In the morning, I reread the note. What the hell? Should I be reporting these to someone? But the notes weren’t actually threatening; they were just weird.
He should have said yes. Was the note writer talking about Tom? Only Nick and Kaitlyn knew about it, unless someone else at school had heard. I thought I had ruled Nick out, but … Who was doing this!
I tossed the note onto my desk and checked my phone for the first time in days. Dead. I plugged it into the charger. Tom had never called me before, but he could get my number. I remembered the warm weight of his hands on my hips, on my lower back. I watched my phone, but the screen stayed black. My rumbling stomach sent me to the kitchen.
“Wait until you go outside, Carabou. It’s like spring,” Grandpa said with a smile.
He was right! Spring was here. After gray skies and subzero temperatures for months, forty-five degrees and sunny felt downright balmy. I would have bundled up in heavy fleece in California if it was below fifty, but today I only needed a sweatshirt. I knew right where I wanted to go. I stuffed my climbing shoes and chalk bag into my backpack and headed out for a walk. After half a mile, I found the spot. I stopped under the railroad viaduct and ran my hand along the stones that made up the wall. I had ridden my bike past this spot on the way home from Kaitlyn’s, but it turned too cold before I had a chance to return and check it out. It was perfect for bouldering.
It was dim and cooler out of the sun, and my breath puffed into the air. I rubbed my palms together for warmth. I was the only one around. Not like back home in the Angeles Forest where there was almost always someone else hanging out in the most popular climbing areas. I had to tell Jake about this place.
“Echo!” My voice reverberated off the stone walls.
I pulled on my climbing shoes and tied the chalk bag around my waist. Climb on, I said to myself. No jug holds here, no brute strength needed, no dynos. Just a graceful, deliberate dance across the stones. The rock climbing puzzle. Finding the perfect matching pieces. Crack to crevice to nub to flake. When every piece falls into place, it’s like a dance, a delicate but powerful balancing act. The art of holding on and letting go at the same time.
I traversed the wall until my fingertips were raw, my toes numb. I walked home with my forearms burning. I found Grandma standing in the yard, staring down at the soggy, dead flower beds. The plastic flowers from the window boxes lay in a heap on the straw-like grass. They had been covered in snow for so long, I had forgotten about them. She just stood there, surveying the yard, looking lost.
“Are you going to plant some new flowers?” I asked. “I could help.”
“Nah.” She shook her head. “It’ll probably snow tomorrow.”
“Whatever.” I wasn’t going to let her get me down.
I tossed my climbing shoes and chalk bag in the corner of my room and checked my phone. Fully charged with one text. Coach Mel.
Miss you.
I squinted at the picture. The team was at the exhibition event in Tennessee. There was Becky in a star-spangled skimpy outfit, Zach’s arm around her shoulders, one hand raised in the peace sign.
I clicked off my phone. Whatever. I didn’t want to think about competition climbing; I just wanted to enjoy the feeling from my dance across the stones.
But I couldn’t stop checking my phone. I looked at the picture from Coach again, zoomed in and studied the climbing wall in the background.
Still no word from Tom.