The Art of Holding On and Letting Go (10 page)

“Don't worry, Margaret. We'll be careful,” he said.

“You want to try climbing too?” I asked him. He was old, but he was pretty spry.

“Ha! I can hardly move my arm from the darn flu shot I got yesterday.”

“Nice excuse,” I said.

“We should probably get you one too.”

I shook my head and rubbed my arm. “Ugh, no way. I never get sick.”

Grandma pointed the spatula at me and looked like she was about to lecture, but Grandpa was already grabbing his wallet and keys. “Let's go!”

We headed out to Grandpa's vintage car. I really could care less about cars, but his Mustang was pretty sharp. He had taught my mom how to drive on it, and it was still in great shape. I could picture my mom and dad on a date, cruising around town before I was born. But that would have never happened because I was born two years after they met down south. And my mom never came back to Detroit to live. Just a quick trip to pack up some of her belongings. She was a girl in the mountains from then on.

It turned out that Pontiac was only about a ten-minute drive from Bloomfield. Nick was right. There was rock climbing right in my own backyard. The plastic kind. I had been to climbing gyms all over the country for competitions, but never Planet Granite.

My stomach convulsed as we walked up to the industrial-looking building. Why was I so nervous? I wasn't going to climb. I purposefully hadn't even brought my gear. Grandpa walked his grandpa pace, and I slowed down to match his stride.

I paused just inside the gym. The guy behind the check-in counter gave the other employee a shove. Subtle.

“Hey, you here to climb?” he asked.

“Maybe. I'm not sure yet.”

The guy stared at me for a second, then asked, “Aren't you Cara Jenkins?”

Was this my stalker? “You go to Bloomfield High?” I asked.

The guy smirked. “Uh, no. I graduated two years ago.”

And then I noticed the rack of climbing magazines, just like Nick had said.
Everyone who climbs there knows who you are.

“You're telling me you're not here to climb?” The guy's smirk was permanent. His arms were covered with tattoos—sleeves. The piercing in his tongue flashed when he talked. Why did I keep running into all these punks and goths?

“I'm just going to look around for a minute.”

“What? You need to see if we're good enough for you?”

My scalp prickled. Who did this guy think he was? I wanted to tell him off, but tears threatened. I knew I shouldn't have come here. I could feel Grandpa moving closer to me.
Breathe.

“Do you have a brochure with prices?” Grandpa asked. “Something about the after-school club?”

Oh my God, Grandpa.
The other employee stared at us. He was the clean-cut opposite of the guy talking to us. Tall and fit with super short hair, almost a buzz cut. A spray of tiny pimples dotted his forehead.

“You have to take a class your first time here,” Tattoo Guy said. If it was possible for his face to turn even more mocking, he accomplished it.

I gave him my best
Don't be an idiot
look. “Obviously I don't need a class.”

“Well, you gotta pass the belay test before you're allowed to climb.”

“Whatever.” I hoped he would snag his lip on his tongue piercing.

“You should take their test now,” Grandpa said. “Then you'll be all set to climb whenever you want.”

I shook my head. “I didn't even bring my harness. Let's just look around.”

The buzz-cut guy smiled. “No worries. We'll loan you a harness. I'm Blake. Follow me.”

Grandpa nodded and nudged me forward. Tattoo Guy's sneer burned into my back.

We entered the climbing area, and the soaring walls and dusty smell of chalk hit me like a punch to the stomach. I couldn't help but think that Mom, Dad, and Uncle Max were going to walk up any minute. Choosing not to climb had seemed like a protest at first, but now I felt the full force of the fear behind my decision.

Grandpa gave my shoulder a squeeze.

Blake led us over to a corner wall and handed me a rope. “Sorry about this. It's just policy, you know, liability.”

“It's okay. I get it.” At least this guy was nice. I would have walked out for sure if Tattoo Guy was the one giving the belay test.

I ran my fingers over the tightly woven strands of rope—red, yellow, and green swirled together like the colorful market in Ecuador. I thought of my parents and Max roped together on the mountain, the rope severed, the end frayed and unraveling.

