Extreme

by Lark O'Neal

  As I walk, the problems of my real life, far away as they are, seem more approachable. I am not entirely sure my mother will cut off her support, the support that has—let’s be frank—allowed me to pursue my fancy Olympic career. Because my parents have been in my corner, I don’t have to do a lot of things that usually complicate the lives of professional skiers and snowboarders.

  Like jobs.

  I have a couple of endorsement deals, but they’re never as lucrative for women as for men, and with four years between the visibility of winter Olympics, I’m not sure how those will play out.

  It’s not that I wouldn’t have enough to live on in normal circumstances, but this is a rigorous and expensive pursuit that involves a lot of equipment and travel and support. It just does.

  But the idea of giving it up makes my heart ache.

  In my pocket, my phone buzzes and I pull it out. My coach, Jared, has texted, where r u?

  Rather than try to text and expose my fingers to frostbite, I tell the phone to call him. He picks up on the first ring. “What’s up?”

  “Don’t freak, but I’m in Iceland. I came here on the way to Austria, and now I’m stranded by the volcano.”

  “Yeah, no one’s going anywhere near Europe until that things stops belching.”

  I hadn’t thought about that—everyone is grounded, not just me. “How bad is it? I haven’t seen the news.”

  He snorts. “You’re the one in Iceland.”

  “It’s a big cloud,” I say, looking up at the gray billowing mass over the water, “but we’re upwind in Reykjavik. A little ash is falling, but nothing much. Like a forest fire is nearby.”

  “Well, airports are closed up all over the place. Worse than the 2010 eruption. They’re saying it might not last that long because the winds are strong, but there’s no way to know.”

  “All right. No way I’m going to make it to Austria, so I’ll just aim for Colorado, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s a plan.”

  “I’ll say in touch and get there as soon as I can.”

  “How’re the injuries? Your ankle?”

  “It’s the hip that’s kicking my ass,” I say honestly. “I’m walking it off right now. Maybe I’ll find a massage therapist, go sit in some more hot springs. It helped a lot yesterday.”

  “Do whatever you can, girl. We don’t have a lot of time.”

  I think about the advice of the masseuse yesterday, that the injury needs rest. But I just say, “I hear you.”

  “All right, take it easy. Don’t go all crazy party girl on me.”

  “Dude.” It’s ridiculous and he knows it. I’m the person at the party drinking ginger ale. Just have no head for alcohol and it’s not great for the body, either. Dehydrating.

  “That’s what I love about you, Bouvier. You’re as wholesome as a glass of milk.”

  It stings. Is that how people see me? As boring as milk? “Gee, thanks.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Right. I’ll keep in touch.” I hang up and tuck the phone back in my pocket, that flutter of embarrassment moving in my throat, almost like tears. It’s been the story of my life, Kaitlin the tomboy, the scraped-up redhead with too many freckles, the girl the boys told their secrets to—but only because they never wanted to go out with me. I was the youngest in our summer group in Maine by a long shot, the little sister, the one they teased and protected and never saw as interesting. Tomboy Kaitlin, never good at girl stuff.

  Which is why it felt so good to be really, really good at something physical. Powerful.

  After an hour, I’ve walked out the irritation and confusion and head back to the hotel. I guess I should tune into the world for once, keep an eye on this whole business. Since Tyler is a no-show, there’s nothing really keeping me here.

  Gabe’s elegant face crosses my vision, his long-limbed form jogging so easily toward his people, the geeks. That fresh sense of possibility blows through me again. He’s somebody who doesn’t see me as a tomboy. He might be worth sticking around a little while for.

  * * *

  Back at the hotel, I wander into the common room and find the Brits, Algernon and the Indian, Madeline, Olivia, and a couple of others playing cards in a corner. “Hey,” Olivia says with satisfaction, pulling a pile of matches toward her. Her tilted blue eyes make me think of a mermaid. “Fresh meat. Come join us.”

  “What are you playing?”

  “Five card draw.” She sends me a sideways look and again I feel that sense of familiarity. Who is it that she reminds me of? I frown, trying to think of it, but it won’t focus. “You want to play?”

