Balancing Acts

by Emily Franklin

  “Watch out!” the woman huffs and looks to her gaggle of friends to pout with her. “And PS, nice shirt.”

  “Est-ce que vous êtes ivre?” Harley asks, offering one of the only French phrases she knows, thanks to slaving too many hours at the International Burrito Shack—home of the fifty-ounce margarita—her mother’s greasy dive back in Colorado. Working there you had to know how to ask people if they’d had too much to drink—and in a variety of languages, so you could cut them off, or order a taxi for them, or just avoid their nasty advances.

  “No, I’m not drunk—just coordinated, which is more than I can say for you,” the model woman says. “What do you have to say to that?” Her accent is unrecognizable to Harley—is she French? Italian? Croatian? Scottish? Who knows. Obnoxious, definitely.

  During the exchange, Harley doesn’t once look at Gabe, but knows he’s watching the whole thing. Harley shrugs at her and offers the only other French phrase she knows, also from the menu at the International Burrito Shack—or IBS as it was known locally—which had a frog as its mascot. “Votre grenouille a mangé mon déjeuner,” Harley says, her lips in a convincing French pout, and walks away. She counts to eight, and sure enough, Gabe is beside her at the far end of the bar.

  “Her frog ate your lunch?” he asks, repeating Harley’s odd phrase back to her.

  She laughs. “Hey—it made her stop bitching, didn’t it? And besides, it’s one of the only things I know how to say in French.” She looks at Gabe—his eyes are half-closed in a semisleepy, but wholly alluring way. No—I am not here for him, she reminds herself. I’m here for—

  “So, what’s your deal?” Gabe asks. “You’re not French—that’s pretty obvious.”

  “Really is it that obvious? I’m American,” Harley says. The icy drink has slicked her shirt to her chest and stomach and she tries to air it out without calling attention to her body. “What about you?” She asks this to make it seem like she has no clue who he is, but the truth is, Gabe Schroeder is a well-known entity, especially among the skiing crowd. The trick to famous people is letting their fame slip by you, coming up with an immunity to their celebrity, Harley thinks. It worked with Celia Sinclair and her posing film posse last night and it’ll work all season.

  “Canada. I’m a skier,” Gabe says. “British Columbia.”

  “Whistler.” Harley nods as though she’s been to that mountain. Gabe stares at her and rakes a hand through his mess of curls. Photographers are always snapping pictures of him in that kind of pose—hands in his hair postrun, or with his arm around some girl, or with—

  “So, what brings you to Les Trois?” Gabe leans toward her. He smells good, slightly minty, and Harley has to move back a little to avoid touching him. Not that touching Gabe would be bad, Harley thinks. In fact, it’d be great, but only a distraction. Plus, Gabe is legendary for his wine and dump, always written up in the sports mags as “Romeo on ice.” That’s it, Harley thinks. I’ll just call him on it. If I put it out there, he can’t try his moves on me, and I won’t have to deal with saying yes or no; I can just move on to the real purpose of talking with him in the first place: to get to James. She allows the five-letter name in her head for the first time since arriving at Les Trois but doesn’t let it leak out. James. World-class skier and snowboarder and Gabe’s best friend.

  “I’m a host—at The Tops,” Harley says.

  “Ohh—the coveted host role,” Gabe says, his eyebrows up.

  Harley imagines Gabe is thinking back on the vast number of his past acquisitions in the host arena. “Yes, I’m one of the lucky ones. But be warned—I grew up in a ski town, so I know all about sly skiers like you.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” Gabe says, downplaying a smirk.

  “Definition: Player—see hookup artist. Also known as sex on sticks—skiers—sex on a board—snowboarders or—”

  “How about former player?” Gabe asks. “Can’t a person change their ways?” His mouth leaves the smirk behind and his tone sounds serious.

  “Don’t try the all in the past game with me. Once a hookup artist, always one, as far as I’m concerned.” She faux-yawns and rolls her eyes, then laughs.

  “Oh, okay then, I guess I’m off the hook.” Gabe combines sarcasm with a touch of self-mockery. He touches Harley’s arm on the bar, pressing his thigh into hers. Half of her wants to move away from him, but the part that doesn’t want to wins, and their legs remain touching.

