Survival Strategies of the Almost Brave by Jen White Page B

closed her eyes.
    â€œShe went to the shore and buried them in the sand…”
    And just that fast, Billie was asleep again. I could tell by her longish breathing and how her mouth fell open a tiny bit. And for a second I almost woke her back up, because I didn’t like feeling alone in the camper. Right then, I missed Mom more, now that we weren’t in the condo. My heart felt all dehydrated with the missing of everything: Mom, and our condo, and Antonio, and my school, and even Julie. What could I do to fill it up again?
    I climbed up onto Billie’s bed and reached around in the covers for the flashlight Dad gave her in case she got scared. It was tucked in between the wall and the mattress. Then I covered myself under Billie’s old baby blanket and turned on the light so I could read my notebook with the lists of everything I knew. Sometimes it’s the only thing that makes me feel better.
    The next morning, in the daylight, I finally saw where we had spent the night: an empty campground surrounded by bushes that looked like long, bony fingers crawling up from the ground.
    Sitting outside at the picnic table, Dad pulled out some truck stop cinnamon rolls and apples he had bought yesterday for breakfast. He handed us each an apple. “What’s more amazing than a talking llama?” he asked.
    Billie and I looked at each other, because how did Dad know we liked jokes?
    Finally, Billie said, “I don’t know.”
    â€œA spelling bee.”
    Dad laughed. It was a pretty good one.
    And Billie said, “What do you call a grizzly bear stuck in the rain?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œA drizzly bear.”
    â€œThat’s funny,” Dad said. And then he took a huge bite of his apple.
    And that missing feeling slowly inched over, leaving space in my heart for something new. And for a second, there in the sun, I felt almost happy.
    After we ate our cinnamon rolls, Dad showed us where we could brush our teeth but said we couldn’t take a shower inside the camper until we got to a campsite with hookups for water. Then we drove again for hours and hours with nothing to look at but desert. And it was getting sort of boring. And just when I thought I would pop with doing-nothingness, Dad said, “Maybe we should take a detour.”
    And then we drove through a place called Zion National Park, which was maybe the most beautiful place I had ever seen. I didn’t know some mountains were orange like a sunset and could reach so high that it hurt my neck to stare up at them.
    Dad stopped for lunch near a stream so we could eat bagels, and he showed us how to skip rocks. Billie was actually really good at it—better than me. My stomach felt heavy when Dad smiled and patted her back after her rock skipped four times before a fish jumped up and swallowed it.
    I should be able to skip a rock better than her.
    But when I saw Billie’s face all golden, I felt guilty. And Mom’s words were in my head reminding me, like always, that I was the oldest. That I was supposed to take care of her. And if Billie was happy, then I decided that I could be, too.
    â€œDid you see that, Liberty?” she asked.
    I nodded and meant it when I said, “Good job, Billie. You’re way better than me.”
    After that, Dad pulled his camera gear out of the back of the camper and set it on a picnic bench. We sat and watched him go through bags, take out lenses, switch cameras. I didn’t know what to do. Were we supposed to go with him? Stay there? He hadn’t said.
    Billie hugged Koala.
    Dad threw his backpack over his shoulder and glanced at the sun and then at us. “Come on. The light is going.”
    We followed him up the trail.
    The cliffs stretched like they scraped the sky. I had to run-walk to keep up with him. Billie had to run-run. She had on her flip-flops and kept tripping. I grabbed her hand to steady her. “I’ll go first. Just watch my feet