I LEANED FORWARD, straining against my seatbelt to catch the first glimpse of Camp. The van rounded the last turn and the house revealed itself. It looked just the way it did in my daydreams: large, low, with wide screened-in porches on all four sides with a silver-painted tin roof that glittered and winked in afternoon sun. The original Ernest built his house on the crest of a hill to catch the breeze from the creek, a hundred yards away. It wasn’t a pretty house, but everybody fit and that was important because there were a lot of us. Besides me, my sisters, cousins, aunt and Mom, my dad and uncle would visit on weekends, bringing our friends to stay for weeks at a time.
I unbuckled my seatbelt, preparing to leap from the van when I saw a truck parked at the side of the house. It was an old Ford with peeling paint and bald tires. Long ago someone painted Klaas Family Farms on the side in curly black letters that over time had faded to grey. High metal gates framed in the truck bed, which held a motley bunch of animals, none too happy with their imprisonment.
“They’re early. The animals are already here,” I shouted.
“Puppy, stop yelling,” said Aunt Calla. “Of course they’re here. Adrian had an accident and Marion needed them dropped off today. I wonder who brought them.”
I knew exactly who it was. A leg extended from the driver’s seat of the truck out the open door and resting on the armrest. The leg was long and brown with each muscle defined and flexed under taut skin. A hot pink flip flop hung off the red polished toes. My stomach twisted. I wasn’t prepared. I should’ve had at least a week before she turned up, but Shasta was there. And I was wearing my geeky school uniform and no tan at all.
Aunt Calla parked the van and I considered making a run for it. Maybe with my cousins and sisters tumbling out of the van, nobody would notice me.
“Come on, Puppy. What are you waiting for?” Aunt Calla looked at me through the van window, her forehead creased in irritation. “We have work to do.”
I got out and opened the cat carriers. Slick and Sydney streaked out of the van, leaving only the impression of their colors, cream and black, behind. They scaled the nearest pine tree, and parked themselves on a wide branch. They hissed at anything and everybody. I watched them and held on to the van door, unable to let go. I wasn’t ready. I’d planned on having a good opening line, so she would see I was older and not a total dufus, but all I could do was stand and wait.
I looked back at the truck. “On a Night Like This” by Trick Pony blared from the stereo and a body emerged. Shasta Holloway. No song could’ve been a better backdrop. Shasta was just what I needed. She wore her usual summer uniform of jeans, cut off very short, and a tiny bikini top. She flipped her long dark hair back over her shoulders and her scent drifted over to me. She smelled of coconut oil and red licorice. My mouth watered, and then went completely dry.
Shasta was one of the mysteries of my life, the best mystery. She’d arrived five years earlier with no fanfare or explanation. Our neighbor Marion Klaas came to Camp for a visit and Shasta was in the truck. Marion said, “This is Shasta, my niece, and she’s going to be staying with us for awhile.” That was it and there was nothing else. Shasta became part of Klaas Farms, but I never knew where she’d come from or why.
Shasta walked straight toward me, her hair swinging behind her back. She twirled a lollipop between her thumb and finger and smiled at me with her wide red-stained lips. “Hey, Puppy.”
I stood still, stupid, unable to speak. My mouth was hanging open, but I couldn’t think what to do about it.
“Puppy! For crying out loud, say hello.” Aunt Calla had her hands on her hips, but her expression was one of amused pity.
“Hi,” I said, my voice a mere whisper.
“Come and help me unload,” said Shasta. “I have to take Coco to the vet.”
At the sound of her name, Shasta’s chocolate Labrador stumbled out of the truck cab and came over to me. I bent over to pat Coco’s head, hiding my face.
Aunt Calla shouted instructions at The Pack and everyone began dragging suitcases and boxes of food out of the van. I followed Shasta to the truck and helped her lower the tailgate. She climbed into the bed and I tried not to look at the places where her legs disappeared into her shorts.
“What’s wrong with Coco?” I asked her.
