WEEPING LEADER

(Peak Wilderness, Days Seven to Ten)

On Day Seven, after another night of restless sleep—due to Peace’s ongoing snoring, and my own too-awake mind—I begin to lose it.

The tears start before I’m even out of my sleeping bag, then I am crying too hard to speak at breakfast, although of course Bonnie and Pat try to get me talking. I cry as we hike, and through every break, through lunch, and all the way to camp that night.

It’s hideous. Embarrassing. Ally and Seth and Melissa all try to help, but I don’t want help, and I can’t talk. Won’t. I’m so angry to have lost control of myself like this, to have cracked open, broken down.

“Ingrid, you need to tell us what’s wrong,” Bonnie says at circle that night.

I’d tried to get myself excused and just go to bed, but of course she and Pat wouldn’t let me.

“All I know is what I already told you—that I don’t want to be here,” I say finally. “It’s not fair.”

“Why not?” Bonnie says.

“I keep hearing the phrase ‘at risk’ from you and Pat,” I say, through a quavering breath. “I guess what’s not fair is . . . this is a boot camp. Right? For kids who are ‘at risk.’ Well, obviously I’m not the soul of stability at the moment, but . . . generally speaking, the only thing I’m at risk of is becoming something my mom doesn’t want me to be.”

“Which is . . . ?” Tavik asks.

My drippy gaze swings over to him. “None of your business.”

“What’s the big deal?”

“It’s not a big deal, I guess,” I say, deciding he’s right. “Except to me. I want to be a musician. Specifically, a singer. And my mom . . . doesn’t want me to.”

Tavik snorts. The other campers look confused.

“And this is supposed to talk you out of it?” Jin says, incredulous.

“Well, you see, a few months back, I auditioned for the Ayerton School—this incredible music school. I didn’t think I had a chance. Your grades have to be good and you have to be hugely talented. They take three people from North America per year, from thousands of applicants. Anyway, shock of my life, I got in. I’m supposed to do my senior year there, and then, if I do well, join their conservatory program after that. But I need my mom’s permission because I’m underage, and obviously my saved allowance isn’t going to be enough to pay for it. It’s not the money, though. She doesn’t want me to have a career in music. She wants me to do something . . . stable and sensible.”

“Why?” Bonnie asks.

This is obviously her favorite question.

“She just thinks anything in the arts is too hard. Plus it’s in England. ” I swallow. “Maybe she just wanted to make me prove how much I want it. I don’t know. But those were the conditions she set—I do this program, she gives permission and finances for me to go.”

“So, you’re a super talent,” Ally says. “Meanwhile, the rest of us are . . .”

“Badass messes and criminals,” Tavik says with a wicked grin.

“I’m not mess-free myself. It’s just . . . It doesn’t seem fair.”

“But to send you to this without giving you the right details about it,” Harvey says to me, “I mean, dude, you must be pissed.”

“Well, I’m not surprised,” Peace sneers from the other side of the circle, where he’s been observing with a nasty smile on his face. “You obviously expected a five-star resort.”

“That’s not true!”

“On your way to your five-star school with all the other ‘special’ five-star musical snowflake people.”

“Peace, please,” Bonnie says. “We were having a very positive, productive—”

Peace ignores her and gets up and advances on me instead. “You’re nothing but a spoiled, capitalist, elitist—”

I haul myself to standing, and glare up at him. “If it’s elitist not to want to see your hairy ass in my face and then lie on the ground, listening to you snore all night, then sure, I’m an elitist.”

“I have a breathing condition! I’m tired of being discriminated against by people like you.”

“I’m not talking about your freaking breathing condition, Bob, whatever the hell that means. You weren’t even part of this conversation until just now, but since we’re into it, I’m pretty tired of your agro-granola bullshit.”

Peace growls.

Bonnie and Pat are on their feet, looking like they’re ready to jump in and intervene.

“It’s fine,” I say, motioning to them to stay cool, and taking a step away. “Why don’t we just agree to stay away from each other?”

“Fine by me.”

The good news is that the argument has temporarily stopped the crying.

But now I have to go sleep in the tent with Peace. I stop Tavik on the way there, with a touch on his arm.

