Up to This Pointe

by Jennifer Longo

  And you must be willing to eat your dogs.

  I sleep through my alarm, hitting snooze three times before it makes me so mad I toss my phone onto the empty bed, and then I have to get up to turn it off, and my feet are freezing even in both pairs of socks I’ve got on. The blue cinder block walls even look cold. I remember where I am.

  It’s nearly six. Beard said six for dinner? Right? I never asked him where the dining hall is. I’m not hungry. But I pull on a few more layers and take my room key. Because I am here. So I should be here. Act like it.

  Down the stairwell and through the empty lobby, I follow sounds of voices and find the dining hall, which looks a lot like SF State’s campus cafeteria: round tables and people holding plates before a buffet of metal food trays. Dreadlocked white guys are in the kitchen, pulling pans from ovens, opening giant cans of fruit. I pick up a plate and put some lettuce on it. Cottage cheese, carrots. Hard-boiled egg. I pour a cup of hot water for tea.

  “Scott!” Beard is at a crowded table. He waves me over and makes room beside him. “Charlotte,” he calls across the table to a really beautiful woman talking to another shaggy guy. “This is your assistant, Scott!”

  Charlotte rises from her chair to smile and reach her hand out to mine. She’s maybe in her late twenties. Her hair falls in ringlets around her face, held back with a clip. She’s the only woman at the table. The only black person in the room. “Harper, right? Ooh, like To Kill a—”

  “No.”

  “Harper Scott,” Beard Ben says, nodding.

  “Yeah, Ben,” she says. “We get it. Harper, I’m so glad you made it! How was the trip? Is your mom okay?”

  I nod. “She will be.”

  “Have you called her?” I shake my head. “Come to my office after dinner. Call her so she doesn’t worry or she’ll never forgive me.”

  “You know her mom?” Ben asks.

  “Harper, this is everyone….” Charlotte railroads Ben as she introduces me to the five other guys at our table, mostly scientists, some support staff, all of whom Charlotte says I’ll only see at meals because “I’m going to keep you busy every minute—you okay with that?”

  I nod.

  “So, Harper, your mom is…?”

  “Ben, I swear to God,” Charlotte huffs. “Ellen! Ellen Scott, San Francisco, my thesis advisor?”

  “Okay, but Ellen’s never been here?”

  Charlotte rolls her eyes. “No.”

  “So you’re studying marine biology?” Ben asks through a maw of ice he’s chewing like a handful of peanuts.

  “No, I’m just…” I look to Charlotte.

  “Oh,” he says. “Micro, not marine?”

  I stir my tea. I’m here now. The plane’s gone—they can’t make me leave for faking science credentials. I don’t think.

  Charlotte squeezes a lemon wedge into a bowl of yogurt. “Harper is the third high school student. She’s my research grant assistant.”

  “You already have an assistant.”

  “Yes. And now I have two.” She gives him an it’s-none-of-your-business look.

  I like Charlotte.

  She leans toward me. “Vivian arrived on last week’s flight and immediately caught a wretched cold. You’ll meet her once she’s out of quarantine. She’s really smart. You’ll like her. Not sure who’s got the third—we’ll have to investigate so the three of you can commit all your rascally teen antics!”

  “Okay.” Ben leans back. Eyeballs me. “So what was it, Scott? Someone die? Guy break up with you?”

  “Ben.”

  “What?”

  Charlotte full-on glares at him.

  “Whatever.” He shrugs. “You want to spend all winter babysitting, that’s your deal. Have fun.”

  Charlotte hucks her lemon rind and clocks the side of Ben’s head.

  “What the hell!” he chokes.

  Charlotte turns to me. “Harper, you’ll need to learn to ignore Ben, and the other jealous members of his ilk.”

  “My ilk? Listen, there is no jealousy,” Ben drawls. “I’m simply stating the fact that if a Scott, a kid not even studying science, is here in the capacity of a ‘research assistant’ when, like, hundreds of actual science students would kill for the opportunity, it is one hundred percent because you snuck in, and (a) you had some life-altering tragedy you think coming here will fix, or (b) some dude dumped you and you’re on an Eat, Pray, Love journey or some shit.”