“This is how Mom taught me when I was little,” I said to Grandpa. “You make a loop, then take the end of the rope. It's a rabbit. He runs around the tree and down into the hole. See, that makes a figure eight. Then I thread this through my harness and follow the figure eight all the way around to make it double.”

“Okay, so what's the belay part?”

“I'm getting there.” I untied the figure eight knot and clipped the belay device to my harness.

“Now Blake's the climber, and he's going to tie the figure eight onto his harness. I'm going to pinch the other end of the rope through my belay device. When he climbs up the wall and slips and falls, all I have to do is hold the rope back like this and it will stop his fall. He'll just be hanging there, and I can slowly lower him down.”

A whoosh and a shout echoed from the other side of the gym. Laughter. A girl swung on the rope near the ceiling.

Blake laughed. “Just like that.”

“Climb on,” I said to him.

“Nah, it's okay. I know you know how to belay. Obviously. Um, if you want to climb, we can find you a belayer, or uh I can do it, like, you know, for you.”

His face turned a darker shade of pink with each word, and heat flushed my face too.

“Thanks,” I said with a smile. “Maybe next time.”

What was up with me? Nervous about climbing, blushing over a belay offer? I was just one of the guys.

“That's it?” Grandpa asked. “You passed the test?”

“That's it.”

“But you don't want to climb today?”

“Nope.”

He stood with his hands on his hips, looking up and around. “What's over there?”

I followed his gaze to a cave-like structure. “It's for bouldering. The walls are shorter, so you can climb without a rope.”

“Show me.”

“Grandpa …”

“Oh come on, just give me a little demonstration.”

“I didn't bring my climbing shoes.”

He raised his eyebrows at me.

I sighed and headed over to the bouldering area and climbed on. I traversed part of the wall and maneuvered under and over a ledge. I felt the silence and a half dozen eyes on me as I jumped down. I was used to people watching me climb. I knew how to tune them out. But this was different. I didn't want anyone watching me now.

Grandpa grinned. “Reminds me of your mom when she was little. She used to climb the fence in the backyard, back and forth, until her hands were red and smarting. It was a game, how long she could last without her feet touching the ground.”

Huh. Even here in Michigan, my mom had found a way to climb before she even knew it was a sport. Before she'd ever seen a mountain.

I could feel the smirking tattooed guy staring at me as we left, but I didn't meet his eyes. Buzz-cut Blake called out just as we reached the door.

“See you soon!”

Probably not, I thought, and gave a little wave.

Ever since I left Ecuador, I had been dreaming the same dream.

Falling, falling in a tumble of white. I'm curled into a tight ball, rolling, then flat on my stomach sliding face first like swimming underwater in an icy pool. A hard slam against my shoulder, my knee. A deep rumbling voice. Uncle Max. I can't see. The whiteness is blinding.

I woke up twisted in my sheets, sweaty but chilled. I straightened the covers and pulled the quilt up to my ears. Even when my heartbeat returned to its normal rhythm, I couldn't fall back asleep. The green numbers on the clock glowed 5:30 a.m. At 6:00, I got up and wandered into the kitchen.

Grandpa sat at the kitchen table, drinking tea and reading the newspaper. No sign of Grandma. He looked up and paused a moment, glancing back down at the paper, then back at me.

“Morning,” he said. “Water's probably still hot in the kettle.”

Did I imagine the look, that moment of hesitation?

I glanced at the paper over Grandpa's shoulder as I headed for the stove. “California Wildfire Blazes.”

Wildfires were annual news in California. No big deal. I guessed Grandpa wasn't sure if it would upset me or not. I sat down with my mug of tea across the table from him.

“You're up early.” He said it like a question.

“Yeah, couldn't sleep so good.”

“Me neither. Your grandma snores like a freight train.”

I laughed. “I thought that was you.”

“Don't you believe it.” Grandpa looked back down at the newspaper. “Looks like this wildfire business is getting out of hand back in your part of the world.” He slid the paper over to me. “Must be scary.”

