her ancient, thumbed-over copy of
Walden
was underlined and asterisked to the point where the pages were bloated, warped from overuse. Like Thoreau, she knew possessions were only “pretty toys.” McKenna was interested in the deeper things life had to offer.

She had been hiking most afternoons to get in shape, and today her dad was going to try to make it home in time to join her. He was her original inspiration for hiking the AT. Her whole life, she'd heard the story of how he and his best friend, Krosky, hiked the Pacific Northwest Trail the summer after they graduated high school. Of course, that was part of the reason he'd agreed to let her go. How could he say no after he'd always told her it was the greatest experience he'd ever had?

“Dad?” McKenna called, opening the front door.

Her sister, Lucy, would be at day camp, but at 3:30 both her parents should be home—one of the perks of their jobs as professors was having summers off. Plenty of time to spend with your eldest child before she embarked on a long journey.

“Mom?” McKenna called, making her way upstairs.

She already knew there wouldn't be a response. Mom was probably at the architectural firm, giving her opinion on the latest blueprints.

Dad probably got held up at his office meeting with an ambitious poli-sci student. Even in summer, he kept office hours, holding court with adoring students, often bringing gaggles of them home for dinner. Sometimes McKenna wished he was still just an assistant professor with plenty of time to go hiking.

McKenna banged into her bedroom and flopped across her bed, staring at the ceiling. She heard a jangling sound and pushed up on one elbow to see Buddy, the family's arthritic chocolate Lab, amble into the room. He walked over to where she was lying, licked her face, and put his two front paws on her bed. These days he could only climb up if McKenna gave him a boost.

“Don't tell anyone,” she whispered, “but I'm going to hike the Appalachian Trail all by myself.” She stroked his head. “I'm going to miss you, Buddy.”

• • •

Later that evening after hiking Flat Rock Brook by herself, McKenna found her dad in the kitchen, opening a beer.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said. “Back from a hike?”

“Yeah,” McKenna said. “Remember you were maybe going to go with me?”

A shadow passed over his face, but he quickly recovered. “Sorry about that,” he said. “An incoming grad student came by my office and I couldn't get away.”

It annoyed McKenna that he wasn't admitting what she could tell from his face—he had totally forgotten.

“It's okay,” she said, pouring herself a glass of ice water.

“I spoke to Al Hill this morning,” her dad said. “He's getting his research organized and is really excited that he'll have your help.”

As part of the bargaining to go on her hike, McKenna had agreed to work for her father's friend, cataloging his bird research up at Cornell. McKenna's Yankee Clipper money had covered all the gear for her trip. But while out hiking, she'd be using her parents' credit card, and this job would be a way, at least in part, of paying them back. It was also something McKenna was truly excited about, working with one of the top ornithologists in the country.

“Great,” McKenna said. “Are you home for dinner tonight?”

“No, your mom and I are having dinner with a new lecturer. You can get something together for you and Lucy, right?”

“You bet,” McKenna said, and gave him an encouraging little smile, as if nothing he'd done—or not done—had ever bothered her.

The night before
McKenna was supposed to leave, Buddy lay on the floor in a forlorn heap. McKenna's bed was covered with everything she planned to pile into her pack, plus Lucy, who sat on the pillows, her scrawny ten-year-old legs crossed as she examined the equipment.

“I don't think it's going to fit,” she said.

A couple weeks ago Lucy had chopped off her long white-blond hair, and McKenna was still getting used to it. The cut was shaggy and uneven, which somehow made her look like even more of a wild child than when it hung halfway down her back.

“It'll fit,” McKenna called from her bathroom, where she was washing her face. For the next several months it would be nothing but Dr. Bronner's peppermint soap, so she was doing her best to luxuriate in the warm water and take full advantage of the mirror.

Their mom poked her head into the bedroom. “Dad has a couple students coming to dinner,” she told them.

“Mom,” McKenna objected, coming out of the bathroom, her face still soapy. “It's my last night. I was really hoping it could just be us.”