  The only part of the bar that isn’t amassed with bodies is the serenity tent. Melissa, desperate to get away from people, especially Gabe Schroeder, but unable to find the door out, weaves her way past the dance floor. As part of the outdoor sky at night theme, the tent is open air—a thick drape of white canvas hangs from the ceiling on the other side of the dance floor. The floor under the tent is filled with strings of white lights, which makes Melissa feel as though she’s stepped inside a constellation; a welcome reprieve from the pulsing music, incessant chatter, and elbowing people. She sighs and sits on one of the plump white pillows. In my fantasies, I stretch out like a beach goddess on this thing, she thinks, but then the pillow slides out from under her. But probably I look just drunk and clumsy. Despite being on the floor and alone, Melissa has a good view of the dance floor and a small bit of space all to herself. I’m so tired I could fall asleep right here, she thinks. She takes another white pillow and makes a pillow bed for herself. I won’t really sleep, she thinks, remembering the croissants that have to bake at six in the morning, the coffee that has to brew, the frittata recipe Dove was going to write down for her, the request for apple turnovers from the countess. I’ll just rest and try to ignore the scene—and him. I won’t fall asleep or anything. Just a short nap.

  Harley’s had about all she can take of Gabe’s mellow stoner-skier-dude persona. He’s hot, but not why I’m here. “So,” she says, her hand on Gabe’s forearm, “what kind of accommodations do you guys have?”

  Gabe’s eyebrows rise as he finishes his beer. “Chalet? Hotel? Tent? Who cares as long as there’s a hot tub, right?” Harley finishes her drink, aware she’s had more than one, and also aware that the crowd has started to thin out. It must be late, she thinks, picturing the breakfast table and how she’ll have to make pleasant conversation with the lascivious earl and his brood before her morning caffeine has kicked in. “Do you have a hot tub at The Tops?” Gabe has the disarming habit, she notices, of staring right at her, not around her like so many guys who feel the need to check out every other girl in a ten-mile radius. Not him, Harley reminds herself through her beverage haze, his friend. Must. Get. To. James.

  “I’m more about the ski scene than the après-ski,” she says. Back home, she’d watch the rich and rugged after the lifts had closed: groups in front of the fire with mugs of hot chocolate, or sloshing around in the in-ground hot tubs. Every year, tons of articles were written about the après-ski scene at the various resorts, but Harley tossed those aside in favor of the hard-core athletic articles that detailed the ski conditions, which trails had powder, which were black diamond, and—most importantly—who skied them better than anyone else. “Anyone can hot tub—but it’s a rare few who can fly down double diamonds with grace.”

  Gabe looks pensive, considering Harley’s words. “So what you’re basically saying is that you’re not up for a late-night hot tub fest.” He grins. “I can take rejection.”

  Even though he’s not the object of her interest, Harley takes some pride in the fact that she’s rejected Gabe Schroeder—the Gabe Schroeder who, with James Benton, graced the inside of her locker at school all last year. “It’s not a flat-out neg,” she says. No one could completely shrug him off, she thinks, taking in the silvery blond hair, the slope-toned body, his wit—and mainly, his dedicated stare. Of course, he’s probably used that stare to woo countless girls, but it’s a tough thing to pass up.

  “So, just a partial rebuff. Got it.” Gabe pushes off from the bar as if he were in a swimming pool and looks around for
the first time since they started talking. “The scene is dying here. We have to bail before we’re the last ones left.”

  Harley can feel herself crumbling just a little inside with Gabe but immediately patches up the loose feelings when he points across the room. “At least I’m not the only bum left—there’s my friend.” Harley follows Gabe’s point. “My best friend—James.”

  It’s a terrible cliché to compare this feeling in my legs to jelly, but it’s true, Harley thinks as she nudges Gabe toward James. James Benton. Harley shakes her hair in front of her right eye, her shy stance. It doesn’t come out often. Near the door, James is in a plain white T-shirt and old jeans, far from the slick-dressed European crowd’s dressy duds—and as far as Harley is concerned, he looks better than in the magazine photos. She clipped the pages for years, following James and his rise from random kid doing tricks on the slope to his trendsetting skills now. She’d discarded all of those pictures except for one: James on his board traversing the half-pipe. It wasn’t a complicated move—not like the Air Toe Reverse Generation in which he circled through the air, kicked up the toe of his board, spiraled, and then twisted back around—but it was the photo that Harley first saw of him. The one that caught her attention. In it, James is steady and solid, but airbound.

