Will's Story by Jaye Robin Brown Page B

Amber-o-zia.
    Devon ignores my look. “We are going to make the most of this bonfire night with the through-hikers, a final salute to the bad girl that lurks inside of you. Or maybe, might you find . . .” He mock gasps. “Love?”
    A part of me bristles as he says it. I mean, yes, he’s right. I guess on some level love is what I’m looking for. Not necessarily the love of someone , but of something . The something that will help me rise above, make me special, make me feel like somebody. Like singing at a music festival or auditioning for one of those television music shows. What would it be like to go somewhere, to do something big? Hell, just to have the guts to sing in front of people besides Devon, my family, and my church. But I can’t tell him. He’d tease the hell out of me.
    Devon hits a chord and starts singing, “You’re beautiful. . . .”
    I roll my eyes and turn as he serenades me. We’re walking in the middle of an overgrown logging road back behind Pastor Early’s farm. The road takes us to the Appalachian Trail and then to the hiker barn. Our destination. The place where I’ve entertained myself all summer long with interesting boys who don’t know my family’s reputation.
    I’ve met hikers from as far away as Europe and as close as Johnson City, Tennessee. I’m marking the towns on the map in my bedroom. I know on a certain level that meeting all these people doesn’t really count as having been to the places they come from, but it’s the closest I’ve ever gotten. I heard about a jazz festival in New Orleans. Abluegrass festival in Telluride. I even heard from a Tennessee boy about a big festival outside of Wilkesboro where you can camp and play music all weekend long.
    This summer has been different that way. The magic of the hiker barn lets me fly as far as I want in my imagination.
    Whitney is the one who showed the barn to me first.
    She’d taken me there the spring of her junior year, my last year of middle school, before she started dating Sammy. I’d noticed the carvings right away. On every board were names and dates and places. They said things like “Wooly Bear, passing through, June 2002” and “Mark and Joni, honeymoon hikers, Boston to Maine to Georgia, 1997.” I’d pored over those carvings, imagining what it would be like to be the kind of person who could pick up and walk away from home like that.
    â€œThrough-hikers, from all over the place,” Whitney had said. At the question on my face, she’d explained, “The Appalachian Trail is just up that path. There’s a sign pointing the hikers to this barn. The property owners let them use this place as an overnight shelter.”
    I remember thinking my sister was wiser than Jesus. Like she’d opened my eyes and the door to the rest of the world was right here, practically in my own backyard.

CHAPTER TWO
    I hold up my hand. Devon stops behind me.
    We creep up the spur trail. The big barn is just around the bend.
    I can already hear the murmur of voices and bursts of laughter. The smell of camp smoke swirls on the breeze.
    We sneak closer and I see sleeping bags hanging out on lines. A hose has been rigged from the creek to wash the hikers’ stuff and the tail end of a bright August sun is drying earth-colored clothing.
    I feel Devon at my right shoulder. “Are you ready?” he asks.
    I see a group of dreadlocked hikers, two guys, one girl.
    Another guy, a little older.
    There are more bags on the line. That means more hikers. Either in the barn or down at the creek.
    â€œReady,” I say. “The dread guys are kind of cute.” It’s still hard to believe how easy this has been. Sliding in by the campfire, talking, singing. The first time we showed up I was nervous, but each visit since has been easier. Especially since they’ve all been so nice, and so eager to hang out with anyone new