Cloudy

“We saw the burros.”

I tear my eyes away from the pages I’m reading and there she is: a tiny girl, maybe five or six, right at my elbow. She squints up at me and I scan the grounds for whoever might belong to her. We’re at a rest area on the way to Montezuma Castle; it’s a smallish plaza with a well-kept brick building, surrounded by concrete, gravel, and prickly looking trees. It’s also the last rest stop for miles, so it’s not like the girl could be on her own. And yet, here she is, alone.

“You what?” I ask her.

Moving a bronze curl off her forehead, she says, “They didn’t let us feed them, though.”

“They?”

“The ghosts.”

As we hold each other’s stare, I carefully readjust the duffel—with Arm inside of it—on my shoulder. “You’ll have to fill in the blanks, kid.”

She lets out this pathetic whine that’s bordering on cute, then jabs her finger at the display beside us. “There.”

The words “On Your Way” are up top, with photographs and descriptions of roadside attractions below it. That much I already know—I saw it ten minutes ago, when I first propped myself against this brick wall.

After taking off from Freddie’s porch this morning, all I wanted was to find my iPod. Even though my hands were shaking too hard to be useful, I kept sifting through the Xterra’s cargo space for it. Two reasons: 1) No chance in hell was I listening to Death Cab all the way to Sedona, the words “love is watching someone die” poking at me. Because no, we weren’t with Ashlyn when she was taken off life support, but I remember what she looked like. Like she was some kind of science experiment, not my best friend. Maybe Kyle’s been able to overwrite his memories, but Ashlyn in that bed is still the image embossed in mine. And now that Kyle’s had some kind of breakthrough, how many times will he let that Sarah song play through? Not happening.

And 2), if I didn’t keep myself busy, focused on that one absurdly minor task, it was very likely I’d short circuit, right on the most solicitor-free street in America. Because I’d spotted it almost immediately. Almond Blossom. Ashlyn’s painting. When my eyes locked on it, the oxygen had left my body. It was a punch in the stomach, or that breathless feeling when there’s unexpected plane turbulence.

In the middle of the search, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

So how did it go with Freddie??

Zoë’s text made me feel monitored. Caught.

I’d nearly fallen apart in front of the Blackwells, and I didn’t need Zoë pressing me for the details.

So I turned my phone to silent and tossed it onto the dashboard to be forgotten.

“See?”

Blinking, I yank my thoughts back to the rest stop, to the young girl chattering away. I follow her pointed finger up to the corner of the sign labeled Oatman, AZ: A Living Ghost Town. Well, that explains the “ghosts” telling her not to do things. I hope. There’s a short write-up below the heading that describes Oatman’s history as a gold-mining town, and with that, a photo of some donkeys in the middle of a dusty road.

“Those guys, you mean?” I ask her, tapping the donkeys. Burros.

She grins, balancing on her toes. “They were everywhere,” she says, her small arms stretching out around her, “and they smelled kinda bad, but I got real close anyway, and one tried to kiss my dad!”

“Wow.”

“I know.” She bends her head all the way back to goggle at me. “What’s your name?”

“Cloudy,” I tell her, then peruse the area again, this time for her dad. Unless there was some tragic burro-kissing incident, it sounds like she’s with him. If not literally at this very moment. “What’s yours?”

“Rosey. Are you going to the burros?”

“Maybe. If we have time.”

“You should make time,” she says, very seriously, so I can’t help but smile.

“I’ll ask my friend if he’s into it. Deal?”

Her nose scrunches up. “Where’s your friend?”

I squat down beside her, arranging the duffel on the ground between us and flattening the emails across my lap, then gesture over at Kyle. He’s away from the paved-over center of the rest stop, pacing in the dirt beside two shrubs. “See that boy?” I ask Rosey, and she nods. “He’s my friend.”

Kyle must sense the attention because he glances over at us, eyebrows furrowed and his cell pressed to his ear. Rosey and I wave. It seems to confuse him more.

“So where’s your dad?” I try to say this to her casually, and not like a stranger with candy.

Nevertheless, Rosey ignores me as she pirouettes, ending with some flair. “Are you a fairy? You have a name like a fairy.”

