Excerpt from The Atlas of Us by Kristin Dwyer, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

I haven't signed yet. Because I do not agree. Because even though this isn't compulsory, it doesn't feel like a choice. And because putting my name on this paper would make everything feel final. Like all the things I've been running from are finally here for me to deal with in black ink. Failures I have to admit.

Failed to graduate from high school. Check.

Lost my job at a family friend's floral shop. Check.

Antisocial. Depressed. Anger issues. Directionless. Check.

But I can boil all those things down to two words.

Father died. Check.

My mother doesn't know what to do with me, but in her defense, I'm not sure what to do with me either.

Bear Creek is the thing she has been hoping will fix me. Save me.

Now she gives me a tight smile from the driver's seat. "Sweetheart?" Her voice sounds concerned and gentle. Things I know she's not.

Since my dad died she's been something else completely. More like a wild animal backed into a corner.

"I'm fine, Mom."

"Fine?" she repeats, like I've just said a word she's never heard before.

I'm not fine. I had plans to spend my summer being sad and trying to find ways not to be. Or as my mother likes to say, "getting up to trouble."

How does someone get up to trouble? But this was the thing we agreed on—Bear Creek. And then I get what I want—her to stop asking me what's next.

If I say I don't know, she gives me a list of things. I should make new friends. I should start my new normal. I should be enrolling in a GED program and trying to find a job.

But she doesn't know about the other list.

I close my eyes and when I do, I see it by my father's bed. Written in his own chicken scratch handwriting were all the things he wanted to do before he died. And at the bottom ...

Hike the Western Sierra Trail with Atlas.

It's the real reason I agreed to this and only put up a minimal fight, but it's also the reason I don't feel like I have a choice. This summer is the last thing my dad is asking me to do. Finish his list. Hike the trail.

Which is why Bear Creek feels compulsory.

I look back down at the paper again and my eyes snag on the last day of the program. August 25.

I have somewhere I need to be on the thirtieth.

With a deep breath, I push a smile onto my lips. "I'm not worried," I tell her. "It's only four weeks."

I can't remember exactly when I started lying. Maybe sometime after my dad died. Now it feels like the only thing I do.

My mother pulls off the highway and onto a dirt road that eventually opens to a beautiful valley. She stops and we get out of the car at a footpath that disappears between pine trees and heavy bushes. A dark wooden sign says, BEAR CREEK CAMPGROUNDS with a simple carving of a tent and a crescent moon above it.

I remember these hills and trails from a hundred different summers. It's like my body still carries the memories of this place. I shake out the feelings that seem to ignite on my fingertips.

Tiny wood buildings dot the valley along with gigantic white firs and gnarled ponderosa pines. They all compete with the large granite mountains that sparkle in the light like someone dropped glitter onto them. A beautiful river cuts through the center,

with aspen trees growing out from its edges. I pull my phone from my back pocket and check it.

No signal. Not a single bar.

My mother looks at me and frowns. "You won't need that thing."

The truth of her words chews at the loneliness I feel inside my chest. There's not really anyone to call.

My mother pulls my suitcase from the trunk and sets it down on the dirt road with a thud. The silver luggage shines in the bright California sun as it sits on the baked earth announcing to everyone that it doesn't belong. I can't help but notice the similarities between us.

It's the beginning of the hottest part of the California summer. When the heat builds and never breaks, even in the darkness of night. I can feel the traitorous sun reaching down from the blue sky above as we stand in front of the gate.

Excerpted from The Atlas of Us by Kristin Dwyer. Copyright © 2024 by Kristin Dwyer. Excerpted by permission of HarperTeen. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.