One Was Lost(5)

I laugh, remembering Ms. Brighton’s little fireside performance after all the ghost stories. “Yeah, Madison’s story was better. Dead people in the trees really sets the mood.”

Emily nods.

I look around, frowning. “OK, tell me the truth. Did someone really die out here?”

She shrugs. “Yeah, a girl. I mean, probably not like Madison told it at the fire. I doubt she was killed. That’s an urban myth.”

“God, it’s a creepy one though. Left to die by your friends. A bear dragging pieces of you out?” I shudder. “Let’s hope they don’t go there. They can make their own cool story.”

“Yeah, the night they froze to death, lost in the woods,” Emily says, shivering.

I position a stake now that I have my mallet back. “For me, it might be the night I go to jail for shoving a fistful of mud down Lucas Crane’s throat.”

I pull back to strike the metal stake. It folds like a taco, just like the first ones. That’s why I’d let Lucas take a turn with the mallet. Clearly, the break did not improve my ability. Whatever. I keep right on hammering, banging away until the bent metal is buried in mud. Success. Sort of.

This trip was supposed to be great. Mr. Walker practically promised mythical nirvana out here. We’d see mountains and ancient trees and unicorns that come to drink at sunset or some crap. Extremely remote, he said. Personally enlightening, Ms. Brighton added.

They pegged the remote part. We’re in Nowhere, West Virginia, where the only thing less common than people is cell phone reception. Of course, we’re not remote enough to get me away from the one boy I’m trying desperately to avoid.

“Sera?”

“Yeah?”

Emily’s eyes dart to the subject of my glare. “I know you and Lucas have a history.”

“We don’t…” There’s no way to finish because I don’t want to lie. Or explain. I trail off instead, drifting into the space my lies want to fill over.

None of it would have happened if I didn’t want that stupid stage scenery so badly. I could have made do, but I wanted real metal, and I have a way of getting what I want. Just like my mother.

I press the heels of my palms into my eyes, hating the way her smile forms in my memory. Oh, she would have loved Lucas. No. No, that’s not quite right. She would have loved everything about the way I am when I’m with him.

I push my mother’s face out of my mind, but another memory rushes in.

The scent of metal, as sharp as the hiss of the torch. Long sturdy tables and sparks that cascade to the ground, skittering like glowing insects. Our school is brightly colored murals and paint-spattered floors, but this room is different.

Lucas looks up when he sees me, the dark glass rectangle in his welding mask fixing on my face. Under the mask, he’s formed with the same angles and hollows as the shop around him.

I should tell him why I’m here, but I don’t. My gaze trails over his heavy-lidded eyes too long. I linger. And I know I shouldn’t.

“Be careful,” Emily says, pulling me back. “Do you know what he did to Tyler Kenton?”

If you’re within a hundred miles of Marietta, Ohio, you know what Lucas did to Tyler at the homecoming soccer game last year. If you’re smart, you remember it before you kiss him.

My lips quirk. “I think it’s required knowledge for graduation.”

I nudge each of the stakes with the toe of my boot. They’re a mess, but the tent feels sturdy enough. Maybe we won’t get blown away after all. I slam in the last two stakes and stand up as the rain tapers off. Mist clings to the trees and turns the air even colder.

Lucas stands up on the other side of our tiny camp, and I narrow my eyes, imagining his wide shoulders sending Tyler flying. I know nothing about soccer, but you don’t have to be an expert to know Tyler went into that game a star forward senior with dreams of a full ride. Then newcomer junior Lucas showed up. One collision later, Tyler’s leg snapped. Senior season over and sainthood secured.

Lucas meets my eyes across camp like he can sense me thinking about him. I turn back to my tent. My boots squish with every step, and the collar of my T-shirt is wet enough to chafe.

I tug the tent cover out of Emily’s pack, and she starts pushing in the poles to lift this mess of canvas off the ground.

“I officially hate camping,” I grumble. Every breath fills my head with the smell of wet tent and hard rain. Another damp night awaits, with rocks digging into my shoulders and mosquito bites keeping me squirmy and miserable. At least it will be dry inside the tent. My eyes linger on a rivulet running down the canvas. Dry-ish at any rate.

Emily gasps, and I look around the side to see her holding the broken string of one of the tie-downs. I sigh and start toward her, and she stumbles back desperately, her face chalky.

“I-I’m sorry,” she says.

I laugh. “It’s fine. Did you see what I did to the tent stakes?”

Across the camp, Lucas snarls something at Jude, and Emily flinches again. The girl’s a nervous wreck.

“Poor Jude, huh?” I say.

Emily’s mouth draws tight, her shoulders shifting under her poncho. “There’s nothing poor about Jude.”

I lift my brows, surprised at her candor. True enough though. Jude’s super rich. He’s also super talented on the cello. I used to roll my eyes when he’d talk about Julliard, but then I heard him play. He’s the real deal. It might be cool if he weren’t an elitist, antisocial tool.