  “Sure.” I strip off my coat and the top layer of Patagonia and toss them aside. “What’re the stakes?”

  “Euros,” Algernon answers. “Ten cent limit.”

  “Not sure I have any on me. Only kronas.”

  Olivia puts her hand into a mug. “I can exchange for you. What d’you have?”

  “Let me see.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a neat fold of bills. “The smallest bill is a ten.”

  “Done.” She scoops out a handful of coins. “We’re going with a rate of one to one for the sake of sanity.”

  “Fine.” She passes over a stack of coins, and I have to remind myself what is what. Little ones are five cents, not ten. Life on the road would be a heck of a lot easier if money was standardized, just saying. “I’m in.”

  Madeline is dealing, and as she sends out the cards, I look around the table. Olivia’s money is in a cup and uncountable. Madeline has a modest stack of sorted coins by her left elbow. Niraj and Algernon each have a messy pile of money, about equal.

  “We heard the volcano was brilliant,” Algernon says.

  “It was kind of terrifying,” I respond, picking up my cards. Not much of interest, 7, 2, Q, 4, 10, but three clubs. I select them out and put the other two down. “I’ve never seen an eruption before.”

  “Never?” Olivia asks, and snorts. “Sorry. Juvenile, but I couldn’t resist.”

  Algernon winces. “Please. Manners.”

  “No manners in my country,” she says, flicking the edge of her cards with her little finger.

  “There would have been if you’d had the sense to remain under the crown’s good graces.”

  “All hail the queen,” Niraj says, and opens the bidding with a 5-cent piece.

  I pick up a seven, which gives me a pair. Small but worth sticking. I toss in my dime or whatever it is in Euro-speak. “And raise you five.”

  Olivia looks at me sharply. Flicks the cards. Tosses in her coins. Everyone antes up.

  Algernon picks up his cards and with no shift at all in his expression, shows two pairs. Jacks and twos.

  “I’m done.” I fold.

  Madeline sighs. “Me, too.”

  Olivia is as poker-faced as Algernon as she fans out her cards. “Three of a kind.” Her eyes glitter. “Kings, as it happens.”

  Algernon laughs aloud. “Well done.”

  It’s a great way to waste some time. I win a couple of hands and lose more, but it doesn’t matter. We fill mugs with cocoa and coffee and tea, and in the background, the news plays on Icelandic TV, showing the volcano erupting, the black cloud of ash spreading eastward, away from Reykjavik, then the dramatic lava eruption. It’s just background to our game.

  There’s nothing personal discussed, nothing real life at all. I’ve always wondered about kids who take off to see the world, what it’s like. Now I see that part of the appeal is just being whoever you are right now, with a couple of markers—the girl with mermaid eyes, the wealthy Indian from London, the massage therapist with the shiny black hair, the posh Englishman with a rebellious man bun. The athlete from America looking for a guy. A ginger from Scotland who suffers derisive comparisons to the hunky lover on a television movie with good grace.

  The twins are missing, I notice. Maybe they’re off having sex. I think again that it’s funny how much they look alike. Did they just fall in love with their o
wn face mirrored back to them?

  I’m just starting to consider going upstairs to read a book when Chelsea breezes in. Her hair is wavy and loose, falling down her back. There’s a furtiveness about her when she sees me, and she heads for the other end of the table. “What’s up, guys?”

  “Would y’like to join us?” the Scot asks. I think his name is Alec, but I haven’t quite caught it yet. His accent is thick, Glaswegian unless I miss my guess, but we spent time in Scotland when I was a child. My father’s weakness is golf, and we traveled there with him quite a bit.

  Chelsea’s glance flickers toward me and away. A little breathlessly, she says, “No, thanks. I’ve got some things to take care of. Cancelled flights and all that.” She tucks hair behind her ear. “Not sure what I’ll find when I get to England.”

  “If you get there before next year,” Olivia says. “We might just be looking for apartments right here.”

  “No,” Chelsea says firmly. “I’m going to be in Venice for my birthday, period.”