“Rosey!” We both turn our heads. A woman is stalking over, her face a mix of worry and exasperation. “I told you to wait inside the bathroom for me.” Rosey’s mom, I’m assuming. “You can’t run off. It’s very dangerous,” she adds, giving me the once-over.

I stand up—crouching never sells your innocence. “She was just telling me about the burros.”

“Cloudy said she’s going, too. We made a deal!” As she squeals the last word, she launches herself into the woman’s arms.

Kyle walks up as Rosey and her mom start off toward the parking lot. He’s still gripping his phone, and motions at their backs with it. “What was that about?”

Arching a brow, I say, “Oh, you’re the only one who can pick up strays?”

He laughs, then reaches inside the duffel to stroke Arm on the head. “Will wants us to meet him before sunset, so it’ll have to be a quick stop at Montezuma Castle.”

“He’s not building a moat to keep you away, huh?” Kyle was trying to hide it earlier, but he was apprehensive about asking Will if we could stay at his house. It all worked out exactly as I’d thought—without a problem—which is why it feels so good to mess with him.

“It’s already past two in the afternoon. He’d never have the time,” he says, sliding the bag off my shoulder. As we head for the Xterra, our shoes kick up dust. “What’s Arm doing with you?” he asks. “I thought we decided it was cool enough for her in the car.”

“Are you joking? I couldn’t leave her by herself.” I sweep my arm out, taking in the numerous signs dotting the area that warn against having your pets loose—Poisonous Snakes and Insects in Area. Danger! Death Trap! “Face it, Kyle. Your homeland wants to murder your cat.”

Kyle points the remote to unlock the doors. “I hate to break this to you, but she was probably safer in the car than outside.”

“Maybe if she actually was an armadillo instead of just named after them,” I scoff, opening my door and climbing up inside. “She’d be completely defenseless in here.”

Kyle’s smile is distracted as he leans across to deposit Arm—now liberated from the duffel—in my lap, then quietly slides into the driver’s seat. It’s such a difference from how hopped up he was when we left Palm Springs. His mood was so upbeat, he could have floated to Arizona. He didn’t even complain when I synced up some old Marina and the Diamonds without asking, or notice that my fingers were wrapped around the steering wheel so tightly, I had to massage them every few miles. Instead he went on and on about Freddie and Bettie, how grateful they are for the transplant, and how Kyle realized that Ashlyn’s lungs will grow older even though she won’t, but isn’t that amazing? That had me lowering my window, desperate for fresh air, despite the whipping wind.

And Ashlyn’s painting—that really got Kyle going. I nodded and made the appropriate mm-hmming noises, adding in the occasional exclamation point, while Kyle gushed about how impossible it was. That they liked the same painting as Ashlyn. But the idea of it was more like antifreeze in my arteries. Almond Blossom, perfectly placed in the Blackwells’ hallway, was a taunt. I thought of the people who’ll pass by that wall. Would they even notice it hanging there? Or would it only be background scenery?

Ever since she’d seen a print of it in a museum gift shop, Ashlyn had loved that painting. She’d say it was welcoming and exquisite. Everyone who knew her knew that. It was practically her coat of arms. She flashed the bracelet Kyle gave her whenever she could, and I would tease her for being a show-off. But she’ll never get to show it off like the Blackwells have, in a brand-new house, or apartment, or dorm room. No one will see her phone case again, not until the Montiels take it from her desk and stuff it into some cardboard box to put away or donate—or worse, send to some landfill. Soon, enough time will pass that no one will randomly come across Almond Blossom and automatically think of Ashlyn. The unfairness of it wriggled through me until I felt like I might scream from it.

But I’m happy for Kyle—I am. Visiting the recipients is doing exactly what I hoped it would. His grins come easier now, and his shoulders don’t seem to carry as much weight. It’s important he doesn’t figure out what went wrong with me in Palm Springs. And at least one thing went right: within a couple of hours, we were able to put Jade and Freddie permanently behind us. In a few more, we’ll be even farther away, in Sedona.

Arm nestles into the crook of my elbow and, while I’m not sure Kyle will need them, I pull up the directions on my phone. As I do, I notice he hasn’t turned on the engine yet—his stare is fixed on the dashboard. I snatch an unused straw from the center console and javelin-throw it at his neck. “Did you forget how cars start?”

