Starry Eyes(31)



Son of a sea cook!

They’ve been spotted.

“Run!” Brett tells us.

He tears across the lawn, juggling four bottles of wine. Instinct for self-preservation has me running after him. The scent of damp grass and pine needles rise from my feet as my shoes slap the ground. We’re all racing as if our lives depend upon it, a panic-fueled herd of buffaloes driven into shadow. I’m completely turned around. Where are the campgrounds? I don’t remember all these trees and bushes.

Brett veers left just as I spot the main walkway. It’s lit up by tiny gold path lights. Brett and Reagan leap over some flowering shrubs to get to the path. Something crashes.

“Oh, God!” Summer yells.

Glass crushes under my shoes. The scent of wine floods my nose.

“Keep going,” Brett says, chest heaving. “Don’t stop.”

I glance back at the pavilion. It doesn’t look like anyone’s running after us. We leave the broken bottle behind and continue along the main path until we crest the top of a steep hill. The first camp of tents comes into view. Brett slows to a stop, and we all catch our breath and look down into the valley.

This camp is nothing but yurts, all of them the shape of circus tents. They’re eerily lovely, glowing with warm, marigold light—sanctuaries in the darkening forest, one that parts to reveal a black sky. And everywhere—everywhere—in that sky, there are stars.

My stars.

It’s as if they appeared from nowhere. As if this is a completely different night sky than the one back home. We have a pretty clear view at the Melita Hills observatory, but the cities clustered in the Bay Area collectively produce a lot of light pollution.

No cities out here.

Oh, the photos I could take with my telescope!

“Zorie!” Lennon calls.

Crap. The group is on the move again, and everyone but the two of us has already made it halfway down the hill.

“Sorry,” I say. I get my butt in motion and explain, “I spaced out.” I chuckle and catch my breath. “Literally.”

What a dorky joke. All this physical activity is rotting my brain.

“The stars, you mean?” he says, glancing up briefly. “It’s amazing, right? I knew you would love them out here.”

He jogs faster to catch up with the group, and I race to follow, his surprising confession tumbling around inside my head. But not for long, because when we’re a few yards from the camp, Reagan comes to a stop.

“What’s going on?” Kendrick asks.

“On the path, near the third yurt,” she says.

I scan ahead and spot the problem. A large man in a dark jacket stands with his back to us, chatting with a couple of campers. On the back of the jacket, the word MUIR is printed in white.

“Mr. Randall,” Reagan says. “The compound’s security ranger. If you think the bartender was a jerk, he’s Santa Claus compared to Mr. Randall. We can’t be seen with all this wine. He’ll probably have us arrested.”

Summer glances around. “What do we do? Should we go back?”

“To the place that’s filled with people who saw us run?” Lennon says. “Yes, let’s return to the scene of the crime.”

“I don’t know!” Summer says, eyes bright with panic. “Maybe we can hide until this Mr. Randall dude passes us?”

I gesture toward the yurts. “He’s not the only roadblock. Look at all the tents. People are walking around.”

“Guests are returning from the bonfire too,” Lennon says, glancing behind us, where laugher and chatter carry from a short distance.

“We’re trapped,” Summer moans. “This sucks so hard. My legs are covered in wine splatter, and now we’re going to jail.”

“Or we could stash the bottles somewhere,” Lennon says calmly. “And, you know, maybe not go to jail. But your plan works too.”

Kendrick points to a waste disposal box. It’s a metal bear-resistant one, cemented to the ground, with a funny latch. “I doubt they’d clean these out tonight. We can stash the wine inside now and come back later, when people are sleeping.”

“My boys!” Brett praises, helping Kendrick unlatch the garbage bin. “Pure genius. Lennon, I was thinking you failed me back at the bar when you weren’t there to watch my back, but your position as wingman is now restored.”

“All my dreams are realized,” Lennon says, voice thick with sarcasm.

While Reagan fusses about stashing the bottles near food scraps, they manage to clear out a space inside the bin for a dozen bottles. The last one doesn’t fit, so Brett sticks it inside his pants. Crude jokes are made. I ignore them, mainly because I’m watching the ranger.

“Guys,” I say. “Shut the bin. He’s coming this way.”

I don’t think he can see us all that well, but then again, I can see him. And when Lennon points out that we look obvious, hanging out by the garbage bin, we leave it and begin walking down the path. Calmly. Slowly. No getting around the ranger. I steel myself as we approach him.

“Evenin’,” Mr. Randall says, giving us all a once-over. “You kids lost?”

“No, sir,” Brett assures him. “Just heading back to our camp.”

“Which is . . . ?”

“Camp Owl,” Reagan says.

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