Not Our Summer by Casie Bazay (best ebook reader for ubuntu .TXT) 📕

“Why?” I’d wondered aloud.

She frowned and shook her head. “Your grandpa isn’t like everyone else. There are things in the outside world that scare him.”

“Like what?” I’d asked.

“All sorts of things, but mostly being in cars and going where there are lots of other people.”

“But there’re people everywhere. The world is full of them.”

“Yes, it is,” Mom said. “So Grandpa prefers to stay home.”

That’s when I first began to understand the condition that had firmly held my grandpa in its grip for so many years. After that day, I never asked him to leave the property again.

By the time we’re sitting on our mules at the trailhead, I feel as if I might have a panic attack myself. I’ve never been a fan of heights, but the Grand Canyon is a sight unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The chasm is both stunningly beautiful and utterly terrifying at the same time. I’ve honestly never seen anything so enormous and I can’t help but think about the fact that I could actually die today. If Mom were here, I’m not sure she’d be okay with this. She already lost her son, after all. When I risk a glance at K. J., I find she’s peering toward the canyon’s edge with more of a look of anticipation.

I’m a freakin’ midfielder, I remind myself. The best on my team. I’ve had girls twice my size coming at me on the field. I can do this.

My pep talk is only a temporary fix, though. When the leader of our ride, a thirty-something cowboy named Dusty, shouts for everyone to follow him, I’m right back where I was. My heart hammers as the mules fall in line, their hooves clip-clopping on the rocky ground. We begin our perilous descent, and my hand clutches the horn on my saddle like my life depends on it. It very well could, actually. Though the great void to my right is impossible to ignore, I force myself to stay focused on the space between Geronimo’s floppy ears. If he has any idea that our lives are in mortal danger, he shows no sign of it.

A ways ahead of me, K. J. yells, “Yeehaw!” as she rounds the first bend in the switchback trail. I can’t even dwell on her dorkiness because soon enough I’m at the same turn. I suck in a sharp breath as Geronimo’s head hangs over open space for a gut-wrenching moment, but he makes the turn easily enough and lumbers on.

Just breathe, I tell myself, and that’s all I can really do. Not that I’d been looking forward to this trip at all, but it’s worse than I’d feared. Why anyone would actually choose to do this is beyond me, and with each step Geronimo takes down the trail, my stomach clenches tighter. I keep hoping things will get easier or I’ll get used to the scenery, but after a half hour or so, it becomes clear that isn’t going to happen. By now, my whole body is betraying me. My back feels like it could give out at any second, and the muscles in my right hand ache from gripping the saddle horn so tightly. Honestly, I think my hand might be permanently molded into that shape by the time we make it to the bottom. This is the absolute worst thing ever.

Every time K. J. rounds another bend in the zigzagging trail and passes back by me, she’s beaming, which sends a jolt of anger spiraling through my system. How is she enjoying this? I don’t get it at all. Occasionally, she glances up at me, but I force my eyes elsewhere. Then, an idea pops into my head. When she comes into view again, I try to smile and wave like I’m having the time of my life. Only my body refuses to cooperate and a little squeal escapes my mouth as I attempt to pry my fingers from the saddle horn. By the time I regain my composure, she’s already moved on, probably having a good laugh at my expense.

I just want this stupid ride to be over with. What on earth was Grandpa thinking, sending us here? There’s no possible way he’d ever have done this himself. This is right up there with skydiving as far as I’m concerned.

The sun is high between the two canyon walls when we make it to our first rest stop at Indian Garden. I’m tired and hot and more uncomfortable than I’ve ever been in my life, not to mention, my bladder is about to burst, but I’ve never been so happy to see some semblance of flat land again.

“Lunchtime,” Dusty calls.

My legs quiver as I climb down from the saddle, and I grimace at the ache stretching down the insides of my thighs. Riding a mule must require a whole different set of muscles than playing soccer because it’s like I’ve just had the toughest workout of my life.

I overhear Dusty saying to another guest that we’re about halfway to Phantom Ranch, and my stomach lurches. I thought for sure we were closer than that. The wranglers come around, taking our mules and tying them to the hitching posts nearby. After shedding my sweatshirt, I twist my back to the right and left and do a few quad stretches to loosen up my legs. I still feel strangely bow-legged as I set off toward the restrooms.

K. J.’s already in line, and when she turns to look at me, I pretend to be interested in the surrounding landscape. She lifts the floppy rim of her hat, rubbing at her forehead, and then eyes me with a smirk.

“Having fun?”

“Sure,” I reply drily.

“I really wasn’t sure what to expect, but I’m having a blast.”

I have little doubt that she is. I raise my eyebrow in mock surprise but don’t respond. I’m not a good enough liar to pretend I’m having a good time, too. The