Tides of the Heart (Crestwood Chronicles #1)

Chapter 3

"Are you excited?"

My best friend and roommate hovers over me, standing behind the couch on which I sit. It's been almost a month since my close encounter on the beach, the only remaining reminder thereof being a fresh scar above my left brow and a lingering sense of shame. I haven't been back to the cliffs, but with my nearly double load of classes and finals approaching, I've hardly had time to do more than eat, sleep, and study.

"Well, come on, Charlie—say something!" Lana whacks my arm. "This is what you've been waiting for, isn't it? The thing you haven't shut up about all semester?"

Still in shock, I merely nod.

Lana snatches the letter from my hands and reads aloud.

"Dear Mr. Hill,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected to attend our exclusive undergraduate paleontology summer internship program. From June 15 through July 12, you and five other students will have the opportunity to experience hands-on fieldwork at a remote dig site in eastern Utah.

Please return the enclosed form confirming your participation no later than June 1.

Blah blah blah,

Yours truly,

Professor Robert MacDowell, Ph.D."

The 'blah blah blah' wasn't in the letter, of course; that was just Lana skipping the boring parts.

"I don't know what you were so worried about," she says, tossing the letter on the pile of forms and checklists that had accompanied it in its thick manila envelope. "You were a shoo-in; MacDowell loves you."

"He doesn't play favorites," I say, sorting through the papers until I find the confirmation form. "Besides, you have to disclose any medical conditions on the application. Something like asthma could have disqualified me."

"Is that legal?" Lana asks, resting her elbows on the back of the threadbare couch so her silky brown hair falls over my shoulder.

"In this case, yeah. It's a safety issue. When they say 'remote,' they mean it. If something serious happens, you have to get airlifted out. The site's location isn't public knowledge, either. They keep it secret, so looters and amateurs don't go out there and try to dig stuff up."

"Looters?" Lana laughs. "People loot fossils?"

"Sure," I say distractedly, scanning over the list of things I'm supposed to bring with me. "A few years ago, a T-Rex specimen sold at auction for 31.8 million. That's the high end, but yeah, fossils are valuable.

Lana whistles. "Wow. Bring one back for me, will ya?"

I laugh. "No way. That's the whole point. They belong in museums, where they can be studied, not in some rich dude's private collection."

"Easy for you to say. You don't have to think about boring old things like money." Lana's tone is just sharp enough to sting. She pushes herself away from the couch and crosses our shared living space to the galley-style kitchen. "You want tea?"

I take a careful breath before answering. "Sure. Thanks."

I listen to the comforting, familiar sounds of my roommate filling the electric kettle, getting down two mismatched mugs from our eclectic little collection (we bought them at a thrift shop and picked out the ugliest ones we could find) and opening two packets of tea. Lana likes her tea strong and black, and the current box is a variety of Irish Breakfast that promises to make hair grow on your chest. With enough sugar and cream, it's drinkable.