The tips of his ears are pink, and he runs a hand through his hair. “So . . . that whole ‘armadillo’ thing, with Arm. I sort of came up with it on the spot that morning.”

I smile. “You don’t say.”

He glances at me sideways. “You knew the whole time?”

“A-R-M? It’s pretty obvious. To me, anyway.” I shrug, absently stroking Arm’s back and belly. Her little paws knead through the thin fabric of my skirt. “But naming her after Ashlyn is sweet. She’d love it. You know how passionate she was about the furry and adorable.”

Kyle swivels in his seat. “Do you ever think about what happened to Ashlyn? I mean, her . . . spirit or whatever.”

I blow out a sharp breath. “Um, sure. Heaven. The normal route.”

“I’ve never believed in heaven or anything like that. The afterlife.” He rubs at the skin right below his lower lip. “But ever since she died, I’ve sometimes wished I had it in me to believe in something.”

“Something like what?”

He nods almost imperceptibly toward the cat in my lap. I follow his gaze to Arm, who’s turned on her back, her legs outstretched. So Kyle wants to believe in, what, animals? Animal rights? Or something more Arm-specific? Arm. Arm . . . A-R-M.

With a gasp, it hits me: “Reincarnation?”

His eyes search me frantically. “I’m not saying Arm is Ashlyn. . . . Not really.” He props an elbow on the steering wheel, hiding his face with his hand. “Forget it. I sound delusional.”

“Kyle, no.” I jostle him, and he groans. “Come on, I’m listening.”

“I just . . . When I saw her—Arm—in the parking lot, I got this feeling. Like there was something familiar about her.”

My lips tug up at the sides. “The green eyes? The black fur?”

He lifts one shoulder, sheepish. “I don’t know. But I thought if there was even the slightest chance that reincarnation is real and Ashlyn might be alive again . . . I couldn’t leave her there, outside, all alone. I had to look out for her.”

“You’re doing a good job of it,” I say, forcing my voice to keep from cracking.

“It’s not like I’m in love with a cat or anything,” he says. I burst out laughing, and I spy Kyle’s mouth tilting in a lopsided grin. “I needed to be clear on that,” he tells me.

“You’re clear.”

“And I didn’t keep her so I could fixate on Ashlyn dying, or as an excuse not to move on. It’s about doing some good for Ashlyn now. I wanted to return the favor.” He brings up his fingers, kneading them into his forehead. “Damn, I really do sound insane.”

Shaking my head, I say, “Not any crazier than wondering if Ashlyn is possessing her organ recipients.”

He sags against the seat. “You think?”

I narrow my eyes out the windshield, taking in the rest area once more. So far, Arizona is greener than I ever pictured. Not as burned-looking as the sandy and cracked-earth desert I was expecting. “I think that we can believe whatever it takes to get us through,” I tell Kyle. “As long as she’s okay. Somewhere she deserves to be.”

“Yeah.” He’s still holding on to the steering wheel, his arms straight, and he exhales. “Exactly.”

Then he turns the engine on. I’m not sure he wants to talk about Arm or Ashlyn anymore, so I lean back and tell him about Rosey and the burros.

THERE’S NOT MUCH I know about Kyle’s life before he moved to Bend. Even when he first got there, he was never all that forthcoming about it. Ashlyn thought it might have to do with his mom—bad memories, maybe. If she ever asked him, she didn’t tell me. And besides, with Matty around, Kyle eased in so seamlessly; it was practically like he’d belonged to Bend all along.

But when we stop at Montezuma Castle, he tells me it isn’t technically a castle but an apartment-type complex carved into a limestone cliff, and that up until the 1950s, tourists would climb questionably safe ladders to peek inside. His smile stretches wider with every word. And as we pass over into Sedona, the change in Kyle is even more obvious. His shoulders are pressed into the seat, and only one of his hands holds on to the steering wheel. He’s relaxed, loose. Like he knows the way.

And the way is unreal.

