Page 5 of Wandering Wild

“Miss Hart! Mickey dropped my snowflake crown in the hot fudge!”

I dash forward to hand the birthday girl a spare, saying, “Luckily I saved the best one for last.” Her bright smile takes the sting out of her making my seventeen years seem ancient by calling me “Miss Hart.” But then again, on days like today, I feel ancient, supervising a group of hyperactive seven-year-olds and ensuring they have the time of their lives.

When I started working at Sandy’s Scoops and Sprinkles two years ago, it was a fun way to earn some extra cash after school and on weekends. It was the best casual job I could imagine, but then the owner, Sandy, expanded their business from a normal ice-creamery to one that offers parties for children. They renovated the tasteful pink-and-cream-colored space to add a separate event room—a rainbow-walled monstrosity—so regular customers can sit and eat peacefully in the parlor, while sugar-high kids enjoy hours of uninterrupted glee.

When Sandy first asked me to oversee the weekend parties, I nearly quit, but they convinced me to give it a go, and it turned out they were right—I really do love helping kids make chaotic ice-cream cakes covered in every topping imaginable. The only downside is that I’m required to wear a costume inspired by the party’s theme, often sacrificing my dignity in the process. Today I’m dressed as Elsa from Frozen , which isn’t terrible, but at least once a month I have to don my Bluey onesie, tail and all.

“Miss Hart! Ellie won’t share the edible glitter!”

I hurry over to the end of the bench, arriving just as a small girl tosses the sparkling pot in the air, scattering it all over the table and the floor. And me .

Repressing a sigh, I separate the troublemakers and distract them with gummy bears and whipped cream, before shaking the glitter from my hair and checking on the birthday girl. She’s absorbed in decorating her Olaf-shaped ice-cream cake—at least, I think that’s what it is—and the rest of her friends are equally content. Even so, relief hits me when I see there are only a few minutes left of the party.

“Time for your finishing touches,” I announce. The kids respond with sad noises, but they help me pack their creations into insulated bags, then skip off to show their loved ones what they made. My role is over once they leave the rainbow room, and I hear Sandy’s bright voice in the parlor ooh ing and ahh ing while deftly encouraging the partygoers and guardians out of the store.

“All clear,” Sandy finally calls, followed by the sound of the front door locking and the closed sign being flipped over.

When I enter the calming pastel parlor, Sandy does a double take, their purple-lipsticked mouth stretching into a grin. “Aren’t you sparkly.”

I dust glitter off my shoulders. “Anything is better than last week’s honey and raspberry-sauce disaster. I’ll never be able to wear my Tigger costume again without looking like a crime scene.”

Sandy laughs, their short, bleached mohawk jostling with the movement, before they look toward the party room. “On a scale of one to ten, what’s the damage?”

“A solid six,” I answer. “It’s not too bad. I should be done within the hour.”

Usually Sandy helps me close on Saturdays, with them seeing to the parlor while I tidy the party room, but it’s their date night and I know they’re keen to get home.

“Are you sure you’re?—”

“I’m sure.” I shoo them toward the door. “Go celebrate being flirty and free, thirty-three.”

“You’ll have to come up with a new rhyme after my next birthday,” Sandy says, scrunching their nose. “Let’s hope it’s not ‘single and poor, thirty-four.’”

I snort. “Don’t even try that on me—I’ve seen your annual turnover. And we both know Xin’s obsessed with you. You’d be walking down the aisle tomorrow if only you’d say yes.”

“I’m too young to get married.”

I raise an eyebrow.

Sandy frowns and amends, “Too young at heart.”

It’s an argument we’ve had many times, so I just say, “Go, or I’ll leave and you can clean.”

Their face softens into a smile. “You’re too good to me, Charlie. Best employee I’ve ever had.”

“Feel free to give me a raise,” I suggest, only half joking.

They chuckle and unlock the door to leave, but then they turn back, eyes serious. “One of these days we’re going to talk about you finally quitting so you can go forth and conquer the world. You can’t stay here forever, cherub. I won’t let you.”

