Girl Wonder

by Alexa Martin

  Amanda had left her mark on him.

  My palms started to sweat. Though I no longer desired him, it was still nerve-racking to be in the presence of a person who’d left you to hang. But then, Neal had always made me nervous. I’d never felt good enough for him, so I could never be myself.

  He kept glancing down the hall in a keyed-up way. I wondered if he was on something.

  I’ve known Amanda a long time, he’d said. I didn’t want her to dump me first, he’d said. Neal had always preferred Amanda. I’d just been too blind to see it.

  Poor Neal. I felt a sudden wave of pity for him. He knew exactly who Amanda was and what she could and would do if put to the test. Yet he’d gone back for more.

  Though he was as handsome as ever, something had changed. Looking at him, I felt the way you did when you go back to a place from childhood and discover that it’s a lot smaller than you remembered.

  He fidgeted with his watch. “I’ve been meaning to call.”

  “That’s not why—” I took a deep breath. “How much do I owe for the damage?”

  “Charlotte—” He wiped his brow. “It’s been dealt with. It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me,” I said.

  “I think it was around five hundred bucks. But it’s not—”

  “Thanks,” I said. “It might be a while before I can get you the money.”

  “What will you do?” he asked.

  “Rob a bank?” I smiled to show him I was kidding. “I’ll get a job, of course.”

  He looked taken aback. “Really? What kind?” Neal’s parents, I remembered, didn’t want him to work until he finished college.

  “I might want to work for a veterinarian. Or maybe an animal shelter.”

  It seemed fitting to work with animals. A way to atone for the fish. Not that what I’d done—in the grand scheme of things—had been as terrible as all that. People eat fish every day. Though, come to think of it, maybe I’d become a vegetarian too.

  “Why would you do that?” he asked.

  “I have a passion for living things.” As I said the words, I realized that they were true.

  “Charlotte,” Neal said as I started to walk away. “I’m sorry you got hurt.”

  I turned around. His agonized expression broke my heart all over again.

  “Good luck at Nationals,” I said. “And Neal…good luck.”

  It was the third week of April. James Henry and I were sitting on the front porch waiting for Dad to pick us up for a “fun family day in the snow” at Mount Baker—the only ski area in the state still open this late in the season. A fun family day minus our mom.

  Though I begged her to let me skip this outing, she’d remained firm. “I know you’re angry. But you still have to go. Like it or not, he is your dad.”

  I didn’t thank her for reminding me.

  “I’m not snowboarding,” I warned. “Or skiing.”

  “No one says you to have to enjoy yourself. You can do homework. Or meditate.”

  Dad was late. Surprise! Apparently, all the decompressing he’d done in Mexico had made him lackadaisical about things like being considerate.

  James Henry glanced at his watch. “He needs to hurry if I’m going to get first tracks.”

  “First tracks?”

  “You know—when you go down a run before anyone else? It’s…orgasmic.”

  “Orgasmic?” I raised an eyebrow.

  “Do I really have to explain? It’s a word that means—”

  “Whoa.” I raised my hand. “Stop right there. I’m just surprised to learn that your education is so…” I cleared my throat. “Advanced.”

  “There’s a lot of stuff I know,” he said, looking suddenly unsure of this fact.

  “Slow it down a little, okay?”

  He rolled his eyes. “What—you’re like this font of wisdom all of a sudden?”

  “Maybe.”

  Just then, Dad pulled up and honked. As I climbed into the backseat, he said, “You’re going off to college in just a few short months. There’s no excuse for not driving.”

  “Okay.” I met his eyes in the rearview mirror and called his bluff. “Want me to drive?”

  “Hmm.” He drummed his hands on the wheel. “I didn’t mean today. The conditions are going to be extra challenging on the mountain roads. You’re not ready. But soon.”

  Right. He didn’t want me touching his Audi. He just wanted me to feel bad about not wanting to. Perhaps this made him feel better about himself. Who knew? Who knew what his problem was? It wasn’t me. In his own way, my dad did love me—as much as he could love anyone. I was beginning to think that maybe I knew more about love than he did. Love. No amount of fancy education could help you make sense of it.

