Survivor Girl Page 8

  “Can we come see?” Ronnie asks, handing me my shoe, which she’s managed to pull out of the tree.

  My leg cramps from all the running and climbing and leaping over mud pits and I struggle to stand upright and look normal while my muscles bunch into a knot. I find a stump and hop over to it, trying to massage my leg. I put my shoe back on, my sock already soaked through with mud, and is that a tadpole stuck to it? “I wish I could take you to the set, but—”

  “Too dangerous?” Theo says.

  “Yes,” I nod my head. “Absolutely what I was going to say.”

  Adam snorts.

  Ronnie starts to examine the clearing, pulling up rocks and rolling logs over. “We’re at archaeology camp,” she says. “Looking for evidence of old communities.”

  I don’t pretend to know what she’s talking about.

  “This swamp used to hide whole groups of men, women, and children who escaped slavery and some other people too probably,” Theo says.

  Ronnie grabs a twig from the ground, shaking off the dirt. “It was a stop on the Underground Railroad, you know.”

  Betsy Sue had said that, too. I eye the trees, wondering how many ghosts haunt these woods.

  Theo holds out a squirmy millipede he found under a leaf. “Do you have to eat stuff like this?”

  I look at Adam, who is staring at me.

  “We’ve been living on camp food for two weeks,” Theo says, jiggling the millipede. “Half-cooked oatmeal, stale granola, peanut butter.”

  “What do they feed you on Survivor Guy? Berries and grass or something?” Ronnie is practically clapping. “What’s your favorite edible insect?”

  I think about what Jake said. How I lie to my friends. But the honest truth is, I don’t lie that much, and it’s always for a good cause, like to avoid dashing the dreams of a Survivor Guy fan or something.

  “Grasshopper, probably,” I say. The gummy kind from the nature center gift shop. I stand up and stretch. “Mice too.” It’s not a complete lie. Because I read in the notes that someone on set will have to eat a mouse cooked over an open flame at some point. It just won’t be me.

  “Personally, I had a doughnut this morning for breakfast.” Adam pats his belly. “Chocolate with rainbow sprinkles, and I even asked the chef for a little squirt of whipped cream.”

  Ronnie and Theo stare at him. I break the silence by launching into a fit of laughter that comes out more like cackling. But it works, because soon Ronnie, Theo, and I are all laughing together at Adam’s joke that’s not really a joke.

  “You poor things. You’d probably die for a peanut butter sandwich right now.” Ronnie pulls something out of the dirt and holds it up to Theo. “Arrowhead?”

  “Rock,” he says, batting it out of her hand.

  I hear the producer’s whistle in the distance calling everyone to set for a scene.

  “What was that?” Theo says. “Did you hear that?”

  “Is that your dad sending out an alert?” Ronnie asks.

  “Well, we should probably get back,” I say. “It was great meeting you guys.” I pull at my shirt and start walking backwards.

  They wave. “Will we see you again?” Ronnie asks.

  “Sure, okay, maybe,” I reply.

  We watch Ronnie and Theo leave the same way they came, and then Adam turns to me. “You’re just like your dad.”

  He’s the second person to say that to me since I’ve gotten here. A few days ago, I would have thought it was a compliment, but somehow now it feels like a burn.

  He storms off into the woods toward the golf cart and we drive back in silence.

  Seventeen

  Isabel is first to greet us back at camp, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the fire road. She has a stick in her hand and she’s surrounded herself with pebbles.

  “Hey!” she calls, getting up and running alongside of the golf cart. “Did he teach you how to climb a tree? Adam, can you teach me to climb a tree? Do they teach that in kindergarten? One time Adam gave me a piece of gum. Look! I can almost tie my shoe!” She drops to the ground, pulling at her shoelaces while we drive past her and park.

  Adam turns off the ignition and stalks away. Dad and Jake are huddled over a pile of wood by the shore of the lake with Rick. Isabel catches up to me, breathing heavy. “I have to show you something.”

  Since I don’t feel like staring at a pile of wood with Jake and Dad, I follow her, feeling my biceps for muscles. I wonder how many days of working out it would take for me to get as fit as Adam. Five? Ten? A thousand? I pick up a big rock and do some lifting action like I’m in a gym, but then my arm starts burning and I need some water and maybe even a snack, so I throw it back to the ground.

