by Cynthia Hand
Ava’s wearing too much eye makeup. I wonder if he likes that kind of thing.
He glances over at me and smirks before I have a chance to look away. I smirk back, then try to saunter over to the deli counter, but I can’t pull it off. It’s impossible to saunter in ski boots.
* * *
I stand with a few spectators on the side of Werner run and watch Christian hurl himself at the gates, sometimes grazing them with his shoulders as he passes through. It’s graceful, the way his body bends toward the gate, his skis coming up onto their edges and his knees nearly brushing the snow. His movements so careful, so purposeful. His lips pursed in concentration.
After he blasts through the finish line I penguin-walk over to where he’s watching the other racers run the course and say hello.
“Did you win?” I ask.
“I always win. Except when I don’t. This was one of the don’ts.” He shrugs like he doesn’t care, but I can tell by his face that he’s unhappy with his performance
“You looked good to me. Fast, I mean.”
“Thanks,” he says. He fiddles with the number that’s strapped to his chest: 9. It makes me think of 99CX, his license plate.
“Are you trying for the Olympics?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. I’m on the ski team, not the ski club.”
I must look confused, because he smiles and says, “The ski team’s the high school’s official team, which only competes against other teams from Wyoming. The ski club’s where all the hard-core people go, the skiers who get sponsors and national recognition and all that.”
“Don’t you want to win gold medals?”
“I was in club, for a while. But it’s a little too intense for me. Too much pressure. I don’t want to be a professional skier. I just like skiing. I like racing.” He grins suddenly. “The speed is very addictive.”
Yes it is. I smile. “I’m still trying to make it down the hill in one piece.”
“How’s that going? Getting the hang of it?”
“Better every day.”
“Pretty soon you’ll be ready for the racecourse, too.”
“Yep, and then you’d better watch out.”
He laughs. “I’m sure you’ll crush me.”
“Right.”
He looks around like he’s expecting someone to join us. It makes me nervous, like any moment Kay will materialize out of thin air and tell me to step away from her boyfriend.
“Does Kay ski, too?” I ask.
He gives a short laugh. “No, she’s a lodge bunny. If she comes at all. She knows how to ski, but she says she gets too cold. She hates ski season, because I can’t really do stuff with her on the weekends.”
“That sucks.”
He looks around again.
“Yeah,” he says.
“Kay’s in my English class. She never says much. I always wonder if she’s even read the books.”
Okay, so my mouth is completely disconnected from my brain. I look at his face to see if I’ve offended him. But he only laughs again, a longer, warmer laugh this time.
“She takes honors classes to look good on the college apps, but books aren’t really her thing,” he says.
I don’t want to think about what her thing might be. I don’t want to think about Kay at all, but now that we’re talking about her, I’m curious.
“When did you and Kay start going out?”
“Fall, sophomore year,” he answers. “She’s a cheerleader, and back then I played football, and at the homecoming game she got hurt doing a liberty twist. I think that’s what it’s called — Kay usually tells the story. But she fell and hurt her ankle.”
“Let me guess. You carried her off the field. And then it was happily ever after?”
He looks away, embarrassed. “Something like that,” he says.
And there’s the awkward silence, right on cue.
“Kay seems. ” I want to say “nice,” but I don’t think I can pull that off. “She seems like she’s really into you.”
He doesn’t say anything for a minute, just stares up the course where somebody is coming down now on a snowboard.
“She is,” he says thoughtfully, like he’s talking to himself more than to me. “She’s a good person.”
“Great,” I manage. I don’t particularly want Kay to be a good person. I’m perfectly comfortable thinking about her as the wicked witch.
He coughs uncomfortably, and I realize that I’m staring at him with my big owl eyes. I flush and look up the hill where the snowboarder is crossing the finish line.
“Nice run!” Christian shouts. “Smoking!”
“Thanks, dude,” the snowboarder calls back. He pulls off his goggles. It’s Shawn Davidson, snowboarder Shawn, the guy from the Pizza Hut who called me Bozo. He looks from me to Christian and back again. I feel his gaze on me like a spotlight.
“I better go,” says Christian. “The race is over. Coach will want to break it down for us in the ski shack, watch the videos and all that.”
“Okay,” I say. “Nice to—”
But he’s already gone, tearing his way down the hill, leaving me once again to make it the rest of the way down the mountain by myself.
* * *
In late March we hit a warm spell, and the snow in the valley melts in the space of about two days. Our woods fill up with clusters of red and purple wildflowers. Bright green leaves pop up on the aspens. The land, which has been so quietly pristine all winter, fills with color and noise. I like to stand on our back porch and listen as the breeze stirs the trees into a rhythmic whispering, the creek that cuts across the corner of our land gurgling happily, birds singing (and occasionally dive-bombing me), chipmunks chattering. The air smells like flowers and sun-warmed pine. The mountains behind the house are still white with snow, but spring has definitely sprung.