“Sorry, honey, one's a new TA. He's going to be helping out with research and this was the only night we could make it work.”

McKenna walked back into the bathroom and splashed her face, giving up her last hopes of having her family to herself for a real good-bye. It was just as well, she thought, grabbing a towel. With guests at the table, there'd be less of a chance for her to let something slip about hiking the trail alone, since there'd be no chance for her to speak at all.

Her mom stood in the bathroom doorway. “I know it's short notice, but do you want to invite Courtney?”

“No,” McKenna said. “Her parents are having a special good-bye dinner for her, with her favorite meal. Just the family.”

“Well,” her mom said, apology creeping into her voice, “I did make enchiladas.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

After their mom left, Lucy picked up the giant, collapsible water jug. “This is going to take up half your pack when it's full,” she said. “How much do you think it'll weigh?”

They filled it to the brim in McKenna's bathroom and saw that Lucy was right. It was so heavy, McKenna could barely haul it out of the sink by its plastic handle.

“I don't think that's going to work,” Lucy said.

According to McKenna's thru hiker's guide, there were enough shelters on the AT, spaced close enough together, that some people didn't even bother carrying a tent. McKenna had no interest in that—she wanted the choice of camping on her own rather than bunking with strangers. But generally there were freshwater sources wherever there were shelters. And if not, McKenna also had a water filter, plus an impressive supply of iodine tablets in case the filter broke.

“Forget the jug, then,” McKenna said. “The smaller water bottles should be fine.”

Lucy picked up the two thirty-four-ounce bottles and slid them into their holders on the exterior of McKenna's pack.

“Sporty,” Lucy said, shaking a shock of hair out of her eyes.

“Sporty,” McKenna agreed.

The doorbell rang and the sound of their father's enthusiastic voice carried up the stairs. He was ready to hold court.

Lucy sighed and said, “I'm really going to miss you.”

McKenna sat down on the bed. She was dying to tell Lucy that Courtney wasn't coming with her, that she'd be going the trail alone. But she couldn't risk it, and anyway it wouldn't be fair to make a ten-year-old shoulder that kind of secret. Both girls were rule followers, and Lucy had always been more of a worrier than McKenna.

“Hey,” McKenna said. “Maybe you can do the same hike after you graduate. We could do it together.”

“You mean it?” Lucy asked, her blue eyes widening.

“Of course I mean it,” McKenna said. “By then I'll know all the tricks.”

Lucy picked up the key ring lying next to McKenna's collapsible pot and cookstove, and blew the whistle. The ring also had a small canister of pepper spray attached. “Is this one of the tricks?” she asked. “To keep away murderers?”

“Well, I got it in case of bears,” McKenna said. “But I'm guessing it would work on murderers, too.”

Lucy nodded. McKenna thought she looked like she might be fighting tears.

“I'll be fine,” McKenna told her. “And I'll be back before you know it.”

“I know,” Lucy said quickly. “I'm just going to miss you. That's all.”

McKenna pulled her sister into her arms, all sixty-three pounds of her. Lucy felt lighter than air and twice as bony.

Their mother's voice traveled up the stairs, calling them down to their guests, but McKenna ignored her, at least for a minute. She hoped her parents would remember to pay plenty of attention to Lucy while she was gone. It could get lonely in this house with everyone so busy, everyone always on the way to somewhere else.

• • •

Her dad's new TA, a skinny guy who had a two-year-old daughter, couldn't believe McKenna's parents were letting her and a friend hike all alone. If he only knew, McKenna thought, smiling to herself.

“The summer I was eighteen I hiked the Pacific Northwest Trail,” her dad said. “Now,
that's
wilderness. We barely saw another soul all summer. Packed in every bite of food we ate. Krosky and I lost sixty pounds between us.”

Both grad students nodded. McKenna had seen a million of them, all hanging on her dad's every word.

“Compared to the PNT,” her dad said, “the Appalachian Trail will be like a parking lot.”

