Survivor Girl Read online

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Sample Chapter from THE FRIENDSHIP EXPERIMENT

  Buy the Book

  About the Author

  Connect with HMH on Social Media

  Clarion Books

  3 Park Avenue

  New York, New York 10016

  Copyright © 2019 by Erin Pelletier

  Interior illustrations copyright © 2019 by Celeste Knudsen

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  Clarion Books is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

  hmhbooks.com

  Cover illustration © 2019 by Scott Brundage

  Cover design by Jim Secula

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Teagan, Erin, author.

  Title: Survivor girl / by Erin Teagan.

  Description: Boston ; New York : Clarion Books, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, [2019] | Summary: Twelve-year-old Ali is unsure about joining her brother and their reality-show celebrity father, Survivor Guy, on location and disappointed when she learns how much of the show is fake, but heroic when wildfire strikes.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018051978 (print) | LCCN 2018056565 (ebook) | ISBN 9780544635364 (E-book) | ISBN 9780544636217 (hardback) Subjects: | CYAC: Reality television programs—Fiction. | Television programs—Production and direction—Fiction. | Survival—Fiction. | Self-confidence—Fiction. | Divorce—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Humorous Stories. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Self-Esteem & Self-Reliance. | JUVENILE FICTION / Family / Marriage & Divorce. | JUVENILE FICTION / Family / Siblings. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Friendship. | JUVENILE FICTION / Sports & Recreation / Camping & Outdoor Activities. | JUVENILE FICTION / Nature & the Natural World / General (see also headings under Animals). | JUVENILE FICTION / Action & Adventure / Survival Stories.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.T424 (ebook) | LCC PZ7.1.T424 Sur 2019 (print) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018051978

  v1.0619

  For Cailin, my littlest sister,

  who is always up for an adventure

  One

  It’s after midnight when I hear his car in the driveway and I stumble out of bed.

  “Ow!”

  “Oh! Sorry!” I say, forgetting my best friend is asleep in the trundle bed next to me.

  She sits up, rubbing an elbow. “Your dad?”

  I press my face against the window and see the Jeep, illuminated in the spotlights above our garage. Green and red, a snorkel attached to the hood, nets and snake traps strapped to the top, and a bungee cord holding a container of gas to the bumper. “He’s home.” I try to whisper, because it’s best if Mom doesn’t know yet since—officially—he was supposed to be home in time for my sixth-grade graduation earlier that night. But when you’re dealing with time zones and monster alligators and life and death, can you really be expected to keep appointments?

  “Your mom’s going to kill him. I’m out of here,” Harper says, sliding into her flip-flops.

  I swear I see movement in one of the cages tied to the roof rack. Snake? Mongoose? Kitten? Harper wedges in next to me at the window.

  “Put your bag down,” I say. “Mom will never let you leave.”

  The door to the Jeep pops open and Dad steps onto the driveway. It’s like a thousand-pound weight is lifted off my back. He’s home. He’s safe. But then my idiot brother, Jake, slides out of the back door of the car, his arm in a sling, limping across the driveway. Harper gasps, but honestly, is it really a surprise that Jake comes back injured every time?

  “Alison?” Mom calls from her bedroom.

  “It’s Dad,” I say, bolting out of my room and down the stairs.

  Before I can even get to the kitchen, Harper skidding after me, the door to the garage bursts open and there stand Dad and Jake, mud-streaked and sunburned. Dad lifts me up and tosses me in the air like I’m two instead of twelve. “Ali-Gator!” he says, nearly squeezing the organs out of me.

  “Can we not say that word?” Jake moans. His khaki sling looks like it was made out of an old pair of cargo shorts.

  “Hi, Jake,” Harper says in her girly voice she usually saves for Brad Garrison. It’s disgusting. Dad’s been letting Jake go on shoots for his show, Survivor Guy, ever since he graduated high school last year, and now Harper thinks he’s some kind of celebrity. I keep reminding her he’s the same kid who crashed his car into the garage a few months ago.

  Dad shakes his head. “You’ll be fine, Jake. It was only a baby. FACT!” he says and points a finger at him. “They almost never carry diseases.”

  “Where have you been?” I ask. “I thought you were in Saskatchewan.”

  Jake shifts his arm in the sling, cringing. “Louisiana bayou.”

  “You missed graduation,” Harper pipes in, putting an arm around my shoulder.

  I push her away. How could she say that? My dad just came all the way from the bayou, where Jake practically lost his arm to an alligator. What better reason than ‘I saved my own son from the vicious jaws of a man-eating reptile?’ Excuse accepted, in my book.

  “Production went over, Ali.” Dad drops his three-hundred-pound backpack in the kitchen, pots and spoons and fishing nets clattering to the floor. “Where’s your mom?”

  I point upstairs and Harper starts to head toward the door. “Will you knock it off?” I say. “She’ll be happy to see he’s okay.” But I know she’s probably fuming. It’s like she doesn’t even get that Survivor Guys have a commitment to the wilderness. And sometimes that means sacrifice.

  Dad climbs the stairs, his hiking boots leaving crumbs of dirt on the carpet. “Michelle?”

  We stand in silence for a moment, Jake picking at his sling.