  “When’s that?” Niraj asks.

  “February 18th.”

  He narrows his eyes at his cards, chooses one carefully and lays it face down on the table. “That’s weeks. You’ll be fine.”

  “Hope so.” She straightens, waves. “I just stopped to say hi. See you later.”

  A round of so longs and see ya’s follow her out. I watch her leave with a knot in my gut. She’s been with Tyler, clearly, and feels weird about it. Which makes me realize that Tyler must know I’m here and is avoiding me for some reason.

  I’m suddenly very embarrassed. Heat burns around the edges of my ears. What am I doing here? Chasing some guy who is running away?

  “Kaitlin, you’re up,” Madeline says.

  Blindly, I fold my hand and throw it on the table. “I’m out.”

  “Sure?” Olivia says. “Maybe you want to at least give the cards a glance first?”

  “No, I’m done.” It occurs to me that all of them know that I’m here to find Tyler and they know that Tyler and Chelsea are hooking up, and now they know that Tyler is ignoring me, or at least they can piece it together. I must look like the biggest idiot in the world. “I’m just going to go up to my room and read for awhile.”

  Madeline’s enormous china blue eyes rest on my face for a minute. “We’ll come find you if Gabe shows up.”

  I nod. It’s a face-saving comment, and I’ll take it, but right now, I really just need to get out of there, away from their sympathy.

  In my pocket my phone buzzes, and once I’m safely in the hall, I pull it out blindly. It’s my mother again. The news looks worse and worse. R u ok?

  Quickly, I tap out: Fine. Promise I will call if anything is dangerous or dire. The wind is taking the ash away from Reykjavik.

  Walking toward the elevator, I keep the phone in my hand, knowing from experience that she isn’t finished. The lobby is quiet now, all the stranded tourists resettled for the duration. I suppose it probably works out, since the new tourists wouldn’t be able to get here.

  My phone buzzes, the bumblebee buzz that means an actual phone call, and I look at the screen, thinking it might be Tyler, finally, not being a jerk.

  It’s my mom. And although I don’t want to, not because there’s anything wrong with her, but I am still mad at her, I answer anyway. “Hello, Mother,” I say with mock formality.

  “Hi, sweetie.” She has the most luxurious voice, low and smooth, like silk. “Do you have a minute? I have something to talk to you about.”

  I look around. The area is deserted. Sitting down on a low chair, I say, “Sure, go ahead.”

  “I know we’ve been having some disagreements about the direction of your life and I know you’re mad at me, but I think I might have found a compromise.”

  Frowning, I say, “I’m listening.”

  “Some friends of mine are running a non-profit that takes children from cities into the wild. It teaches ecology and outdoor skills, gets them out of the city.”

  “Sounds like a great program.”

  “I thought you would think that. So, they have an entry level position for a student, and it’s yours if you want it.”

  A blister of fury pops behind my eyes, but in the calmest voice I can muster, I say, “Thank you, but no.”

  “Oh, come on. At least look at the website, see if it might be a good fit.”

  “Mom! What part of ‘I want to be a competitive snowboarder’ do you not understand?”

  “You can do both.”

  “No. I can’t. It’s a full-time, very demanding profession.”

  “It’s not a profession!” She bursts out and then is immediately contrite. “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I know. My sister is a physician and my brother is a lawyer and I guess I’m supposed to be the token environmentalist or something.”

  “I don’t care what you choose, but you have to choose something. Something legitimate, something—”

  “Pretty much anything but doing what I want to do, you mean? That thing at which I am better than anyone in the world, huh, Mom?” I stand up, furious, aching. “Did you know that no one, male or female, has ever landed the trick that won my medal? That they still haven’t?”

  “I do know that. You’ve told me often enough.”

  She doesn’t mean to be so awful. I know that. But it still makes the back of my eyes sting. “When are you going to understand this?”

  “I do understand, Kaitlin. We’ve supported you for more than a decade in this pursuit, paid for training and special schools and cheered you on. We are so proud of you for accomplishing your goal.”