McKenna frowned and speared a piece of lettuce. “Maybe we should drive out West tomorrow,” she said. “Do the PNT instead.”

“No, no, no,” her mom said. “The Appalachian Trail is plenty wilderness enough.” She turned to the TA. “McKenna's always been like that. Don't ever challenge or dare her. Ridiculously brave, even when she was little. Never had a single nightmare. She watched every episode of
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
when she was ten.”

Across the table, Lucy, who was prone to nightmares and couldn't stand to watch anything scary, shifted uncomfortably. Her mother took another sip of wine and launched into stories they'd all heard a hundred times about McKenna's childhood.

Listening to her mom, McKenna smiled at Lucy in a way she hoped told her she didn't have to be as brave as she was. At the same time, she had to admit, now that her mind was on the trail, she liked hearing about her own fearlessness, her own resourcefulness.

McKenna had no doubts at all; she would be just fine on the trail.

• • •

The next morning, McKenna stood in the driveway with her parents and Lucy, waiting for Courtney and Brendan. Originally, Brendan was going to drive the girls up to Maine and drop them off at Baxter State Park, so they had to make it look like that was still the plan.

“You sure you have everything?” McKenna's dad asked. “Did you use your checklist when you packed?”

McKenna nodded, not meeting his eye. All she had to do was get in the car and drive away, and she'd have made it. She'd be free.

“Listen,” her mom said. “I was thinking you could text us every morning. Just to let us know you're all right. You know, just, ‘Good morning, I'm alive.' Something like that. Before nine?”

“Mom,” McKenna said, “I'm only bringing the phone in case of emergency. I don't want to be texting every day, or looking to see what time it is. And please remember not to call me, because I won't answer, and I won't check voice mail. I want this experience to be authentic.”

“I can appreciate that,” her dad said, in the hyper-reasonable tone that usually preceded a contradiction. “But you need to appreciate, your mother will be worried.” Her mom shot him a look that demanded solidarity, and he added, “I will be, too.
How about twice a week? Let's say Wednesday and Friday you'll send us a text by ten a.m.”

“I really don't want to be looking at the time. Didn't you always say that was one of the best parts of your hike, never knowing what time it was?” McKenna argued.

“Before dark, then,” her mom conceded. “Text us Wednesday and Friday before dark, telling us where you are. That's just safety, right, to let someone know where you are?”

She sounded so pleading, McKenna felt guilty. “Fine,” she said.

And then,
finally
, there it was, Brendan's mom's minivan, rounding the corner. McKenna stood on her toes and waved furiously, as if they might drive past if she didn't flag them down.

Her dad picked up her pack. “Sheesh,” he said, hoisting it onto his shoulder. “Are you going to be able to carry this thing?”

“Dad,” McKenna said, reaching for the pack. The last thing she needed was for him to see the back of the van empty where Courtney's camping gear should be. “I can do it.”

“No, no,” he insisted. He headed to the back door of the van and opened it while McKenna battled a heart attack. But there lay Courtney's backpack, bulging almost as much as McKenna's. Any anger McKenna felt toward Courtney evaporated in a moment of pure love.

“You ready?” her mom asked Courtney.

“I'm ready,” Courtney said. Her voice sounded high and nervous.

McKenna hugged her dad, and Lucy. Her mom hugged her a little too long, and whispered in her ear, “Be safe out there. Be careful.”

“I will, Mom,” McKenna said, and kissed her cheek.

Then she climbed into the backseat and didn't turn around to see her mom and dad standing in the driveway, waving good-bye.

• • •

McKenna would have been surprised to know just how long her parents stood there after the minivan pulled away.

“I can't believe it,” McKenna's mom said when the van was completely out of sight. “I can't believe we're letting her do this.”

“Don't worry,” her dad said. “They'll be back in a week.”

Her mom nodded, still waving, clinging to the sight of McKenna until the van rounded the corner.

“I hope you're right,” she said, hugging herself and rubbing her arms as if she were cold, though the outside thermometer read eighty-eight degrees. “I really do.”