My Top Secret Dares & Don'ts Page 2

  “That’s the Fraser River below us,” says my mom.

  I glance down. Big mistake. My head starts to spin. Counterclockwise, I think. It twirls faster and faster. I don’t know where to look. I can’t seem to focus on any one thing. The colorless sky, the choppy waters, the ripple of cables—everything is gyrating out of control. I can’t breathe. My heart is hammering against my rib cage. Let me out! Let me out! I taste something sour. I may throw up. Or pass out. Or pee.

  “You okay, Little Bird?”

  “Nuh-uh.” Is that my voice? It sounds weak. Faraway.

  “Sit back. Close your eyes,” says my mother. I don’t know how she can be so calm considering we are about to plunge two hundred feet into the river. Oops. We’re in Canada. It’s meters. I don’t know what that is in meters. It probably doesn’t matter when you’re dead, does it?

  “Kestrel,” her voice is firmer. “Sit back. Close your eyes.”

  I force my fingers to release the door handle. Leaning back, I clamp my eyes shut.

  “Good girl,” she says. “Inhale to the count of five. Now exhale. Five, four, three, two, one. Again. Slow breath in. Slow breath out.”

  I flutter my eyelids, but she says, “Keep them closed.”

  It takes a few minutes, but my heart rate slows. My stomach settles. Feeling gradually returns to my hands and feet.

  Her hand is on my knee. “Better?”

  “I think so.” I open my eyes. We are no longer on the bridge.

  “Keep breathing,” she says. “Slow breath in. Slow breath out. Good. Let your mind help you gain control over your body. You’re doing fine.”

  Am I?

  “Once we get to Vancouver, we’ll head north on Highway Ninety-nine,” she says. “It’s called the Sea-to-Sky Highway, because it stretches from Howe Sound all the way up into the Coast Mountains to Whistler, Pemberton, and beyond. . . .”

  I know she is talking to take my mind off things, so I close my eyes again and try to relax.

  “It’s a great drive. . . .” Her voice is soft against the hum of the engine. “Wait until you see it—the water, the islands, the mountains. Howe Sound is one of the most beautiful places on Earth. . . . You’ll see. Sleep, Little Bird. . . . We’ll be there soon. . . .”

  My face feels warm. Sunlight flashes red and white against my eyelids. I open my eyes. My right shoulder is wedged between the seat and the window. My arm is bent awkwardly under me, one hand supporting my chin. Is that drool on my palm? Ew. I unfold myself. I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep, but it must have been a while, because the world is different. The concrete barriers, warehouses, and strip malls are gone. We are on a four-lane highway, winding between rocky cliffs on my side and a sapphire sea on Mom’s. The sky has cleared to a cerulean blue, and the navy-blue waters sparkle in the midday sun. Small, rocky islands break through the calm sea like a pod of surfacing whales. Deep green, tree-covered hills rise up from the opposite shore, jagged gray-and-white mountain peaks peering between them. This must be Howe Sound. My mother was right. It is beautiful.

  I rub my neck. “Did we pass Vancouver?”

  “About a half hour ago,” Mom says quietly.

  I turn in my seat. Wyatt is conked out.

  “Mom?”

  “Mmm-hmm?”

  “Sorry about weirding out back there. Heights make me so—”

  “It’s all right. Port Mann is a tall bridge. I was a bit shaky up there myself.”

  I wasn’t a bit shaky. I was petrified. And I hate that I was so scared.

  My mother watches a sailboat slice through the glittering, white path of sun on the water, and her lips turn up. With each mile, the opposite shore gets closer, the hills higher. The sea narrows, turning from a deep blue to a milky turquoise. I comment on the beauty of the aqua color of the water, and my mom’s smile fades. “It’s the mineral deposits,” she says. “They used to mine the rock in these hills, process it, and dump the waste into the water—copper, cadmium, iron, zinc.”

  “That sounds a little toxic.”

  “Try a lot toxic. The Sound was a marine dead zone for a long, long time. It’s starting to rebound, though it’s taken decades to clean up. With his Squamish heritage, your dad was hired to represent some of the aboriginal tribes some years back in a lawsuit against the government.”

  “And?”

  “He won, though it took him a long time. Even now, it’s a constant fight to keep the habitat pristine,” she says. “For every battle won, another company steps in to try to exploit the resources. The latest proposal will build a liquefied natural gas plant on one of the old timber mill sites. Grandma Lark sent me the link to the project opponents. They say it will dump hot, chlorinated water into the Sound.”