Before I can tell them how much I’m looking forward to that super fun chat, they disappear out the door, leaving me standing there with my insides roiling.

I know Sandy means well, but I don’t like being pushed to think about my future. Once upon a time, I’d had it all mapped out, how I’d graduate from high school and spend a year backpacking with Ember before we left our small coastal town for the big city—Sydney, Melbourne, or Brisbane were our top picks. She would major in drama and I in whatever course I could get into, and we would live together and enjoy every aspect of the college lifestyle, after which we would, as Sandy aptly said, go forth and conquer the world.

But then life happened, derailing our perfect plans, creating an imperfect reality.

First, it was Ember’s circumstances that halted our futures.

Then it was mine.

We still both took a gap year after graduating at the end of last year, but instead of traveling, I’ve been scooping ice-cream and trying to glue the broken pieces of myself back together, while Ember has been completing a bridging course to catch up on all the school she missed. There are only three months left of the year and I know I need to make decisions about the future, but I just can’t bring myself to do it yet.

Because that would mean I’m ready to move on, when I’m not.

And right now, I can’t imagine how I ever will be.

It’s on that pitiful thought that I hear tapping at the front door, and I look to see my best friend waving through the glass. Even when Sandy closes with me, Ember often joins us, talking Sandy’s ears off and taste-testing new flavors. She never helps with the cleaning, but she keeps herself entertained by sitting at the counter and encouraging me to tidy faster—bless her cotton socks.

I don’t mind, since it makes the time pass quickly. And she usually has some upbeat story to share about her day, even if it’s as mundane as her search for a missing hair tie.

Today, however, there’s a look on her face that I haven’t seen in a long time—sadness mixed with resignation, combined with a heavy dose of determination—and it causes me enough alarm that I nearly trip over a stool as I scramble to open the door.

“What’s happened?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”

I catalog her appearance as she walks in and slumps onto the nearest stool, noting that she’s not tired or pale, and her eyes are bright and healthy despite the emotion in them.

Last time I saw her this despondent, it was on the worst day of her life, and the second-worst of mine: the day when Ember was told she had leukemia. We were fourteen years old, with no one certain if she would ever reach fifteen.

But she did.

Then sixteen, seventeen, and, two weeks ago, eighteen.

My friend isn’t a survivor—she’s a warrior. She faced the hardest battle of her life, and not only did she conquer it, she did so while keeping a smile on her face. To anyone else, it might have seemed easy.

It wasn’t.

It took years of agonizing treatments, with Ember in and out of hospital, seeing small victories and terrifying setbacks, before she finally entered remission at the beginning of this year. We had two beautiful months of celebrating... and then my world fell apart all over again, in a different—and even more devastating—way.

I don’t think I can handle anything else going wrong so soon.

No—I know I can’t handle anything else going wrong so soon.

And I definitely can’t handle hearing that my best friend’s cancer has returned. I was able to remain strong for Ember and her parents during the three years of her treatments, holding her hand through every moment, but now... I’m not sure I have anything left in me to give, not when she’s the only thing that’s been keeping me together for the last six months.

Looking at her, I wonder if I’m going to be sick all over Sandy’s pink tiles. I can feel it burning in my stomach, the absolute terror of what I’m about to hear. But I swallow it back, praying I’m wrong.

“I have something to tell you,” Ember finally says, causing ice to flood my veins.

She glances up for the first time since entering the store, and whatever she sees in my expression causes her to visibly startle.

“God, Charlie, I’m so sorry—that was stupid of me.” She jumps off her stool and pulls my trembling body in for a tight embrace. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m not sick—it’s nothing like that. I’m perfectly healthy. I promise. I’m fine. Everyone’s fine.”

It takes a second for the words to process, but when they do, the tension leaves my body in a heady rush that causes me to sway into her.

“I didn’t think,” Ember says, still holding me close. She then repeats, her voice full of remorse, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I say shakily. “You just scared me.”

