The Possibility of Now

by Kim Culbertson

  When she seems more convinced, she asks, “Did you reschedule your appointment with Dr. Elliot?”

  Oops. “I will.”

  “Do that right when you get off with me, okay? I’m not sure how much longer his office will be open today. And you have a Gatsby essay due Monday.”

  “This live Google reminder brought to you by Lauren James.”

  “Mara.”

  “Mom, it’s due Monday. I have the whole weekend. I’ve always gotten my work done on time before. You don’t need to remind me.” But as I say it, I know that even with the whole weekend, I’ll be pushing it. I adjust the ice on my knee.

  “Have you at least read the book?” she presses.

  “Yes,” I lie. “Rich people behaving badly. Otherwise known as the view out any window in Squaw Valley.”

  “Okay.” I hear the smile in her voice. “I’m just checking. You seem … different.”

  “I do?” She doesn’t mean it this way, but she has no idea how good it is to hear that.

  Maybe Tahoe is working.

  Someone knocks at the front door of Trick’s cottage later that evening. Oli pokes his head in, carrying a white sack of something that smells savory and delicious. My stomach rumbles on impact. “Is there a hungry skier in here who needs some lasagna?”

  “Me!” I set the bag of ice I’ve been using for my knee on the floor and toss Gatsby onto the coffee table.

  Oli moves around the kitchen, opening and shutting drawers and the fridge, and then, miraculously, I have a plate of lasagna and salad on my lap. He sits on the coffee table next to me. “That’s April’s lasagna — Isabel’s mom. It’s the best in the world.” He motions for me to try it.

  I take a bite. Wow. “Mmmmmm.”

  “Right?”

  “This is incredible.” I try not to eat like a wild animal who’s been starved for days, but I can’t really help it. What is it about skiing that makes me want to eat a house each time I’m done?

  “I ran into Logan at Neverland.” Oli folds his long legs gracefully between the table and the sofa like someone used to maneuvering his body into small places. “Heard you tackled Shirley today.”

  I wipe my face with a napkin before answering. “I’m pretty sure it was the other way around. And I might have done something weird to my knee.”

  He runs his hands through his hair, his blue eyes sympathetic. “Anyone can fall anytime. None of us is a stranger to icing a knee.” Oli picks up the sloppy bag of ice and moves to put it in the sink. “But you were liking it up there?”

  “I was.” Saying it, I realize this is more than just a little true. Skiing terrifies me, but in a delicious, roller-coaster way. “I know I’m no good at all, but there’s just something about being up there — the air is different, the sky. It’s …” I search for the right word. “Magnetic.”

  Oli grins. “Yep, you’ve got it.”

  “What?”

  “The ski bug.” He pats my arm. “The mountain got under your skin.”

  And like that, I realize he’s right, it has. And not just the mountain. Something else. Its newness appeals to me, too. And the fact that no one is grading me. I mean, there’s no chance I’m going to the Olympics. Ever. I’ll never even race competitively, so I can just fall into it on my own terms without some larger system clutching its clipboard and telling me Yes, that’s good or No, be better. I can’t remember the last time I put time toward something just to do it and not because it might look good on a college application.

  Oli fills a glass with water and brings it back to me. I don’t know what it is that makes him unusually easy to talk to. Unlike most adults. “Maybe you could take me up again? Teach me how to better handle the blues. I’m not sure Beck’s the best teacher.”

  I don’t miss his frown as he moves back into the kitchen, opens the fridge, and helps himself to one of Trick’s beers. I hear the pop of it, then the clatter of the bottle cap in the sink. He holds it up to my water glass. “To getting back on the mountain.”

  I clink it against his bottle. “Cheers.”

  The next day, before he leaves for the shop, Trick makes me toast and hands me a mug of coffee with extra milk, his eyes drifting over my bruised cheek. I woke up this morning to a bluish-purple welt the size of a small peach. Trick zips up his jacket and pulls on his beanie, but hesitates, his hand on the door. “That fire should hold up fine.” He frowns at my laptop. “You shouldn’t be working on a Saturday.”