  “That’s awful! Why would they do that?”

  She sighs. “Greed. Money. Power. The usual reasons.”

  I stretch my neck to look out over the dash at the vast sea. It’s as if ten thousand blue diamonds are sparkling. “Don’t they know when we destroy habitats like this one, we are destroying ourselves?”

  “You sound like your dad. You’d make a good environmental lawyer, Kestrel.”

  “Maybe,” I say, but I’m not sure I want a job where I never get to see my family.

  We follow the shore, the highway rolling left, then right, until Howe Sound ends in a U-shaped bay in the mining town of Squamish.

  “There’s the old Britannia Mine.” Mom points to a big, ugly, gray, terraced building that looks to be growing out of the granite hillside. “It’s a museum now.”

  We stop at a red light, our first full stop since before we crossed the border. My mother tips her head toward the opposite side of the street. She giggles. It’s a McDonald’s. I giggle too. Wyatt will be thrilled.

  “Take a break or keep going?” she asks.

  My butt’s numb, and I have a cramp in my foot, but I am so ready for this trip to end.

  “Keep going,” I say.

  We leave turquoise Howe Sound and the golden arches behind and begin climbing into the mountains. The road curves in Ss between slabs of sharp, golden rock. The trees get taller and slimmer as we go. Enormous, UFO-shaped clouds appear out of nowhere. They bunch up, casting long shadows over the slopes. As we go, more and more cabins dot the hills. The speed limit drops to fifty kilometers. Before I can ask my mom to translate the speed, I spot a tall, dark brown sign with white letters: WELCOME TO WHISTLER.

  “We’re here!” I cry.

  “We’re here?” Wyatt says in a groggy voice.

  “We’re here,” sighs my mother.

  We follow the directions on the GPS for a few more miles then turn into the main village. Traffic is, suddenly, heavy. It’s like Christmas at the mall—except this mall is in the mountains. We crawl past condos, hotels, restaurants, and shops and sidewalks filled with people.

  “There’s the aboriginal center,” says Mom, pointing to the modern, three-story glass building. “You’ll be able to learn about your ancestry there.”

  Turning onto Blackcomb Way, we pass more hotels, condos, and a golf course. The road gets thinner as we wind our way toward the outer edges of the village. Mom makes a right onto Painted Cliff Road. We navigate about six or seven hairpin turns, then Wyatt’s head appears at my shoulder. “There!” he calls, pointing.

  To the left, I see a large, granite bolder with black metal script lettering: BLACKCOMB CREEK LODGE. Above the letters flies a bird, also black and metal. Mom turns onto a blacktopped driveway, and we weave through a forest of cedars, firs, pines, and hemlocks so tall and thick they nearly block out the sun. Soon, the cement ends and we are rolling across a patchwork of flat, sand-colored stones, sparkling with flecks of silver and gold. The trees part and we get our first glimpse of the lodge. My breath catches. When you think of a lodge, you think drafty cabins and broken cots and stinky outhouses . . . but this . . . this is amazing!

  The lodge is old-fashioned and modern at the same time. It looks like a country church, but m
ade from whole logs instead of flat, cut wood. Mammoth panels of glass create the A-framed front, rising fifty feet high. The tinted glass reflects the green boughs of the fir and pine branches that strain to touch them. Fanning out from the middle A-frame are two wings of rooms, each three stories high. The wings are supported by giant river-rock columns. Almost every room has a deck with dozens and dozens of red and white geraniums spilling over the wrought iron railings.

  “Cool!” shouts Wyatt.

  “It looks like something a Hollywood actor would live in,” I say, snapping a few photos with my phone.

  “Only this place is way bigger,” says Wyatt.

  My mom pulls to a stop under the covered entryway. The arched oak doors are intricately carved with aboriginal animals. From here, I can see the eagle wings, a deer’s head, and bear paws. I open my door and get out. The air is cool, almost like it is at the ocean, except instead of salt, I inhale the scent of pine and sweet, damp earth. The only sound I hear is the wind rustling leaves and a few chirping songbirds. After three hours of riding in the car, my legs are wobbly. It takes me a minute to get used to gravity again. Not Wyatt. He is already dragging his Spider-Man suitcase out of the trunk.

  “Hold on, son,” says Mom, hurrying after him.