  “You could have called, you know.” I cross my arms. “We were worried.”

  Jake rolls his eyes. “Sure, next time I’m wrangling mosquitoes the size of bats and losing half my arm to an alligator, I’ll whip out my phone and give you a call.” He snorts and so does Harper. Traitor. How could she think Jake is anything but seriously disgusting? I know for a fact he never changes his socks.

  “Can we go back to bed now?” Harper asks, yawning. “It’s like one in the morning.”

  I yawn too, my body suddenly heavy with exhaustion.

  “I got most-improved player at the archery banquet,” I say to Jake as we all head up the stairs.

  “What? No you didn’t,” Harper says.

  “Well, I almost did,”
I reply. “Coach said I was the runner-up most-improved while you were in the bathroom.”

  “Aren’t you the only person on the team?” Jake laughs at his own joke.

  I flick him in the back of the neck. “Harper’s on the team too.” But to be honest, the team was pretty pathetic. We spent most of our time slurping down the blueberry-vanilla smoothies our coach brought from his side job at the smoothie stand downtown. My mouth waters.

  Dad appears at the top of the stairs, stretching. “Well, that’s it for me tonight. Time to hit the hay.”

  He passes us on his way down, stopping to squeeze Jake’s alligator-bite arm. “Ow!”

  “FACT,” Dad says. “That means it’s healing.”

  Harper and I glance at each other because we’re pretty sure that’s not a fact. But Dad’s tired and probably half delirious from the long drive. He kisses me on the forehead and flashes a thumbs-up to Harper. “See you kids tomorrow.” I watch him leave through the front door.

  “Where’s he going?” Harper asks.

  “Probably left something in the Jeep,” I say.

  Jake looks at me. “He’s going to a hotel.”

  “What? Why?” Harper says, struggling to catch up with us on the stairs.

  “He hasn’t lived here for like three months,” Jake says. “That’s what happens when parents—”

  “Is that a tick on your leg?” I say, then barrel past him and into my room, Harper trailing me.

  I turn off the light and dig myself under the covers.

  “I thought we told each other everything,” Harper says in the darkness.

  I peek out of my blanket and see she’s sitting up on her bed in the tiny bit of moonlight coming through the window. Behind her, my shelves are overflowing with books on survival: How to Fight off a Bear, The Essential Guide to Poisonous Plants, How to Treat a Jellyfish Sting on a Deserted Island, and a thousand more. I sleep with the most important one under my pillow: A Survivalist’s Guide. Written by my own grandpa, General Frederick D. Kensington.

  “You were the first person I told when Peaches died,” Harper continues.

  I groan, kicking my covers off. “It’s just temporary. A short separation.” The word burns my throat. “Barely worth mentioning.”

  “I even told you about my wart.” She lies back down, out of sight.

  “There’s nothing to tell, Harper. Really.” I roll over and hang off the edge of the bed. “It’s just since my dad’s show got picked up by a TV network, it’s doing really well. So, he’s barely home.”

  She pulls her blankets up and turns away from me.

  “He has his own bear spray brand, you know. Survive-A-Bear.”

  Silence.

  “Comes in pink.”

  “It’s all about honesty, Alison,” Harper says, still facing away from me. “Dr. Tom says if you can’t be honest with yourself, then you can’t be honest with anyone else.”

  Dr. Tom is the head of our Healthy Is Happy! afterschool club, which we’d almost been kicked out of twice for smuggling root beer barrels onto the activity bus. Apparently they’re made out of pure evil and will rot your teeth and the rest of your insides before you can even cry for help.

  “Dr. Tom wears socks with his sandals. I thought we weren’t taking him seriously,” I reply.

  Harper burrows deeper into her bed with an angry flick of her blankets.

  My stomach grumbles and I wish I had a root beer barrel right now, because actually they’re not evil, but pure sugar goodness. Perfect for getting out the sour taste I suddenly have in my mouth.

  “Well, good night,” I say. Harper doesn’t answer.

  I throw myself back onto my pillow, my head hitting something hard. I reach underneath and pull out my survival book and something new that hadn’t been there before. It’s a beat-up box, taped together and layered in dirt. When I was really little, Dad used to leave coins and feathers and beads under my pillow when he got back in the middle of the night from his trips, so I know it’s from him.

  A plume of dust settles on my bed as I try to open the box. I brush the dirt from my sheets, pulling the tape apart more carefully. This could be anything: dried-up flowers; seeds; fabric; a living, breathing animal. Dad’s not the best gift-giver, but like my mom always says, it’s the thought that counts.

  I open the box all the way, and take out the trinket nestled inside. It’s a mudded-up compass. I pick off the dried mosquito stuck to its face and turn it over. There’s a message scratched into the back, and it says FOREVER MY SURVIVOR GIRL. HAPPY GRADUATION.

  I knew he didn’t forget.

  Two

  I wake up early the next morning and Dad’s already standing on the ladder on the back of his Jeep pulling crates and cages off his roof rack. I swipe a leaf off the giant picture of him on the driver’s side door advertising SURVIVOR GUY—ONE MAN. ONE CAMERA. MILES OF UNFORGIVING WILDERNESS. TUNE IN FOR THE ADVENTURE! SUNDAYS 8 P.M.