  “Pudding!” Isabel points to the black mountain lion, sleeping in the sun like a housecat in her enclosure. Her tail flicks as we walk past like maybe she’s not all the way asleep.

  Isabel opens a cooler and pulls out a chunk of fish. She holds her nose with one hand and tosses the fish at Pudding with the other. The mountain lion rouses, strides over to the treat, and gobbles it up, her pink sequin collar glinting in the sun.

  “Fish is her favorite.” Isabel leans on the chainlink fence that barely separates us from the man-eating predator. “I told her for Christmas I’ll get her a whole pond of fish or maybe even an ocean. She’s four just like me, but we don’t have the same birthday.”

  “Ali-Gator!” Dad calls to me from the lake, waving his arm.

  Isabel whirls around and takes off toward my dad like he’s calling her name instead. But I’m right behind her, running hard because even though Isabel has stumpy four-year-old legs, they’re fast. I pass her, sticking out my tongue, and she giggles, thinking this is all a game. I run faster.

  When I get to the lake, trying not to gasp for air, I realize Bianca has been taping my sprint across the set. And now she’s in my face, Wes clicking on his digital sound recorder and positioning the boom over my head. “Reactions to seeing the live bear drinking water from the lake with her new cub. Go.”

  “Bear?” I wheeze. “What bear?”

  Isabel bounds into the group, nearly toppling over what looks like the start of a campfire, and launches into her mom’s arms. Bianca swings the camera away from me, focusing on Dad, who starts in with his Survivor Guy voice. “Having two kids in the swamp is risky. Dangerous. Even life-threatening.” He freezes, looking over his shoulder like something’s there. Isabel’s the opposite of frozen, dancing near the water’s edge, going full-body slump when Claire tries to pick her up and drag her away. “FACT!!” Dad says. “The Great Dismal Swamp is home to many wild animals. Bears. Panthers. Alligators. Hungry, desperate animals.” Dad puts his arm on my shoulder. “Breathe, sweetheart, breathe. I won’t let them get you.” Dad whips out a can of his bear spray, the words HUMANS RULE, BEARS DROOL big and bold above his Survivor Guy insignia. He holds it out, ready to shoot.

  “Perfect.” Rick raises his hand. “Just perfect. Great father-daughter bonding.”

  Adam stares at me as he hands Dad a bottle of water. “You’re a natural at acting, Alison. Like in every situation,” Adam says.

  “Yessir!” Rick agrees, clapping me on the back. “Sure is.”

  I sneer at Adam because I know what he means and I am far from appreciating it. When I turn around, Jake pops out in front of me. “Boo!”

  “Ahhhh!” I scream. His face is smeared with dirt and hives and—is that blood? And I’m not proud of it because a second later I realize it’s makeup.

  “That’s literally the best compliment anyone could give me,” a lady says, shaking my hand. “I’m the makeup supervisor. Can I cover those up for you?” She inspects the cluster of stress zits on my chin.

  And I submit to the makeup-ing, sitting on a big rock, the lake nearly lapping my feet. The sun is too strong for the yellow flies to come out just yet, but the breeze is cool on my sweaty skin. I watch Rick and Adam talking by the trees. Rick tries to put an arm across Adam’s shoulder, but he d
ucks away. It makes me think of Mom and how I didn’t even say I love you when she left. Rick’s walking back to the trailers now, alone, and the look on his face leaves my stomach panging. Why didn’t I just say I love you?

  The makeup lady holds a mirror in front of my face and I gasp. I look dreadful, but in a bedraggled-naturally-gorgeous way. Like I’ve just been found on a deserted island that had a professional makeup artist.

  “Wow,” I say, touching a scratch made entirely of makeup on my neck. “I love it.” My eyes are dark and brooding. It’s like I’m this mysterious Survivor Girl who can make a fishnet out of woven grass and leaves and save everyone from starvation. I look like that kind of girl. I can’t wait to take a picture and show it to Harper.

  “You got a boyfriend back home?” makeup lady asks, applying a third layer of mascara to my already heavy eyelashes.

