Free Wildlife by Fiona Wood

supposed to have broken in the hiking boots by the time we got here. It was on our “Two Months Out” preparation and activity sheet. Looks like Lou has. Holly hasn’t. Who had time to clump around in these great heavy things during the holidays? It was bad enough dragging them on once or twice. Our little bits of lambswool from the supplies cupboard are supposed to provide a lanolin-soft buffer for any potential blistery spots. We’ll see.
    It is amazing how quickly the whole campus has adopted hike-speak. You’ll get to the Bluff in four hours. Avoid the Sawtooth Spur if the wind is southerly. Don’t forget your shit shovel. Yuck.
    The packs weigh a ton—tents, sleeping bags, sleeping mats, food, water, utensils. It’s like walking with an eight-year-old kid on your back. Roll on, first meal stop, so we can eat some of the weight. The rain starts pretty much as soon as we leave the school’s boundary. Despite waterproof everything, a steady trickle of rain tickles down my neck and blends with the sweat on my back. My feet hurt, and the pack straps are already digging in.
    “When should we stop and rest?” Holly asks.
    Lou turns and looks at her with derision.
    “We probably need to try for the foot of Mount Paradiso,” I say.
    Holly groans. “This is boring as shit, and it hurts.”
    “Bitching about it should make it better,” says Lou.
    “And why all the happy names—Paradiso, Fairweather, Merrivale?”
    “Maybe they were being ironic. Or optimistic,” I say.
    “Or just unimaginative,” says Lou.
    Holly stomps on ahead in silence.
    We clomp on. It becomes hypnotic. The rain, the pain, the one heavy foot after the other, the shoulder straps, the rain, the pain… A bird calls out with a sound that whips around on itself. A bellbird? How do birds stay dry in the rain with no lids on their nests? Are they waterproof? The sky is massive, even cloud-filled as it is—so vast without buildings eating up all the edges. I feel much smaller here than I do in the city.
    After possibly the two most uncomfortable hours of my life, we stop for a breather, water, and a map check, and agree that we seem to be on course. I eat a handful of trail mix, and dig out an apple.
    Holly looks at me, snorting with a suppressed laugh.
    “What’s funny?” I ask.
    “You. I was just thinking about the billboard.”
    “What about it?” Surely we have exhausted this topic a thousand times over.
    “How you’re so photogenic.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Yeah—because it actually doesn’t look like you at all. I mean, look at you now. You’ve got the whole beetroot face happening.”
    “Prize-winning backhand compliment,” says Lou.
    “No one asked you,” says Holly.
    I’m not offended. “She’s right. No one would recognize me.”
    “I did,” says Lou.
    “Well, you’re a suck-up,” says Holly. “It looks nothing like her. Why don’t you want to do some more? Like, get an agent and everything?”
    “I just don’t,” I say, embarrassed.
    “You’re tall enough. But you’d need to lose some weight—make the move from thin to skinny.”
    “That’s stupid,” says Lou.
    “Not if she wants to model.”
    “Which I don’t!”
    “Never say never. Hey, did you hear Falkner House is doing bulimia for fun?” says Holly.
    “No.” I haven’t heard it, and I can’t believe it.
    “I know. But they think it’s the only way they can survive a term of Elevensies. It’s just a dare,” says Holly.
    “They can’t hike and run if they’re not eating properly,” says Lou.
    “They’re doing coffee shots to keep the energy levels up,” says Holly. “They’re going for ten pounds in five weeks.”
    “Idiots,” says Lou.
    “I don’t think you know them well enough to judge,” says Holly.
    “They’re treating a condition that makes people
die
as some sort of
Biggest Loser
joke. So, I know enough,” says Lou. “We need to pick up the pace a bit.”
    Is she touchy because
she
is bulimic? Wouldn’t I know,