  “Hey—did a feline grab your mouth?” Gabe asks her, poking her ribs with his finger. He’s led her to James and they stand in a huddle.

  “Huh?” Harley is dazed, staring at James, and blushing—which she never does.

  “It’s a thing we do,” James says. “Schroeder and I keep a record of the badly translated phrases we hear. Some guy last year kept saying that—rather than, ‘Did the cat get your tongue …’”

  Gabe finishes, “He was all …” Gabe puts on a bad French accent. “Did ze feline grab your mouth?”

  James nods, laughing. “I’m sure we sound just as lame when we speak Italian or French or whatever. What’s another one? Oh—‘Dude, don’t jump in my mouth!’” He looks at Harley, who can’t help but wish she could do that very thing. “Instead of ‘Don’t jump down my throat.’”

  Harley laughs, totally swept up in the reality that she’s with a living, breathing version of the guy whose picture she’s kept in her locker, and now in her backpack here. Even last night, when Melissa and Dove were sleeping, Harley had taken the picture from its place in her bag, smoothed the wrinkles out, and gazed at it for just a minute.

  “So you’ve found a new friend?” James asks Gabe.

  Harley comes to her senses and decides she can’t daydream—or nightdream—the conversation away. “If friend is your way of saying gal pal for the evening, you can guess again,” Harley says, leaning back on her boot heels for emphasis.

  “Looks like you’ve finally met your match,” James says while Gabe zips his jacket.

  Harley is quick to disassemble the idea of her and Gabe being a couple. “Gabe is so not my match.”

  Gabe looks more wounded than she thought he would. “Gentle there, grizzly.” Gabe pats her on the back to show he’s cool with it. He and James exchange a look. “Besides,” Gabe adds, “you know my mantra, right, James?” James nods. The bar is emptying now, the last few people drifting out into the cold night, looking at the real stars rather than the representational ones inside.

  “So what is your mantra, exactly?” Harley asks.

  “Just ’cause I’ll hook up with you doesn’t mean I’ll ski with you.” Gabe looks smug in his ski jacket and curls, his eyes half-shut in that sleepy sexy way. “I’m beat. I gotta hit the sack if I’m going to be good for anything tomorrow.”

  James looks at Harley. “Yeah—we’re training all morning. At Grand Blanc.” He pauses. “You should come by.”

  Gabe shrugs. “She’s a host.” He says it as though host were synonymous with princess. “So she might not be able to find the time.”

  Harley smirks, focusing on James instead of Gabe, hoping that James will memorize her face the way she has his. “I think I can manage five minutes or so.”

  James nods. “Sounds good. You headed home now?”

  This is it, Harley thinks, her chest pounding. He’s going to walk me home. We’ll be on the pathway, surrounded by falling snow, cold air, and then he’ll say he knew it the minute he saw me. That we’re a fit. She imagines the two of them on a chairlift together. “Yeah, I’m heading back…. I should’ve been out of here a while ago.”

  James takes a glove from his pocket as the bar lights flicker. “It’s really late.”

  “Same old, same old,” Gabe says. “We say we’ll just go out for an hour and it turns into six.”

  “So, shall we?” Harley motions to the door, still looking at James.

  James nods and takes a step with Gabe and Harley. “Oh—wait—I lost a glove.”

  “Why do you even bring them out with you? A real mountain guy would go barehanded.” Gabe laughs.

  James explains to Harley. “It’s another of our jokes—sorry. We were stuck on a bus one time, reading articles out loud to pass the time. One of them was called ‘ways to spot a real mountaineer’ or something.”

  “So we keep adding to the list with stupid things,” Gabe says. “It’s basically puerile but amusing.”

  “Real mountaineers walk their friends home,” Harley says. She looks away from James, thinking maybe deflecting some of her adoration on to Gabe will pique interest.

