Drinking Life (Keeper of the Water Book 1) (6 page)

Birthdays aren’t usually big in our family so I’m surprised by such a large present. I rip off the wrapping paper and tear open the box. I can’t believe what I see inside, my breath at a loss for the second time today. Dad treats me like a son and I act accordingly so I don’t want to let the forming tears escape my eyes. I lay the box down and hug my father tightly, lifting him off the ground.

“Whoa, careful with your old man,” he wheezes. Apparently I squeeze the air from his lungs and put him down gently. “I know you’ve been bummed about having no sports to play since we moved here. And since your classes are so popular, it seems a waste to have a teacher with such old weapons. Let the tourists use the old junk; it’s about time you have something awesome to shoot.”

And awesome it is.

“It’s a Bear?” I ask. Dad nods. “Maple?”

I reach into the box and pull out the bow, treating it as gently as a newborn baby. It’s right around four feet in length, about eight inches longer than the old bows I’ve used my whole life, the same bows I use while teaching my shooting classes. I don’t need to hold it for more than a few seconds to feel its perfect balance, as if designed just for me. I can tell it won’t take me long to perfect my shot with this beautiful recurve bow. My father knows me so well.

“Partly,” he says. “But also part fiberglass. I know you like traditional wood but the best bows available use fiberglass to strengthen the frame.”

Most people would have no idea what we’re talking about. My father and Celeste taught me to shoot a bow at a young age; they tried with Cassie but she was never into it. Like many athletic activities, I was a natural, far surpassing their skills long before I hit my teenage years. But the only bows I use to this day are old, the strings too loose, the shafts close to splintering. Dad and I always look at hunting magazines together—it’s the only reading I ever see him do—and fantasize about the high-end equipment we want most. Bear Archery makes some of the best bows in the country and I can hardly believe I hold one in my hands.

“This must have cost a fortune,” I say. As much as I already love the bow, money is always tight. My father has never bought himself any of the expensive stuff he wants so I feel guilty accepting this, birthday or not.

“Don’t go all feeling bad on me now,” Dad says as if reading my mind. “You work hard around here and deserve this. Besides, you’re turning eighteen and that’s special. Most fathers probably buy jewelry for their little girls…”

“That stuff is boring,” I laugh. “Could you show me how to use this?”

This time it was Dad’s turn to chuckle. “
Me
show
you
? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

“Please?” I ask. Regardless of who’s the better shooter, I still like making my dad feel like he’s important to me. We both know it’s only a ruse but he smiles nonetheless and takes the bow.

We walk to the makeshift shooting range I just set up behind the garage. Dad holds the new bow in his left hand and takes aim at the bull’s-eye. With his right hand, he pulls the arrow back against the bowstring. I can tell with just a single glance that this string is tighter than any bow I’ve ever shot. He takes a deep breath before letting go. The arrow flies so fast that I barely see it move before it strikes the target, inches above the exact center. He smiles, pleased with himself. Unlike me, he doesn’t have natural ability and to this day spends a lot of time practicing even though I’ve taken over the classes. His practice has paid off but I don’t think he likes me beating him all the time.

He hands me the bow. I wanted him to take the first shot with it but it’s the last time I want anyone else to use it. I’m not selfish but I feel an intense symbiotic relationship with the bow, a primal connection I don’t quite understand but won’t deny. I never thought I could feel like this about an inanimate object.

I take an arrow from the quiver and slide it against the bowstring. I take my time and aim slowly. The bow is heavier and longer than I’m used to but I instinctively know how to adjust my aim, instinctively know how to handle the tighter bowstring. This was the exactly feeling I experienced the first time I picked up a bow years earlier; Dad swears I was a warrior in a previous life. I aim at Dad’s arrow just above the bull’s-eye. I let go and feel the string snap back to position, feel the arrow shoot forward. It splits Dad’s arrow in half.

“Showoff,” he calls me. “Do you know how much money I spend on arrows because you always split them?”

I shrug. “New bow needs new arrows.”