  While my dad and brother went off in search of “killer face shots,” I sat at a table in the day lodge, drinking coffee and working on my latest math assignment. People stared at my open textbook on their way to the restrooms, clucking their tongues and eyeing me skeptically. Their expressions told me it was a shame, an insult, even, to forsake the wonderland outside for something as dull as mathematical proofs.

  I heartily agreed. But I was making a stand. I had to show my father—What exactly did I have to show my father?

  Clearing a hole in the fogged-up windows, I observed the ski runs outside—the long curving groomers, the bumpy mogul fields, and up toward the top of the ski area, the powder chutes and open glades. Strange clouds that looked like flying saucers loomed on the horizon. I overheard a ski patrol guy say that the clouds meant there was high wind in the atmosphere, and that the weather was going to turn ugly in a day or so.

  Around noon, my dad and James Henry came trudging up the stairs. I waved them over to my table. Wordlessly, they stripped off their outer garments and spread them near the fireplace to dry. From their tense expressions, I gathered that the “killer face shots” had maybe been a little too killer.

  Dad handed us each some cash. “Get yourselves something nutritious.”

  Ravenous, I grabbed a cheese and tomato sandwich, an apple, and a hot chocolate with extra whipped cream, and took my place at the end of a long line. The three girls in front of me were discussing the pros and cons of various tooth-whitening techniques. So that they wouldn’t think I was eavesdropping, I scanned the crowded room, pretending I was looking for somebody, or, even better, that somebody was looking for me.

  Then I saw James Henry, standing in front of the soda case, and surrounded on either side by two guys. Both towered over him by at least a foot. One of the guys was wearing a baggy jacket that said Bite Me on the back. The other one’s jacket said Piss off.

  From James Henry’s stance—still, stiff, his arms crossed protectively—and the loud cruel laughter of the boys, I could tell that whatever was going on was not a touchy-feely let’s-be-pals sort of thing.

  Damn.

  I stood rooted for a moment, agonizing over whether or not to get involved. I didn’t want my brother to hate me for interfering. On the other hand…I knew exactly how it felt when the ones you loved left you to hang. I started to make my way over, but right then the boys wandered off, their attention diverted by a hot girl in a silver snowsuit.

  James Henry remained where he was. Frozen.

  Suddenly there was a commotion. There’d been a collision of some kind.

  I turned around and rose on my toes to see what was going on. My brother’s two tormentors now dripped chili and soda and were sputtering angrily. And right in the thick of it, trying to help them clean up and apologizing profusely for toppling his food tray, was Milton Zacharias.

  “I’ll pay for the dry cleaning,” I heard him say.

  He sounded sincere. Was the collision merely a coincidence? Karma?

  Then, for the most fleeting of seconds, I saw Milton struggle to gain control of a twitch at the corners of his mouth. Among other complicated emotions that I didn’t want to think about, gratitude surged through me.

  Good work there,
mushroom man.

  The girl in the silver snowsuit stood off to the side of the wreckage, eyeing with disgust a small splotch of red that had landed on her shoulder—she the lone casualty of justice. She perked right up, though, when Milton offered her a couple of napkins. Fluttered her eyelashes a little.

  C’mon! How obvious could you get?

  Rolling my eyes, I tried to tell myself that my stomach was suddenly hurting because I was hungry and not…NO. I was not going there. I wasn’t even going to think about it.

  What the hell was Milton doing here, anyhow?

  When he’d texted me yesterday, he’d mentioned some big test that he had to study for over the weekend. I hadn’t told him about us coming to Baker today. There hadn’t seemed to be any point.

  “Charlotte?”

  Oh God. Now Milton was standing right in front of me. The girl had trailed him a short ways. She watched us for a moment (me standing silent and awkward—Milton sweaty and just a little stinky in that sexy guy way), nodded to herself, and then walked off quietly without saying good-bye. I shook my head. The girl made no sense.