The story was about several wildfires that had cropped up in the past week around California. The biggest one was in Southern California. It was being contained, but the authorities were cautious. They warned that once the seasonal Santa Ana winds started blowing the hot dry air off the desert, it could fuel the flames.

“It is a little scary when you see those fires popping up. We never had to evacuate, but there was almost always a fire nearby every year. The firefighters used to do controlled burns in the Angeles Forest near where we lived, trying to clear the brush. Even seeing the smoke and blackened ground from those fires made me nervous.”

“Well, we don't have wildfires here, thank goodness, or earthquakes. But maybe you'll get to experience a tornado drill.” Grandpa grinned.

“You're kidding.”

“Oh no. You'll probably have to do one at school. They'll make you sit down in the hallways with your head between your knees. At least that's what they used to make us do. And if it's a real tornado warning, you'll have to hide under a desk or in the bathroom or someplace like that. Last year, those sirens went off when your grandma was in the bathtub. The sky had turned an eerie green. Oh boy, you should have heard her hollering! What to do? Stay in the tub? Run down to the basement? She was in a tizzy.”

Grandma shuffled into the kitchen, her slippers slapping on the linoleum. “What are you saying about me?”

“I was just telling Cara about you leaping out of the tub naked as a jaybird and running down to the basement when that tornado siren went off last year.”

“I did no such thing,” Grandma snapped. “There you go again, putting ideas in her head.”

Grandpa gave me a look and suppressed a grin before focusing on the newspaper again. I didn't know how he did it. The woman drove me nuts, but Grandpa just didn't seem to let it get to him.

Grandma was still griping as I left the kitchen.

“Putting ideas into her head. She hasn't said anything about climbing since she got here, and then you go encouraging it. Climbing is what got her in this mess in the first place.”

I paused in the living room, waiting to hear Grandpa's response.

“You've seen the way she looks, Margaret. She's like a lost bird, fluttering around here, away from her own environment. She hardly talks, she hardly eats. Climbing is part of her identity. It's who she is. Besides, she won't climb until she's good and ready. I just wanted to open up the doors for her.”

I drifted down the hall to my room, mulling over Grandpa's words. On an impulse, I jumped up and grabbed hold of the molding above my door. I held on with my fingertips as long as I could. It felt good to feel their strength again. It felt good to hold on to something after being forced to let go of everything. I dropped back down, grabbed my backpack, and left for school.

The humidity had disappeared during the night. I breathed in the sharp, crisp air. Goose bumps popped up on my arms, but I didn't go back for a jacket. I'd warm up as I walked. I took my time, crunching fallen leaves and helicopter seeds with my feet. For the next seven hours, I'd be stuck squirming on a hard, plastic chair, trapped at a desk.

Back in California, I'd be wandering the woods, one eye always alert for sour grass. When I was little, Uncle Max had once plucked a few stalks. He'd chewed a blade and handed one to me.

“Try some, Cara, it's fairy food.”

I'd taken a nibble, my eyes widening at the yummy, sour taste. “Fairies live here?”

Uncle Max had shrugged. “I don't know. Keep an eye out.”

And I had. I'd scanned every flower petal and tree trunk. I'd peered underneath leaves and inside hollow logs. And then I'd found it—a fairy wing, delicate and iridescent. In reality, it must have belonged to a dragonfly, but Uncle Max never let on. He'd acted just as surprised and enchanted as I was.

Nick and Kaitlyn were waiting in front of my locker when I got to school.

“Nick has something to tell you,” Kaitlyn said.

“Isn't it supposed to be innocent until proven guilty?” he asked.

“Just tell her.” Kaitlyn elbowed him.

“Okay, already. I didn't write those notes. I swear. See?” He held up the note I had left in the cafeteria yesterday and another piece of paper. “The handwriting is totally different. No way could I write slanted like that. It's probably someone left-handed.”

What was I supposed to say? It didn't make him any less of a jerk. I opened my locker. Another note fell out.

The three of us stood there looking at it for a second, then Kaitlyn snatched it up.

“Can I see?” she asked, pausing before unfolding the note.

“Go ahead. I don't want it.”

She opened it up and read.