“We don’t know. She’s been vomiting and she’s really weak. Adrian thinks she might’ve been poisoned.”
“No way. No one around here would do that.”
“Seems that way.” Shasta put her lolly in her mouth, opened a crate with several chickens inside and paused. “Keep a lookout, will you? Call us if any of the animals get sick, okay?”
“Sure.” I dodged the chickens Shasta tossed from the crate. Unperturbed, they clucked and scratched in the dirt of the driveway.
Because Shasta was talking to me and it seemed to be going well, I decided to risk a personal question, something I rarely did.
“So, um, how’s the cheese thing going?”
Shasta threw out two more chickens and turned to smile at me. Our eyes met and a gooey warmth spread over me, like I’d just been dipped in hot fudge.
“Great. It’s going absolutely great. I’ve got forty goats now and Adrian said I can get some sheep this fall.”
“Why do you want sheep?”
“Different kinds of cheese. The Twisted Pickle said they’ll buy everything I make,” said Shasta.
“Wow, that’s good,” I said and I meant it. How many eighteen-year-olds have their own business? Three years before, Shasta had persuaded her aunt and uncle to let her have a few goats for cheese making. Klaas Family Farms was primarily a dairy, so Shasta knew what she was doing. She learned everything she could about making goat cheese from the Internet. At first she made it for family and friends, and then she decided there must be a restaurant market for organic goat cheese. She pestered the owners of The Twisted Pickle so much, they finally tried her cheese. Shasta had a contract to supply them the same day.
Since then, four other restaurants bought her cheese. She got an assistant and the Klaases were so proud they added her cheese business to their farms signs and Internet site.
“Thanks. Here, grab Mildred for me,” said Shasta.
I took a step back. Mildred was a goose with an attitude problem and I usually avoided her if I could.
Caleb ran over and knocked me out of the way. “Never mind, Pup. I’ll get her.” He reached for the goose. “Puppy’s terrified of Mildred.”
“I am not, asswipe.” As soon as the word was past my lips, I gasped and looked at Shasta.
She wasn’t horrified like I feared she’d be. She threw back her head and laughed. It was a beautiful sound and gave me the hot fudge feeling all over again.
“Are too,” Caleb said.
“Back off, asswipe. Puppy can handle it.” Shasta handed a truly pissed-off Mildred to me. “See, he’s fine.”
I left, dragging my feet and carrying a honking Mildred around the side of the house towards the pond. Before I got back, Shasta was gone, leaving twelve chickens, two billy goats, four more geese, half a dozen ducks and Beatrice, the llama, in her wake.
I watched the dust settling in the drive and wished I’d had a chance to say goodbye to Shasta. Before I could dwell on it, I took a wet thwack to the back of the head. I rubbed the spot and looked at my hand.
“Oh, gross!” My hand dripped with a stinky grass slime ball.
Luke came up beside me. “Beatrice get you already?”
“Yeah.”
We turned and looked at the side of the house. Beatrice the llama was standing in the flower garden chewing her cud and eyeing me. Green goo dripped off her lower lip and she made a malevolent humming sound.
“What’d you do to her?” Luke asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “She just hates me. Why do we have to have her every year?”
Aunt Calla came out of the house. “We have her because we like her. Animals make a house a home and your fathers won’t let us have animals in town.”
“We have cats,” I said.
“Cats don’t count. Everyone has cats,” said Aunt Calla. “Now get to work. Carry in the flour and sugar. Luke, help him.”
I went to the van with Luke and, when he wasn’t looking, I wiped Beatrice’s spit on the back of his shirt.
“Man, I am gonna kick your ass.” Luke grabbed for me, but I was too quick. I sprinted past him, only to be snagged by Aunt Calla.
“Boy, if you don’t get to work, you’re going to regret it,” she said.
I mumbled an apology, under duress, and unpacked the rest of the van with Luke and Caleb. Beatrice spit on me three more times.