“I need your help,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“Could you . . .” I swallow hard. “I know it’s the worst spot, but could you sleep . . . in the middle? Tonight? I just . . .”

“Need a buffer?”

“Even two feet would make a lot of difference.”

“Sure,” he says. “Knight in shining armor, that’s me.”

“Thank you,” I say, exhaling a relieved breath.

“He tries to hump me though? Deal’s off.”

We hike for two more days with me breaking down almost every time we stop walking. I cry and fight the crying, and while I’m walking, somehow find a way to shore up the walls and bridges I put up and have been maintaining the past few months, only to have them washed out and overrun every time we stop.

Every damn night we arrive late and eat bugs. My clothing and sleeping bag—everything I own— reeks and feels damp and slimy.

I am still weeping on the morning of Day Ten when Pat pulls me aside, hands me the master map, and tells me I’m going to be leader for the day.

“Are you kidding?” I wipe at my face with the back of my hand. “I’m a basket case.”

“You’ll be great,” he says.

“Ha,” I say.

This is the first time the leader hasn’t been chosen via volunteering, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out the psychology—put a person who feels powerless in a position of power.

“It’s going to be a looong day,” Peace says. “Keep in mind, we don’t have time for lunch at the Ritz. Or a stop at the therapist.”

“Want me to take him out for you?” Tavik asks, coming up beside me.

“Thanks, but I’m guessing parole officers take a dim view of murder.”

“You need help with the map?”

I look at it, tracing the route with my finger.

“I think I’m good.”

I may be in the midst of a total meltdown, but if I have to lead, I’m damn well going to get us to the next campsite while it’s still light out. For once.

“Okay, everybody!” I say, turning to the group, wiping at my face and tapping my watch. “I want to see you with packs on and ready to go in ten minutes sharp.”

Tavik chuckles, Peace mutters, the girls grin and get to work packing up their tent, and Bonnie watches me with a bemused look on her face.

“And you know what we’re not having for dinner?” I call out.

“What?” Jin calls back.

“Mosquitoes!”

Maybe no one thought I could lead. Maybe I didn’t think so. I certainly didn’t want the job. But once I have it? I’m all in.

Our route on the master map is mapped out with mileage and kilometers, and the estimated time each day’s hike should take. So far we’ve never made time. Not even close. This has caused the two things I’m hating more than almost anything—(1) eating bugs and (2) never ever having time to wash and dry my clothes, and therefore feeling like a walking cesspool.

Hence, even though I am still battling weepiness, I am suddenly filled with purpose.

We leave on time, I have no trouble finding the path or spotting the cairns, and I set a good pace. When someone has to stop to go to the bathroom, I give the group five minutes, time it, and get us moving again as soon as the time is up. Lunch is twenty-nine minutes and we’re on the move by the thirtieth.

I am not messing around, in other words. We are on the march and I will get us there. And once there, I’m going to get myself and my things clean and set out to dry, and I will regroup—patch up all the holes in my walls, fill the potholes on my psychological road, build some newer, stronger bridges, and finish with this ridiculous breakdown.

Needless to say, we get there. We don’t just get there; we burst onto a stunning white beach at 2:00 p.m., having beaten the map by 1.5 hours.

A cheer goes up from the group behind me, and for a few beautiful moments, staring at that beach, I feel awesome. I feel like a freaking rock star.

“What was that you said about not having leadership qualities?” Bonnie says, coming up beside me with a slightly smug grin. “Nice job.”

“Thanks.”

Unfortunately I am only the leader for the hiking portion of the day, and we’ve scarcely set our packs down when Pat summons us.

“Okay, everybody! Meet me down by the water. Don’t bother with the tents yet—there’s something I want to do.”

“What is it?” I look at Bonnie.

“Oh, you’ll see,” she says, and winks.

That wink makes me think it’s something good. Like on those reality shows where suddenly everyone is whisked off to have dinner in Hawaii, or whatever. Dinner in Hawaii would be awesome. Or maybe there’s a secret hot springs out here that also has showers and laundry facilities. With elves to do the laundry.

I saunter over, still feeling proud of myself, and willing to go along with whatever it is Pat has planned. Circle on the sand, maybe. Early circle. Fine.

