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

for it. End of story.” I turn the radio back on to effectively put an end to the conversation.

It’s evening and the sky is a swirling mixture of pink and orange by the time we pull into the motel parking lot. We get checked in and settled into our room, reverting back to our familiar pattern of silence. K. J. reads and I use the free Wi-Fi to get caught up on Instagram. Mom’s posted a picture of herself and Tim at a fancy restaurant. They’re toasting with glasses of wine. The waiter must have taken the photo. I use my fingers to enlarge the picture. Mom’s wearing her favorite dark red lipstick and a floral sundress I’ve never seen before. She looks so happy—they both do—which for some reason, leaves me feeling empty and sad. I can’t quite pinpoint why, but maybe it’s because Mom has found someone to fill part of the void that losing Ricky left.

I don’t have that, and I’m not sure I ever will.

It’s still dark when we set out the next morning for Long Creek. K. J. insists on driving again, and I have no choice but to let her. We have less than a two-hour drive but need to make sure we get there with plenty of time to get ready for our rafting trip. Mr. Sisco’s itinerary told us we’re supposed to hit the river by nine.

For most of the drive, I stare out the window, watching the sun slowly emerge over the horizon, and sip from my to-go cup of coffee. I have zero energy right now, but I blame that mostly on being tired. I didn’t sleep so great again last night.

By the time it’s fully light, we’re surrounded by fields of white. It’s strange to imagine cotton growing right off a plant, but there it is, like someone’s enormous popcorn bucket has spilled over. Slowly, the farm fields give way to suburbs again and exhaustion finally claims me. I don’t wake until the car comes to an abrupt stop.

“Yay! We’re here,” K. J. announces.

I’m not sure if she’s being sarcastic or if she’s genuinely excited but I yawn and get out of the car.

A large, log-cabin-style building with the name Wildwater Chattooga Adventure Center sits before us. I follow K. J. inside, where we check in at the front desk and fill out some forms. Then, along with a group of about twenty-five other adventure-seekers, we’re given a safety briefing and outfitted with life vests and helmets. A white bus with blue rafts tied to the top waits outside to shuttle us to the launching location.

My head is still fuzzy with sleep and maybe other things, too, but everyone else is raring to go. Much to my annoyance, people sing and carry on loudly as we bounce along the gravel road. Fifteen minutes later, we file off the bus and find our guide for today’s trip—Barry, a middle-aged, half-balding guy with a friendly smile. He’s no Johan, but I guess he’ll do.

K. J. and I have been grouped with a family of four—youngish-looking parents and their two kids, a boy and girl who appear to be twins around thirteen. They both have that “I’d rather be anywhere but here” expression on their faces.

I can relate.

“Now for our five-mile hike,” Barry says as we start along a well-worn trail through the woods. He turns to survey our surprised faces. “What, they forgot to tell you about that back at the center?” His expression is so serious that neither K. J. nor I get that he’s joking until he gives a loud chuckle. “Oh boy, you two are gonna be fun, I can already tell.”

“Hey,” K. J. says, looking offended. “I’m loads of fun.” She inclines her head toward me. “Can’t speak for her, though.”

I narrow my eyes but say nothing. I couldn’t care less what Barry thinks of me. I’m just ready to get this over with.

The hike is mostly downhill, and it’s not long until we hear the soft whooshing of the Chattooga River. The gray-green water comes into view, not nearly as menacing as I expected. Though, to be fair, I’m sure they wouldn’t have us start out at the roughest part either. Something George from Georgia said back at the Grand Canyon comes to mind: he’d called me a daredevil for planning to run the Bull Sluice, which must mean that things are only going to get worse. I’d been dreading the drive with K. J. so much, I forgot to be nervous about the rafting trip, but now that I’m here the remnants of my early morning coffee and half-eaten pastry are starting to gurgle inside my stomach.

There’s more excited chatter and shouting as everyone loads into their rafts. Barry holds ours steady while the family climbs in, followed by K. J. and me. It wobbles dangerously for a few seconds as he jumps into the back, but then the raft settles onto the smooth surface of the water as the river slowly pulls us out to its center.

“Paddles ready?” Barry asks.

We all hold them out in response.

“Let’s do this, crew!”

I have to give him an A for enthusiasm, at least. We begin paddling the way they showed us back at the center and, thankfully, it gives me something to do besides worry about what’s coming next. For a long while, the river is unexpectedly serene, with huge trees hugging in at both sides. The other groups have spread out by now, some rafts way ahead of us, while others trail far behind. The family in our raft talks among themselves. The parents are trying—and apparently failing—to get their kids excited about our adventure.

“Bet we’ll hit the rapids soon!” the dad says. He has light brown eyes that twinkle when he smiles. He’s probably a good dad—not the kind that would cheat with his wife’s sister.

“Oh, look,” the mom says. “Did you see that fish?” She points to the water, but her kids don’t even bother