We break apart, and Ember sends me a sheepish smile. “I guess a bonus of that little misstep is that you won’t think what I’m about to tell you is anywhere near as bad as it could be.”

Nothing could be as bad as what I’d feared she was going to say, so she’s right about that.

“Even so,” she says, guiding me to the seat beside hers, “you should sit down for this.”

I’m still trembling enough that I yield limply when she pushes on my shoulders, and I crumple onto the chair. She sits much more gracefully, her years of dance classes making her move fluidly even when she’s not trying.

“I want you to take a deep breath,” Ember instructs, “and think calming, tranquil thoughts.”

I shake off the last of my fear and pin my eyes on my friend, her words bringing a new kind of alarm to me, especially coupled with the look on her face. Because now the sadness and resignation are gone, and in their place is apology—and guilt.

The determination, however, is stronger than ever.

“What have you done this time?” I ask with a sigh.

Ever since entering remission, Ember has been all about living life to the fullest. I love that for her, I really do. But my friend also follows the better-to-ask-forgiveness-than-seek-permission mentality, and it frequently lands her in trouble. I only hope she hasn’t “borrowed” our neighbor’s dog again, since last time it took two gift vouchers and a homemade pavlova to stop old Mrs. Kirby from reporting the dognapping to the police. Admittedly, Ember’s claim of “But Buddy loves me more!” didn’t do her any favors.

“I’m just going to rip the bandaid off,” she says. “So keep breathing and hold onto those tranquil thoughts.”

I frown at her, getting worried now. “Em, what?—”

She talks over me, her words blending together in her rush to get them out. “ IwontheZanderRunecompetition .”

I blink twice and lean back in my seat, certain I must have misheard. Praying I misheard. “Say it again, minus the chipmunk speed?”

Ember bites her lip, likely noting my rapidly paling features, then repeats, “I, uh, well... I won the, um, the Zander Rune competition. The one with Rykon Hawke. They called me this afternoon.” She utters a nervous laugh and tugs at her hair. The strands are growing back thick now that her treatments are over, but the length is still short enough that she can’t get a good grip. “I thought it was a scammer or someone else messing with me, but turns out it’s legit. I won. And not even on any of the fake entries—on my real entry.”

I stare at her in horror, lost for a response.

“They said millions of people applied,” Ember goes on, rambling now to fill my silence. “Even with our dummy email addresses, the odds of either of us winning were basically zero. Can you believe that?”

When I continue to remain mute, she bites her lip again, the look in her eyes warning me to brace.

“The thing is,” she says slowly, fiddling with the buttons on her denim jacket, “there’s a slight hiccup. You know how I had that chest infection last month?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Well, I called Dr. Gibbons after I got the news about winning, and he said that since I’ve only just finished the second course of antibiotics, he’s worried about my immunity being compromised. And given, you know, my history”—she says this fast, as if what she went through was nothing, when we both know she’s buried her trauma deep beneath her smiles—“he’s strongly advised against me being out in the elements for a multiday survival situation right now.”

I could kiss Dr. Gibbons. In fact, the next time I see the grandfatherly hematologist, I plan to do exactly that.

“I’m sorry, Em,” I say, patting her leg. I know how much she wants this, but I’m also knee-weakeningly relieved that she’s smart enough to listen to her doctor—just as I’m glad it wasn’t me who had to make her see reason, which is what I’d feared most upon us entering the competition. At least this way, I’m not the one crushing her dreams.

I expect to see devastation in her features, maybe tears. But all I can see is that apologetic-yet-determined look, even fiercer than before.

A slow sense of dread builds in me when she takes my hand, as if to keep me from running away.

“Remember those tranquil thoughts?” Ember asks, her fingers tightening. “This is the part where you’re going to need them.”

Through stiff lips, I ask, “What did you do ?”

She winces, then pulls her phone from her pocket to open her social media. Every part of me solidifies when she flips the screen around for me to see.

