CHAPTER TWENTY

BELAY ON!

CASS’S FACE WAS bone white as Marco tossed him a wrapped-up clump of equipment. “Man up, guys. Have no fear, Marco’s here. We’re using a belay system.”

“B-b-ballet?” Cass squeaked and turned to us. “We’re dancing up the cliff?”

“Belay.” Marco tossed us each our own packets. “I’ve done this a hundred times. Just copy what I do.”

I was not expecting this. I hoped this was an elaborate practical joke.

We stood there, dumbfounded, until he shot us a no-is-not-an-option glance. He was carefully putting on a helmet, a harness, and a fancy belt that wrapped around his waist and thighs. The belt contained an arsenal of clips. He looked like a host on the Nature channel.

“We do this in pairs,” he said, as we began donning our own gear, “the climber and the belayer. Both are harnessed to the rope. The first climber is called the lead. The belayer stays at the bottom, feeding out as much rope as the lead climber needs. The rope feeds through these cool locking mechanisms on our belts. So if the climber slips…shhhhk!…the belayer’s lock grips tight. The rope goes taut, the climber doesn’t fall. When the lead climber gets to the top, he belays everyone else from up there. Got that?”

“No,” Aly said.

“Not in a million years,” Cass added.

“Watch.” Marco lifted a cable full of hooks, slings, and eye-shaped devices from his backpack. He quickly changed into a pair of lightweight, low-cut friction shoes. “The soles are supergrippy,” he explained. “I brought a pair in everybody’s sizes. I’m smart that way.”

“Supergrippy?” Cass mumbled. “Sounds like the lamest cartoon hero ever.”

Marco reached up, holding tight to a gap in the rock. Keeping his torso close, he dug his foot into a tiny rock dimple and then began hoisting himself up—hand, foot, hand, foot. After a few steps, he let go and jumped to the ground. “See? Gravity’s your friend. As long as there’s the slightest incline, you can do it, no problem. Each time the lead climber sees a good place—a chink, a space between rock, whatever—he or she sticks in the spring-loaded anchor. Like this.”

He jammed a small metal anchor into a crack, attached a small loop of rope to it, and pulled to make sure it held tight. Then he used something I recognized—one of those pear-shaped aluminum loops with a hinge, like you put on your backpack to attach things. “This is a carabiner,” he said. “Inside it, you hook the loop and the rope. So the rope stays fast to the anchor, but it still has freedom to move up and down. Safer than going up a flight of stairs! Okay, we need a lead climber and a belayer. Volunteers?”

“I’ll watch,” Aly said. “For now.”

Cass opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

I thought of belaying and letting Marco climb. But I took one look at Cass and Aly, and I had a sudden fear: Without Marco to keep Aly and Cass in line, with just me on the ledge, they might refuse to go up. And then I’d have to climb alone.

I hated not to trust them. But even more, I hated the idea of being last.

“I’ll do it,” I blurted out. “I’ll climb first.”

Cass and Aly stared at me like I’d lost my mind.

“Woo-hoo, let’s hear it for Jack McKinleeey!” Marco shouted. He pulled his machete out of his belt and handed it to me. “Take this.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Just in case,” he replied. “You never know what may be up there.”

Fool. Idiot. Moron.

It’s hard to put on friction shoes when your brain is screaming at you. But I had no choice now. No retreat, no surrender. Marco was hooking himself up to the belay harness. Cass and Aly looked as if they were telepathically planning my funeral.

“Okay, I’m allowing you some slack in the rope as you climb, but not too much—so if you fall, it won’t be far,” Marco said. “When I’m ready, I say ‘Belay on!’ You say ‘Ready to climb.’ I answer, ‘Climb away.’ If you need more rope, yell ‘slack.’ If you want me to tighten, yell ‘rope.’ Got that?” He turned to Cass. “And when it’s your turn, no tricks. Don’t say ‘epor.’”

“Wasn’t even thinking of it,” Cass replied.

I nodded numbly. Looking up, I saw only one crack. The one Marco had already used. The rest of the rock looked like it had been gone over with a power sander.

“Belay on,” Marco said. “Now you say ‘Ready to climb!’”

“Ready to climb,” I squeaked.

Marco put his hand on my shoulder. “Climb away, brother Jack.”

“Stop calling me that,” I snapped. “You make me feel like a monk.” Grabbing the handhold, I pulled myself up. I tentatively dug my foot into the rock.

I reached up for another handhold, my fingers drumming desperately on the rock. “You don’t need much, dude!” Marco called up. “Just a small indentation. Anchor with fingers, push with feet. And keep your body close to the rock.”

Marco was right. The shoes made a difference. Also the angle. My head was maybe six inches forward of my feet. That gave me more balance than I’d imagined. I could push into the smallest bump with my toes and my fingers.

Push, reach. Push, reach. I was climbing!

“Find an anchor!” Marco called up.

I was staring into a deep crack that hadn’t been visible from below. Perfect. “Rope!” I called out.

Marco pulled the climbing rope snug. I jammed an anchor into the crack, attached the carabiner, and snapped the rope into it. “Slack!”

I was picking up speed now. And confidence. I could see an abandoned metal tower at the top. I dropped a couple of anchors in the rush to jam them into the rock. I was getting sloppy. Marco was yelling at me from below.

Soon I was swallowing sweat. Gulping breaths. Feeling light-headed.

“Slow down!” I heard Marco’s voice shout.

I forced myself to stop. Catching my breath, I looked downward.

Big mistake.

Marco was a dot next to two specks. My heart began pumping so hard I could see the movement through my sweat-soaked shirt.

Go. Get there now!

I pushed and reached. My foot slipped off, but I held on. With each climbing step I felt a stab in my thighs. My arm muscles ached. The wind rushed down on me over the top of the mountain, buffeting my ears. I could hear voices below, but I had no idea what they were saying. All I knew was that the lip of the mountain was just above me. The summit.

With a final grunt, I curled my hand around the top. The skin on my fingers had practically peeled off. I pushed as hard as I could with my legs. I hoicked one elbow over the top, and then another.

Directly above me was the old tower.

“I—I made it…” I gasped. “I made it!”

Slowly I pulled my face up over the ledge. And I came face-to-face with bloodshot eyes and gleaming sharp teeth.