She grasps my arm to peer at my watch and winces at the time. “Crap. I need to get the room ready for my first appointment.”

Good, because I really want to get out there alone before Joy decides to walk me outside and greet Reagan. Like my father, she’s still under the illusion that this is a girls-only trip, and I’d like to keep it that way.

“I changed my mind. Don’t go.” She hugs me extra hard and then clings dramatically.

“Mom,” I say, laughing. “You’re unbalancing my life force.”

“Have I told you how much I love you?”

“Not today. But you did buy me turkey jerky, and if that’s not a token of affection, I don’t know what is.”

“I love you, sweet thing.”

“Love you back,” I tell her.

When she finally lets me go, I lift my heavy backpack onto one arm and salute her goodbye.

“Don’t forget to feed Andromeda at dinner,” I remind her. That’s usually my job; Mom feeds her in the morning.

“I won’t,” she assures me as I’m opening the door. “You don’t pee on your shoes and try not to provoke any bears.”

“If I see a bear, I’ll pass out from fear, so he’ll just think I’m dead.”

“That seems reasonable. And, Zorie?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t be cautious, be careful. Have a good time, okay?”

I give her a confident nod and head outside.

It’s a perfect summer day. Not too hot, not too cool. Pretty blue sky. I’m feeling a weird mix of anxiety and anticipation as I lug my backpack toward a striped no-parking space in front of the curb.

No sign of Reagan yet, so I decide to do one last practice run on my backpack. I tried it on when it was empty, but now that it’s full, I’m forced to squat in order to lift it and am struggling to get it on both shoulders. When I finally manage it, I wobble clumsily and nearly topple over backward. How am I supposed to hike a dirt trail with this thing? Feels like an overweight sloth is clinging to my neck. Maybe if I secure the strap that buckles around my waist . . .

“You’ve got it packed wrong,” someone calls out.

I turn around slowly, in case I actually do fall over—which is a real possibility, not kidding—and it takes me exactly one second to spot the voice’s owner: black Converse high-tops, black jeans with artfully ripped holes in both knees, and a T-shirt with a heart inside an X-ray skeletal chest.

Lennon is sitting on the hood of his hearse, which is parked a few yards away in one of the public spaces in the middle of our cul-de-sac. “You’re supposed to pack the heavy stuff in the center, near your back. Let your hips carry the weight, not your shoulders. When it’s packed right, you won’t be the Leaning Tower of Pisa.”

“I’m not . . .” I shift my feet and lean forward slightly, barely preventing a bodily avalanche. Dammit.

Lennon’s smile is slow and annoying. He’s wearing jet-black sunglasses, so I can’t see his eyes. Double annoying. Why is he even talking to me? Didn’t I tell him I hated him yesterday?

“What do you have in there?” he asks. “Gold bricks?”

“My telescope.”

“You fit Nancy Grace Roman inside that pack?”

I’m shocked he remembers. “No, the portable one.”

“Ah. Well, it’s packed wrong.”

“And I should trust you because you’re such an expert on backpacking,” I say irritably.

He leans back on both hands and lifts his face to the sun. “Actually, I kind of am.”

“Since when?”

“Since forever. I backpacked with my moms in Europe when I was thirteen—”

Oh, yeah. I forgot about that. “But that was in hostels.”

“And campgrounds.”

Right.

“And three times this year. Three? Wait, maybe four,” he says, more to himself than me. He shrugs a shoulder lightly. “One of them doesn’t count, but anyway.”

“You went to Europe this year?” I say, surprised.

“No, I backpacked here in California. My parents gave me a national park pass for Christmas and took me camping in Death Valley over spring break. I even took a wilderness survival course.”

Does not compute. This isn’t Lennon at all. The boy I knew didn’t spend time outdoors. I mean, sure, we technically spent most of our time together outside on all those walks, but that was here in the city. Before I can make sense of this new development in Lennon, Man of Mystery, he speaks up again.

“I can help you repack if you want,” he says, still looking up at the sky, where misty trails of morning fog are drifting back out to the Bay, silver streaks against bright blue.

Lennon Mackenzie with his hands on my private stuff? I don’t think so, buddy.

“No, thanks.” I let the pack’s straps slide down my arms until it’s back on the ground. And then, in an attempt to shut him up, I add, “My ride should be here any second.”

“Yeah, I just got a text.”

Huh? Wait just one stinking second.

Backpack advice. Camping in Death Valley. Spotted hanging out with Brett . . .

Oh, no. Oh no, no, no.

This is not Brett’s new bromance. This is not the “guy” who’s leading us to a secret off-trail waterfall in the Sierras. It can’t be! Reagan knows I avoid him. She doesn’t know why, exactly, but she should have told me. Why didn’t she tell me? There must be some mistake.

Panic fires through my limbs as a dark blue SUV whips into the parking lot. Lennon casually jumps from the hood of his car, landing lightly on his feet. He bends to pick up something out of sight, near the front wheel. When he stands back up, he’s pulling a red backpack onto one shoulder. The top outer pocket is covered with vintage punk-rock buttons and retro national parks patches. A foam bedroll is neatly secured to its bottom.

Holy hell.

Blaring electronic dance music, the blue SUV skids as it brakes between us, and then Reagan’s light brown head pops up from the driver’s door. “Glamping time, bitches!” she shouts merrily over the stereo. “Packs go up top in the cargo container. Let’s hustle.”

My mind can’t form a coherent thought. I know I’m staring stupidly as Brett lurches out of the SUV to clap Lennon soundly on the shoulder. “Lennon, my boy,” he says, voice full of joy. “That shirt is sick! I love it. Come on, I’ll help you get the cargo box open. The latch is screwed up.” Brett notices me for the first time.

My stomach flips over.

You know how people say they are blinded by love? That’s what happens to me when I see Brett. He looks like a celebrity, all tanned legs and sandy brown curls, a face too perfect for a mortal high school boy. And don’t get me started on his teeth. They are insanely perfect. I never knew teeth could be so attractive.

He flashes me those million-dollar teeth in a dazzling grin. “Zorie. Still rocking that sexy scientist vibe,” he says, pointing finger guns at my glasses while making a zinging noise. Then he waves me closer for a hug. “Bring it on in, girl. Haven’t seen you in forever.”

Oh, wow. I’m overwhelmed by the spicy scent of aftershave. He smells a little like my dad, which is a weird thing to think. Shut up, brain! This is all Lennon’s fault for surprising me. His presence is throwing me off my game. And now Brett lets me go, so I wasted the entire two-second hug with the boy of my dreams thinking about (A) my dad and (B) the boy of my nightmares. Terrific.