With it comes the vision, in full force. All winter that particular tingling in my head has been quiet; in fact, it only came to me twice since the first day of school when I saw Christian in the hallway. I thought I was being given a little heavenly break, but apparently that’s over. I’m halfway to school one morning when out of the blue (poof!) I’m back in that familiar forest, walking through the trees toward Christian.
I call his name. He turns toward me, his eyes a green-gold in the slanted afternoon light.
“It’s you,” he says hoarsely.
“It’s me,” I answer. “I’m here.”
“Clara!”
I blink. The first thing I see is Jeffrey’s hand on the steering wheel of the Prius. My foot is still resting lightly on the gas. The car moves very slowly to the side of the road.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp. I pull over immediately and park. “Jeffrey, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “It’s the vision, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s not like you can control when it happens.”
“Yeah, but you’d think that it wouldn’t happen during a time when it might actually kill me. What if I’d crashed? So much for the vision then, right?”
“But you didn’t crash,” he says. “I was here.”
“Thank God.”
He smiles mischievously. “So does this mean I can drive us the rest of the way?”
When I tell Mom about the return of the vision she starts talking about teaching me to fly again, using the word “training” so often that our house feels like it’s been converted to some kind of boot camp. She’s been in a funky mood all winter, spending most of her time in her office with the door shut, drinking tea and hunched in a crocheted blanket. Whenever I knock or stick my head in she always gets this strained look, like she doesn’t want to be bothered. And, truthfully, I’ve been quasi-avoiding her since that first day with Angela, when it became so clear that Mom’s intentionally keeping me in the dark. I spend a lot of afternoons over at the Pink Garter with Angela, which Mom doesn’t like, but as it’s technically school related (we’re working on our Queen Eliz
project after all) she can’t formally object. And weekends, I’ve been on the ski slopes. Which is, I argue, Christian related and, therefore, purpose related. So it’s technically training, right?
Only now the snow on the mountain’s getting awfully thin.
* * *
Wendy takes the warm weather as an opportunity to convince me to ride a horse. So I find myself at the Lazy Dog Ranch sitting on the back of a black-and-white mare named Sassy. Wendy says Sassy’s a good horse to learn on because she’s about thirty years old and doesn’t have much fight left in her. That’s fine by me, although I instantly feel comfortable in the saddle, like I’ve been riding all my life.
“You’re doing really well,” says Wendy, watching me from the fence as I ride the horse slowly around the edge of the pasture. “You’re a natural horsewoman.”
Sassy’s ears perk up. In the distance I see two men on horseback, galloping toward the big red barn at the end of the pasture. The sound of them laughing floats toward us across the field.
“That’s Dad and Tucker,” says Wendy. “Dinner will be ready soon. Better bring Sassy in.”
I give Sassy a gentle kick and she starts toward the barn.
“Hey there!” greets Mr. Avery as we approach. “Looking good.”
“Thanks. I’m Clara.”
“I know,” says Mr. Avery. He looks so much like Tucker. “Wendy’s been talking about you nonstop for months now.” He grins, which makes him look even more like Tucker.
“Dad,” mutters Wendy. She walks up to her dad’s horse and rubs it under the chin.
“Oh lord,” laughs Tucker. “She’s got you on old Sassy.”
I promised myself that I was going to cool it around Tucker today for Wendy’s sake, no matter what he throws at me. No rude remarks. No comebacks. I’m going to be on my best behavior.
“I like her.” I lean forward and stroke Sassy’s neck.
“She’s the horse we put little kids on.”
“Tucker, shut up,” says Wendy.
“But it’s true. That horse hasn’t moved faster than a snail in about five years, I think.
Sitting on her is practically like sitting in a chair.”
Well, we’ll show him.
“Good girl,” I say to Sassy, very softly in Angelic. Her ears whip around to listen to my voice. “Let’s run,” I whisper.
I’m surprised by how quickly she obeys. In seconds we’re in a full gallop, whipping across the far side of the pasture. For a moment the world slows down. The mountains in the background glow a peachy gold, lit by the setting sun. I savor the cool spring air caressing my skin, the strong, dusty feel of the horse under me, her legs stretching out like she’s pulling the earth underneath us as she runs, the in-and-out huff of her hay-scented breath. It’s wonderful.
