— Isabel and Logan
I push off the blankets and grab my ski stuff.
On the funi, I click track one, a mellow indie-edged song with a nice beat. I listen, my head bobbing along to it as I watch people sail down the mountain. I might be rocking out a little too much, because the guy next to me, a middle-aged snowboarder in duct-taped Burton pants, grins at me and gives me the peace sign. I give it back.
As I ride the lift up Big Blue, I stare at the winter landscape, all that graphite on white, gray sky and mountains layered with snow, and in the floating beat of a new song, I think about what fastens me to the world. Maybe, all those years at Ranfield, I stayed busy as a way to not float away into the atmosphere. Each piece of homework, each activity, each club meeting was a way to staple me to a life, to say, I am here, I am here, I am supposed to be here …
But, honestly, I partly worked as hard as I did to avoid a lot of the social stuff. I never truly felt a part of things at Ranfield, always felt like I was borrowing someone else’s life. The only thing about Ran that ever felt like home was Josie. I hadn’t applied for the scholarship — it had been offered to me. Sitting in my fifth-grade public school classroom in the late spring light with my mom and Will, my teacher, Miss Kelly, had beamed as she handed us the invitation letter. Because of my test scores, my academic performance, I’d been singled out for this amazing opportunity. I loved Miss Kelly, and she and Mom and Will had looked so proud of me. Maybe all these years I’ve worked hard simply to be worthy of their expressions, of being chosen like that.
I’ve worked to be the best.
But is it what I want?
Now all the hard work feels attached with Velcro. Which freaks me out. Because Velcro tears away so easily, just that ripping sound and then empty air. Moving down the mountain, it feels so easy to imagine staying here forever. For the next few hours, I fasten myself to the mountain, skiing up and down Big Blue and Gold Coast, the new playlist looping in my ears. Each song seems to be about finding something — a place, a love, a dream.
Back behind the music, though, two competing lists keep trying to form on the dark, hidden walls of my brain. Reasons to stay: the ease of Tahoe, Trick, Logan, friends. Reasons to go: Josie, my brothers, everything I built at Ranfield.
Pushing away the anxious rumblings that threaten to grow out of the lists, the mountain lets me ignore them both, even if just for now.
That afternoon, my body exhausted from its hours on the slopes, I slide into a booth at Ethan’s across from Logan. “Where’s Isabel?”
Logan slips his phone into a pocket. “Talking to Coach. She’s bummed about the way she skied at Mammoth. She’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“Did you have a good practice?” I ask. He almost never talks about his own skiing.
“Fine. I just hope Isabel snaps out of it. She’s too hard on herself.” We order a pizza and some drinks from Maggie. Passing her our menus, Logan asks me, “Did you get your playlist?” Maggie ducks away, but not before I see the smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
I can still feel the mountain in my body, the feeling of gliding over snow with their music in my head. “Yeah, thanks. I played it all morning while I skied. By myself!”
He high-fives me. “How’d it feel?”
“Like flying.”
He nods knowingly, running a hand through his shaggy dark hair. “Always nice to just get on the mountain, plug in, and tune out. It’s my happy place.” Grinning, he catches my eye. “I’m glad you liked the list.” When Logan smiles like that, I can see the little boy in him, all mop-haired and toothy and adorable. I fiddle with my napkin and avoid his dark eyes.
His phone beeps. Checking it, he frowns. “Isabel’s not coming. She said she’s going to go home and scream into her pillow.”
“Was it really that bad?”
“She crashed. And today she kept falling. Her confidence got rattled. It happens.”
“But she’s okay, right?”
“She’s not hurt.” Frowning, he moves the ketchup and mustard bottles around in front of him to make room for Maggie to set down our drinks and some empty plates for our pizza. “But she was so close to having her best time last weekend and I’m sure she feels like she messed that up.”
I pull out my phone and text her, sending five hearts in a row and the message:
don’t go home! i need to thank you for my playlist!