  “You’re working on a Saturday,” I point out.

  “Fair enough.”

  “I have to get this essay done.” Small bubbles of panic started erupting in my belly early this morning. Gone was the feeling of extra time, replaced with feeling madly behind in my schoolwork.

  “Who am I to mess with a good system?” Trick nods good-bye and disappears outside, letting in the smell of fresh snow.

  I sip some coffee and take a few bites of toast before pulling my computer onto my lap. I’d finished Gatsby in the small hours of morning, surprised to find myself sucked into the story, feeling a tie to Nick I hadn’t expected — the outsider drawn suddenly into all the glamour and secrets of Gatsby’s world. I’d jotted some notes for my essay as I read, so now I just had to write it. Except the page in front of me remains infuriatingly blank.

  I study the quote from the first page of the novel. I scribbled it down yesterday, the advice Nick’s father had given him: “Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages you’ve had.” At first, I thought he meant money and privilege, but the more I page back through the book, the more I think Nick’s advantage is his ability to really see people. Maybe an outsider has this advantage?

  Maybe because he knows he’ll be leaving soon.

  My phone bleeps with a picture text from Will. His weekly Shells of Wisdom. The sight of them there, carefully arranged, floods me with homesickness. This time they spell out one of Will’s favorite expressions, something he says to us to keep us going when we’re on hikes or to remind us that the hard work will be worth it later on: DIG IN.

  I mean to dig in, I plan on digging in, but I don’t. I pop one of Trick’s Warren Miller movies into the VCR and watch skiers and snowboarders do crazy things on mountains around the world.

  I can write the essay tomorrow.

  Late Sunday afternoon, I give up and submit my not-very-good Gatsby essay. I feel a little sick that it’s not better, but I’m tired of working on it. I stomp around the cottage, trying to wake up both feet, which have fallen asleep from my sitting so long on the couch. The cottage hums with emptiness. Trick is out somewhere with a friend. He never seems to bring his friends here, usually meets them in the Village.

  Maybe he’s avoiding me.

  I can’t believe it, but I actually miss my little brothers and their LEGO mine field in the hallway. And Mom yelling up the stairs for me to fold my laundry. And the smell of dinner floating through the house. My stomach rumbles at the thought, and I make some soup for dinner, crumbling Ritz crackers into it.

  After doing the dishes, I Skype with Josie. “Your face belongs in a bad action movie,” she tells me, which is Josie-speak for worried. “What did you do?” When she finds out I fell skiing, she says, “There better be a cute snowboarder involved.”

  “Skier.”

  Now she’s interested. “Oh, really?”

  Maybe she can’t see my blush through the bruising. “It’s nothing. He knows Trick.”

  “I want daily updates.”

  “There will be nothing to update you on, I promise.”

  “Don’t make that promise.” She sighs. “I hate to do this to you, but I have to go. I have sooooo much chem homework.”

  “Me too. Talk soon.” Only I don’t really feel like tackling my chemistry right now. Instead, I play some music on my laptop and re-sort both of the kitchen cabinets, moving all the boxed foods into one and all the canned foods into another. I alp
habetize the cans: beans, corn, olives, tomatoes. Wait, should diced tomatoes go after corn? I set both cans on the shelf and back away from the alphabetizing. I’m starting to care a little too much about diced-tomato can placement. Wandering into the bedroom, I refold all my clothes onto their small shelf, organize my toiletries along the back of the bathroom sink, dab some of my relaxing lavender oil behind my ears (#5!), and poke needlessly at the fire.

  I miss Josie. We used to study for chem together.

  In my head, I make a list of synonyms for alone:

  deserted

  isolated

  abandoned

  solitary

  They all seem sad and negative, and I wonder why I can’t think of any positive words for alone.

  Still no sign of Trick, I brush my teeth and crawl into bed. Falling asleep, I imagine I can hear a storm coming in, the wind stepping up a notch, bringing snow and dark purple air.

  Turns out, I wasn’t imagining the storm.