Her hand still holding mine gives a squeeze. “Please don’t hate me.”

I open my mouth and shut it again, unable to form speech, my eyes locked on the media blast:

SMALL-TOWN AUSSIE TEENAGER CHARLIE HART WINS SURVIVAL TRIP OF A LIFETIME WITH ZANDER RUNE AND RYKON HAWKE!

There’s even a picture of me, a horrendous image from what has to be at least three years ago, since I have a mouth full of metal braces, my face is covered in acne, and my hair is a shocking shade of orange—the only poor choice Ember ever made for me.

An unintelligible sound leaves my throat when the post doesn’t magically vanish, nor does my supposed best friend burst into laughter and confess that it’s a fake announcement she mocked up herself.

Instead, Ember says, her voice quiet, “Say something, Charlie Bear.”

I settle on the first coherent sentence I can form, snatching my hand from hers as I screech, “ What the hell, Ember? ”

She jumps slightly, then adopts a soothing tone as she explains, “When I called the competition people back after speaking with Dr. Gibbons, they said I could transfer the prize to someone else. I didn’t—I just—” She clears her throat. “I know you hate Zander. And I understand why. But Hawke...” She leans toward me, her next words prompting a sharp, unexpected pain in my chest. “Your mum was obsessed with him, Charlie. Obsessed . She watched every episode he ever filmed, and I swear she ran some of those fan accounts dedicated to him—that’s how much she loved him. So this prize... she’d be the first person shoving you out the door to meet him.”

Ember wasn’t wrong. “Obsessed” didn’t come close to describing how my mother felt about Rykon Hawke. She used to watch anything he was in—not only Hawke’s Wild World , but interviews, cameo appearances, everything. She donated to his rehabilitation camps, sponsored kids to go to them, read his books, listened to his podcasts, even bought survival merchandise with his branding despite having no use for most of it. If Andrea Hart hadn’t been so well adjusted in every other area of her life, and if she hadn’t beamed joyfully every time she saw photos of Hawke alongside his husband, I would have been concerned by my mother’s near-stalkerish fixation on the man.

“She would want you to do this, Charlie,” my friend says quietly. “And not just so you can meet Hawke. She’d want more than this for you.” Ember waves her hand around the ice-cream store. “She’d want you to get out and see the world, to go on adventures, just like this one.”

At my incredulous look, Ember quickly amends, “Okay, maybe not just like this one. I doubt even your mother could have imagined you’d go camping with two of the most famous people in existence. But you get my point. She wouldn’t want you missing out on any amazing opportunities in life—and you can’t deny that this is one hell of an opportunity.”

That may be so, but I’m still about to tell her there’s zero chance of me ever agreeing to it. She, however, isn’t finished.

“Since you’re not eighteen until next month, I’ve already spoken with Jerry and he’s happy to sign the paperwork they need,” Ember shares cheerfully, as if she’s done me a favor. “He’s totally fine with you going.”

“Of course he is,” I mumble, unable to keep the hurt from my voice. “He’ll do anything to avoid being near me, even ship me off into a wilderness nightmare without caring who I’m going with.”

Compassion floods Ember’s face. “That’s not true. Your stepdad loves you.”

“I know he does.” Softly, I add, “But I also know the very sight of me brings him to tears, so he hasn’t looked at me properly in six months.”

My friend has no rebuttal since she’s witnessed his avoidance firsthand, and while she maintains I just need to give him time, I don’t know how much longer I can keep tiptoeing around my own house. Jerry is the only father I’ve ever known, with him having married my mother when I was five years old. He loves me beyond reason, and the feeling is mutual—which is why it hurts so much to have such distance between us now, even if I understand his struggles. I feel them myself every time I look in a mirror.

“Forget about Jerry,” Ember says, rallying. “Be thankful instead, because other people’s parents might have concerns about signing whatever liability forms Hawke’s legal team is sending through.”