Since I’m such a good shooter, Dad offers my class with every tour they book. Amateurs shooting at a target near the woods leads to plenty of lost arrows anyway.

“Well, happy birthday, sweetheart. Just promise me that any guy you
do
decide to date sees how good you can shoot,” he says.

“I will.”

In one smooth split-second motion, I whip out another arrow from the quiver and fire it without aiming, without even thinking. It strikes dead center on the bull’s-eye.

Some archery classes I teach go better than others. The only thing that keeps this class from being a
total
disaster is that nobody loses an eye. Until the party bus arrived, I didn’t know this tour was part of a bachelor party. Most of the guys clearly started drinking long before they arrived, not a great combination when you throw potentially harmful weapons into the mix.

“You always have to be careful because you never know when your next shot can be your last.”

I keep bows away from the drunkest of the group but the rest aren’t much better, don’t take direction very well. Nobody hits the target and after a while, they seem to purposely shoot as wildly as possible. We lose plenty of arrows today and the guys get a kick out of seeing me upset. I’m relieved when the hour is up and Celeste’s “Surviving Nature” class takes over.

“They’re quite a handful,” I warn her.

“Mom and daughter are
both
smokin’ hot,” we hear someone say in the group. It’s not the first time Celeste and I have been confused for being mother and daughter. It’s probably a good thing her
real
daughter isn’t out here; Cassie would probably like the attention a bit too much.

“You can go inside and help your mom if you want,” Celeste says.

But I refuse to leave her alone with them. I usually stick close to Celeste during these tours in the surrounding forest; the two of us have a natural ease working together. The bachelor party had the common sense to leave their coolers of beer on the bus during shooting class but not now. As we head deeper into the woods for survival tips, they drink more and pay attention less. Celeste does not seem bothered in the least—she knows none of them could hurt her anyway. She continues to ignore the drunks as she teaches about what could be eaten in emergency situations.

I don’t have as easy a time ignoring them. Their blatant disrespect of Celeste angers me. It takes all of my self-control not to yell at them. I try to flash them angry looks that would make Cassie proud but they don’t take the hint. In fact, a few of them misinterpret the reason I glance in their direction.

“Which college do you go to?” one of them asks.

“I don’t, I’m still in high school,” I say, hoping this will stop them from hitting on me. It doesn’t.

“Are you at least eighteen yet?” another asks.

I don’t like the way they look at me and suddenly wish my father came along instead of packing the rafts and other supplies. I should just ignore them but am afraid that will only egg them on.

“No, only seventeen. My birthday isn’t until tomorrow.”

“Close enough,” one says and the rest of them laugh.

I wish I didn’t know what he means but unfortunately I do. Maybe I should have showed off my shooting skills like my father advised…

Someone else makes a comment about having strippers on this tour. Laughter erupts as I blush and look away. Celeste makes eye contact with me and can tell I’m upset. She finally brings a stop to her survival tips and asks to talk to the groom in private. At first the men erupt in a chorus of ‘ooooh’s—they sound like immature kids who’ve just seen someone sent to the principal’s office. But then someone calls out that the groom may be getting his lap dance after all.

The groom did not make any of the rude comments but
did
join in the laughter. He has a smile on his face as Celeste pulls him a few feet away. She does not lose her cool and does not raise her voice. She whispers to him—none of us hears what she says. The groom’s smile instantly disappears and he looks very serious. He nods his head once and returns to his friends.

“Leave the girl alone, guys,” he tells them. “Seriously. And maybe we should relax a bit on the beers. We still have a long weekend.”

His friends are confused and there are still a few chuckles but they quiet down and leave me alone.

“What have we got here?” Celeste asks, her voice as cheery as ever. She points to the green-covered trunk of a nearby tree. “We hit the survivor jackpot here. In extreme cases of starvation, people lost in the woods for weeks have been known to survive by eating moss. Do I have any volunteers to give it a try?”

Not surprisingly, nobody raises his hand. Finally Celeste points to the groom.