  I push my arms above my head. My back cracks. I lean left. Then right. My teeth feel crusty. “Dibs on the shower.” I shuffle to the back of the car.

  A boy is rolling a luggage cart toward us. He’s thin, but not skinny, and a head taller (okay, maybe two heads taller) than me. He looks a little older, too. He’s wearing black pants and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up his forearms. I see a name tag pinned to his shirt, but I’m not close enough to read it. He flicks back a thatch of thick, chestnut hair and his dark eyes peer into mine. “Welcome to Blackcomb Creek Lodge.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Cute,” mutters my mother, elbowing me.

  I hope he didn’t hear her. I also hope I don’t look as icky as I feel. Not that I am at all into boys. Okay, maybe a little. I did have a crush on Josh Luckinbill in history last year. I don’t think he knew. I’m not ready for anything more than a secret crush. Still, you can’t help thinking about them—boys, I mean. You know, for someday, when you are ready.

  Mom turns to the bellboy. “We’re Lark and Keith’s family.”

  “She’ll be happy to see you.” He takes Wyatt’s suitcase and places it onto the cart. “How was the drive up?”

  “Long!” Mom and I say at the same time.

  His grin deepens, and a little dimple appears on each side of his mouth. My knees feel wobbly. Still getting used to gravity, I guess.

  “If you’d like to go on inside and get settled, I can handle things here,” he says.

  “Sounds good,” says my mom. She reaches for her purse. “Oh, I don’t have any Canadian money yet.”

  “American is fine,” he says.

  Mom hands him a few dollar bills. “Thank you . . . uh . . .”

  “Breck,” he says, tapping his name tag. He takes the tip. “Thank you.”

  Turning, she wiggles her eyebrows at me as if to say, Cute name, too. Oh, geez.

  “Wyatt, let’s go!” cries Mom, because my brother is already galloping through the trees like a knight on a horse. She heads toward the heavy, oak doors, then turns. “Little Bird, could you grab the passports and documents? I don’t want to leave them in the car.”

  “Sure, Mom.”

  Reaching into the trunk for our picnic basket, Breck chuckles. “Little Bird?”

  “It’s a nickname.” I can feel my neck getting warm. “My name is Kestrel.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “See, a kestrel is a— ”

  “A falcon, I know.”

  “You do? Sorry. Most people don’t—”

  “Do much hiking? Know about raptors? Live at the base of a twenty-four-hundred-meter mountain?”

  “All of the above,” I say.

  He shuts the trunk. “Then this is your lucky day.”

  I can see his name tag now. BRECK MCKINNON. It is a cute name. It dawns on me that my eyes don’t hurt anymore. Not a bit. My headache is gone.

  Breck starts pulling the luggage cart toward the lodge. “Don’t forget the passports, Little Bird.”

  I can feel my cheeks getting lobster red. “I won’t.”

  Now, if only I could remember where they are.

  3

  Dare to Keep My Power

  Kestrel!”

  I catch a glimpse of a cobalt-blue shirt and black pants before I am pulled into a hug. After a long minute of Grandma Lark squeezing me and me squeezing her, we let go to get our first good look at each other. My grandmother is slim, yet athletic, and several inches taller than me, but then, who isn’t? Her angel-white hair is short, yet styled in a fun, messy crop. Her eyes are a deep Spanish moss green, like mine, and her olive skin is smooth, also like mine. She smiles and there’s only a faint hint of crow’s-feet at the outer corners of her eyes. She’s wearing a swish of coral lip gloss and hardly any blush or mascara. Not that she needs makeup. She is beautiful.

  “You’re stunning, Kestrel,” she says, smoothing my shiny black hair over my shoulders.

  “You too,” I say.

  “And so grown-up.”

  “You too,” I blurt by mistake.

  She lets out a laugh. “It’s so good to have you all here. It’s been a tough go these past few months.”

  “I can’t even imagine, Lark,” says Mom. “We’re here to help in any way we can.”

  “That’s right,” I say. I may not have been thrilled about coming, but whining is one of my pet peeves. That and apathy. You need to care about things and then be willing to work to change them or nothing will ever get better. I learned that from my dad. He’s a hard worker, and I admire him for that. I only wish he had time for us, too.

  Wyatt runs his hand along one of the maple syrup–colored logs in the wall. “I feel like one of the Keebler elves.”

