The Possibility of Now

by Kim Culbertson

  “What happened after you got hurt? Is it why you and Mom split up?” It’s amazing how certain words asked in a certain order can change the entire atmosphere of a room.

  He sets down his spoon and rubs his eyes. He looks at me for perhaps the first time all evening. “Can we go back to that question about the rainbow? Blue, definitely blue.” I stare at him, waiting. He picks up his spoon again, swirling it through the dregs of his soup. “I guess I was pretty messed up for a while after.”

  “You mean your knee?”

  He sighs, looking hard enough at me to make me suddenly very interested in my own soup. “Physically, sure. I completely jacked up my knee, my whole leg. I shattered it in multiple places, so I couldn’t compete anymore. I lost sponsors. I couldn’t ski at all, really. Not for a long time.” He takes a slurp of soup, dropping his eyes. “But that wasn’t the main issue.” I swallow, not wanting to move, not wanting to even take a bite of bread lest it upset this sudden flash of openness. He stares sideways out the window at the dark blue fade of late evening light. “When I couldn’t ski anymore … when I couldn’t ski like myself anymore, well, it just took everything else away with it. It’s like I fell into a sinkhole I couldn’t get out of. Your mom tried, she really did. I don’t want you ever thinking your mom didn’t try.”

  I know this about my mother. She’s nothing if not solution oriented. “But then you both stopped trying?”

  “Mostly me … a long time before she did.” On the table next to me, my phone buzzes, startling both of us. I hurry to shut it off but not before I see it’s a text from Beck. Looking relieved, Trick nods at it. “You should take that.”

  “It’s nothing,” I tell him, but he’s already standing, collecting his dishes.

  “Dinner was fantastic,” he says, his back to me as he sets his dishes in the small sink. He’s already gone, even before pulling on his coat and heading out to gather some firewood.

  Frustrated, I check the text.

  sick stars out tonight. come hang. i’m close by.

  He includes directions to a house one street over. The thought of staying here in the silence makes my head want to explode, so I go into my room to change and brush my hair.

  When I emerge, I find Trick reading a ski magazine on the couch. “I’m going to take a walk.”

  He looks up, one arm propped behind his head. “Now?”

  “Just want to get some fresh air, maybe sit and look at the stars for a while.” Avoiding his eyes, I wind a scarf around my neck and pull on my beanie. I hold my breath, waiting for the usual parental Where are you going, who are you meeting, when will you be home?

  Or maybe even: Are you about to kiss the wrong boy? Again.

  Instead, he says, “Take a flashlight,” and returns to the pages of his magazine.

  Outside, a wall of cold hits me, but the stars are spread out above like someone has spilled an entire bottle of silver glitter on the night. Totally worth the frostbite.

  I start walking toward the next street, careful to stay in the center of the road to avoid icy patches. My boots crunch on the sanded streets. Most of the houses here are dark, their residents living elsewhere most of the year, so I can see the lights of a massive house up ahead glowing like a golden Oz.

  Beck waits out front in the shoveled driveway, his hands jammed in the pockets of a silver down jacket, puffs of his breath illuminated in the air around him by the glow of the house. Seeing me, he breaks into a smile and holds up a folded blanket. I hesitate, my brain telling me to turn around and go home and do my math homework.

  Funny how the heart can have a whole different checklist from the brain’s.

  “Whose house is this?” I follow him toward a row of stairs along the outside of the house that twists up to what looks like the third level.

  “Just a guy I know. Watch that ice there.” He holds the handrail as he climbs ahead of me. We reach a tiny deck and Beck settles onto a bench that has been converted from an old ski lift. From here, we can look out over the dark valley, the glittery sky immense and close.

  Ski lift bench. Quilt. Starry sky. Trouble.

  I sit down next to him, my teeth chattering. Noticing, he covers us with the blanket. “Better?”

  “Trick thinks I’m taking a walk,” I blurt.

  “Does he know you’re with me?”

  I shake my head, looking sideways at his shadowed face. “He didn’t ask, but I’m not sure he’d approve. Isabel doesn’t seem to.” I pull the quilt tighter, our bodies growing warm beneath its folds. “Why is that, by the way?”

