Chapter 23 #2
The flaps of Pen’s tent part, and she emerges, scenting the coffee like a bloodhound.
Her hair is in rollers, for some reason, and two gold patches line the space beneath her eyes.
The sun streaming through the tree canopy has yet to make a dent on her frown; it’s been chiseled into her face.
She gestures urgently for coffee and gulps it down in two sips.
Josh comes up behind Pen and locks his arms around her waist.
The caffeine seems to cure something in her. “Good morning.” Pen turns around in his arms and kisses him. It’s so easy for them, being in love.
“Morning!” Skip bellows.
Eitan startles me, coming out of nowhere and pouring his own coffee. His hair is especially ruffled, the most adorable bedhead I’ve ever seen. He’s also watching Pen and Josh, probably as in the dark about their relationship as I am.
I glance at Calliope. “What a lovely day for purgatory,” I say under my breath.
Skip overhears me, and chortles. “I think you mispronounced ‘heaven,’ my dear!” He raises his voice and stands on the bench to project to the entire group. “One hour until our canoes shove off!”
The entire group issues a collective, hangover-tinged groan that reverberates through the wilderness all the way to Chicago.
“That,” Skip scolds us, “is not the sound of teamwork.”
After a breakfast feast of rubberized eggs and blackened Texas toast, Skip begins unloading paddles and life vests from his van.
Pen is hissing something at Calliope, while Josh tries to calm her down.
Thought we were going to a spa, and, I’m not canoeing, carry on the wind.
Something in Penelope’s frustration sounds like music.
A tiny dose of consequence-free comeuppance.
The chill has burned off and the sun warms anything it touches to what could be an August day. One last day of summer—a rare gift from the Midwest weather deities.
An eight-wheeled pickup truck pulls up to the campsite, with a hitch of canoes attached to the back.
“OUR CHARIOTS HATH ARRIVED!” Skip roars in his best Gerard Butler impression.
A woman hops out of the driver’s seat, bedecked in a trucker hat, flannel, and jorts. There’s an old man with stark white hair in the passenger seat, sitting in silence like a ghost. Or a serial killer.
“Everyone,” Skip announces, “this is Daisy.” The woman, with a tan that appears to have been developed over millenia, waves. “Don’t let the name fool you, she will flay you alive if anything happens to her canoes.”
Daisy begins listing what ‘anything’ entails: “No oar fights. No races. No bumper cars. No. Funny. Business.” She punctuates these final three words with a menacing, knife-tip glare. “Understood?”
The group murmurs our assent.
“Daisy and her dad will be helping us transport everything to our next campsite. Now, remember!” Skip holds up his hands. “Leave no trace! Make sure your tent is packed, trash is disposed of properly, and everything is loaded into Bessie!
“Two people per canoe. Every canoe gets one watertight bag for anything you want to bring in the water with you. Swimsuits are encouraged on this beee-YOU-tiful day! We will not be responsible for any items lost in the Au Sable, so pack smart. Not every moment needs to be captured on a cell phone!”
Pen hisses louder, like a wasp. Josh is performing a deep tissue massage in an effort to keep his fiancée calm and assure her that this will be fun. “It’s like summer camp!” he says, over and over. “Like Parent Trap!”
Calliope has drifted away from Pen, sensing a nuclear meltdown and not looking too broken up about it. Our eyes catch and we nod at each other, silently agreeing to share a canoe.
At least the time in the canoe is guaranteed to be Eitan-free.
“Oh! And don’t forget your Outventures signature blend of G.O.R.P.!” The stares are blank, the silence telling. “Granola, Oats, Raisins, and Peanuts.” Skip shakes his head at us. “It’s like you’ve never been outside before.”
I relish the silence of the far side of the campground, reducing the tent back to a zipped-up tube.
“Load the bags!” Skip projects from Bessie’s side. “If bags don’t make it onto the van, they don’t make it to the next campsite! Once your bags are loaded, take an oar and a life vest and line up at the dock.” He becomes a broken record, the same spiel on repeat for five minutes.
I walk back to Bessie, wearing a one piece with a windbreaker on my top half, depositing our tent and sleeping bags.
I dig around the huge boxes of gear for a size small neon green life vest. When I turn around, buckling it, Eitan’s gaze scrapes over my bare legs.
His attention is like steam billowing around me, making me buzz, overheat. He clears his throat and wanders away.
Eitan-free time, I remind myself.
The oars are metal with plastic paddles. I test out the weight in my hand, spinning it over my wrist.
“No funny business.” Daisy spots me.
I lower it to my side. “No ma’am.” I nod.
Calliope stands against the van, her forehead pressing into the side.
“You okay?” I ask.
She shakes her head, and turns around. Her face is way too pale, her arms wrapping around her middle. A panicked hand shoots up to her mouth.
“Shit—” I look around for a bucket or a trash bag.
It’s too late. I barely get Calliope’s hair out of the way before she retches right there, next to the van.
When she stands back up, she looks worse.
I catch Andres’s eye and he joins us, moving Calliope’s hair out of the way to feel her forehead.
She smiles at him, dreamily, like she’s hallucinating.
She burps. “Oopsies,” she mumbles.
“What’s wrong?” Eitan asks, joining us too.
“I think the campfire eggs have done me dirty,” Calliope groans. A loud, liquid rumble sounds from her gut.
“Ruh roh.” Skip jogs to get a bottle of Pedialyte from Bessie’s depths. “Can’t canoe like this.”
Calliope shakes her head in agreement.
“Well, you can hop in Bessie with Daisy. That means I’ll take your spot in the canoe.”
Oh no. That canoe would be mine. I’m not sure I can take hours of being alone with Skip and his unflinching optimism.
“We can play my favorite game!” Skip says to me. I grimace-glare at Eitan and Andres. They’re both standing right there, hands on their hips, in the middle of some kind of macho rescue-off.
“It’s called the paddle game,” Skip continues, oblivious, explaining the rules.
Eitan should offer to take the canoe with Skip, and let me go with Andres. Andres is safe. Someone with a perfect face that can be admired from afar and doesn’t pose any danger to my sanity.
Andres laughs to himself. “I’ll take the canoe with you, Skip.”
“Really?” Skip looks between Andres and I. “Is that okay?” he asks, like I’m losing the adventure of a lifetime by missing the paddle game.
“No problem,” I choke out, horrified. Problem, in fact. Andres and Eitan were going to share a canoe, so that leaves the two of us. Big problem!
Canoeing was supposed to be an Eitan-free zone. I was wrong about the woods. It’s like the Universe is more powerful out here. More wrathful.
“Great!” Skip thumbs-ups the group. “So you two will share?” He points to Eitan and I.
“Sure,” I say through a grimace made of panic.