  “Hi,” I finally croaked to Milton. “What you just did back there—”

  “Total dork maneuver,” he said. “What can I say? I’m a klutz.”

  “No.” I shook my head firmly. “I know what I saw. Thank you.”

  “’Nuff said.” He looked almost bashful. “It was nothing.”

  “Thanks for nothing, then.”

  He smiled. I smiled back.

  “Hey,” I asked, “aren’t you supposed to be studying for a test?”

  “Last-minute change,” he said, his expression sheepish, almost impatient.

  With the force of an icy blast, it dawned on me. “Oh. I get it. She’s here,” I said, making my voice sound light and playful.

  I started to ask if they’d come together, but right then my brother appeared bearing an enormous tray of food, his appetite seemingly unaffected by his recent hazing. He smacked Milton in the arm. “Zacharias! You got my text! I was afraid I sent it too late. It’s awesome you came. You’re eating with us, right?”

  “Uh, bro?” I coughed. “I think Milton might be here with somebody.”

  James Henry looked from Milton to me, his brow furrowed with confusion. “Huh? But I thought—”

  “Where are we sitting?” Milton asked loudly, giving my brother a very pointed stare.

  James Henry started to laugh. “Sorry, man. Didn’t mean to cramp your style.”

  “You guys are freaks,” I muttered, shaking my head as I strolled back to our table.

  “You haven’t said anything yet?” I heard James Henry whisper.

  I sped off so I wouldn’t have to hear Milton’s answer. There was comfort sometimes in not knowing the truth. Then there were the truths you wished you didn’t know.

  Dad was on his cell phone when we sat down. He waved, mouthed, “Just a second,” and walked off to talk someplace more secluded.

  Without saying a word, James Henry gave Milton all his fries, and I handed over half of my sandwich. That we didn’t question why Milton was without food today was perhaps acknowledgment enough of what had happened to my brother.

  “Why aren’t you out there on the mountain?” Milton asked me. “You’re missing the fun.”

  “Are you kidding?” I thumped my math book. “This is where the fun is at.”

  “Hey!” James Henry snapped his fingers. “I have an idea! Milton. Why don’t you give Charlotte a snowboarding lesson?”

  I set my sandwich down mid-bite. When I looked up, I saw that Milton’s head was buried in his hands. His neck was bright red. He wasn’t saying anything.

  Shit. He knew.

  Yes, my crush on him—I would admit it now…I liked Milton—was no doubt disgustingly obvious and making him very uncomfortable. What the hell was my brother thinking?

  Frowning at a stain on my jeans, I mumbled, “I’ve got tons of studying—”

  “I’d love to,” Milton said simultaneously.

  Frantically, I scrubbed at the stain. Was it warm or cold water that you were supposed to use for mustard? It seemed imperative that I remember this fact—even though I didn’t like these jeans all that much.

  “But what about her?” I asked. “Don’t you want to—?”

  “It’s not a big deal,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “She’s—kind of oblivious.”

  James Henry snorted loudly and coughed out a piece of hamburger.

  They were still laughing when Dad rejoined us. “What I’d miss?” he asked, scanning our faces in search of the joke.

  “Nothing,” my brother said. “We were just goofing off.”

  I stared at Dad pointedly. “Actually—you’ve missed a lot, Dad. But that’s not something I think I can really explain to you.”

  My brother was oblivious to my real meaning. My father looked confused and (I hoped) maybe a little hurt. Milton wasn’t oblivious or confused. He looked almost proud of me. I was proud of myself. I’d spoken the truth. There was a lot my dad had missed. There was a lot he was going to miss. He was smart in the obvious ways. But not about the things that mattered.

  Half an hour later, I found myself riding a ski lift to the top of a beginner run, a rental snowboard dangling from one of my legs. Our chair swayed back and forth in the wind. Every time we crossed through a support tower, it made a loud clicking sound. I clutched the armrest tightly—not that holding on to it would do me any good if we suddenly plummeted to the ground.