We’re on a one-lane highway that’s bordered on each side by clumpy, reddish dirt and vibrant green brush. But as much as I love the greenery, the rock formations—that’s what Kyle called them—are my favorite. They’re these natural structures that look like stony layer cakes: a layer of red rock, and brown, and orange, and beige. Some even have clusters of bushes and trees at the top and sides, like frosting. Others are shaped like ancient temples or alien architecture, something that’s distinctly otherworldly. They’re so different from the hills and mountains at home that I snap a few photos. I catch Kyle smiling to himself when I’m done.

After a while, sidewalks and commercial buildings start popping up on the side of the road. The shops are low, mostly one story tall, and they were clearly designed to blend in with the earthy color scheme of the city’s landscape. The rock formations tower over everything, a constant backdrop.

“I cannot believe you grew up here,” I say to Kyle, giddy as we pass the millionth storefront advertising some variation of the words psychic, healing, or enlightenment. “Be honest: were you birthed on a bed of quartz crystals?”

He laughs. “It’s trippy, I know.”

“Was your school on a commune? Did you learn how to read auras instead of, like, history?”

“Even Hogwarts teaches history, Cloudy,” he says, a playful smirk on his lips. “This is mostly tourist bait. Not that it’s all bullshit. Native Americans did believe Sedona was a sacred space; some of the locals have run with it.”

I tilt closer to my window, gaping at our surroundings. “It’s like a New Age theme park.”

We turn it into a game—a point for every mystical establishment one of us spots. But we’re laughing so much, we lose track before Kyle pulls off the highway and onto a more secluded drive. We stop for a quick bathroom break at the local McDonald’s, and even that is charming, with a pink facade and the famous golden arches turned a pastel blue. Once we’re on the road again, the shops and businesses fall away, and I go back to ogling the rocks.

“Wait until you see them at sunset,” Kyle tells me. We’re meeting Will at the parking lot that serves a few different hiking trails—including the Teacup Trail, which is how we plan to trek up a mountain called Sugarloaf Rock. It all sounds very Candy Land, but according to Kyle, it’ll be worth it once we reach the top.

“Sunsets are an event here. You have to see one on your first night. And the higher you go, the better the view.” He glances at me quickly, nodding down at my sandals. “Actually, you might want to put on pants and change your shoes. It’ll get a little colder up there.”

“Colder?” My voice breaks as it rises. Four days out of Oregon and I’ve already adapted to the warmth.

“It’s the desert.” And he says it so fondly, I don’t even care that I woke up a few blocks from the Pacific Ocean this morning.

As he swings into the small lot, Kyle inspects the five cars lined up side by side, then eases the Xterra into the closest available spot. The area is ringed with trees, so the space is mostly shade.

He shuts off the engine. “Looks like Will isn’t here yet.”

“Are you nervous?”

Kyle pauses, tapping the wheel. “No,” he says, and he sounds surprised but firm.

Through my window, I eyeball the other hikers getting ready to take on the trail. “In that case,” I say, “mind waiting outside while I layer up?”

Once he’s out, he also very deliberately keeps his back to the car, giving me some privacy. I shimmy into the fleece-lined leggings I wore the first day of our trip, then check my phone. Ignoring Zoë hasn’t discouraged her from sending numerous Sedona facts, including: It’s named after a woman! Sedona Schnebly! And although we chatted earlier, there’s an email from my mom; the subject reads “Shore do miss you” and there’s a picture of my parents grinning around the mouthpieces of their snorkel masks—I feel too guilty to make fun of it. There are messages from others, but disappointment settles thickly in my bones. I didn’t realize I was hoping for a call from Jade until I didn’t get one.

A horn blasts—two short honks, followed by a long, drawn-out shriek—and tires screech as a dusty Subaru SUV comes to a quick stop a few cars away. A guy catapults out of it.

“K.O.!” Will bellows, and he’s smiling as he lopes over to meet Kyle. Hearing Kyle’s baseball nickname makes me smile, too. Guess that’s a Sedona throwback.

They hug, slapping at each other’s backs loudly, as their boisterous reunion sounds bounce around the lot. Arm and I share a look—boys—and I finish changing as demurely as possible before going over to join them.