  His laugh floats out over the dark houses below. “My dear friend Isabel doesn’t approve of my lifestyle. Thinks I’m wasting my opportunities.”

  “Are you?”

  “I see it as doing the opposite.”

  “How?”

  “Because I actually enjoy my life and don’t care about setting goals or being perfect. Isabel gets annoyed because I don’t try with school. But I read, I get an education — it’s just my version. I think school makes you dumber, not smarter. It makes you conform to one set way of thinking. Isabel’s all about getting approval from whatever system she’s in — her skiing, her grades, her friends.”

  “School’s about way more than being smart,” I argue. “It’s also about making sure we can get stuff done on time, following directions, building a work ethic so we can move on to the next step.”

  “It’s jumping through hoops so we can go jump through more hoops.” He shrugs. “Where does it end?”

  I hesitate, my body tingling. He’s hit on something I’ve been thinking about lately. Where does it end? When I stare out into the future, what I’m actually doing out there is hazy and blank. Because I work hard, people think I have some huge goal, like how Josie wants to be an oceanographer. But I don’t know yet what sort of practical, day-to-day life I want after college. No driving force that wants to be a doctor or a professor or an attorney. The drive has always been the perfection — the grades, the awards, the test scores.

  Still, I can’t help but say, “You can’t just spend your whole life winging it.”

  He slides toward me on the bench, and his hand covers mine. “Why not?”

  My breath catches. “You need a plan.”

  He leans in, his face close enough for his breath to warm the cold air between us. “Oh, I have a plan.”

  I know I should leave, but my legs don’t seem to work under the heavy blanket. It feels good to sit here, with someone who isn’t demanding I work harder, do better, improve. Beck’s like an antonym for self-improvement.

  self-deterioration

  self-destruction

  self-corrosion

  “Your plan sounds a lot like instant gratification,” I say softly, my lips nearly touching his.

  He grins. “You should try it sometime.”

  “Instant gratification it is.” I lean in, and his mouth, cold at first, warms quickly. He tastes like snow and peppermint gum, and as his hands move to capture my face, everything — the night, the stars, the snow, even my lists — evaporates around us.

  Back at the cottage, I open the door as quietly as I can. The only light is the flickering fire. Trick is stretched out on the foldout twin bed, one arm tucked behind his head. As I tiptoe toward my room, his voice emerges from the darkness. “Nice walk?”

  I start and feel a blush creep up my cheeks. “Oh, yeah — thanks. It’s gorgeous out there. So clear.”

  “Be careful with all that ice.” He sits up a bit in his bed. I can feel him watching me from across the room. “One minute you’re on solid ground and the next you’re flat on your butt.”

  We both know he’s not talking about the weather.

  The next morning, my phone buzzes on the bookcase next to my bed:

  morning, sunshine.

  It all comes flooding back — the Olympic museum, the ski lift bench beneath the stars, Beck’s peppermint kiss. My stomach twists and I double over. Maybe I’m not built for this inst
ant-gratification-impulsive stuff. To make impulsive work, it’s probably best not to feel crippling regret the next day. I’m guessing that’s not really the point of it.

  What am I doing? I came to Tahoe to sort out my head, to figure out where I stand with school, and maybe even with Trick and what happened between my parents. But certainly not to turn into some snowbound boy-crazed mess. It seems, though, this is exactly what I’m doing.

  giving Logan cookies

  taking off on skis with Beck

  kissing Beck — twice

  Actually, in list form, it seems sort of exciting. Except that I feel like throwing up. I hurry to the bathroom, trying to take calming breaths. I’m always hearing how it’s healthy to step outside your comfort zone, but I’m pretty sure #8 on my list did not imply gasping for breath next to the toilet.

  Over the years, people have given me various definitions of my personality. Sometimes the spin can be positive: motivated, focused, productive. Or those qualities take on their more negative shadows: tightly wound, high-strung, stress case. Regardless, I’m tired of waking up tangled, regretful, and overthinking everything. Other girls I know at Ranfield would be posting about kissing a cute skier boy on Instagram, with hashtags like #hesjustthatcute or #studybreak!

