Page 43 of Never Thought I'd End Up Here
I snort as if he’s just told a horrible joke—and it might just be that, but sometimes I find it hard to tell with Oliver. Is he flirting out of habit or boredom, or is there a chance he actually likes me? “Are you sure you’re talking to the right person?”
“Certain. As certain as I am that we’d be great together. I mean, I’m hot, you’re hot. Can you think of a single reason why we shouldn’t—” He cuts himself off, his eyes widening at something behind me. I whirl around, but all I see is Cyrus, whose expression is perfectly neutral. “Just kidding,” Oliver says in a rush, backing up so fast he almost crashes into one of the bamboos. “That was a really stupid thing to say. I’m, uh, going to continue taking pictures of my face now. See you two around.”
“What was that?” I mutter to Cyrus, watching in bemusement as Oliver runs off to the other side of the clearing like he’s being chased by a wolf.
“A rare moment of self-awareness, perhaps,” Cyrus says with a shrug.
“Maybe,” I say, raising the camera higher and squinting into the viewfinder. My experience with photography has always been limited to other people taking photos of me, telling me where to go, how to stand, how to be prettier, suck in, breathe out, stare to the side, laugh without laughing too hard, stop holding back your laughter, stop, stay still. It’s a strange relief, in a way, to be totally in control for once, to see the world inside the lens without worrying how the world might see me. I snap a photo of the bamboos kissing the lake’s glowing aquamarine edge, the lone pavilion waiting across the waters, a sparrow soaring through the brilliant blue of the sky at the perfect time, and slide the developed film into my pocket.
Then, as I’m adjusting the composition of my next shot, Cyrus moves into the frame.
He’s straightening the collar of his jacket, even though his outfit is already perfect, not a single wrinkle to be found, and he’s focused on something in the trees. His eyes are luminous under the long silk strands of his hair, so bright they could make the stars feel insecure, his mouth soft and sullen, the sharp angles of his profile stark against the deep, perennial greens of the forest. Another kind of beautiful that sneaks up on you.
I don’t mean to take the photo. Or maybe I do. Maybe I want to collect this moment the way I’ve been collecting words throughout the trip, in case I might need it again.
I make sure to walk out of his line of sight, the photo pressed warm between my palm and my shirt like a secret, my heart beating unsteadily, before I let myself study it. The hazy, vintage quality of the instant film makes him look even more dreamlike, his hair even darker, his skin even softer and impossibly flawless. And while I doubt Oliver’s selfies could ever pass forart, it doesn’t seem so ridiculous at all to call the photo of Cyrus exactly that.
Art.
You’re meant to be taking photos of nature, I remind myself, tucking the photo deep into my other pocket, knowing I’ll never show it to anyone else.Focus on the contest. If you lose this one too, you’re never going to be able to fully prove to your aunt how much you’ve changed.
But as I scan my surroundings, I quickly realize that everyone’s photos are going to turn out very similar. They’re meandering around the same few trees, their cameras pointed toward the bamboo leaves or the wildflowers growing on the banks of the lake. If I want my photos to stand out, I need to get a little more creative than that. I need to go somewhere higher, with a clearer view of the forest.
So I follow the stone steps leading up the mountain, taking two at a time. It’s not long before I lose sight of the group amid the dense greenery, but I can still hear their footsteps and voices somewhere down below. They probably won’t even notice I’ve wandered off. I keep walking, my camera out and ready, stopping every few feet or so to take a photo. The more I climb, the rougher the path becomes, twisting up and down, the blocks of stone fading into the dirt or strewn sporadically along a slope, like the people in charge of construction ran out of materials halfway through the process. In some places, the steps come to an abrupt stop, leaving me to pick my way alone through the grass, my muscles burning, sweat prickling my hairline. I have to focus most of my energy simply on not slipping.
And then I notice the silence.
I freeze, straining my ears for the sound of Oliver’s loud, obnoxious laughter or Wang Laoshi scolding someone in the group for bringing too many snacks. Yet the only thing I can hear now is my own heartbeat, thudding faster and faster in my eardrums.
“It’s okay,” I tell myself out loud. I’d thought my voice would help steady me, clear away any fear, but it comes out small and hollow and uncertain, lost to the cool mountain air.I couldn’t have gone that far, I finish inside my head.
But when I try to retrace my steps down the mountain, my feet falter. I don’t remember the paths branching out on the climb up. There aren’t any signs to help me determine where I should go, which path will take me back and which one will only take me farther away from the group.
Suddenly, the forest feels too vast, too deep. All the bamboos look identical, and there are thousands and thousands of them, towering over my head and expanding endlessly in every direction.
The beginnings of panic buzz along my scalp with the high frequency of a fire alarm.
It’s like taking a multiple-choice test, and I’ve never been good at those. I would always choose one of the answers at random, then doubt myself and change it, then wait ten minutes and come back to it, and change it to my original answer again.Make an educated guess if you’re stuck, the teachers would say, but that was on the bold assumption I was educated enough to make one. Compared to algebra, I’m even less educated on the subject of navigating one’s way around a forest alone.
After hesitating for a solid minute, I choose the path farthest on the left, a vaguely remembered poem about roads in a yellow wood playing over and over in my head. It’s the sort of thing I’m sure Cyrus has memorized.
And at first, I’m hopeful that I’ve made the right choice—the path winds slowly down, and the bamboos appear to thin, offering glimpses of blue that could be the sky or the lake. But the path makes a sharp twist up again, then disappears entirely, and my stomach plummets as I find myself trapped in a labyrinth of trees. Shadows stretch out from all around me, darkening and sharpening their claws as the sun sinks behind the mountain.
I swivel my head to the left and right in desperation, but I can’t even see where the steps are anymore. This part of the forest has been left to sprawl into complete wilderness.
Panic scrabbles deeper in my gut until it unearths raw, teeth-chattering fear.
Don’t panic, think, I advise myself.You still have your phone on you, right?If I can’t reach the group, then maybe they can reach me. Yes, it would mean confessing that I made the incredibly stupid mistake of wandering off by myself without telling anyone, and that I made the even more stupid mistake of walking in the wrong direction. Yes, I might disintegrate from embarrassment and never show my face to anyone in the group again. But I suppose it’s better than dying by starving or freezing in a forest. The air is already noticeably colder, the day’s warmth leaking out through the leaves.
I yank my sleeves farther down my wrists and pull out my phone, squinting at the dim screen. There’s only one pathetic bar of signal, and it keeps appearing and disappearing like it’s planning to abandon me at any moment.
Then I notice the missed calls. Seventeen of them, all from Cyrus. I don’t even have time to think. I call him back at once—or try to. The reception is so flimsy that it takes three tries before the line actually connects. My fingers tremble as I press the phone to my ear.
“Leah? Where—are you?”
At the sound of his voice—so familiar, despite the static cutting into the line—an unexpected rush of emotion fills my throat. I clear it before speaking. “I think I’m lost,” I tell him.
I wait for him to scoff or laugh at me or question my common sense.
