âProfessorâ Randy with my phone and e-mail it to my message board friends. Subject: This guyâs our professor???? Multiple LOL responses follow.
âAll right, guys, our first activity is . . .wildflowers!â announces Maris. Every boy in our group groans as one. âI know what youâre thinking, guys, flowers are for girls , but actually Montanaâs wildflowers are as fascinating and diverse as its many animal species.â
âBut twice as boring,â grumbles Ian Buckley.
âMr. Buckley,â snaps Ms. Brandt. A few of my classmates giggle, so I shoot Ian a dirty look to let him know his commentary isnât appreciated. He mouths, What? at me. My face burns and my hands ball into fists. If only I had a textbook around . . .
Maris leads us away from the main campsite buildings and up a wide hiking trail with deep woods and colorful fields of flowers lining either side of it. The wind is cool but dry, drawing its lazy fingers through the high grass. Itâs still early spring, but already the air is dotted with mayflies and gnats, early births from the insect world. The trees around us are impossibly tall, their highest branches straining up at least fifty feet overhead; beneath them, in the shadows of the forest, shafts of light dance, birds chirp, squirrels rustle through fallen leaves, and page after page of fascinating knowledge awaits. For some reason, though the sky is blue and bright, a great misty cloud hangs over the mountain, as though it got caught on a tree and canât drift farther without tearing.
This is a researcherâs heaven , a safe campsite on a nature preserve that was built to provide young people like us with a chance to study the wilderness in all its beauty. Montana is not somewhere like, say, Iowa, some corn-choked wasteland, but instead is home to purple mountain majesties and green woods teeming with life! According to my field guide, there are over three thousand unmarked mountain trails and peaks in this region. I didnât quite believe that, but it was interesting to see it documented. Now that I see the size of the mountains surrounding us, Iâm inclined to believe itâs the case.
Iâm about to snap a photo of the landscape to post on my blog when a message pops up. Sender: Dad. â My computer shows you as online. I thought we talked about this. Turn your phone off! Have an adventure!â Something like panic sparks within me, and I stuff my phone in my pocket.
Up ahead, Barbara Todd and Jenny Dylan huddle together, whispering about something near a patch of what I think are toadflaxes (toadflaxi? Toadflaces? I make a mental note to look it up later). This is the adventure my father means: the friend adventure, the Normal Kid routine.
Slowly, I approach them, unsure as to why my palms are beginning to sweat, why my mouth feels so dry.
Youâre an interesting person, Kendra. You know everything about these woods. Just walk up to them and say something.
âDid you know there are over three thousand uncharted hiking trails in these mountains?â I ask as I reach them.
Barbara and Jenny look up at me like my head is on fire. Barbara is all blond and small nosed in a pink sequined shirt; Jenny wears glittered denim from head to toe and has a wholly unnecessary magenta highlight. âWhat?â says Barbara.
âOn those mountains,â I say, pointing to the violet silhouettes in the distance. âI mean, thatâs a lot of terrain to cover. I feel like . . .â What do girls like this talk about? â. . . like my hairâs going to be a total mess after this!â
The silence that follows is excruciating . (Has that been a vocab word yet? It should be.)
âYouâre worried about . . . your hair?â asks Jenny, raising an eyebrow and observing the top of my head.
âOf course,â I say, laughing a little, trying to stop the buzzing in my head. âItâs
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