It’s buzzing before I set it back down, but it’s Beck, not Isabel.
still mad at me?
He’s like a virus I can’t get rid of. A broad-shouldered virus.
Logan asks, “What’d she say?”
I hesitate. “It’s actually Beck.”
Logan rolls his eyes and helps himself to a slice of pizza.
I put my phone in my bag. “You don’t like him, do you?”
He just shrugs, concentrating on pulling a piece of pepperoni from his slice. “What’s to like?”
“I feel a little sorry for him. His dad’s pretty awful.”
Logan grimaces. “Yeah, but that’s just become part of his act, you know? Yes, his dad is the worst. He’s this big developer in Tahoe, and he’s involved in a bunch of deals here in Squaw that make him very unpopular with the locals. My family included. He’s not a good guy. But Beck uses it, you know? Makes him out to be this sinister supervillain.”
I picture Beck’s dad with a huge black mustache and a cape. Wait, do villains usually have capes? “Does he dwell in his mountain lair making evil weapons designed exclusively to torture his unsuspecting son?”
Logan grins. “Right? It’s so melodramatic. I mean, he is a jerk. He’s rich and aggressive and intense. He owns, like, three houses in Squaw Valley alone. And nothing is good enough for him. When we all skied together, they always had these crazy screaming matches in the parking lot or on the mountain.” He shudders a bit, remembering. Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he adds, “But Beck just keeps it going. Everything is always so difficult for him.” He grabs another slice. “He’s such a drama queen. It gets old.”
I swallow a bite of pizza. “I thought he seemed interesting at first — all his ideas about school and society. But mostly it’s like he tries to be the biggest possible screwup just to get back at his dad. Nothing original about that. There are dozens of guys like that at my old school.”
My old school. As if I’ve already moved up here for good. He hears it, too. I can tell by the look on his face.
He plays with his napkin, not meeting my eyes. “He must be doing something right with all the girls following him around.”
Leaning my elbows on the table, I say quietly, “I only kissed him because of my stupid list. Josie told me to kiss a cute snowboarder. So I did. But someone I know threw that list off a chairlift.”
He grabs another piece of pizza. “Someone who’s a genius, you mean?”
“I think so.”
He catches my eye, about to say something, just as Isabel flops down next to me, her face dark. “Okay, I’d love to hear about someone else having a good day. Because mine stank up the mountain.”
That night, curled on my bed, I squint into the screen at Josie, who’s in the middle of telling me how hard the AP chem test was today. I nod sympathetically. “Sounds brutal.”
“You have no idea,” she groans. I do have an idea since I took the online version an hour ago. She’s sitting on her bed, too, and her dark hair falls around her face as she rubs lotion into her legs. “You’re so lucky you just get to chill in Tahoe.” She sighs. “Maybe I should have a meltdown in math class.” She freezes, looking up at me, her eyes huge. “Oh, whoa. Sorry, Mar — I didn’t mean that.”
My skin shivery, I try to play it off. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”
“Still, I’ll be honest,” she says, capping the lotion. “I am the tiniest bit jealous. I’m so sick of school.”
“I still have to do all the work.”
She hesitates, looking pained. “Yeah, bu
t, it’s not like school school. It’s not as hard.”
Translation: My life’s harder. I win. You lose.
“Why does everything have to be hard to count?” I think about what Logan said about Beck making everything so difficult. Do we all have different versions of doing that? “Maybe most of us make things harder than we need to. I don’t think being stressed out lets you get more out of anything, including school.”
She doesn’t say anything, just makes little clicking sounds with her tongue as she inspects her manicure. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” She’s being generous. She doesn’t think I’m right at all.
It’s Ski Week in Tahoe.
Or, as Logan and Isabel call it, the Week Everyone in California Remembers They Ski.
Because of the swell of tourists, the resort kicks the fun activities up a notch. Today it’s Eighties Saturday on the mountain. Trick almost spits out his cereal when he sees me emerge from my room. “Oh, no way — sweet.”
