Not Our Summer Casie Bazay (which ebook reader .TXT) 📖

my irritation. “Why not?” She lights up and takes a long drag before coughing several times. “It’s just the dry air,” she explains.

“Yeah, sure.” I shift the bag on my shoulder and read the sign up ahead. An arrow points to Bright Angel Trailhead, but we need to find Bright Angel Lodge first. The lady from Maswik gave me a map of Grand Canyon Village last night, so I pull it out again to study. “I think it’s to the right up there.”

We haven’t gone much farther when I notice another sign and point toward it: NO SMOKING.

K. J. sighs and drops the cigarette, smashing it with her boot. “That figures.”

I bite my lip, attempting to hide my smile of satisfaction. We take a right and follow the sign toward Bright Angel Lodge. It’s a large rock A-frame building that looks slightly fancier than our own lodge.

“You both have wide-brimmed hats, right?” the woman at the transportation desk asks us. She has the tanned, leathery-looking skin of someone who has spent most of her life outdoors. She could be forty or sixty—it’s hard to tell.

We both answer yes. The itinerary was very specific in what we needed to pack.

“Perfect,” she says. “And have either of you ridden before?”

I shake my head, a jittery feeling expanding in my gut. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I’m stuck with K. J. for the weekend, but this whole mule thing is getting a little too real now.

“I’ve ridden a horse a few times,” K. J. says.

Great, so I’m going to look like the total fool here.

“That should help,” the lady says, “but don’t worry, the wranglers will give you all the instructions you need. I’m sure you’ll have a fantastic time.” She hands each of us a small slip of paper with our cabin number. “Have fun!”

I must look more terrified than anything because the woman gives me a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry,” she adds. “The mules are very experienced. Most of them have been with us for years.”

“Awesome,” K. J. says. “Thanks!” She actually looks excited, which only makes me feel worse. My stomach knots and a wave of nausea rolls over me, but I can’t let her know I’m scared. I’m sure she’ll never let me hear the end of it if I do.

“Just check in at the mule barn by eight,” the woman reminds us as we turn to leave.

“Got it,” K. J. says before looking at me. “Hey, wanna eat here?”

“I guess.” It looks like our only option unless we go back to our own lodge.

A hostess shows us to a small table for two and I spend my time studying the menu so I don’t have to look at K. J. This is bound to be the most awkward breakfast I’ve ever had in my life.

After the waiter takes our orders, I glance around at the other sleepy-eyed guests in the dining area while K. J. pretends the backs of her hands are the most interesting thing in the world. I pull out my phone and start scrolling through a group text between my friends from a few days ago. Lexi’s love of GIFs makes me smile, and for a moment I can forget where I am. Reality snaps back when the waiter sets down my biscuits and gravy with a side of bacon and K. J.’s plate of pancakes. Neither one of us makes eye contact or talks—we just start eating.

We must be an interesting sight, two silent girls who refuse to acknowledge each other. It reminds me of how Mom and Billy were toward the end. They used to make me and Ricky deliver their messages. Things like, “Tell RaeLynn I won’t be home for dinner tonight,” or “Let Billy know he needs to pick you up from practice today.”

“Will you need one ticket or two?” the waiter asks upon returning. Despite my nerves and questionable appetite earlier, I’d managed to scarf my food down in record time. K. J.’s just finishing the last of her pancakes.

“Two,” I tell him.

He brings our tickets, and we each hand over the prepaid debit card that arrived along with our plane tickets. Mr. Sisco said they were to be used for meals and any extra fees not included in the reservations. It’s like Grandpa really did think of everything.

With nothing else to do, K. J. suggests going to the barn early. It’s still cool out, but the rising sun is blinding. I slip on my sunglasses as K. J. and I stand near a wood fence enclosing the mule pen. The wranglers catch the animals and lead them to the barn, one by one.

“They seem really big for donkeys,” I mutter.

“They’re not donkeys. They’re mules.”

“Same difference, right?”

K. J. cracks a smile. “Nope, a mule is a cross between a horse and a donkey. They have sixty-three chromosomes. Donkeys only have sixty-two.”

Whatever. Mule. Donkey. I couldn’t care less about their chromosomes, and I don’t want to ride either one.

“I hope I get that one,” K. J. says, pointing to the white mule being led to the barn. It’s the only one that’s not brown.

I don’t care which one I get as long as it’s gentle. The knot in my stomach coils tighter as I realize I’ll be sitting on one of those mules in less than an hour. I can’t believe this is really happening. What if Grandpa were here, getting ready to go on this ride instead of us? It’s hard to fathom the idea. I can’t remember him going anywhere besides his own property.

One time, probably around ten years ago, the two of us were out walking the trails on his land. I asked what would happen if we went outside the gate and walked down the street. A pained look crossed his face, and he told me he wasn’t sure, but he’d rather not try. I pleaded with him for several minutes, but he wouldn’t budge. I finally gave up. When I told Mom about it