“Come enjoy your last days of freedom by eating a hunk of this,” she says, peeling a slab of moss off the tree. Dirt trickles off the bottom of it. The groom is rightfully hesitant but Celeste stares at him. He hasn’t looked the same since she whispered to him and still appears unnerved by her. He finally steps forward and puts the moss in his mouth, coughing the moment dirt touches his lips. Celeste smiles.

My father shows up at this moment. “Okay, fellas. The vans are packed. It’s time to head upriver.”

The bachelor party is glad to end the survival class, the groom most of all. As the men rush away, the groom continues to cough and spit out dirt. Celeste and I walk out of the woods toward the trailer.

“I always wanted to convince someone to eat the
edible
moss,” she chuckles.

“What did you whisper to him?” I ask.

Celeste shrugs her shoulders sheepishly and winks at me. We walk into the trailer, where my mother is still busy with paperwork—at least she
looks
busy, though maybe she’s just trying to avoid Cassie. Celeste’s daughter stands near an open filing cabinet but isn’t taking anything out or putting anything in. Instead she plays with her phone, no doubt sending one of her hundreds of daily text messages. She doesn’t even look up when we walk in.

“Okay, Katina, the van is packed so we’re leaving now,” Celeste tells my mom.

“Everything’s going okay?” she asks.

“A feisty group but it’s fine. We’ll have to avoid the faster rapids; I don’t think these guys will need much help falling overboard,” she says. “They’re going to follow the van in their bus. Perry is already waiting in the van. Cassie, it’s your turn to drop us off upriver and bring the van back.”

Cassie gives no indication that she heard her mother. She continues to type away on her phone’s tiny buttons.

“Cassie?” Celeste asks.

“I
heard
you,” the girl snaps. “Can I
finish
what I’m doing first? God! I don’t wanna drive that ugly van anywhere. Do you know what my new friends would think if they saw me in that? It’s already embarrassing that we live in these little shacks in the middle of west bumblef – ”

“Cassie!” Celeste interrupts. “There’s no time for arguing. Everyone is waiting so let’s go.”

“I’m not doing it!” Cassie yells, slamming the cabinet. “It’s bad enough I have to waste my time in this smelly trailer. I’m
sick
of this.”

Cassie storms out. Celeste tries to grab her daughter’s arm but Cassie snatches it away. With a tour full of people waiting outside, we can’t afford another one of Cassie’s meltdowns. Before Celeste chases after her, I suddenly hear the distant growl of a motorcycle engine again. My heart skips a beat.

“I’ll do it,” I say. “I’ll drive the van.”

The odds of me running into John are small—I don’t know where he lives and the Poconos are spread out over many miles. But my chances of staying
here
and seeing him are zero so I’ll take some chance over no chance.

“That’s Cassie’s responsibility,” Celeste says, defeat in her voice. “You’ve already taught your class and helped with mine. You don’t have to do this.”

The motorcycle sounds quickly fade into the distance. I grab the van’s keys and rush out the door.

“I don’t mind, really. Everyone’s waiting. Let’s go,” I say.

Celeste doesn’t follow right behind me.

“She’s starting to turn,” my mother tells her.

The motorcycle is long gone so I stop just close enough to hear what the two mothers say. Like always, Celeste sticks up for Cassie though I don’t totally know what they’re talking about.

“She’s just at that difficult age,” Celeste says.

“I wouldn’t be so sure…” my mother disagrees.

“Believe me, I had my moments when I was younger—
crazy
moments of insanity.”

“So I’ve read,” Mom says.

Celeste walks out of the trailer. I feel guilty for eavesdropping and hope she doesn’t know.

“Ready?” I ask.

Several rafts are strapped to the top of the van, which I drive several miles to a small access ramp to the river. I climb out and help my Dad and Celeste unpack the rafts and other supplies. Members of the bachelor party pile off their bus but none of them bother me again—the groom doesn’t even make eye contact with me. Whatever trick Celeste used on him, she needs to start using on Cassie.

