“That’s about it,” he says. “But it’s safe. Sorry it’s not more.”
Suddenly, all the rotten earth smells whisk to the back of my mind. The promise of chocolate is heady, and my stomach growls. My fingers are actually pale and shaky when I hand Emily a water. I’m hungrier than I thought.
“You may be the greatest teacher in the history of teachers.” I laugh, waggling the Whoppers.
“Well, don’t tell the guys. They’re stuck sharing the half-melted Hershey bar.”
“Jude has his own food,” Emily says, that same darkness leaking into her words. I sort of get the Jude hate. He has all the things we don’t. He looks at the rest of us like we’re less.
“You mean the macrobiotic twelve-dollars-a-pop granola bars?” He winks. “Well, unless he’s evolved into a higher life form, he’ll still need water.”
I look around pointedly. “Huh. Where on earth could we get some of that?”
“Clean water,” Mr. Walker says. Then he points at a spot between our tents. “I’ll be setting my tent up right there if you girls need anything. Things will look better tomorrow.”
I nod before unzipping our tent flap with a sigh. It might not be raining anymore, but I’m in a quarter inch of water, and I’m pretty sure I’ll need six showers to scrub off the standard-issue musty camping smell.
The last thing we want is to get the inside of the tent wet, but getting out of our boots and ponchos is a clown show. Emily holds up her poncho as I squish my feet out of my boots and stand barefoot on top of them, wrestling my poncho off. Then it’s Emily’s turn. By the time we’re in, I don’t know if any of it was worth it. Our soggy boots and backpacks are leaving puddles inside the door. Even when I peel off my jeans and sweatshirt, my tank top and undies are wet. Unpleasant doesn’t even touch this, but I put on my sleeping clothes anyway.
Emily doesn’t complain and, like every other night this week, only tugs off her pants when she’s got a sweatshirt wrapped around her waist. The first night, I felt almost pervy just ripping mine off, especially since I’ve got at least fifteen pounds on her. By day two, I was too tired and achy to care. Now as we carefully wrestle our (also damp) sleeping bags out of our packs, I roll my shoulders, feeling knots bunching at the base of my neck.
The ground slopes downhill, and there’s a rock under my left shoulder, but when we turn on the lantern and split our coveted candy, it feels a little better. Not great, but all right. We try our phones next, pulling them out of the plastic bags Mr. Walker passed out with the ponchos.
“They make fine nightlights,” I say, lamenting the No Signal indicator in the corner of my screen.
“I can use my calculator…or my camera,” Emily says.
I smirk. “Memories we’ll always treasure.”
Emily gives the smallest smile and then rolls away, curling into a tiny ball in her sleeping bag. For a second, I see a flash of her slim shoulder and four shadowy bruises on the back of her arm. My stomach tightens as I think about her fear over the broken string earlier. Because those bruises are too old to have happened out here.
As if she feels me watching, Emily slips her arm inside her bag. I see nothing but black hair and the obvious hint that she’s done talking. Just like the last two nights, the silence swells in the tent until I’m sure the canvas walls will burst. There’s cricket song and night noises, but I’ve never been a good sleeper. Not since Mom left. At home, Dad would be in the living room, reading and eating hummus, and eventually the munching and page-flipping would lull me off to dreamland. But not here.
Here, I leave the lantern on and stare at the stained tent ceiling, sticky and cold and sick to death of this SLEM trip.
Senior Life Experience Mission, my foot. I start coming up with new words to fit the acronym in my mind. See Life Endless Monsoon. Sinister Lucas Enjoys Mischief. So Long, Enjoyable Moments.
I sigh and turn off the lantern. I don’t think tomorrow can be worse.
But I’m wrong.
Chapter 3
I wake up warm. No, not warm—hot. I stretch like a cat, rolling over in my sleeping bag. My eyes flutter just enough to peek at a sunbeam gleaming in from the open tent flap. Wait, why isn’t that closed?
I open my eyes for real, and my head swims. Pounds.
I rub a hand over my face and try to sit up. I fail, going down in a heap, that same dull ache throbbing behind my temples. I lick my lips. My mouth is a wad of sand-coated cotton.
Am I dehydrated? Is that possible? I wonder what time it is because I’m roasting in here.