  The table is silent. There is a very strong whirlpool in my teacup. Charlotte reaches over and stops my stirring.

  “Harper,” she says, “if you’ve had enough of people referring to you in the pronoun sense and projecting their own life failures onto you, would you like to finish up and come with me to call your mom?”

  Charlotte stands. I do, too, and we push in our chairs.

  “Gentlemen,” she says. “Ben.” I follow her to the tray drop and out of the dining hall.

  “Sorry about that,” she sighs. She unlocks a door and holds it open for me. “Your plane was the last one. No more on or off The Ice until September. As of today, we’re completely cut off from the rest of the world, which Ben should be used to by now—this is his third winter.” She moves some papers off an office chair, sits me in it, switches a desk lamp on, and leans against her desk, which is piled with papers and files and a million ballpoint pens and highlighters. “Things close in; guys especially get territorial. It’s a sausage fest.”

  I nod. “You really already have an assistant?”

  “Harper. You’re a Scott. They’re going to be jealous, and they can screw off. You’ve got just as much right to be here as anyone. What I need your help with isn’t dependent on some intense science-based education. I’m writing grants, too. I need data entry, organizing, nuts and bolts. Without the grants, I can’t do the research. Okay?”

  “You don’t feel stuck babysitting?”

  “Seriously, don’t listen to a word that guy says.”

  “But it’s true. I lied! I’m not into science—or research or anything!”

  “People beg, borrow, and steal to get here; add lying to the pile. There were two legit science spots. You took nothing from anyone, and I need your help. Your stipend is less than theirs if that makes you feel any better.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes! By fifty cents an hour, so cheer up! I love your mom so much. I can’t believe she let you come.”

  “She wasn’t thrilled.”

  Charlotte nods. “Winter isn’t easy. Doesn’t matter. You’ll be brilliant. Might be just what you need.”

  My heart jacks up. “What did she tell you? Because I’m fine!”

  “No one said anything to anyone, I swear. It was last-minute and not about science, so a person may naturally be curious—especially a scientist.” She smiles. “But I’m telling you: all that matters is you’re here and I need your help. That’s all I want to know. This is the very last part of my thesis before I submit. I need you.”

  I nod. “Thank you. So much.”

  She’s got aqua-blue crystals dangling from her ears, delicate birds tattooed on her small, bare shoulders. She is San Francisco incarnate: batik blouse, jeans, silver rings on nearly every finger; the clip in her curls is beaded, one a person could find for sale on a serape-covered folding table on Market Street.

  “Where in San Francisco are you from?” I’m going to get wild and guess the Mission. Or the Haight. The cool neighborhoods.

  “Outer Sunset. Forty-Fifth and Judah.”

  I smile, but my heart twists. I can see Forty-Fifth Avenue, the Sunset’s wide streets, rolling gentle hills leading straight into the ocean, so beautiful it inspires poetry.

  At the end of our streets is sunset; At the end of our streets the stars.

  “Your mom let me build my own degree. It’s taken me forever, but I’m nearly done—I’ll be the first master of science in eco-marine biology the school’s ever matriculated.”

  “Wow.”

  “Will you g
o to State? What do you think you’ll major in?”

  “I have no idea.” Understatement of the century.

  “Plenty of time for that. You’re in the perfect place to think about it.” She stands. “How do you feel about snowmobiles?”

  “Um. Pretty neutral? I guess?”

  “Because Vivian’s not going to be well enough yet, and I’ve got to get some data I’m missing before the ice shifts. We can reach the rookery in forty-five minutes, and it may be your last chance to see it, so I say we go. You in?”

  “Rookery?”

  “Penguins! Weather’s supposed to be gorgeous tomorrow, low thirties at least. Jet lag hates fresh air and sunshine, right? After your safety training, we’ll get your gear and be back before noon.”

  She moves a phone to the center of her desk, writes the number for an outside international call on a Post-it, and moves to leave me alone in her tiny office.

  “Charlotte?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s good I came here. Right?”

  She smiles from the door. “You’ll know when winter’s over. But I can tell you right now yes. You’ll see.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Tell your mom I said hi. And try to stay up late-ish to get on a regular schedule….Ooh, wait, perfect! It’s movie night—did they tell you?”