“I can’t imagine why.” My tone is as dry as the desert Hawke likely intends to take his victims to. “Who wouldn’t want their underage daughter to head into a survival situation with two men she’s never met and the entire world watching?”

Ember grins widely. “See, you sound sarcastic, but I’m sensing there’s already a bit of excitement building in you.”

The look I send her speaks volumes. “You’re sensing wrong.”

She pouts. “Come on, Charlie Bear, the headline says it all.” She waves her phone at me again. “This is the trip of a lifetime . You have to do it.”

“I don’t have to do anything.” I cross my arms. “And in this case, I’m definitely not doing it. I’d rather stick bamboo shoots down my fingernails. Hell, I’d even rather?—”

I cut myself off when tears fill her eyes. They’re not fake; Ember’s dream is to be an actress, but she’s incapable of crying on command.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, swiping at her cheeks and looking away in embarrassment. “I just—no, never mind. You’re right, it was a stupid idea. If you don’t want to do it, of course you shouldn’t. It’d probably be awful anyway, everything you said the other night—rain and bugs and drinking your own pee. Plus, even Zander Rune would reek after four days without a shower. That’s gross. There’s nothing attractive about BO.”

She’s on a roll, so I don’t tell her that there are other ways to bathe in nature, or that Zander likely owns a good deodorant. I also don’t mention that I doubt Hawke would make someone as famous as Zander drink his own urine, and therefore the winner wouldn’t have to, either.

“No one in their right mind would sign up for any of that,” Ember goes on, sniffing. “I don’t know what I was thinking, telling them you’d go in my place. I guess I hoped...” She looks up at me, her brown eyes full of remorse, but it’s the despair in them that feels like a punch to my gut, especially when she says, “I guess I just thought that if I couldn’t go, then at least I’d get to live vicariously through you. Plus, this way I’d still get to meet Zander, since the competition people said I could accompany you to the drop-off location. They even offered to put me up in a hotel for the four days you’d be out adventuring, so I’d be there to meet you when you were done.”

She turns away again, wiping her face once more. “But I get it. Even without your feelings toward Zander, I can see why you wouldn’t want to do this. I know you’re not allergic to camping like I am, and you actually enjoy being in nature like some kind of weirdo”—she wrinkles her nose at the thought—“not to mention, you were blessed by the fitness gods, so you’d have no trouble with the hiking and all the rest... But if you’re uncomfortable, then you’re uncomfortable, and that’s that. So I’ll—I’ll call them as soon as I get home and—and tell them to pick a new winner.”

If I didn’t love my best friend so much, I would loathe her for the emotional manipulation, because she knows— she knows —I can’t stand to disappoint her. It was one thing when I thought it was only me who would have to go on this ridiculous trip. That I could turn down, no problem. But if they truly have offered for Ember to meet Zander, how can I say no to that?

I groan and drop my arms onto a sticky, yet-to-be-cleaned table, lowering my head until it’s pillowed in the crook of my elbow. “I despise you,” I mutter into the blue sleeve of my Elsa dress. “Not a little. A lot.”

There’s a beat of silence as Ember processes what I said, but then a high-pitched squeal leaves her, and a moment later she’s hauling me up for a jumping hug.

“I love you, I love you, I looooove you!” she screams into my ear, before repeating my own words. “Not a little. A lot!”

“You’d better,” I say grouchily, unable to muster the same level of enthusiasm. Or any enthusiasm. But then I exhale deeply and return her embrace, knowing how much this means to her. It’s four days of misery and discomfort for me, but I can suffer through that for my best friend.

Ember finally releases me, though she clasps both of my hands and says, “I know you’re not super excited about this, but just remember, I’ll be with you the whole time.” She pauses. “Except for when I’m not.”

I look at her flatly. “Real comforting. Thanks, Em.”

She grins back at me. “This is going to be the best . You’ll see.”

I try to dredge up a smile for her sake, but then a thought hits me. “My passport is expired. Will I have enough time to renew it?”

