The Last Hunter: Collected Edition (Antarktos Saga #1-5)

“C’mon,” she says. “Introduce me to your dad.”


My dad? I think. What’s so great about—? Then, I see the camera around her neck. My father is a photographer for National Geographic. Many of his photos from their Clark Station years are in Antarktos. If Mirabelle wants to be a photographer, then my dad is probably her hero as much as her father is mine.

Knowing this is a great relief. For a moment I worried that I would be constantly paired with Mirabelle throughout the trip, unable to pursue my interests because our parents were trying to play Antarctican matchmakers. But as I watch her walk away, I feel my face flush. Not only is she pretty, but she spoke to me with a kindness I hadn’t yet experienced from a girl my age.

In fact, she’s got me so distracted that when I’m introduced to Dr. Clark, I totally botch the quote, making myself look like a buffoon. As they pack the cars, I’m told there are chocolate chip cookies on the kitchen counter if I want one. I don’t, but I want to be out of sight so much that if they had said there were chocolate covered locusts in the kitchen, I would have accepted the offer just the same. I suppose I’m like an ostrich, hiding my head in the sand. I sometimes wonder if this habit will make me a pushover as an adult, too, but I’ve seen my parents ignore enough problems around the house to know that even grownups sometimes have trouble facing life’s challenges. And I’m only thirteen. So I’ll put my head inside a cookie jar or metaphorical sand and not feel bad about it.

Like the outside of the house, the inside is old, but well maintained. The hardwood, which is everywhere—floors, mantles, railing, stairs—shines with a polish that looks new, but I suspect is just cared for. Even with the polish, I don’t feel like I can’t touch anything. Justin’s mom has a room in their house that we can’t even walk through. A living room in which no one lives. This is a great inconvenience, because the living room leads to the den, where the TV is, and instead of walking straight through, we have to walk around the entire first floor.

This house doesn’t feel untouchable. This home is lived in. This home is loved.

Straight through the hallway at the center of the house, on the kitchen counter, I see the cookies. I still don’t want one, but if someone follows me in, I don’t want to look like a klutz, a doofus and a liar.

On my way to the kitchen, almost every floor-board I step on creaks. Ninjas would hate this house, I think before picking up one of the coaster-sized cookies. I take a reluctant bite. The brown sugar melts in my mouth, followed by a still warm burst of semi-sweet goodness. I change my mind about the cookie and pick up a second.

“Don’t eat too many,” a woman says, spinning me around on my heels.

Her skin is two shades darker than Mirabelle’s but her smile seems even brighter. I recognize her immediately. My father took a stunning photo of her once, sitting on a glacier wrapped in a blanket, having a picnic. Only, that’s not why I recognize her. “Hello, Mrs. Clark. How are you?”

She stops, puts a hand to her ample hip and says, “Well, aren’t you the polite one.”

I’m not sure what to say, but I’m not nearly as nervous around Mrs. Clark as I am around Merrill, or their daughter. I continue with a compliment. “These are really good.”

“You know, as much as I know everyone loves these cookies, you’re the first person to compliment them.”

This strikes me as odd, given how good they are. She takes out a plastic bag, loads it with three more cookies, takes the second out of my hand, adds it to the bag and hands it to me. She gives me a wink that lets me know we’re in cahoots. I nod and stuff the cookies into my cargo pants pocket.

“Thank you, Mrs. Clark.”

“Enough with the Mrs. stuff. Call me Aimee.”

I’ve never once in my life been invited to call an adult by their first name. I heard once that an art teacher at my former high school allowed the students to call her by her first name. But someone told her she couldn’t and she quit. I remember thinking she was silly for quitting, but having now experienced the sense of pride over using an adult’s first name, I understand. It’s a gift. An acknowledgement of not being superior simply for being older.

“I like how you spell your name.” Then I try it on for size. “Aimee.” But I drag the E sound out.

She laughs. “I have my mother to thank for the spelling. I like it now, but kids made fun of me a lot for it when I was your age.”