Once we’re all there, Pat claps his hands enthusiastically and says, “All righty, guys, I want you to stand in a circle.”

I was right! We stand obediently in a circle, and then Bonnie passes out lengths of black fabric—one for each person—and instructs us to put them over our eyes. Next, we’re each handed a bit of rope to hold on to, and then another for the other hand.

“All right, group. I’ve wrapped a rope around you twice,” Pat says. “Your mission is to get yourselves out of the double circle and into a straight line. You may not let go of or slide along the rope. You may not take your blindfolds off. Go.”

Of course it’s not something good. Duh.

My brain wobbles and bends and hurts as I try to envision a solution to this puzzle, but I’ve got nothing.

No one else does either, but that doesn’t stop them.

“Everyone!” Peace shouts. “Just do what I say! Take the right hand—the one that’s holding the rope behind you, and step over it.”

“No, no, dude, you have to switch places with the person to your left!” Harvey (or Henry?) says.

“No, no, I already did it, and I’m partly free!” Peace insists, and I can hear that he’s on the move.

“You can’t just start before we all agree,” Tavik says, on my left.

“I don’t hear you coming up with any solutions,” Peace says.

“Dude, stop pulling me,” Henry (or Harvey?) says.

It goes downhill from there—sand flying everywhere, people shouting and going off half cocked to try their own thing. Before long we’re hopelessly tangled.

The sun bakes us from overhead, sweat rolls down my face and back, even my eyes are sweating, and eau d’inferno drifts up from my shoes, shirt, and pants.

I move when I have to, but I’m not playing.

Instead I am mourning my brief moment of happiness, of personal power. I’m realizing it was an illusion, and knowing, understanding deeply, fully, and for the first time, that I am stuck in a trap within a trap, here and in my life. I am trapped in this twisted circle, in this punishing sun, with these people, with no way out. I am trapped in a puzzle that there is no answer for. I am trapped in this wilderness hell, trapped in my own stinking body, even with a crystal-clear, glistening lake ten feet away. I am cut off from joy, unmoved by beauty, chased by grief, trapped under this sky, in this life, in my own head and heart, where everything, almost everything, has gone to hell.

Standing here in total darkness under the blazing sun, I see it:

I could set things on fire, take an ax to whatever edifice, inside me or out in the world, and it wouldn’t make a damned bit of difference.

I am totally, dazzlingly screwed.

And I am going to lose my mind for real, standing here on this beach.

Then . . .

It occurs to me there is one part of this trap, one small part, that I can escape from.

Bonnie and Pat are obviously doing their usual thing—standing around watching us fail, and not helping.

“I know the answer,” I say, projecting my voice so it’s loud enough to cut through the chaos.

“You do?” Bonnie asks.

“Yeah.” I take my blindfold off. It’s soaked from sweat, and more tears because my eyes are leaking again, but I can’t bring myself to care. “The answer is, there’s no answer. It’s a trick. Or you two would probably prefer the word test. Like the tents. Like the riverbed. Like this whole trip, in my case. There’s no solution. It’s all just to see what we’ll do. To see who’s stubborn enough or stupid enough or sheep-like enough to stand here roasting in the sun all afternoon while we get skin cancer, and black flies and mosquitoes feast on us. I’m thinking, who is that stupid? To stay in this stupid trap just because you”—I point accusingly at Bonnie and Pat—“told us to? And the sad answer? All of us, I guess. But not me. Not anymore.”

By this time everyone’s mask is off, and the entire tangled rope is on the sand.

Pat smiles like he thinks he’s the freaking Dalai Lama.

I round on him. “You’re an asshole for smiling like that. You think this was fun? Capture the flag is fun. Volleyball is fun. This is hell. This is pure manipulation, day after day. This is Lord of the freaking Flies. You just wasted my afternoon with this garbage when all I ask for is a chance to sleep in a dry sleeping bag and have clean underwear that is not smoke scented, and a life where I can be my actual real self without thinking it’s going to break someone’s heart, or kill them.”

And with that, I throw down the ropes and blindfold, and stomp off across the beach, sand flying in my wake.