When he sees me approach, Will’s eyebrow pops up. I notice a slightly slanted tooth as he grins and clamps a hand on Kyle’s shoulder. “Is this a new girlfriend?” He says it under his breath, and shakes Kyle playfully. Kyle doesn’t budge. “Not the one with the black hair who’s in all your profile pictures?”

I falter and skid for a second, my boots scraping across pebbles and blacktop. Kyle meets my eyes, which are fully open and dry. Clearly, Will hasn’t heard about Ashlyn’s accident. It’s the sonic boom that’s been reverberating in our everyday for months; that keeps echoing with memorials and vigils and bike safety seminars. Her death is how we live now, and it’s a shock that there are people who have no idea. There are places in the world where Ashlyn is still alive. All these people who don’t know.

How can people not know?

If I didn’t foresee how embarrassed Will is about to feel, I’d knock the rest of his teeth crooked.

“Uh, no,” Kyle stammers. “That was Ashlyn in my pictures.” I watch his face, his shoulders, his fingers, every part of him for a sign that he can’t say it—that I should. But he can. He is. “She died. Last year.”

And there goes Will, all the blood draining from his face. The tiniest of smirks clings to his lips, probably holding on to some prayer that Kyle’s screwing with him. He waits a little longer, then: “Shit. Seriously?”

Kyle licks his lips. “Yeah.”

“Oh, shit. Shit. I’m sorry, man.” Will wipes at his face with both hands, groaning. “I’m such a dick.”

“It’s all right,” Kyle says.

“I didn’t realize; I swear it. I never saw anything about it online.”

Kyle shuffles his feet, sneakers grinding stone against cement. “I sort of gave up on social media for a while,” he says. “Ashlyn’s name or photo would appear out of nowhere sometimes. It got too hard.”

I want to grab his hand so he knows I’m here. Instead, I step up beside him. “Her parents had her page memorialized, so people go on there a lot to write messages. It’s kind of impossible to miss.”

And impossible to stomach. The notes have dropped off the past couple of months, but whenever one appears, I get queasy.

Will turns to me. His forehead is damp. “You’re still Cloudy, though. Right?”

“Still Cloudy,” I say. “But not Kyle’s girlfriend.”

Will exhales as if he’d like to restart the past five minutes.

Over his shoulder, I glimpse a map near the trail’s entrance. How did we get here? A fantasy world where Ashlyn never died and I could be Kyle’s girlfriend. Goddamn Candy Land.

SO FAR, ALL we’ve heard on the Teacup Trail are the sounds of our feet crunching over the rough dirt, and Will’s apologies. He’s really, really ashamed of the Ashlyn confusion. It makes him easy to like.

Kyle finally got him to take a breath, and now they’re playing catch-up while my attention drifts in and out. The part of the path we’re on is narrow, so we walk single file. I’m up front with Arm—she’s back in her duffel, draped over my shoulder, since we decided it’s unfair for her to miss our first Sedona Event.

Navigating the stony terrain was tricky at first, but the trail smooths out in spots, and gives me the chance to gawk appropriately. Above us, the sky is still the same lively blue, streaked with wispy clouds, and the rock formations loom over us on every side. The ground is sprinkled with all kinds of plants to avoid touching: gorgeously fanned out—and impressively pointy—agave plants, and low-lying green bunches of cacti that are like the distant, mutated cousins of the tiny ones lined up along my windowsill. I wish I could bring some of this home with me, grow a little bit of Arizona in my backyard.

Once in a while, I spot something tall and spindly that might be a dead tree, but the thick spikes on its trunk tell me otherwise. And when I stumble on a patch of rotten cacti, it startles me. Everything here is so vivid, so vital and serene—the opposite of what I was expecting from the desert. The decay is out of place. Even the dirt is worth looking at. It’s a rusted brown, like someone crumbled up an endless number of Butterfingers and scattered them here.

Behind me, Will and Kyle are talking about a girl named Hannah. Their conversation has eased into a comfortable rhythm. I’m jealous that they’ve been able to walk this trail enough that its beauty doesn’t preoccupy them. But all the same, it’s a privilege to be seeing this for the first time.

“So Hannah wants you at her birthday party tomorrow,” Will is saying. “And she told me it’s a ‘special request,’ which roughly translated means it’s mandatory.”