Celeste points half the tour toward the first raft, while the rest of the group—along with several large coolers—climb into the second raft with my father. It’s no surprise that the groom chooses to travel in my father’s raft. They will spend the next several hours rafting down the Lehigh River before ending up back near the “Adventure Guides” trailer.

“We’ll be back by nightfall,” Dad calls out to me as he pushes his raft into the river. I wave to him and Celeste but she rushes over to me before pushing off.

“Thanks for driving us,” she says. “And thanks for always being there for Cassie. She’s tough to deal with sometimes but it’s nice to know that you’re looking out for her.”

“You don’t have to worry about Cassie,” I say. “She can look out for herself.”

This is my attempt to joke but Celeste frowns at the thought. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

The rafts float down river and I give a quick honk as I drive away. I head back home for another uneventful Friday evening. At least the weather is perfect and my bow is waiting for me. The only thought more exciting than my bow is John and, as I get closer to home, I hear the motorcycle again. I put the pedal to the metal and race right by the big sign for “Pocono Adventure Guides.” I push the van to speeds it’s never known and the engine whines worse than Cassie. But the sound of the motorcycle grows louder and within minutes I spot it in the distance, turning off my small road and onto a highway. At first I’m disappointed because it doesn’t look like the same bike I saw John driving earlier. But this rider is dressed in all black and has hair just like John’s, flowing in the wind behind him. This
has
to be him; I must not have paid close attention to his motorcycle earlier.

I follow the biker at a safe distance. When I volunteered to drive the van, spotting John was the best scenario I hoped for. Now that it actually happens, I have no idea what to do. I feel like a creepy stalker just following him but can’t stop myself—I’m drawn to him in a way I can’t explain. Following him on some of the bigger roads is easy; I can keep far back and not draw too much attention to myself. But once he turns onto a smaller street, it’s not so easy to hide.

This neighborhood is typical of many others in the Poconos. Huge houses are mixed in amongst small cabins in no discernable order. I slow down when I see the motorcycle pull into the driveway of the largest house on the street. I park a few houses over and duck down in the seat even though the huge sign on the ugly van makes my attempt at hiding worthless. If I was smart I would turn around and drive away before John sees me and thinks I’m a crazy stalker. But
he
was the one who kept driving by
my
house so I don’t feel too bad. The garage opens and he drives the motorcycle inside, where several other bikes are also parked. I suddenly feel intimidated by the fact that he comes from serious money.

I somehow pull my eyes away from John long enough to see two large men hard at work behind John’s house. They each lug huge cinderblocks like they were nothing. They’re finishing construction on a structure out back, maybe some kind of shed. Sheds are nothing new but there’s something about this one that draws my attention to it. I can’t look away. I reach for the door handle and have to stop myself from getting out of the van and walking over to it. I thought the connections I felt toward John and my new bow were strong but nothing compares to the urge I have to rush toward the small cinderblock building.

I’m so focused on the small structure that I don’t notice someone approaching the van. Out of the corner of my eye I spot movement and turn to see John crossing the street, heading in my direction. I start to duck but it’s too late—who knows how long he’s seen me? I panic and step on the gas, swerving around him as I speed away.

What am I doing? I look like an even bigger fool now but I can’t stop and try to explain myself at this point. I look in my rearview mirror and see John standing in the middle of the street, staring at the van. Even looking at him in the mirror I can’t take my eyes off him. But then he starts to yell and point and I’m horrified that I angered him this much.

Honk!

I turn forward just in time to see another car right in front of me. I drifted into the other side of the road without realizing. I jerk the wheel hard to the right and feel my seatbelt dig against my side as I nearly slide off the seat. I expect to hearing the
crunching
of metal but I somehow avoid the accident. I cut the wheel back the other way and just miss smashing the trees on the side of the road. Once I have control of the van, I remember to breathe and my heart remembers to beat. I should be relieved to still be in one piece but I’ve never felt dumber in my entire life. I can’t imagine ever facing John again and hope I can avoid him the rest of the school year.