  I look over by the trees and see that Adam’s watching, chomping his gum. “Yeah,” I say, and I know it’s not entirely true since Brad Garrison hasn’t officially asked me to be his girlfriend, but if Harper and I had gone to the sixth-grade dance and Brad hadn’t taken Lilly van Stumen, then he’d probably have asked me to dance for sure. And if that’s not an almost-pretty-much boyfriend, I don’t know what is.

  “You’re gonna knock him dead,” she says.

  Eighteen

  It’s early afternoon and Jake, Dad, and I are sitting at the edge of the lake. I ignore the crew standing silent a few feet behind us because this feels real. The three of us just hanging out.

  But then Dad whispers loudly, “We’ll need to seek shelter tonight. You know we can’t stay here, right, Ali?” And the moment is over; we’re back in Survivor Guy mode. Jake flops back onto the sand, resting his head against Dad’s leg. Dad scoops up some of his homemade salve made from caterpillar guts and lake scum and dabs Jake’s hives with it. Jake winces ever so slightly.

  “Alison.” It’s Rick, over my shoulder. “Maybe you feel worried for your brother, right? He’s in a bad state, his body still fighting a bad reaction. The danger is real. Maybe you worry if he’s going to make it at all.”

  I play along. “Dad?” I ask. “Is Jake going to make it?” I look at him, and he does look terrible, his skin still red and swollen a bit. What if the yellow flies came right now? Jake’s not even covered up.

  “FACT!!” Dad says. “All we need is this knife”—he pulls out a rusted-up Survivor Guy-brand knife from his waistband—“and that bear spray—”

  I struggle to find the bear spray Dad points at, but then I see the fluorescent pink can among the twigs and moss we’ve collected for our nighttime shelter. “You mean this one, Dad?” I hold it up.

  Dad stands, carefully removing Jake’s head from his lap, holds his arms out wide, and closes his eyes. “I don’t want to scare you, Ali, but the yellow flies are near. I can feel it.”

  I look at the approaching clouds and, for real, I can picture the yellow flies swarming us, merciless.

  “Then should we get out of here?” I say, halfway meaning it. “Jake’s not even wearing any protective bug gear.”

  “FACT! Yellow flies are not active at night.” Dad licks the tip of his finger and holds it up in the wind that’s not really there. “We will build a shelter inland and wait until nightfall.”

  Dad tries to rouse Jake, but he’s pretending to be out cold.

  “Ouch!” Dad smacks his arm. “Too late. They’re here.” He cups a dead yellow fly in his hands that the prop guy tossed to him off camera. It’s small and yellow, like a bee but without the stripes.

  “Ali.” Rick’s back and whispering to me again. “So, like, if you knew there were a bunch of yellow flies coming and there was nowhere to run, think about what you’d do. How would you protect your only brother?”

  “Uh.” I look around. Half the crew is behind us, watching, while the rest of camp is going on with their regular business. Isabel is doing cartwheels by the medical tent and the chef is pushing a cart of melons into the dining area. I turn back to the lake. “Oh, maybe pull him into the water?”

  Rick gestures for me to go ahead, so I yank Jake’s ankle with all of my strength.

  “Use your soccer muscles, Ali! I’m under attack!” Dad whirls around, fighting off the horde of yellow flies. “Get yourselves to safety!”

  I know he means archery muscles, but I don’t correct him. I pull Jake, who is dead weight. I jab him in his ribs. “Come on. Help me.” He doesn’t, so I push him to a sitting position and grab his limp arm, throw it over my shoulder, and heft him upright.

  “Faster, Ali!” Dad shrieks. “They’re swarming! Go!”

  Jake’s not even supporting his weight anymore and he falls back to the beach where Dad is flailing. I scoop water and douse Jake, who jumps a little and opens his eyes for a second to give me a look.

  “It’s not working! He needs to be in the lake!” Dad screams.

  My throat is burning, because what if this was actually happening? What if we didn’t have fancy camping trailers or bug hats right behind the cameras? What would I do? Could I save Jake if I really needed to?

  I pull harder and harder, inching him closer to the lake and the safety of the water. And then with one final tug, and a little help from Jake, we are both in the cool dark water of Lake Drummond.

  The crew claps.

  Jake leaps out toward Adam, who is holding two towels, leaving me panting in the brown water. Adam delivers my towel and I manage to wrap myself up. Dad strides over and gives me a big hug. “You were great, Ali-Gator. Really great.”

