Chapter 121 Trip, freaking trip.
Rowan’s ⍴᥆᥎
Saturday morning dawns cold and bright, a day in autumn that looks like it might turn out to be fine if you can overlook the feeling of doom hanging heavy in the air. I’m already in the parking lot by seven-thirty, coffee in hand, camera bag over my shoulder. Students come in ones and twos—eager, half awake, and all wearing the single backpack Professor Helthkins required.
No extra baggage. Just water, snacks and weather-appropriate clothes.
Two charter buses sit in the garage, their exhaust forming little clouds in the cool morning air. They’re the good kind—air-conditioning, cushy seats, tinted windows. The school went all out on this trip.
Three guards stand near the buses, checking clipboards and whispering. Campus security making the trip. That’s either reassuring or worrisome—I can’t tell which.
Students are beginning to gather in groups, social dynamics are here as they are on the rest of campus. The popular kids together. The outcasts separate. Everyone has found someone to call their own before being packed into a van for three hours.
I see Malia before she sees me.
She’s crossing the parking lot with July, their arms linked. July is animatedly talking about something, waving a free arm, obviously trying to help lighten Malia’s mood.
And for the first time in ages Malia looks—not great, but better. Her hair is let down, cascading in soft waves around her face. She’s got jeans that fit instead of hanging loose, a deep green sweater that makes the gold flecks in her brown eyes stand out, her favorite boots. A backpack slung over one shoulder.
She looks as if she slept. Like she ate breakfast. Like she might actually get through this day.
It’s such a stark departure from the sunken-eyed specter she’s been that I can’t help but stare.
Beautiful. She looks beautiful today.
Not the glamorous kind that Lydia works at by way of perfect makeup and designer clothes. But the natural, effortless that has always been just Malia. That sort of beauty that comes when a person finally catches a breather after endless misery.
I catch myself smiling before I can stop it.
Then I see who’s watching her as well.
Aiden stands by the first bus with Lydia at his side saying something to which he’s obviously not paying attention. His shoulders are rigid, his jaw clenched, his whole body has frozen—his hands buried deep in his pockets as if trying to hold himself back physically.
He’s staring at Malia.
Not with anger. Not with disgust, with something more complex. Something that looks almost like—
Longing. Regret. Pain.
For a moment his carefully constructed mask slips and I see my brother beneath. The one who loved her. The one who has been in pain just as long as she has, albeit he's been channelling it into cruelty rather than collapse.
Malia dirty looks at him. Keeps her eyes on the road, arm linked with July's, face blank.
Good. That's good. No eye contact, no confrontation. I move toward them, intercepting them before they reach the buses.
"Morning," I greet, my tone light. Easy.
Malia looks up, and when she sees me, her face does something that makes my chest tighten—she smiles. Small. Genuine.
"Hey," she says. "You're documenting today, right? Professor Helthkins said—"
"Yep. Official photographer." I nod toward my camera bag. "So that means I'll be taking ridiculously flattering photos of everyone looking sweaty, tired, and really nice after hiking."
July laughs. "My favorite aesthetic."
"Very authentic." I fall in behind them as we head toward the buses. "Are you ready for this?"
"As ready as I'll ever be." Malia's smile flickers, imperceptibly. "Three hours on a bus. It should be—interesting."
"You're sitting with me," July says. "It’s non-negotiable. I called dibs on the best seats."
"Which bus?"
"Second one. Less crowded." July's voice is nonchalant but I catch the tactic—create distance between Malia and Lydia’s crew, who are already moving aboard the first bus.
Smart. Freddy pops out of nowhere, his backpack bouncing and looking way too chipper for this god- awful morning. “Road trip! It’s going to be either so incredible or so awful. No middle ground.”
“Going for amazing,” July says. “Manifesting positive vibes.”
“I'll take surviving,” Malia mutters, but there’s a little humor in it.
Progress.
We stack into a line to stack our bags in the undercarriage of the bus. Students round on us, chatting and laughing; the buzz of excitement now that they’re about to leave.
I spot Jessica the shy girl who waved at me the other day lingering close by. When she meets my gaze, she smiles shyly.
"Rowan! Are you on the second bus before the stage?" he asks.
"That's the plan."