  Grandma, Mom, and I chuckle, but he has a point. The place is almost entirely wood. The high walls are constructed from rows and rows of enormous logs. Long, flat timbers crisscross the vaulted wood ceiling. The curving staircase in the center of the lobby has a log banister with log rails that circle up to the second and third floors—even the steps are built from smaller logs split in the middle. The fireplace is made of thousands of small, stacked, round river rocks, and the flagstone floor, with its big chunks of flat gold rocks, matches the driveway.

  “Dad’s gonna be sorry he missed this,” says Wyatt, trotting off to explore the lobby.

  “How is Cole?” Saying her son’s name makes my grandmother’s eyes brighten.

  “Copacetic,” says Mom. It means “okay,” but when my mom uses it, it’s code for I don’t want to talk about it, so please move on. I think she figures using a fancy word will keep you from pressing things.

  “Working on a big case?” asks Grandma Lark, unaware of my mother’s verbiage traditions.

  “He’s up to his eyeballs in petroleum rights, but he sends his love,” says my mom. “Once things quiet down, I’m sure he’ll be up for a long weekend.”

  “Of course,” says Grandma, but her eyebrows squiggle downward. Hey, that’s my look.

  While Mom and Grandma Lark chat, I take a few pictures. I point my phone straight up to get a shot of the round, black iron chandelier swinging from one of the beams. The metal ring holds a couple dozen fake candle lights. They are dripping fake wax. I text Langley: I made it! Here’s the Lodge. What do you think? I attach the photos, including the exterior shots, and send the text.

  Nicer than I expected, she replies in less than a minute. Any cute boys?

  If I tell Langley about Breck, she’ll want to know all kinds of details about him that I don’t know and will probably never know, so there’s no point starting that conversation. No, I lie. It is my last lie. I promise.

  A young woman slides a plastic card acro
ss the desk. “Your key, miss,” she says to me, her long, honey-brown ponytail swinging. She has pale skin and cherry-red lips. Mom would have a freak-fest if I wore that much lipstick. Her name tag reads DINAH STERLING. She slides a key card to Mom, too. “You’re in the Alpine Suite on the third floor, Mrs. Adams—”

  “A suite? Oh no, we couldn’t,” says my mother.

  “Oh yes, you could,” says Grandma Lark.

  “Are you on the third floor too, Grandma?” I ask.

  “No, hon. I have a small cottage out back, up the hill a few hundred meters.” She checks her watch. “Listen, I’ve got a meeting, but let’s have dinner together. I’ll meet you in the dining room at, say, six o’clock? Our executive chef is preparing something special for your arrival.”

  “He shouldn’t go to any trouble,” says Mom.

  “She should,” says my grandmother. “How often does family come to visit?”

  “Not often enough,” says my mother apologetically.

  “You’re here now.” The creases around Grandma’s eyes deepen. “Talia McKinnon is our top chef and she’s fantastic.”

  I glance up from my phone. “McKinnon? Is she related to Breck?”

  “She’s his mom,” answers Grandma Lark. “We’re all one big family around here. Now if you need anything, anything at all, please ask Dinah or Jess—Jess, where are you?”

  An older, plump man in a blue cardigan, crisp white shirt, and a red bow tie appears in the office doorway. His curly hair is the color of an overly ripe peach. “Right here, oh fearless leader,” he says with a grin. His name tag reads JESS GILBERTSON.

  “Dinah and Jess are my right and left hands at the front desk,” says my grandmother. “I don’t know what I’d do without them.”

  The pair beams with pride.

  Dinah gives us directions to our suite, and we say our good-byes.

  “Wyatt, let’s go!” calls Mom, heading for the elevator.

  My little brother has his head in the big fireplace. It’s okay. The thing is not lit.

  In the elevator, I text Langley: We get a suite!

  She replies: Sweet! Get it? I get it.

  My mom unlocks the door. Our luggage is already inside the room, stacked neatly in the closet by the door. Our suite is spacious, yet cozy. The entry hall opens into a sitting room with two espresso-brown leather sofas and a well-shellacked tree-trunk coffee table. There’s a big basket of fruit waiting for us. Off the sitting room are three bedrooms. I take the one that faces east, toward the summit, though I don’t see much of the mountain from my window. My view is mostly fir trees. My room has fern-print curtains with a matching bedspread on a—what else?—log bed. I take a hot shower and put on a fresh pair of jeans with my favorite mint-green tee, which says HAPPINESS IS A CHOICE. In the sitting room, Wyatt is watching TV and eating a banana.