Chapter 3

Mr. Davis passes a small stack of papers around the circle. "This is a waiver your parents need to sign. If you're eighteen, you can sign the waiver yourself, but please pass along the details to your parents."

"What exactly are we signing?" I ask, not bothering to glance at the paper.

"This form pertains to this weekend's backpacking trip on Mount Liberty," Mr. Davis says. "You'll all be excused early on Friday—"

The room bursts into applause.

Mr. Davis attempts to continue over the clapping. "We'll camp Friday night, then spend Saturday at the river below the falls. After another night camping beneath the stars, we'll hike back down to school Sunday morning. Pretty basic. But we still have some ground to cover." He stands. "Part of my job as your advisor is teaching you to rely on each other. Our group is going to work as a family."

"A dysfunctional family," I whisper to Grant. No amount of skills could help me survive a weekend with Jacey Pritchard, who hasn't taken her beady eyes off me since I got here. How has Grant managed to last so long in this club?

I can't leave now, though. If I'm going to find out who gave Piper that forged note, I at least have to make it through this meeting.

"Which is why," Mr. Davis continues, "we're devoting the rest of today's meeting to team building."

A chorus of groans echoes around the circle.

Mr. Davis shuts his eyes, probably counting to ten under his breath so he doesn't murder one of us. He may look calm and collected now, but as the boys' soccer coach, the guy can definitely yell. The team has been in the spotlight since last year, when Mr. Davis miraculously took them from being the worst team in the league to regional champions.

Just like my sister and most of the other kids at this school, Grant worships the ground Mr. Davis walks on. And the feeling seems to be mutual. This year, Mr. Davis made Grant senior captain of the guys' team.

Which is perfect, since I'm captain of the girls' team. King and queen.

Not that this accolade means anything to my family. The second week of school, I told my mom that I needed money for the preseason tournament. But Piper had a debate tournament scheduled for the same weekend, and they could only afford to pay for one.

Big surprise—they chose Piper's.

It didn't matter that a scout from Mount Liberty College was going to be at my tournament. Or that I was older. Or that Piper had perfect grades and tons of other extracurriculars and one debate tournament wasn't going to make or break college acceptance for her.

My mom told me I'd have to figure out how to pay for it myself, and that was her final answer.

Final answer. I guess it would've been, if I'd let it go.

Mr. Davis opens his eyes, and there's a slow rise and fall to his chest. "All right, everyone. We're heading outside."

"We are?" asks Noah, comfortably slouched in his seat.

"Even though you're clearly all so eager for the activity"—Mr. Davis lifts a folder from his lap—"first I need to provide a quick overview on packing your backpack for a three-day hike." He stands up and walks toward the door, motioning for us to follow. "We're off to the athletics equipment locker. Everyone take a gear list."

He hands each of us a sheet of paper on our way out the door. The hall smells like the pizza they served in the cafeteria today, reminding me I skipped lunch. I wait for Grant, taking his hand as we amble after the others. When we pass by the athletics office, my chest constricts at the memory of the colossal mistake I'll never be able to take back.

Grant's fingers tighten around mine as we pass beneath the huge WE LOVE YOU, PIPER banner strung from wall to wall. It's signed by half the school, including people who never even knew her. Strangers who may be hoping for the best but believe that Piper did this to herself.

My parents are probably the only people in town who have a different theory. They like to tell themselves that what happened to Piper was a freak accident. Like she's this daring thrill-seeker who would have climbed up on top of that guardrail for the sheer rush of it. Like a gust of wind or a loss of balance caused her to plummet down the mountainside.

The truth is, I used to fantasize about life without Piper. Without the younger sister who could say more words at ten months than I could say at two years. The award-winning journalist. The debate club champ. The Future Scientist of America. The prodigy who had to take AP classes at another school because Grayling High couldn't keep up with her.

In my fantasies, there was never a concrete reason for Piper's disappearance. I didn't dream up ways to get rid of her. She was simply blotted out of existence. And the end result was always the same: I ended up the favorite by default.

Now I know that's not the way things work. You can't become the favorite child. If the favorite disappears or dies, she's just gone, and the leftover child is still the one who will never measure up. Only now, that leftover child has a new label to add to all the baggage.

Now she's the child who should have fallen instead.

I shudder to think of another possible label for me—one I've locked away. One I hope my parents never discover.

I press my fingers against the little charm dangling from my neck as we slip into the afternoon sunlight. Mr. Davis unlocks the large black athletics cabinet and starts extracting backpacks. Everyone seems to have an assigned pack. Lumberjack and Humsalot, whose actual names are Sam and Abby, grab theirs. One by one, the rest disappear, leaving only a bright red pack behind.

I pad up to it and find Piper's name scrawled on a luggage tag.

The familiar handwriting sends a swell of sadness through me, but I find my voice as the others start lugging equipment to the empty common area. "Mr. Davis, is it okay if I use my sister's pack today?"

He looks up from a cardboard box full of supplies. "Uh, sure. Go ahead."

I can't envision Piper wearing this, or even knowing how to use it. The thing has ninety-seven different pouches and snaps. I grab it by a strap and carry it over to where the others have gathered on the gum-encrusted cement and the food-smeared lunch benches. Why did my sister join this club?

Most people in Grayling's Pass fall on a spectrum of outdoor enthusiasts. It's kind of unavoidable if you grow up here, with all of the sights and activities at your fingertips. A lot of kids spend the scalding summers fishing or rafting on the icy Golden River, which starts up on Mount Liberty and snakes all the way down to the outskirts of town. When the weather's more forgiving, we have our pick of dozens of day hikes.

Piper was always the exception, though. She came back sobbing from her first and last camping trip with Jacey and her dad, something about losing her magnifying glass and not having access to her microscope. Jacey and Noah used to drag her off on hikes to get her out in the sunlight. She would do anything for those two.

Is that why she joined this club? She wanted extra time with her two besties?

I plop down beside Grant, Piper's pack between my feet as Mr. Davis begins his demonstration.

"A hiker's backpack is only effective if it's packed correctly. Please follow along on the gear list." He picks up a massive orange pack, pointing at the array of mesh pouches and commenting on their various uses.

A minute into the demonstration, Grant is immersed in his phone. He already knows all this stuff. Jacey too. But Piper? She and our science professor parents are alike in every way. Complete geniuses. Completely inept when it comes to the outdoors. Maybe that's why someone gave her that note; they realized how out of her depth she was and pranked her.

I shift the pack, noting the bulk at the base where the tent must be stored. I flip it over and unzip the first small pouch, inside which, fittingly, Piper has stuffed a pen and paper. Because those will come in super handy if you're starving or attacked by a bear out in the wild.

I zip it shut and glance up at Mr. Davis, pretending to pay attention. As I do, I catch Alexandra watching me. Resisting the urge to stick my tongue out at her like a five-year-old, I continue working my way through the bag. It's my sister's stuff, and I'll dig through it if I want to.

I shove my whole arm into the main compartment. Empty. I move on to a medium-sized pouch that runs along the front. There's a hard object inside, so I lift the flap, reach inside, and pull out a compass. At least she has one useful item. Something else seems to be tucked into the bottom of the pocket. I dig my fingertips in deeper.

But my attention whips to the flap itself. I lift it again, and my heart pushes up into my throat.

There's a message, rough and clumsy, written in thick white marker on the underside of the flap.

Quit Survival Club or ELSE.