  “Great stuff,” Rick agrees. “Let’s reconvene at the site of the shelter build in five. Ali, you can sit this one out since we have you scavenging for edible plants off camera while Jake and your dad build the shelter.” I pull the towel from my head and Rick ruffles my wet hair. “Take a break. You deserve it.”

  I wander into the dining tent, my stomach grumbling. It’s a little after two o’clock, just about the time Harper and I would be settling in for Healthy Is Happy! with Dr. Tom at school. And then we’d make gagging and choking and fighting-off-death signals to each other when he passed out the kale chips or fig bars or whatever snack he tortured us with that day. Missing Harper feels like a stitch in my gut.

  “Teatime in thirty minutes!” the chef says when he sees me.

  “Oh.” I inhale, taking in an aroma of warm sweetness. “Sure, okay.”

  “Homemade pop tarts.” He signals to the rickety kitchen setup in the back of the tent.

  I freeze in place. “Pop tarts? Homemade?”

  The chef laughs. “Your dad said they’re your favorite,” he says, walking toward the ovens.

  “He’s got that right.” Leave it to my dad to get my pastry preferences correct but not even know the sport I’m currently kicking butt in.

  He brings back a plate with a single pop tart, steamy and oven-crisped, placing it on the table in front of me. “You can be my taste-tester.”

  I plop into a chair and blow gently across the pastry. The chef squeezes a dollop of icing onto it, which streams over the edges, glazing the top perfectly. “Are you some kind of chef genius?” I say, because—homemade pop tarts.

  He laughs and pulls up a chair next to me. “I love it when crew kids are around. You guys make everything so fun.”

  “Does Isabel always come on shoots?” I ask, taking a drippy bite of deliciousness. Cinnamon sugar. My favorite.

  “She’s practically grown up on set. She adores your father.”

  I take a giant bite, the filling burning my tongue.

  “Adam’s kind of new around here. He’s got some quirks and doesn’t fully appreciate my cooking, but he’s growing on me.” He smiles.

  “His dad’s the producer, huh?” I say with a full mouth.

  “Complicated thing those two have,” the chef says. “But I guess that’s what happens when you don’t see each other for four years.”

  “Four years?”

  Isabel bursts into the tent.
“Pop tarts! My favorite!” Shouldn’t she be taking a nap or something?

  “Not yet, little one,” the chef says. “Few more minutes.” But then his timer goes off and he’s up and out of his chair, hustling over to his ovens.

  “Ali,” he calls. “Help me frost these and then take a tray over to the production tent?” He pulls cookie sheets out of the oven. “They’re supposed to be enjoyed toasty warm.”

  “Don’t have to tell me that!” I say, licking my fingers, but really wondering in my mind about Adam. Four years?

  Isabel flies at me and wraps her body around one of my legs. “Koala bear! Koala bear!” she shrieks.

  I pretend to ignore her and drag her along with me to the kitchen area, as she giggles and laughs and only holds tighter.

  “Good with kids, too?” the chef says, poking Isabel in the nose and leaving a dollop of icing behind. “Your dad always says you’re good at everything.”

  I’m busy trying to wedge Isabel off my leg, which is slowly losing feeling, but I stop. “He said that?”

  “He misses you a lot when he’s on set. Must be absolutely in heaven with you here with him.”

  I help the chef squeeze icing onto the homemade pop tarts and then carry a giant plastic tray of them across the Dismal Swamp, over the little bridge, and into the cottage where Dad and Jake and the rest of the crew are huddled around the TV monitors. Isabel grabs the tray from my hands, nearly dumping everything to the dirt floor, so she can hand them out herself. They dive at the treats.

  But not even Isabel can get me upset, because what I see playing on the screen is me pulling Jake into the lake. And even though Jake helped move himself down the beach a bit, the way the camera was angled, it looks just like I was the hero little sister. Like I rescued Jake from the grip of death.

  “Looking good,” Dad says, snagging a second pop tart. “Very proud of you, Alison. I always knew you’d be a natural at this.”

  I continue to watch myself as they edit the footage. My mud-streaked bakery shirt actually looks cool. And don’t even get me started on my eye makeup.