The trip had been a series of tiny disasters from the start. From the moment my dad had dropped me off, and I’d wondered where to put my bag. Mr. Kates was walking around with a clipboard, tallying off our names, one by one.
He’d done a final count, looking around, and then called, “Paging Cassidy Bent!”
I waited for the count of three; I was right there, in the middle of the group. His eyes skimmed right over me. I’d been in his class all year, sat right beside Grace Langly, watching as she scribbled furiously in her journal during every free write.
“I’m right here,” I finally called, making Mr. Kates look twice. It was the same feeling I’d get in my house sometimes, like I moved through spaces unnoticed, invisible.
“Hey, hi,” he said, trying to mask his surprise. “You’re in the first van.”
Joshua Doleman laughed, slung his bag onto his back, then climbed into the van and claimed the back seat as his own.
By the time I filed in, a girl from my history class pushing me backward, so she could take the spot beside her friend, the only open seat I noticed was the one beside Josh, and that barely counted. I had to ask him to move his legs, then carve out a tiny space for myself, wedging a backpack between us to keep the soles of his sneakers from pushing up against my thighs.
I’d spent the majority of the drive like that, trying to make myself small, trying to find a comfortable position.
The claustrophobia set in during the tunnel, the bright headlights like a mirage, shimmering off the walls. The rumble of car engines and this feeling we were still in motion, somehow.
I thought it would get better when we finally made it through, but then there was the dark mountain exit, the winding switchbacks, a depth of darkness, the jarring, snaking motion.
I felt that creeping hot wave of carsickness I hadn’t experienced since I was a child. It was the way I was being jostled over the back tire, in the tiny sliver of space not occupied by Joshua Doleman’s sleeping body.
Ms. Winslow must’ve known this was a mistake, but now we were stuck, and there was nowhere to turn around, and so we kept going higher, curves pulling tighter, and the people in front of me kept saying, I really, really think we should turn around. And behind me, the headlights of the other van shone straight into the window, disorienting.
“I’m going to be sick,” I said, but Josh didn’t move, didn’t stir. I leaned forward, head on the seat in front of me. “I’m going to be sick,” I repeated. And this time, Ian Tayler, who I’d never spoken to before in my life, raised his head from the back of the seat and passed the message forward.
I heard the flashers turning on, a steady blinking, like a warning, and I put my head between my knees, willing myself not to be sick in this van. Eventually we pulled over onto a wide section of shoulder, abutting the forest.
“Five-minute break,” Ms. Winslow called. “Stay close.”
The van door slid open and half of us climbed out, scattering into the woods.
I ran straight through, as deep as I could get, away from anyone who might notice, before falling onto my knees and losing the entirety of the fast-food dinner I’d grabbed at the last stop, before the traffic jam.
This was not the way I wanted to be remembered. Cassidy Bent? Who? You remember, the girl who puked her guts up on the side of the road, I had to sit next to her after…
I wiped the back of my hand across my mouth, but still felt too hot, claustrophobic. Humidity hung in the air, fog was lingering in the trees. It felt like the sky was about to burst open. There was a faint rumble in the distance. I placed my cheek down on the colder earth, felt a leaf, damp and cool, against my neck. I took several slow breaths, then turned over, facing up.
And then I heard the crack of a twig. I froze, on high alert. I shifted in that direction to see Grace Langly standing perfectly still, staring at something in the distance. I followed her gaze to where Ben was standing with Mr. Kates. I’d seen the way Grace hung around after his class, recognized her infatuation. But there was something wrong about the way Ben was challenging his teacher, a shift in power.
I tried to back away, but they must’ve heard me, everyone turning to look. A deer was just to my right—how long had it been standing there? It was so close, close enough that it should’ve spooked by now. Like something was wrong with it…
And then Clara was calling Grace’s name, and the deer took off through the trees. I waited for them to leave. Waited for a count of ten before starting to follow them back toward the vans.
But when I stood, I became disoriented. My knees were still wobbly, head spinning slightly. I needed water.
And then I heard it: whispers, escalating voices. I followed the sound, trying to guide my way back, but it was just Brody and Hollis, arguing. The vans were in the background, headlights along the road.
I watched them tracking back toward the vans—a tangible distance between them. I was fascinated by the way Hollis seemed to have seen something new in Brody Ensworth out here. All the things that were only possible when we left the enclosure of school, our long-rehearsed roles, expected places.
I followed them, trailing at a distance, and then the deer crossed in front of my path again, as if I had been invisible even to it.
I paused, staring back, waiting for it to see me, to notice me.
That’s when I heard the sound of the van doors sliding shut. The rumbling engines coming to life, as the vans headed down, down, down the road.
Run.
I took off at a sprint. They were leaving, they were leaving me—
I cut through the woods, branches snapping around me, tripping, hands braced for impact. Skidding along, begging, See me, find me, save me.
I beat them to the next turn, adrenaline coursing through my veins, sliding out into the street first, hands held up, Here I am, here I am, please see me—
And then, finally, they did. I saw Mr. Kates through the windshield, the moment his eyes latched on to mine, wild and desperate. I saw the moment his face shifted to horror, the squeal of brakes, the wheel cutting at the same time.
The sound of metal on metal, the first van making contact, hurtling overhead, into the night. The second van pushed through the guardrail, disappearing out of sight.
The horror. The emptiness of the air. Before the sound of a crash—a splash—below.
I ran to the edge, where a metal guardrail had just been, but was now crumpled and twisted.
Run. The voice in my head, the basest instinct.
I fell, I slid, palms and arms against rock and root. I followed them down, down, down. The water was so much colder than I imagined. It stole my breath. I felt the rush of the current, pulling me away.
I saw the headlights bobbing in the water, saw the place I was supposed to be.
I dove straight in.