  “Of course,” James says. He puts a hand on Harley’s shoulder. He touched me. His hand is on my body. I always thought those girls who touched famous people and said they’d never wash again were disgusting and lame, but when your crush touches you—well, keeping your shirt as-is does have appeal. “Which is why Gabe is going to do the honors.”

  “But …,” Harley stammers. The alcohol has mostly worn off, leaving her with a sour taste in her mouth—or maybe that’s just the sting of not getting exactly what—or whom—she wanted. “I have to locate my unmanly glove,” James says. “See you.”

  “Tomorrow,” Harley confirms. “I’ll definitely see you tomorrow.”

  9

  There is nowhere to hide.

  IN HER DREAM, MELISSA hears Matron’s voice, doling out advice and scorn, and Gabe Schroeder looks on with his trademark smirk. “Mashed up berries are simply not a proper breakfast.” Using Dove’s twist of words, Melissa comes back with an answer. “Actually, these are individual mixed berry crumbles.” She holds one out to Matron, who tastes it and approves. Only then the crumble turns into a Fizzy Blue, sloshing out of the cup and onto Matron’s clean outfit.

  “Oh shit!” Melissa says, startling herself awake. For the first thirty seconds she has a grace period, that hazy feeling of being half-ensconced in sleep, and half newly entering the waking world. She licks her dry lips and stretches her legs out on the comfy pillows. Wait. Comfy pillows? Not lumpy? And no draft of freezing air? She bolts upright.

  “Where the hell am I?”

  Next to her, still lying down, is a body that is turned away from her. Both she and this person are surrounded by the mass of pillows that lured Melissa to nap in the first place, last night—or this night—which is it, she wonders. Above them both is the white tent, the fake night sky switched off, replaced with the dim natural light from outside.

  “Long night, huh?” The body rustles, instantly nudging Melissa to deal with the fact that she fell asleep at a bar and apparently slept the whole night next to someone she’s never met.

  “Look, I have to go,” she says and tries to pull herself together.

  The body turns over, facing her, and sits up so they are side-by-side, staring at the vacant space. It seems bigger with no one in it—the empty dance floor, the unpeopled bar, the quiet. “There it is!” he says and leaps up from the floor.

  Melissa watches him walk and when he bends down she gets it. “JMB! It’s you.” Cue an instant reddening in the cheeks and a flutter inside.

  “I can’t tell if you’re glad or horrified,” he says, smiling.<
br />
  Melissa stumbles on her words. “No. Yes, not horrified. Wait—yeah, that’s what I mean. I think I need coffee. I’m just glad it’s …” She stops herself. No admitting anything, she reminds herself. But inside, she thanks the switched-off stars that she didn’t wind up fawning over Gabe Schroeder last night.

  JMB crouches on the dance floor and looks back at her. Under the tent, Melissa looks cozy, knees to her chest, hands attempting to tame her springy curls. He smiles. “Of course it’s me. You think a total stranger would just haul off and crash next to you? Ah, actually, that wouldn’t be unheard of here.” He swipes something from the ground and stands up.

  Melissa walks over to him, feeling on the inside the wrinkles displayed in her clothing. “I’m so freaked out. I had no plans to fall asleep—seriously, I don’t make it a habit to lie down just anywhere….” She stops, tripping over her words. “I don’t sleep with random guys.” She puts her hand to her mouth.

  “So you sleep only with unrandom ones?” JMB asks.

  Melissa shakes her head, trying to clarify her unintentional slip. “No. What I mean is …”

  “I know what you mean—I hardly take you for the kind of girl whose typical night includes shutting down the bar, sleeping there, and waking up next to a guy….” Suddenly his grin disappears and he stops. “Just so you know, nothing happened.”

  Melissa swallows. Of course I never thought something did, but he doesn’t have to sound so adamant about it, like it would be the worst thing ever if something had. “I know. I never said it did.” Melissa pulls her jacket on and takes a step toward the door. “I couldn’t even find the way out last night—that’s how lost I got. That’s why I wound up under the tent. Just in case you thought I planned on camping out there.”

  JMB smiles as he silences the alarm on his watch. “Man, it’s really late.” He sighs. “I mean, it’s really early. Or whatever your perspective is. I have practice this morning.”

  “Oh my god—I’m so busted,” Melissa says.