“Same Hannah,” Kyle murmurs.

“Oh, yeah. Except she’s kind of going through an earthy phase right now.”

I smile at Will’s phrasing. “What does that mean?”

“Is she, like, a vegan?” Kyle says, his voice curious.

“A hippie,” Will blurts. “Or she’s trying to be. The parts of the lifestyle that appeal to her, anyway. She’s having us all drive out to Bedrock City.”

Kyle chokes on a laugh. “No way.”

“Bedrock City?” I ask, pushing my sleeves up to my elbows. The air is still comfortably cool, but all the walking has warmed my skin.

“It’s sort of like an amusement park without the rides,” Will informs me. “A rides-less Flintstones amusement park.”

I should have guessed.

“Hmm,” Kyle hums. “You up for it, Cloudy?”

“Depends,” I say without turning. “What exactly goes on at a hippie birthday party?”

Kyle thinks about it before answering. “We’d be fighting the Establishment. I assume while eating cake.”

“Definitely,” Will agrees. “Damning the Man, till the break of dawn.”

Idiots. Kyle and Will are so in sync, it makes me giggle. How did they ever lose touch?

Soon, the incline gets steeper, and the larger rocks have arranged themselves into rough steps. The sun is dipping lower, its light reflecting on everything around us. My heart springs around in my chest at the sight of it. If this is a sneak peek, I don’t want to miss a thing.

We trudge and climb, our breathing slightly heavier than before. And then the ground levels out and we’re there, at the top of Sugarloaf. It’s only just past six p.m., still a few minutes until sunset, and the wind carries a chill. I pull down my sleeves as I walk straight to the center of the summit and spin a lazy circle. Being the only ones up here makes it feel like we’re the only ones anywhere.

We’re still surrounded by the rock formations, but now, up higher, they seem closer. Kyle ducks his head to my height, pointing some out while he tells me their names: Chimney Rock, Coffee Pot Rock, Thunder Mountain, and the Fin, which actually does look like the fin on a giant fish. Silently, I hand him Arm’s bag before peeking over Sugarloaf’s edge. My eyes widen. Far below sit groupings of small houses—so we’re not really the only ones here. There are people coming home from work, cooking dinner, and walking their dogs. They live normal lives in the middle of this.

Kyle hoists the duffel up on his shoulder, giving Arm a better vantage point. “So,” he calls to Will, “is your mom okay with us leaving Arm at the house while we’re out?”

“Definitely. She loves cats,” Will answers. He’s already holding the flashlight we’ll need after the sun sets. “What else do you guys have planned? Aside from the mandatory hippie shindig.”

Glancing at me, Kyle shrugs. “Nothing, really. We were thinking of heading to Oatman on our way out, though.”

Will stiffens the tiniest bit. Kyle doesn’t notice—he’s turned sideways to show Arm a hawk perched high in a tree—but I do.

“Oatman?” he says quickly, sharply, and his eyes dart from Kyle to me. “What for?”

I step away from the mountain’s ledge. “I promised a very small, very pushy person that we’d see the burros.”

“Oh. Nice.” Will nods. His abrupt weirdness disappears. “My parents used to take me there all the time when I was a kid.”

This gets Will and Kyle talking about other places around town, stores that have closed since Kyle moved and new ones that have opened. But not too long after, the discussion ends, because sunset is beginning.

We stand in a line, our shadows growing longer. The sun blazes its brightest right as it sinks slowly behind a massive rock, and the sky around it radiates yellow and orange and pink. At our feet, the dirt begins to glow a deep, smoldering red—like I noticed on the way, but here, it’s dialed up so many degrees. It sweeps across the canyon, coating the earth so it looks like magma, like it’s absorbing heat and hot to the touch. We’re suddenly on another planet, on Mars or Mercury—or someplace better that no one on Earth knows about. Where I’m not left behind or alone or completely absent, because those things don’t exist here.

Kyle grins down at me, satisfaction on his face—my expression must be as dopey as I feel. He lifts his phone up, ready to take photos. “I told you so.”

“I cannot believe you grew up here,” I say to him again, but differently this time. And I grin back at him, while the last rays of sunlight spark along his face.