"Great! Do you want to sit together? I have snacks to share.”
Before I can answer diplomatically, Malia speaks up. "He's with me."
The words come out flat. Definitive. Brooking no argument.
Jessica’s smile falters a bit. “Oh. Okay. Maybe later then—”
“Maybe,” I say, handing her a forgiving smile.
She goes back to her group, but not before giving one more disappointed look behind her.
Malia doesn’t seem to notice. Or care. She just keeps going. Putting her bag in the luggage compartment with brisk steps.
Interesting. Was that jealousy? Possessiveness? Or just—I don’t have time to analyze because July is hauling Malia up the bus steps and plunking down—securing seats in the middle row, not too close to the front so as not to invite excessive teacher scrutiny, not too close to the rear to avoid the odoriferous students who inevitably huddle there.
I follow, sliding into the seat right behind them.
Close enough to watch. To intervene if necessary.
Freddy takes the seat across the aisle, and is already pulling out his phone to queue up music.
More students board. The pace quickens with chatter, laughter, the rustling of bags, the opening of water bottles and the turning of pages.
Professor Helthkins, with clipboard in hand, is standing at the front conducting the roll in alphabetical order. Her voice is a calm, authoritative sound cutting through the noise.
She gets to Malia's name, and heads turn. A few curious. Some hostile. Some just—whatever.
Malia raises her hand slightly. "Here."
No drama. No whispers. People lose interest and turn back to their conversations.
Small victories. The roll call continues. I hear when Helthkins calls Aiden’s name—he’s on the first bus, not this one. Good. Separation on the physical plane will do us good.
Though I saw the way he looked at Malia. That longing. He's just not as over her as he is pretending to be.
The thought rests uncomfortably. Because part of me wants them to find their way back to each other. Wants to fix the bond. I need my brother to stop making awful decisions fueled by wounded pride.
But another part--the part that's been watching Malia suffer, the part that's been witnessing her fight for her life while he lives in the lap of luxury with Lydia--the part thinks maybe he doesn't deserve another chance.
Not yet, anyway. Roll call finishes. The security guards board—one on each bus, one in a following vehicle.
Professor Helthkins provides final instructions to keep up with the group, to adhere to safety protocols, and to honor the sacredness of the preserve.
Then the bus engines rumble to life.
We're moving.
Beyond the campus. Far from the omnipresent watching eyes, the whispered critiques. Away from the pressure cooker that’s been slowly grinding all of us down.
At least we get a break for three hours.
I monitor Malia in the seat in front. She's turned toward the window, as if watching the campus recede behind us. There’s something in her face—relief maybe. Or hope. Or maybe just tiredness finally loosening its hold.
July leans over, says some quiet words I can’t hear. For Malia smiles in response. Actually smiles.
Freddy hurls a crumpled napkin at July. She shrieks, laughing, throwing it back. Before long there’s a full-on paper war across the aisle, with Malia in the crossfire but laughing—actually laughing—as she tries to dodge.
The sound is fantastic. Real The first real laughter I’ve heard from her in weeks.
We are surrounded as other students make themselves comfortable in their own entertainment. Some pop in earbuds. Some pull out a book. Or some just talk, voices melting in to the white noise.
The bus turns onto the highway. Trees flash past the windows. The city gives way to rural land.
Three hours to the Silverwood Preserve. Three hours where absolutely nothing could happen except talking and boredom and the rolling of the bus.
I should relax. Enjoy this temporary break, stop waiting for the end of the world but I can’t get this feeling out of my stomach.
That worry that’s been sitting there since Wednesday, pressing down more and more each day.
Something's coming. Not on the bus. Not while driving.
But once we get there. Once we're in the woods. Once we have supervision decrease and territory turns our instincts on we usually keep them under control.
Something's going to happen. I just hope we're ready for it.
I grab my camera, and take a few snaps through the window. Documenting the journey. Making the before invisible.
Because I have this awful feeling we’re going to need it when we get to the after. The bus rolls on.
Students laugh and talk and anticipate.
And I settle into my seat, watching as Malia at last looks peaceful, and I pray I’m wrong about everything.
That this is just a field trip. Nothing more, nothing less. But the feeling in my gut tells me otherwise, it always does.