Then a gust of wind blows my hair across my face and for one panicky moment I can’t see a thing, and everything is going much too fast. I picture myself being thrown off and landing face-first in a pile of manure, Tucker falling all over himself laughing. I toss my head wildly, and my hair is suddenly out of my eyes. My breath catches. The fence is rushing toward us, and Sassy shows no sign of slowing down.
“Can you jump it?” I ask, still whispering. She is, after all, a pretty old horse.
I feel her gather under me. I say a little prayer and lean over her neck. Then we’re in the air, barely clearing the fence. We come down so hard my teeth clatter together. I turn the horse toward the barn, pulling back on the reins a bit to slow her. We trot up to Tucker, Wendy, and Mr. Avery, who are all staring at me with their mouths hanging open.
So much for being on my best behavior.
“Whoa,” I say, and pull up the reins until Sassy stops.
“Holy smokes!” Wendy gasps. “What was that?”
“I don’t know.” I force a laugh. “I think it was mostly the horse’s idea.”
“That was amazing!”
“I guess she still has a bit of sass in her after all.” I glance triumphantly at Tucker.
For once he’s speechless.
“That was sure something,” says Mr. Avery. “I didn’t know the old girl had it in her.”
“How long have you been riding?” asks Tucker.
“This is her first time, isn’t that amazing?” says Wendy. “She’s a natural.”
“Right,” Tucker said, meeting my gaze steadily. “A natural.”
* * *
“So, have you asked Jason Lovett to prom yet?” I ask Wendy as we’re brushing down Sassy in the barn a few minutes later.
She’s immediately the color of a beet. “It’s prom,” she says with forced lightness.
“He’s supposed to ask me, right?”
“Everyone knows he’s the shy type. He’s probably intimidated by your stunning beauty. So you should ask him.”
“But maybe he has a girlfriend back in California.”
“Long-distance relationship. Doomed. Anyway, you don’t know that for sure. Ask him. Then you’ll find out.”
“I don’t know—”
“Wen, come on. He likes you. He stares at you all through English. And I know you’ve got the hots for him, too. What is it with you and Californians, anyway?”
It’s quiet for a minute, the only sound the steady breathing of the horse.
“So what’s going on with you and my brother?” asks Wendy. Completely out of the blue.
“Your brother? What do you mean, going on?”
“It seems like there’s something going on there.”
“You’re joking, right? We just like to mess with each other, you know that.”
“But you like him, don’t you?”
My mouth falls open. “No, I—” I stop myself.
“You like Christian Prescott,” she finishes for me, arching an eyebrow. “Yeah, I could tell. But he’s like a god. You worship the gods but you don’t go out with them. You only like guys like that from a distance.”
I don’t know what to say. “Wendy—”
“Look, I’m not pushing you on my brother. It kind of gives me the creeps, truthfully, my best friend dating my brother. But I wanted to tell you, in case you were interested, that it’d be okay. I could get over it. If you wanted to go out with him—”
“But Tucker doesn’t even like me,” I sputter.
“He likes you.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“In grade school, didn’t you ever have a boy punch you on the arm?”
“Tucker’s a junior in high school.”
“He’s still in grade school, trust me,” she says.
I stare at her. “So you’re saying Tucker’s such a jackass because he likes me?”
“Pretty much.”
“No way.”
I shake my head in disbelief.
“The thought never crossed your mind?”
“No!”
“Huh,” she says. “I won’t stand in the way or anything. It’s okay.”
My heart’s beating fast. I swallow. “Wendy, I don’t like your brother. Not that way.
Not in any way, really. No offense.”
“None taken,” she says with a casual shrug. “I just wanted you to know I’m okay with it, the you-and-Tucker thing, if there’s ever a you-and-Tucker thing.”
“There’s no me-and-Tucker thing, okay? So can we talk about something else?”
“Sure,” she says, but I can tell by the pensive look on her face that she has more she wants to say.
Chapter 9
Long Live the Queen
“Can I get into this thing by myself?” I ask.
“Put on as much as you can,” Angela calls back, “and I’ll help you with the rest.”
I contemplate the gown and all of its many parts, which are hanging from a hook in the backstage dressing room at The Pink Garter. It looks complicated. Maybe we should have gone with the Angels of Mons idea.
“How long am I going to have to wear this tomorrow?” I call, pulling on the silk stock
ings and tying them with ribbon under the knee.
“Not long,” answers Angela. “I’ll help you put it on right before class and then you’ll wear it during the entire presentation.”
“Just so you know, this may kill me. I may have to sacrifice my life for us to get a good grade on this project.”
“So noble of you,” she says.
I struggle into the corset and the long crazy hoops of the petticoat. Then I grab the hanger with the dress on it and march out onto the stage.
