Dead River - By Cyn Balog Page 0,16

went to see the sunrise. “But it’s raining.”

“Just started. It was dark an hour ago,” he answers. “When they left. To see the sun come up, it helps to leave before it actually comes up.”

What a snot. I guess there are some things a good night’s sleep will never remedy.

“But …” I stand there, trying to think of something to say about the two of them running off together on a rainy day to see the sunrise that won’t make me look like a jealous girlfriend, but everything seems wrong. Really, I’m not worried. It isn’t possible for him to do anything underhanded. Even thinking about it would give him hives. And Angela—not only is she my cousin, she’s like Mother Teresa. They’re so … alike.

Hugo picks up his camera and grins. “I got some good pictures. You know you were drooling?”

My mouth drops open, and all of a sudden I can feel a spot of drool hanging over my bottom lip. I swipe at it. “If I find out you took pictures of me while I was sleeping, that thing is going to be in the river faster than you can—”

“Hey, hey, hey. Chill,” he says, as if he wasn’t the one who started it. “I only photograph subjects that interest me.”

I glare at him. That’s it. Angela is no longer my cousin. It’s bad enough I have to deal with his attitude every day after school in the yearbook office, but this is torture. There are still a few weeks left before yearbooks get printed. I’ve been toying with the idea all year long since I was appointed editor of the seniors section, but now I’ve pretty much decided that the entry under his graduation picture is going to have an unfortunate typo: “Huge A. Holbrook.” A smile comes to my lips as I imagine it. “When do we have to leave?”

“Right about now,” Justin’s voice echoes somewhere in the woods. A second later, he’s climbing down the rocky slope toward us, wearing a yellow hooded rain jacket, hiking boots, and shorts despite the frigid weather.

Angela follows behind him, hands in her pockets. “Well, that was a big bust.” She sighs, annoyed. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Come on. We’ve got to be there by eight.” Justin starts stuffing his backpack with supplies. Suddenly he looks at me and leans forward, kissing my forehead. “Morning. Sleep well?”

“Yep. Great,” I say.

“You ready to do some rafting?” I’m about to nod and say “Ready as I’ll ever be” when he narrows his eyes at me. “Going for the tribal warrior look?”

“Why?” I begin, and then I realize he’s staring at my cheeks. Out of the corner of my vision, I can see something black on my nose. Dirt. I start to swipe at it with my hand and Justin takes his sleeve and wipes it, too. Feeling stupid, I ask, “Better?”

He nods. “I kind of liked it the other way, though. Made you look tough.”

He would. That’s Justin for you. He’d much rather a girl sport war paint than lip gloss.

Northeast Outfitters is right across Route 201, so once we pack up all our stuff, we head across the road and into a log cabin. There are already groups of people hanging around outside on the deck, wearing wet suits and slurping down coffees in Styrofoam cups. Most of them are older people, in their thirties and forties, maybe. They look really adventurous. Well, more adventurous than I do, I’m sure. Hell, I’m nervous about how stupid I’m going to look in my rented wet suit.

Here we’re close enough to the river that I can look across to the other bank. Scattered among the black pines are bits of gray stone and concrete, what looks like the broken remains of some old building. For a moment I think I see someone moving there, but when I focus I realize it must only be the pine trees sweeping back and forth in the wind. At least, I hope.

When we go inside, Justin saunters up to the desk, self-assured. “Hey, Spiffy!” he calls, and I know he’s talking to Pat Skiffington, one of the guys who work here and one of Justin’s oldest friends. Justin’s family has been coming to the Outfitters for so long that the two families exchange Christmas cards—the last one I saw from the Skiffingtons had Frosty careening down a river in a yellow raft. Even when planning for this trip was in the earliest stages, it was always “Spiffy will hook