Ember waves an unconcerned hand. “Zander and Hawke are flying here. Well, not here -here”—she gestures out the store’s windows to indicate our hometown—“but here as in Australia. So you won’t need your passport at all, since we’re only taking a domestic flight to Sydney and then a train into the mountains. Or maybe a car.” Her brow furrows in thought, until she shrugs and finishes, “All I know is that someone will collect us from the airport and take us where we need to go.”

A nervous thrill runs through me at this news. I consider what I know of the geography near Sydney and guess, “The Blue Mountains?” At Ember’s confirmation, I ask, “When?”

My friend scratches her cheek and looks anywhere but at me, prompting new alarm bells to ring in my ears.

“ When , Ember?”

She murmurs the answer too low for me to hear, but when I arch my eyebrow in question, she sighs and says, louder, “The trip starts on Tuesday.”

When she doesn’t offer a date, I splutter out, “Wait— this Tuesday? As in three days away ?”

She nods reluctantly, then shares, “We’ll fly out on Monday morning, head straight to Katoomba, go sightseeing for a few hours that afternoon, and then spend the night in a hotel before meeting up with Zander and Hawke first thing on Tuesday.” Her eyes lose focus and a dopey smile touches her lips. “Can you believe I just said that? We get to meet Zander and Hawke . Dreams really do come true.”

I want to conk her over the head with the nearest ice-cream cone. She must see that on my face, since her own sobers.

“I know this is a lot, and it’s happening fast.”

“It’s not fast,” I grit out, “it’s lightning speed .”

“That’s good, though, right?” she asks tentatively. “This time next week, you’ll be back here doing another birthday party, dressed as Shrek or Princess Leia or Thor or whoever else, and life will go on. You might be more tanned and maybe have a mosquito bite or five hundred, but otherwise, it’ll be like it never happened. You don’t have to dread it for weeks; you can just get it over with fast. Kind of like a bikini wax.” Seeing my grimace, she quickly adds, “But with less pain.”

I’m not sure she’s right about that, but despite my trepidation—and against my better judgment—I’ve already committed to seeing this madness through.

“I need to check with Sandy,” I say, resigned. “They’ll have to ask someone to cover my shifts.”

I don’t bother stating the obvious—that Sandy will be so excited that they’ll likely offer to pack my bags and drive me straight to the airport.

Ember knows this, so she says nothing as I collect a cloth and start wiping down the tables, my movements hurried now that I have a checklist of things to do before leaving on Monday. Even knowing how happy it’ll make her, I can’t believe I’m doing this; that I’ll be spending four days in the wilderness with someone I despise. The mere thought of Zander’s too-perfect face has me burning with anger—and flooding with heartache. But at least Hawke will be there as a buffer. I’ll never be completely alone with Zander, and during the time we’re stuck near each other, I’ll find a way to tolerate him, for Ember’s sake.

And then, as soon as our four days are up, I won’t have to think about him again.

“There’s still one very serious thing we need to discuss,” Ember says as I move between the tables.

My pulse spikes. “There is?”

Her smile is pure sunshine as she answers, “I have a fashion emergency. You have to help me figure out what to wear on Tuesday, since I want to look perfect when I meet my favorite actor of all time.”

I consider throwing my cloth at her, but resist when she sighs contentedly and finishes, “I sense good things ahead, Charlie Bear. This is one adventure you’re going to thank me for. Just wait—you’ll see.”

I will see. And so will the entire world. Because in three days, I’ll be hiking through the Blue Mountains with two of the most famous people alive, our every word and action recorded and watched by millions.

My insides lurch, but I paste a smile on my face and reply, “We could both use some good things ahead, so here’s hoping you’re right.”

She’s not, but that doesn’t matter, because it’s only four days.

It’ll be awful, but I’ve been through worse.

Much worse.

Compared to the last six months, this will be nothing.

I’ve got this , I tell myself over and over, scrubbing with renewed vigor. It’ll be fine .

But no amount of mental repetition helps me believe it.