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"I don't think so. Just ... something's wrong with her."
"Um, yeah. She climbed a tree to escape a cat. She's suffering from a serious case of stupid."
"No kidding." He gave her one last look, then waved me to the truck. "Just do me a favor, okay? If you see her again, be careful."
I didn't ask what he meant. Daniel does that sometimes--he meets people and just decides he doesn't like them. Last winter, when Dr. Davidoff and his team flew in from the States for their annual visit, Daniel decided he really didn't like a new guy Dr. Davidoff brought and wouldn't have anything to do with him.
Mom says that's part of growing up in such a small town. You don't trust strangers. But I say it's just Daniel. Everyone has his quirks, and this is Daniel's. Most times, though, he's right. So when he says steer clear, I do.
He opened the passenger door for me.
"Such a gentleman," I said.
"No, it's sticking, and I don't want you whaling on it again and--" He stopped and peered off down the road.
I followed his gaze. The road was empty.
"Where'd she--? Damn it!" I tossed my bag in, then strode back along the truck. "If she went back in the woods, after getting treed by a cat--"
Daniel caught my arm. "Don't."
I looked up at him. He stared down the road, his face rigid, gaze distant, fingers tightening around my arm.
"Um, Daniel? Ouch."
"Huh?" He noticed what he was doing and let go. "Sorry. Call your dad and tell him. If she went back into the forest, that's her problem. We're late already."
TWO
I CALLED MY DAD on the way to school and told him about the hiker and Marv. Like Daniel said, this was the third time I'd seen the old cat in the past month. For me, that was only a little odd. I saw cougars more than anyone else we knew. Maybe they sensed I was interested in them. Always had been. Of all the animals in the forest, they were my favorite.
But a cougar that isn't afraid to get up close and personal with a human is worrisome. Treeing that hiker proved Marv wasn't only taking an interest in me. So I told Dad and he, in turn, had to notify the police chief and the mayor. When I was called to the office after first period, I wasn't surprised to hear that all three of them were there, looking for a full report.
The meeting room wasn't far from my class. Nothing is far in our school. It's a single story divided in two wings--classrooms at one end, common rooms at the other, the principal's office and meeting room in the middle. There are sixty-eight kids at Salmon Creek School--and that's every grade from kindergarten to twelve.
Having fewer than seventy kids means you know everyone by name. It also means every teacher--all five of them--knows you by name and your parents by name and your pets, too.
There are more kids in the upper grades than the lower ones. When the St. Clouds built their facility, they hired staff with young families, and those kids are all teenagers now. I'm in the biggest class--the grade eleven/twelve split.
The St. Clouds give us the best of everything. That's how they lured employees into a community in the middle of nowhere--promise the best education possible for their children. Our classroom desks are all built to accommodate our laptops, which are replaced every two years. Our auditorium has theater-style seating. Our cafeteria has a chef and cloth napkins. We have a gym, but no pool or skating rink, only because the St. Clouds put those in the community center a ten-minute walk away.
It all sounds very posh. It's not really. When I say Salmon Creek is in the middle of nowhere, I mean it. We're an hour's drive from the nearest city, and half of that is on empty back roads through uninhabited forest. Since we're living so isolated, we don't feel special the way private school kids might. We aren't here because we get amazing grades or our parents are rich; the extras were just normal. By the time we reach the upper grades, we don't even take advantage of the cafeteria chef anymore--we bring our lunches and grab a picnic table outside.
I had to pass through the principal's office to get to the conference room. I waved at the secretary--Ms. Morales. Dad was waiting by the door and ushered me inside. Mayor Tillson was at the espresso machine. He's my friend Nicole's dad. If you didn't know which was the police chief and which was the mayor, you'd probably guess wrong. Chief Carling was a tiny blonde, a few inches shorter than me, dressed in slacks and a silk blouse. The mayor was a foot taller and twice as heavy, with a bulldog face. He wore jeans and a plaid shirt that strained around his waist.
When I finished telling them everything that happened that morning, Chief Carling said, "Your dad says this isn't the first encounter you've had with this particular cat."
"The park is his territory. He's shown up more often lately, though. Getting old and bold, I guess. He hasn't made any threatening moves. I think he's just curious."
"Which is not--" Dad began.
"The point, I know," I said. "The problem is that if we relocate him, another cat will move in. A younger and potentially more dangerous one. The best thing to do would be to have Dr. Hajek tranq him a couple of times, teach him that humans aren't fun to hang out with."
Mayor Tillson smiled at my dad. "The girl knows her cougars, Rick. Do you remember when you caught her throwing sticks for one?"
The mayor retold the story, as if everyone in the room hadn't heard it a million times. It'd been just after we moved to the park. Mom had come out back to find me playing fetch with a young cougar--probably Marv.
"... and Maya says, 'Don't worry, Mom. He's got blood on his fur so he just ate. He isn't hungry.' "