  “Relax,” Milton said. “The only way you’re going to fall off this thing is if you decide to jump. Which would be a bad idea, by the way. You’re not going to get hurt today. Your brother would kill me if I let something happen to you.”

  I pretended to look around. “Uh—which brother is this? Where’s he been all my life?”

  He laughed. “I know this is going to come as a shocker, but people do say nice things about you sometimes.”

  The chair was a two-seater, and small. There wasn’t any room between us. Milton’s left leg was pressed tight against my right one. Through my jeans and his puffy snow pants, I could feel the warmth of his body and the hard lean muscles of his quadriceps. The gum he was smacking smelled like licorice—which made me wonder what he would taste like. I gave my head a quick shake and acted like the only thing on my mind was the view.

  It was stunning up here. Against the glistening snow, the dark outlines of the mountain ridges appeared all the more jagged. The sun could be seen as a pale orb through a filter of clouds. Plastered with white, the trees looked like creatures out of a fantasy novel.

  “Why so serious?” Milton asked. “What’s going on in that brain of yours?”

  “Stuff,” I said.

  “What kind of stuff?” he asked.

  Um…you?

  Stalling for time, I removed a glove, blew into it to warm it, and put it back on. “Lots of things,” I finally said. “Like the fact that I’m graduating from high school next month and have no clue what to do with my life.”

  “You’re not supposed to have those things figured out yet. No one does.”

  “I bet you know exactly what you want to do.”

  “I have an idea,” he admitted.

  “But of course,” I sighed. “Everyone else in my world seems to know.”

  He shook his head. “You’re wrong there. Most of my friends—they don’t know. Or if they know what they want to do, they want it for the wrong reasons, like for money or power. Or worse, because they think it will get them laid.”

  “So what’s your brilliant plan?” I asked, readjusting my scarf.

  “You really want to know? It’s definitely not cool.”

  “Spill it.”

  “I want to study the medicinal properties of fungus.”

  “Not cool?” I exclaimed. “What are you talking about? Mushrooms are sexy.”

  “Be nice.” He pushed back his sunglasses. “I’m baring my soul here.”<
br />
  “Go on. You’re doing great.”

  He eyed me skeptically, but continued anyway. “When I was young, everyone used to pick on me because I was so small. The same kind of shit that happens to James Henry. And I—well, I pretended that mushrooms were my friends.” He coughed. “Magical friends. Like wizards.”

  “Magical friends?” I raised an eyebrow. “Wizards?”

  He shot me a look.

  “Right.” I made my face look very serious. “Wizards.”

  He ignored this. “If you look at it one way, mushrooms really are magical. They have tons of medicinal properties. There’s so much research to be done. Lifesaving research. There’s this professor at the University of Washington who studies this kind of thing? He said he’d be my thesis adviser if I go there. He wrote this killer book on slime molds,” Milton added.

  “Think I could get an autographed copy?”

  “Slime molds are very misunderstood,” he said haughtily.

  “I’m sorry.” I laughed. “You might not want to mention slime molds to lady love.” Milton frowned at this. I held up my hands. “I’m just trying to help you.”

  Changing the subject, he said, “It’s hard to believe it’s the middle of spring. There’s a storm coming.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Can’t you smell it?” He sniffed the air.

  High above us, skiers and snowboarders dropped into fingerlike chutes and disappeared into clouds of snow, whooping it up like children, some of them probably children for real. A lone skier crashed on a steep mogul run, tumbling twenty feet before he came to a stop, losing bits of clothing in the process.

  “That’s called a yard sale,” Milton said. “We’ll work you up to that.” He nudged me gently with his shoulder, sending a jolt through my body.

  It was time for a reality check. My voice all buddy-buddy, I said, “It’s cool that you want to give me a lesson today. And I’m all for you baring your soul. But one of these days you’re going to have to make your move with what’s-her-name. What is her name, by the way?”