  I wake in the dawn of Monday to Trick knocking about outside in the woodbin. Curled in my blankets, I scoot to the window and pull aside the shade. I’m met with a wall of snow halfway up the window and more still falling.

  Congratulations, Mara. You now live in a snow globe.

  After an hour of helping Trick dig out (Will had no idea how literal his shells would end up being), we head to the Village and I find a table at Elevation. It feels good to escape my solitude and settle into the sounds of other people working around me, but outside, the snow picks up, chasing most of us home by midafternoon. Trick pokes his head through the café doors at two and motions for me to follow him. We have to redig the path to the cottage we had made only hours ago.

  People spend a lot of time in Tahoe just trying to get in and out of their houses.

  Proving my point, Dr. Elliot calls Tuesday to tell me we’ll have to reschedule our appointment because he actually hasn’t been able to dig out of his house. Half-proud/half-sick, I let him know about the B+ I received on my Gatsby essay, without sharing the note at the end from my English teacher that my eyes immediately snagged on: Not as fully developed as some of your other work.

  My first B of any kind on an English paper in high school.

  “How’d that feel?” Dr. Elliot asks into the phone, and I imagine him sitting in his green wool vest by a fire somewhere.

  I try to joke. “Well, I didn’t spontaneously combust!” Afterward, I realize that combustion isn’t what worries me. I could have made that essay better, but I chose to watch ski movies and sort the cottage and stare out at the snow instead of making it better. I didn’t put in the necessary time. Only that’s not really what bothers me. What bothers me is that it actually doesn’t feel as bad as I thought it would.

  Spontaneous combustion would be easier because it would let me know I blew it. Bam! Disintegration for not trying your hardest.

  This feels more dangerous, like erosion. And you don’t really notice erosion until it’s wiped out an embankment or something. And then it’s too late.

  On Thursday evening the skies finally clear. A pot of soup bubbling on the hot plate, I’m settling into the couch with my math homework when Beck texts. Attached is a picture of the gray-white haze of an incoming storm. It looks like it was taken at the top of Big Blue. Tahoe shines like a slice of nickel beneath its sleeping mountains. A scrawling script over the photo reads:

  Most people are on the world, not in it. — John Muir

  I try to ignore my sudden sensation of falling as I text back:

  wow, deep. you should post that on tumblr next to a photo of kittens wearing pajamas.

  He texts back immediately:

  brat.

  Then sends:

  just out of curiosity, is there a mr. mara in san diego?

  My chest tightens.

  i don’t have time for boys.

  Instantly:

  is that a double-dog dare?

  Nerves buzzing, I type but don’t send:

  i’m allergic to dogs.

  My sweaty fingers leave damp prints on the phone. I’ve opened a door with Beck wider than I should have. Taking a breath, I remind myself, Get in a little trouble, and add a googly-eyed smiling puppy face to my unsent text, one that has little hearts for eyes, and hit SEND.

  Saturday morning, I push through the doors of Elevation, inhaling the warm café air, the mocha-cinnamon smell of the place. I gaze around the packed room buzzing with people enjoying their late-morning coffees. With all the snow this week, the resort is crazy busy today.

  Natalie sees me and gives me the kind of wave she reserves for locals. Leaning across the glass case that holds the pastries, she says conspiratorially, “You want a free latte? I made it with whole milk instead of nonfat. You’d think from the woman’s reaction, I’d laced it with toilet bowl cleaner.” Finn snort-laughs from behind the espresso machine.

  I grin. “I’ll take it, thanks.” She hands it over.

  Miraculously, I find an empty table near the bathroom and slide into a chair. I have a disturbing amount of calculus homework to get through this weekend and want to make sure I get some time to ski. Within minutes, Natalie appears at my side, looking almost apologetic. She holds a fruity-looking scone on a plate. “From him.” She sets the plate down, rolling her eyes at someone over my shoulder.

  Beck materializes, carrying his own chair. “Hey, Mara-velous.”

  “Clever.” I start up my laptop, actively avoiding eye contact with him. I spent the last two days regretting the silly puppy face I’d sent him, which he’d never responded to, and secretly hoping it had been lost in some kind of emoticon, cyber-pet graveyard somewhere. I should never have texted him back. I blame Josie and her Get in a little trouble #12. “Not hungry,” I tell him, pushing the scone away.