  My hashtag would read #peptobismolmoments!

  I shouldn’t have kissed Beck. It’s complicating things. I reach for my glass vial of lavender oil on the sink, but instead of grabbing it, I knock it onto the tile floor, where it shatters, the scent of lavender instantly permeating the room. Not in a relaxing way. Gagging, I try to mop it up with a wad of toilet paper.

  My phone rings in the other room. Standing, wobbly, I cross to my bed. Crawling back under the covers, I answer it. “Hi, Mom.”

  It’s 9:04 on a Sunday. Mom has probably already run five miles, organized dinner for that night, and read most of the Union-Tribune. “Honey, I just spoke with Ms. Raff.” And talked with my Home Hospital coordinator.

  “Oh, yeah?” I take a sip from my water bottle, letting the cold water soothe my throat. I wince. It tastes like lavender.

  “It’s about chemistry.” She sounds distracted. Probably measuring ingredients for dinner prep. Never do one thing when you can do two, she’s always telling me.

  I try to figure out which assignment I could have missed. “I’m pretty sure I turned everything in for chem this week.”

  “It’s about the wet lab. They thought you could do it online, but now Ranfield says you have to find a lab locally or you can’t get AP credit.” I hear clinking and what sounds like rice against a glass cup. She’s definitely prepping risotto.

  “So I should wander around Tahoe until I can find a random lab to crash? That sounds likely.” On the other end of the phone, the fridge door opens and shuts. “Are you making risotto?” I can almost taste the buttery rich grains.

  She pauses. “Mara, maybe you should come home now.” The only thing that surprises me is that it has taken her this long to suggest it. “I know they said you could stay on Home Hospital for this quarter and keep your scholarship, but, well …” I can almost see her mind sifting through all the possible ways to tell me she thinks I’ve overstayed my welcome, both in Tahoe and with the administration at Ranfield. “I think maybe it’s time to come home.”

  It would be so easy.

  No more Beck. No more Logan and Isabel, the World’s Cutest Ski Couple. No more Trick the Enigma. I could slip back into Ranfield and remember the student I used to be, before I ripped up all those tests. The one who had her life on track. I’m so tempted to say, Yes, please, come get me. I’m messing everything up here!

  Mom would set record time getting here.

  But, for some reason, I don’t. My voice feeling like something separate from me, instead I say, “I’d like to stay.” Outside, sunlight glitters on the wet pines, the day clear, but I know it’s nowhere near as warm as it looks. “Mom?” I ask, when she doesn’t say anything. “Can I stay?”

  She sighs, in that way she does when she takes the rare moment to stare out our kitchen window at the meticulously landscaped yard beyond. Finally, she says, “See what you can do about that lab, okay?”

  After I hang up with Mom, I clean as much of the lavender spill as I can, but it still reeks. Then I curl up on the bed and start writing a new Now List.

  1. Get Trick to talk more!!

  2. Let my phone run out of power

  3. Focus, Mara!

  4. Be brave (thanks, Will)

  5. Ski blue runs with confidence. Black runs?

  I decide to focus on #3 on the Now List II probably because I’m just hardwired that way. Texting Beck, I tell him I’m going to be busy for the next couple of days, lots to do for school: you know me, the hoop jumper! I try to joke, but he doesn’t text back.

  I tape a sign to the bathroom mirror: Sorry for the hazardous oil spill!

  I hole up in my room for the next twenty-four hours, barely sleeping, eating piece after piece of peanut butter toast, and turning in massive loads of schoolwork early. I keep an eye on the battery marker as it drains to dead on my phone (#2!). Beck doesn’t text back. When the little red slash of the dying battery line becomes a sliver, I almost lose my nerve and plug it back in. I have never in the history of owning this phone allowed its power to completely drain. Which is ridiculous. Because it’s not that big a deal. The Things More Upsetting than Running Out of Phone Power List I make in my head goes something like this:

  poverty

  drug addiction

  sexism

  terminal disease

  Tiny subsets of my Get a Grip List. But they only make me feel worse and I start wondering if maybe I’m making the wrong sorts of lists.