  “Can you grab this for me?” he says, handing down a rusted-out crate with something flopping inside. I flinch away, then realize it’s only another leaf.

  “No problem.” I stack it on top of the growing tower teetering into the rosebushes.

  “I got doughnuts. Help yourself.” He motions toward the bag of deliciousness balancing on his back bumper.

  I choose the one with the most sprinkles.

  “Thanks for the compass, Dad. I love it,” I say, my mouth full, reaching up for another crate.

  “I’m proud of you, Ali-Gator.” He unties some rope on the roof and flings it onto the driveway. “Heard you’re doing great in soccer, too.”

  “Archery,” I correct him. “I got most-improved player.” Harper flip-flops out of the garage with her overnight bag. “At least, I almost did.”

  She waves to me as she walks across the driveway and onto her front lawn next door.

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “Home.” She doesn’t even look back.

  “Look, doughnuts!” I call after her, because Mom never lets me have this kind of food around the house. Normally it’s plain yogurt and granola for breakfast. She’s a nutritionist and she takes her job way too seriously. Dad is all danger and fun and you-only-live-once. Mom is food diaries, vitamins, and ice-cream-is-the-devil.

  There’s no answer from Harper, and I know from the berserk barking of her dogs that she’s already through her door.

  I feel like stomping right over there and banging on her perfect door with its perfect WELCOME, FRIENDS wreath her mom made by hand. I know for a fact she doesn’t tell me everything. Like the time she ate all the marshmallows out of the cereal and left me with only the oaty triangles. And I’m such a good friend, I didn’t even say anything.

  “Ali? Here.” Dad hands me another cage and I place it on top of the rest. An old car drives slowly past our house, and I wish we could go inside. Sometimes the Survivor Guy stalkers really get to me.

  Not Dad though. He wants all the attention he can get for his show. He shakes out a net, revealing a massive gaping hole. “Badger,” he says loudly toward the road. “Bit right through the darn thing.” He crumples it up and throws it into the corner of the garage.

  “He’s gone, Dad,” I say.

  Every once in a while, I’ll see paparazzi hanging out in the neighborhood with their fancy extendo cameras. Dad’s in newspapers and magazines all the time. Lately it’s been about his new bear spray and how it sold out of Outdoor Land stores in one week. The last time I was in a magazine was a summer ago when Dad and I ate breakfast at the pond behind the nature center where Mom likes to run. “Celebrities Do Everyday Things: They Eat Pop-Tarts.”

  Mom comes out of the house dragging her suitcase, the screen door smacking closed behind her.

  She’s smiling, and a maybe-bubble forms in my belly. Like, maybe she’ll be nice to Dad. Maybe they won’t fight. But then she stops in her tracks, her smile tightening. She plucks the last bite of doughnut right out of my hand. “Really, George?” A
nd then tosses it into the garbage can.

  My maybe-bubble pops.

  “Try not to eat all junk while I’m gone, okay?” she says.

  “Where are you going?” Dad asks, and I knew this was going to happen. I should have reminded him immediately when he got home last night.

  Mom crosses her arms, mad as usual. “My conference, Dan. Nutritionists Unite? I’m the keynote speaker?” She groans. “We’ve had this on our calendar since Thanksgiving.”

  Dad wipes his brow. “Oh, right, yes, yes.” But I can see it in his eyes, the way they dart from me to the house to the half-unpacked Jeep. He forgot.

  “You have Alison the whole week. I won’t be back until Thursday night.” She shakes her head at him like he’s the worst dad on the planet. “Don’t let Jake use the weed whacker, okay, Alison? And call whenever you want, don’t worry about your minutes.” She tries to hug me but I turn away from her and fold my arms.

  If there’s a week when Dad’s home, we should be doing things together as a family. We should be making homemade pizzas and drinking sodas in the kitchen like they do on that commercial. But I know Mom won’t understand. She never gets anything anymore.

  “Michelle,” Dad says. “I, uh—”

  “Don’t even.” Mom picks up her bag, rolling her eyes. “I know you forgot, but I’m just going to pretend you didn’t, because this conference is important and—”

  “I can go to Harper’s house,” I say. “For the weekend. She’s not speaking to me, but I don’t mind.”

  “Would that be okay?” Dad asks and Mom drops her bag like she’s ready for a brawl right here on the driveway. I check the road for extendo cameras.

  “Michelle,” Dad says, stiffening. “I’ve got a production schedule, give me a break.”

  And then I remember Harper’s going fishing with her father. “Actually, never mind, um—”

  But my parents have hustled themselves into the Jeep, shutting the doors and rolling up all the windows, and I’m just talking to myself. That’s what they do. Find someplace to hide while they fight, except they forget that the Jeep is made mostly out of canvas. I look at the road some more, pretending I don’t hear Mom yelling at Dad for not spending any time with me and missing my graduation, and she’s really letting him have it. I want to open the Jeep doors and save him, but when I take a step closer, my mom wags a warning finger at me and they start to whisper. I spin in the other direction and kick rocks into the garden until they emerge. A united front.