Lost in the River of Grass Read Free Page A

stuff when through the front windshield I see a guy. He’s in a shed beyond the screened-in building marked Dining Hall, working on the engine of a small airboat: one with two seats, not benches like the one at the Miccosukee place. He turns to watch the bus unload, and I guess he’s about fifteen. He’s tall—taller than the boys on this trip, and a lot cuter. His hair is straight, dark brown with long bangs that fall over one eye. He pushes them aside and shields his eyes against the sun.
    I watch him until everyone else gets off, then I step down and look around, smiling as if I’m happy to be here. I wait a moment before I let myself glance in his direction. He’s moved into the sunlight and is staring at me. I’m getting used to that, but his is a nice kind of stare, and I feel the blood rush to my face. I turn away, hoist my duffel bag, and walk straight toward our assigned cabin. Just before I start up the steps, I sneak a final peek. He’s working on the airboat again, so his back is to me.
    The cabin is pitch black compared to outside, which means I have to stand in the doorway and wait for my eyes to adjust. The other girls were shrieking and laughing when I came up the steps, but now they stop and stare.
    â€œWhat?” I throw my duffel and sleeping bag onto an upper bunk by the door, since they’ve taken all the bottom bunks.
    â€œNothing,” one of the Amandas says. She’s giving Brittany a French braid.
    This Amanda is the bell-cow. Mom says in every herd there’s a lead cow, and they put a bell on her so when she moves and her bell rings the others follow. Mom says I should try to make friends with the bell-cows at school. I’m not having much luck with that.
    They’re in their bras and panties, changing into designer swamp-tromping outfits for this afternoon’s field trip. I don’t feel like getting undressed in front of them, so I go back outside to sit on the top step to wait. They start to whisper as soon as I’m out the door. I can’t make out what they’re saying except that’s it about me.
    I’m plucking leaves off the vine that’s growing up the banister when they come out in an all-blonde triangle— the bell-cow in the lead, followed by the other Amanda, Brittany and Courtney. Courtney bumps me as they troop down the stairs but doesn’t say sorry, kiss my butt or anything. The idea of an entire weekend trapped here with them makes me want to scream or cry or both. They glance back and giggle. I tell myself I don’t care enough about them to get my feelings hurt. I only wish it worked that way.
    Mr. Vickers told us to meet in front of the dining hall at two for the field trip to a sanctuary across the road to see the endangered banded tree snail. It makes me feel sorrier for myself to know that even snails have a safe haven.
    I come out of the hot cabin in a pair of my mother’s shorts, one of my brother’s T-shirts, and the long-sleeved denim shirt of my dad’s tied around my waist. The AABCs watch me cross the yard with their heads bunched together like they have magnets for brains.
    I must be the last one, because Mr. Vickers smiles and starts walking toward the gate. The others form a clump behind him as we cross the Loop Road and enter the sanctuary.
    The trail is narrow and mostly crushed shell like the levees are made of. The low spots are muddy from the recent rains but easy to step over or around. We form a single file behind Mr. Vickers, the boys in the front, the AABCs, then me. Mr. Vickers is using binoculars to try to find a snail.
    â€œThis is a hardwood hammock,” he says. “And these snails are arboreal except when depositing their eggs in leaf mulch. Who can tell me what arboreal means?”
    I know the answer is up trees, but my hands are busy trying to wave off our welcoming committee. I didn’t soak myself with bug spray again after changing clothes, so