  When I start to feel like my phone is actually staring at me, pleading with me to just plug me in, I’m dying!!, I stuff it into the depths of my bag and tackle my calculus homework. Knowing it’s in there, dead, fills my stomach with acid. That can’t be healthy, that kind of attachment to a dead phone; it’s not like it’s a pet or something.

  Even if I do spend more time with it than any pet I’ve ever had.

  Which is just sad.

  Early Monday afternoon, as I bask in the glow of the school report Ms. Raff emails me (Best work yet! Fantastic insight!), Beck’s words surface in my mind: praise junkie. Am I a praise junkie? Do I work feverishly like this, put all this energy and time into school, because I crave this kind of approval?

  Or because I like the excuse it gives me to block out the world?

  Are either of those reasons wrong?

  Desperate to get out of my head and onto the mountain, I eye my ski gear hanging on the back of the door. My helmet sits on the shelf. An hour on the mountain couldn’t hurt — I’ve gotten so much done already.

  I knock on Powder’s door, and moments later, Oli pops his head out. “What time do the lifts close?” I ask, staring up at him.

  He grins. “We got time.”

  A half hour later, we’re taking the funi up the mountain, the day clear and cold, but with a swirl of inky clouds moving in. The mountain seems empty, mostly locals. We’re the only two people in the funi car and Oli leans back against the bench across from me. From my own bench, I watch as a man flies down Mountain Run, his form graceful and clean. I want to ski like that someday. Studying him, my body floods with a type of sadness, that feeling of already knowing that you’ll miss something even before you’ve left it. Looking out at the snowy mountains above, I sigh.

  “I believe they call that a heavy sigh,” Oli says, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

  “I was just thinking about going home.” And trying not to think about the mess I’ve made of my time in Tahoe.

  “You miss it?”

  I watch the clouds, their varied layers of dark and light. We don’t get clouds like this in San Diego. “I miss parts of it. Will and Mom and my little brothers. My friend Josie. The beach. Not that I ever had much time to go to the beach.”

  H
e looks surprised. “How is that possible? You’re sixteen; that’s all you should be doing.”

  We’re almost at the dock, and I start to collect my poles and skis. “Ranfield keeps me on a pretty tight schedule. I don’t really have time.”

  “We all have the same number of hours, kiddo,” he says, standing as the car bumps into the funi building. I bristle at the kiddo, like I’m some dumb kid who doesn’t know how many hours a day holds.

  “Yeah, I learned the analog clock in, like, kindergarten,” I mumble, following him out of the funi car. We ski down to the Big Blue Express. On the lift ride up, I tell him, “Ranfield is worth it, all the stress and time, for what it will get me in the end.”

  “Which is what?” Oli kicks some snow from his skis.

  “It will help me get into the right college.”

  Oli looks sideways at me. “And what will the right college get you?” I know he’s just curious, but I still feel defensive.

  “I’m keeping all my doors open, but I definitely want a tier-one school.” Looking over at High Camp, I add, “I just don’t want to be ordinary.”

  Oli leans back into the ski lift, his arm draped over the side. “Everyone builds their own specific life. Nothing ordinary about any of us.”

  Oli’s definitely not ordinary. But not all of us can whoosh around the country in a silver box, collecting postcards. As if reading my mind, he says, “My life wasn’t always so different from yours, Mara. Busy, busy.”

  Okay, this guy might really be a Jedi. “What do you mean?”

  He leans forward onto the bar. “I did the right stuff, too. Went to Berkeley. Became a banker. I spent most of my twenties that way.”

  “A banker? Like in a bank?”

  “Yes, in a bank. In San Francisco. I had a suit and everything.” He makes an overdramatic gasping sound and smiles with his whole face at my look of shock.

  I eye the stubbly beard he clearly hasn’t shaved in days. “What happened?”

  “It was gradual, not some huge moment or anything. I kept looking around and thinking I had this gorgeous life, this lucky life, but instead of basking in it, I was fighting it. So I bought Powder. Fixed her up at a friend’s. I wanted to cultivate something small and mine. But I built up to it. We all have to decide what’s enough to fill up a life. And it’s different for each of us.”