  I shake my head.

  “Movie, in bed by ten, you’ll be raring to go tomorrow.” She glances at her watch. “Starts in half an hour. First floor, second room right after the kitchen. Follow the popcorn. It’s special, to celebrate Last Plane Out. We used to watch The Thing, except last winter one of the guys found a hundred thousand microbial fossils in the ice, which is basically the plot of that one, so…”

  “So what are we watching instead?”

  She closes the door nearly all the way and sticks her head through to whisper, “The Shining,” then shuts it quietly behind her.

  I’m pretty sure she’s not kidding.

  - - -

  She wasn’t. The freaking Shining. These people are insane; they laughed all through it. So then I dreamed of creepy elevator twins and didn’t sleep. Jet lag is winning.

  But I’m up at six, my bags are at my door (pajamas!), and I take a shower. The bathrooms are also dorm-like, rows of sinks and showers. I take my shampoo and loofah in a plastic caddy, and the first lesson I’m learning from The Ice is what a horrible water-waster I am. Antarctica is a geographic desert. McMurdo is a self-sustaining town alone in the world, so any water we’ve got is all we’ve got. My dearly beloved twenty-minute shower (Yes, shameful. Especially in drought-plagued California. Lesson #1: Learned. Antarctica is making me a better person already) has been reduced to five of bliss, which isn’t long enough to rinse the shampoo from my heavy hair, let alone shave my legs.

  But who cares because I’m not wearing tights today. Anymore.

  “Harper!” Charlotte’s cheerful voice and shave-and-a-haircut knock come through my dorm door.

  She’s in her red parka, tall boots, ski pants. “Ready for an adventure?”

  The small McMurdo winter population also means there’s no line for food. We just walk up and grab some toast and juice, and we’re headed to Ben, the glorified hall monitor.

  “Hey,” Charlotte says to him. “Can you call fire and tell them we need a radio after safety?”

  Ben is watching CNN on a tiny TV in his office by the building’s entry door. “Uh, I don’t know. Can you call them yourself?”

  “Stop showing off for Harper. Tell them we’ll be there before lunch.” She turns to me. “Ready?”

  Ben lazily dials some numbers. “And where am I to tell them you ladies will be off to?”

  Charlotte pulls a ski mask over her head and helps me do the same. “Cape Royds.”

  “What?”

  “The rookery. Don’t have a hissy fit—can you just call, please?”

  He sits there, seething, pissed at me. I have so much secret Antarctica Code to learn.

  “Rookery, my ass.” He mumbles something into the phone and pushes his knit cap off his nearly bald head.

  “Excuse me,” Charlotte says. “What was that?” Ben covers the receiver with his hand, overenunciates in a hoarse whisper.

  “I said It. Is. Bullshit. This is my third winter. I haven’t been to Royds once, and you’re taking her? Pays to be royalty, I guess.”

  Royalty? Huh.

  Charlotte heaves a huge sigh. “You know what, Ben? It also pays to not be a douche bag.” She takes the receiver from his hand and hangs it up with a dramatic slam, way more satisfying than tapping the face of an iPhone. “I’ll go myself.” Then to me, “Ready, Your Highness?”

  She leans her shoulder against the heavy door, and an icy blast of wind pours pain right back into my head. I will never get used to this.

  She shouts, smiling into the cold, “You okay?”

  I nod.

  Charlotte is helping with this training, ten of us learning basic survival skills, should we become separated or lost on The Ice. Information I’m pretty certain I will never use, because I swear to God, I am never leaving the building again until September.

  The sun is high and cold, casting short blue shadows on The Ice and mud between the corrugated metal of McMurdo’s buildings. The group is laughing, loud volleys of talk echoing in the incredibly clean air. I’m a little light-headed, partly from exhaustion but maybe also from each absolutely fresh, cold breath I draw. Even with tractors and trucks nearby and all these buildings, this air is so remarkably pure it hurts.

