Free The Way Back to You by Michelle Andreani Page B

slushy sidewalk with food and coffees.
    Beside me, Cloudy groans. “Don’t you hate that bullshit slogan?”
    I assume she’s talking about something for WinterFest. It’s everywhere right now. With the onslaught of posters and flyers and cashiers all over town trying to sell discounted admission buttons, the reminders about Bend’s winter festivalextravaganza next weekend are inescapable. I’m surprised Cloudy would want to chat about it with me, but maybe this is a good thing. Maybe we can have a casual WinterFest conversation and the whole mess that happened there last year will officially be behind us.
    I scan the huge banner flapping overhead. “There’s a slogan?”
    “Not up there. In front of us.”
    This time, I follow her glare to a sticker on the back window of a parked sedan: “My Life Is Better than Your Vacation ~Bend, Oregon.”
    Now I sigh, too. Partly because I’d braced myself for nothing, but mostly because the sticker is bullshit.
    I mean, I get the meaning behind it. Central Oregon is a vacation area for people from all over the state and beyond. The ski season here lasts six months a year, and it’s sunny most of the time (even on cold days). In warmer weather, there are tons of spots for hiking, biking, kayaking, fishing, golfing, rock climbing, caving, and just about every other outdoor activity imaginable. Being surrounded by mountains, rivers, lakes, and waterfalls in our regular lives and not only while on vacation is cool, but I don’t get why some of the residents are so smug about it.
    “Sedona is a tourist town, too. Probably more than here,” I say to Cloudy. “But the vibe in Arizona is like, ‘Please visit, enjoy yourself, spend lots of money, and come back again.’ In Bend it’s more like, ‘This is rad, and if you don’t live here, then get the hell out.’”
    “Because freezing our asses off for the majority of the year is so brag-worthy. For the record, I am determined to always have a better vacation than that person’s life.”
    I chuckle. “Exotic Sacramento, here we come.”
    “Yes!” She touches her cup to mine and the gentle collision of our lids makes a clunk sound.
    As we approach my vehicle, “I Touch Myself,” starts up on my phone. I stop to read Matty’s text: Hey, maybe this would be a good thing to check out? FindYourTruth.com
    I click the link and a site appears offering “powerful seminars to help you FIND YOUR TRUTH.” The words depression and grief pop out at me. I close the browser and tuck my phone away in a hurry.
    Cloudy recognized the ringtone; Matty’s mission in life is to download that song onto the phone of every Earth inhabitant, so it might be on hers, too. She’s watching me, maybe expecting that I’m about to tell her what he wanted. Instead, I peek in at Arm, still asleep on her Pillow Pet. “You think she’s going to be okay back here all day?”
    Before Cloudy can answer, a loud voice interrupts with: “Well, if it isn’t Miss Teen Royal Galaxy Cheerleader herself! We meet again.”
    We both turn as Jacob Tamsin slams the door of his red Chevy truck—the same red truck I was parked behind while Cloudy left the basket with Jacob’s sister, Lita.
    Dressed for snowboarding, Jacob strolls over in the slouching, cocky way he has. Unsurprisingly, he keeps his eyes on Cloudy and ignores me. By Jacob’s perspective, he “had” to play second base last season because I “stole” the shortstop positionfrom him. By my perspective, he’s a dick. Acknowledging each other is something we avoid equally.
    “‘Miss Teen Royal Galaxy Cheerleader’?” Cloudy scrunches her nose. “That’s so . . . snooty-sounding.”
    “Because you are. You’re Bend High’s most princessy princess.”
    “That means so much to me coming from our douchiest douche.”
    Jacob smirks. It’s the only version of a smile that halfway works on him. As Ashlyn pointed out, Jacob’s yearbook picture last year was disturbing: it was as if he was