  I grit my teeth to keep the tears at bay. There’s a but coming.

  “But it’s time to set that aside and get on with the rest of your life. You can’t snowboard forever.”

  “I can do it for awhile.”

  “Yes, and end up as broken as Tyler Smith?”

  “His injuries are only partly from snowboarding.”

  “You’re injured now. Do you really want to be some broken down thirty-year-old?”

  “Maybe,” I snap. “Maybe it would be worth it to me to do what I’m meant to do. Your problem is that you think there’s only one way to show up in the world. My way is not your way, so you think I’m wrong. But I’m not.”

  “Honey, I appreciate your passion, but will you—”

  “No, Mom. I won’t. I’m not taking any other job. Not any of them. This is what I do and you can accept that or not.”

  With more fury than I need, I smash the red button to hang up. If I wasn’t standing in public, I’d roar out my frustration. My anger. My hurt.

  Instead, I silently shake my fists, my head, fight back my tears.

  Against my hand, another message from my mother comes in. I flip the face toward me with hostility.

  But it isn’t my mother, it’s Gabe. My friend just dropped me off. Where can I find you?

  Hang on. I retrace my steps to the lobby, and he’s standing there with his phone in his big hand, looking absolutely exhausted. He’s taken off his hat and those loose, gorgeous, glossy curls are tumbling around his face, and with one hand he rubs hard across his forehead as if to wake himself up, taking a deep breath at the same time, and blinking hard. Poor guy.

  But even now just the sight of him makes me feel dizzy. The shape of his mouth makes my heart squeeze. His big hands make my skin ripple in anticipation. When he looks up to see me standing there, the fathomless deep of his eyes light up and that makes me want to fly across the space between us and fling myself against him. No one, ever, has looked at me like that.

  Instead, I lift my hand, palm out in hello, and float toward him. “How are you doing?”

  “Good!” he lies heartily. “Can I take you out for a beer or something finally?”

  I smile up at him. “I’m not trying to be insulting, but you look tired.”

  “Maybe a little, but I’ll be fine.” That low, beautiful voice is even tired, kind of ro
ugh.

  “Dead on your feet is what I meant to say.”

  He raises his eyebrows in capitulation. “Pretty much. Prof sent me home to sleep.” He reaches out to take my hand. “I just want to spend a little time with you, an hour, whatever. Then I’ll go sleep.”

  No one has ever wanted to be in my company like this. And he has no ulterior motive that I can see. He’s not a hanger-on or a bum looking for a free ride. He just seems to really want to hang out with me.

  Just like I really want to hang out with him. Taking a breath, I say, “How about instead, we go back to your apartment? I’ll cook something simple and you can rest, and then we can have that beer.”

  Our hands are connected in front of us, hanging loose. His thumb moves over my wrist. “You don’t mind?”

  “I warn you that my cooking skills are minimal, like maybe eggs and toast, but you’re going to pass out any second.”

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  Out in the icy cold, I pull my gear back on, and offer him the keys to the Range Rover. “Maybe you should drive,” he says, and again there’s that rasp to his voice, revealing his exhaustion. “I’ll give you directions. It’s not far.”

  “Sure.” We climb into the truck and I start the engine. “Do we need to pick up supplies first?”

  “Hmm.” He slumps against the seat, leaning his head back. “Not really. I have eggs and bread. Beer. Maybe even some chocolate.”

  I laugh softly. “What else does a person need, really?”

  “Exactly.”

  His flat is a studio with a miniature kitchen, a chair, a sofa, and a bed tucked against the wall. It’s spacious, and a row of windows would let in a lot of light if the sun ever shone.

  “Be it ever so humble,” he says, tossing his keys on the desk. “How about a beer?” He’s already walking across the room to the tiny fridge.

  “I don’t really drink,” I say.

  “Okay. Cup of tea instead?”

  “That would be great.” It’s awkward now. He’s still wearing his coat and is standing by the sink, filling the kettle, and he looks like he might keel over any second. “Why don’t I make the tea and you have a seat?” I say, coming over to take the kettle out of his hand.