  “Hey, it’s the second-best thing for a” — he glances at my book — “calculus study session.”

  “What’s the first?”

  “Me.”

  Trying to ignore the buzz in my belly, I take this opportunity to look him straight in the eyes. His gorgeous hazel eyes. I take a breath to steady my nerves. “Just out of curiosity, do girls ever actually vomit when you say stuff like that? I have a really strong stomach, but, you know, some people are a little more squeamish.”

  He tips his head back and laughs. “Wow, you sure make a guy work for it.”

  Despite my assertion, I don’t have a strong stomach at all. Quite the opposite. And I’m not a girl who makes guys do much of anything, except maybe move out of the way if they’re standing in front of my locker. But he doesn’t know any of this and my competitive side takes over. I shrug. “I’m an overachiever.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Leaning forward in his chair, he tilts his head to the side, his eyes intense yet somehow still smiling. “Miss Perfects don’t come along every day. Especially ones who can shred.”

  My body turns to liquid. He’s seen the YouTube. My head swimming, I tell him, “I actually have some work I need to do.” Game over.

  He notices, and softening his voice, he says, “Listen, I think what you did was amazing.”

  “Right, sure you do.” I shake my head, eyes on my screen, even though I’m not seeing anything there.

  He leans on the table. “Seriously. And brave.”

  He’s really laying it on thick now. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be right now? Aren’t you actually supposed to be independently studying something?”

  “On a Saturday?” Scooting his chair even closer, so our knees touch beneath the table, he says, “This isn’t a line, I swear. I do think what you did was brave. That whole world you’re in? I looked up your school’s web page. It’s insane. All that stress, all that pressure, all those other people telling you you’re not good enough unless you compete for their praise all the time? It’s a judgment factory. Personally, I don’t subscribe to that whole ambition paradigm we get sold from the time we’re in preschool. It’s garbage. You are who you are and you know what you know
and everything else is one big first-world power party. It makes me sick. So, yes, I think what you did was brave. Laugh if you want. Don’t believe me, whatever. I just want to hang out with you.” He sits back into his chair, folds his arms across his chest, and waits. Your move, Mara-velous.

  I wrap my shaking hands around my latte. Even if what he’s saying right now feels like the truest thing I’ve heard in a long time, I still don’t want to get sucked in. “Is that why you stopped racing?” I ask, setting down my coffee and closing the lid of my laptop.

  “It just stopped being my scene, all that competition.” He says it the way someone would say toxic waste. “So I got into freeskiing instead. Racing was too much like school. Everything’s about winning and rankings and being the best. I hated it. I don’t exist so my dad can brag about my résumé to his friends.”

  Frowning, I think about the argument with his dad I’d seen accidentally in the parking lot. I’m no stranger to this type of boy at Ranfield, the I have nothing to prove to daddy boy. Most of them spend their time watching obscure independent films, quoting dead philosophers they haven’t actually read, and have no guilt burning through said dad’s bank account. “But what about your own goals? Wanting achievements for yourself, not just because of your dad?”

  He shrugs. “I live for the basic stuff, like being on this beautiful mountain with friends, or” — he breaks off a piece of scone and pops it into his mouth — “this scone. You should try it; it’s delicious. I just want to enjoy the things I already have and not worry about all the self-imposed Oh please let me be impressive and important stuff because it’s not actually as important as we all try to make it out to be.”

  I’m about to call him on his pretention, about to tell him that wanting to be successful in school or having dreams bigger than eating a scone doesn’t make me a slave to some corrupt ambition system out there, but then again — does it?

  He might have a point.

  I want to ask him more, but suddenly Isabel’s banging on the window of the café, sleek in her racer uniform, cheeks flushed and hair braided into a red rope. It’s Beck’s turn to roll his eyes. “Oh, goody. The morality police.” Our eyes track her as she makes her way around the café windows, pulls open the door, and comes inside.