  A guy instructor joins Charlotte, and the rest of us are schooled about not falling to our deaths in deep ice crevasses, paying attention to black flags and orange cones, and always getting a radio if we’re leaving the station. And then they blindfold us. We must learn to find home as if in an ice storm with no rope. Desert ice storms aren’t about snow falling from the sky; they are about insane winds whipping across the empty, endless white, pulling up ice and sending it, burning, into a person’s eyes. So with bandannas tied on our faces, one by one we flail our way to the small supply shed. Everyone makes it—except me. I am lost. Oh, the irony.

  I can’t go with Charlotte until I succeed, though, and so I try a second and third time and at last I stumble into the corner of the shed, and they ring a brass bell, celebrating that I did not wander aimlessly to my frozen death. Charlotte is thrilled.

  “Class dismissed!” she calls through her ski mask and hood. “Equipment back in storage, and, Harper, let’s go!”

  I follow her back to the dining hall, where we grab carrot and cheese sticks and Charlotte eats a dinner roll. We drink black tea and jump around a little, warming our hands. She retrieves a backpack from her office, and, ignoring Ben’s glare, we march back out into the cold.

  At the fire station, Charlotte collects a radio transmitter from a guy in charge, she signs me out, and we hike a few yards to an open shed housing a row of snowmobiles. “Hang on tight, and we’ll be there in no time,” she promises. “Ready?”

  We speed along the ice and snow away from McMurdo, around black crevasse flags, toward the sun. I turn my head against the back of her red parka and see, for the first time, the full height of Observation Hill, a long-dead volcano that is black and tall in the pale sky behind the station buildings. We are flying straight into the white, the ocean beside us our only landmark. I close my eyes. My heart races. Simone would be so furious if she could see this happening.

  You’ll break both legs! You’ll break your back! You’ll never dance again!

  I open my eyes.

  “You okay?” I barely hear Charlotte’s voice sail past me.

  “Yes!” I yell.

  “Want to piss Ben off?”

  I nod vigorously against her shoulder.

  She steers the snowmobile inland around a stony rise in the ice to the front of a wooden building.

  Shackleton’s Hut. I know this because he’d wanted to use Scott’s Hut at McMurdo Sound for an expedit
ion, but Scott wouldn’t let him. So Shackleton built his own here. Pissing match. In the snow. Dudes.

  It’s got a peaked roof and a stovepipe, a couple of windows. Piled behind the hut are big crates of random stuff covered with waxed canvas. Charlotte slows to a stop. We dismount and I stand in numb silence for a moment while the snowmobile engine sound is swallowed by the ocean’s roar and freezing-cold stillness. My legs are cramping.

  “This is my very favorite time of year.” Charlotte stretches her arms across her chest. “Tourists are gone. Sun’s still up. You did so great. Are you freezing?”

  “Little bit.”

  “Jump around. Keep your blood moving. You’ll love this.”

  The door is closed but unlocked. Inside it is 1908.

  Shelves of tinned meats. Stiff clothes hanging from rafters, beds and blankets, antique research equipment on a wooden table beneath a snow-grimy window. We step into the center of this time capsule, virtually unchanged since the last of Shackleton’s crew took refuge here, restocking their supplies to live long enough to make it off The Ice.

  “Ben’s an Amundsen,” Charlotte says.

  “He is?”

  “Oh, sorry, no—not like you—he’s a Peter Pan living for himself with no responsibilities who spends his entire off-season life traveling. I meant that everyone on The Ice is either an Amundsen, a Scott, or a Shackleton. They align themselves—Amundsens are typically the jocks, nonscientists like Ben who act like idiots and jump naked into The Ice to prove…whatever frozen balls proves. They all whine about how unfair it is that Amundsen won; he got to the pole first, but Scott gets all the attention because he’s the martyr. And Shackleton didn’t even get to the pole and yet he’s the hero. Why do they get all the reward even though they lost? Like exploring Antarctica is a game. How is freezing to death a reward? It’s so stupid.”

  Ballet is perfection of an art. It is not a competition.

  Except when it is.

  “All the scientists are Scotts, of course,” she says. “So people are jealous you’re an actual Scott. Ben’s jealous you’re here today because two summers and his third winter and he’s never been to any of the huts, none of the graves—not the pole. Which is where everyone wants to go. Right?”