“Cassie—get up. Alarm went off five minutes ago.”
“But Dad, that cat walked on my head—and he howled all night.” I force myself to sit up, then fall back on the bed. My head thumping. My eyes dry and crusty from crying.
“I told you to keep things picked up—and to unpack your suitcase and set it outside. Ti got disoriented. When that happens, he gets scared.” Dad glances at the mass of twisted bedcovers. “And make your bed. Or do you want Ti to get so confused he forgets where his litter box is?”
“Oh, geez, he wouldn’t do that . . . would he?” I look for Ti as I pull the covers straight. He’s lying on the shelf that gets the morning light, sleeping. “So that howling’s his way of crying?”
“Pretty much.”
“I didn’t know,” I mumble, feeling bad.
Dad dumps my clothes into one of the drawers under the bed and sets my suitcase on the front stoop. The heap of hiking clothes makes tears well up again.
“What’s wrong now?” Dad asks, eyeing me.
“Sorry, Dad. I . . . I was sick last night.”
“Sick? Well, you look all right to me. Besides, I’m not the one you owe an apology.”
“Who . . . ?” His eyes travel to where the cat is lying. “The cat? You want me to apologize to a cat?”
“Let him sniff your hand, then rub his ears. He likes that.”
I can’t believe Dad is serious, but the stare he gives me says he is.
Reaching my hand out, I hold it in front of Ti. His nose feels cool to my fingers, velvety soft. Feeling stupid, I mumble, “Sorry.”
Ti purrs loudly.
“Hey . . .” I run my hand over his head. “Does that mean something?”
“Means he likes it when you’re nice to him. Now, get a move on. I have to drop you off at the ranger station at eight.”
“Ranger station? Why?”
“Told you. I’ve lined up activities.” He looks at me, eyes serious. “And another thing. This nonsense about calling Becky has to stop. She’s not going to send you back to Austin.”
“Yeah, I figured that out.”
I hardly slept, thinking of Mom. So busy doing her thing, she forgot to tell me she was shipping me off to Nowheresville.
I look at Dad. “And so you know, she hates it when someone calls her Becky. She wants to be called Rebecca now. She said Becky sounds too . . . childish.”
“Childish?” Mouth pinched, Dad sets milk and cereal on the table and slips whole-wheat bread into the toaster. “We’re leaving in fifteen, Cassie. Get dressed, you need to eat something.”
I carry khaki shorts and a pink polo to the bathroom and dress. My hair looks like a brush pile because I didn’t use conditioner when I shampooed last night. Pulling it into a ponytail, I return to the kitchen, where Dad’s making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
“Is that for me?”
“Yep, don’t have to worry about PB&J going bad in the heat.” He slips the sandwich into a brown paper bag.
I pick up my Converses and sit down at the table.
“Not those,” he says. “Wear the socks and boots your mom sent.”
I grab bulky hiking socks and tug them on. “What will I be doing?” The boots are stiff, unbending.
“Don’t worry,” he says, smiling. “It’s something fun.”
Great. More surprises.
“Now, hurry up. We have to pick up four others.”
My back stiffens. “Who?”
“Some friends.”
“My friends are back in Austin—and I wish I was with them right now.”
“Nothing in the rule book says you can’t make new ones,” he says.