I’m dressed as Madonna. Mid-eighties Madonna with the teased blond hair, the layered messy skirt, the lace shirt, the bracelets. All of this over my ski parka and pants. I’m meeting up with Isabel and Logan after their race this afternoon. I twirl so Trick can see the full effect of the skirt. “Isabel and I went to the thrift store yesterday. She’s going as Cyndi Lauper. Girls just want to have fun, right?”
He nods, impressed. “Very nice.”
I’m proud of my costume. Especially because I’ve never been a costume girl. At Ranfield, a lot of other kids get really into it at Halloween, but I’d always felt like it was a waste of time.
Isabel begged me, though, and as part of my have-more-fun goal, I tried it, and guess what. It’s fun. I squint at Trick. “Are you dressed up?” He’s wearing jeans and a white T-shirt under a black down jacket.
He holds up a red baseball cap and tucks it into his back jean pocket. “I’m the Boss.” I must look puzzled when he turns around, because he adds, “Bruce Springsteen,” and sings a few lines from “Born in the U.S.A.”
“Oh, right.”
Later, on the chairlift, I need help figuring out Logan’s outfit: tan ski pants, a white linen blazer over a pale pink T-shirt, and black Ray-Bans. “Duh, Miami Vice,” he tells me.
Oh, right. My pop culture history has always been a weak spot. If I wasn’t going to be tested on it, I didn’t let it rent space in my brain. Even though the afternoon sun is bright, the wind has picked up. “You must be freezing!”
“Nah, I got Chillys on.” He lifts his pink T-shirt to reveal long underwear called Chilly Peppers, which so many of the racers wear. Below us, people zip by in head-to-toe neon spandex, parachute pants, ripped sweatshirts, and fingerless gloves over their regular gloves.
I peer over the lift bar. “Look at everyone!”
Logan studies the people skiing and boarding below our dangling skis. “Wait until you see Isabel.”
You can’t miss her. She waits for us at the top of Big Blue, clad in what looks like everything Cyndi Lauper ever owned. She has fastened a candy-apple red-blond hairpiece to her ski helmet and wears bright blue and orange Cyndi Lauper makeup. Her crazy layers of skirts and dresses are finished off with a black chain wrapped around her torso. “Time to be totally radical,” she calls, skiing off down the catwalk toward Shirley Lake.
“They didn’t have any Diet Coke,” Isabel says, pushing a Sprite into my hands and settling onto the couch next to me with a huge plate of self-made “nachos.” Her plate bulges with tortilla chips, bean dip, baby carrots, salsa, and what looks like trail mix. “Want some?” she mumbles, her mouth full. “It’s a tasty treat.”
“Thanks,” I say, helping myself to a loaded chip. Chewing what is clearly an M&M with my bean dip, I take in the dozens of people milling around, sitting on the floor, leaning against the kitchen island, most in various states of eighties wear, disheveled from their day on the slopes.
When the slopes closed, Eighties Day migrated to Joy Chang’s house. Her hair pulled into a wild, side-swept ponytail, Joy stands on the raised tile hearth of the roaring fireplace, acting as master of ceremonies in a lip-synch contest. Or, as she announces it now to the room, her voice in all caps: “OUR EIGHTIES LIP-SYNCH EXTRAVAGANZA!” When people keep ignoring her, she finally shouts, “Everyone, shut up!”
That does the trick.
Much of the furniture in the living room has been pushed back against walls to make room for a stage. One at a time, different people jump up to lip-synch to eighties hits. I almost pee my pants at Bodie’s enthusiastic Cher impression, complete with a long curly black wig and purple eye shadow.
“Well, we can’t turn back time,” Joy comments at the end of his act. “Or I’d ask for the last three minutes of my life back.” Bodie feigns a hurt look. “Just kidding, Bodie. You’re a gorgeous diva.” There’s a lull in the festivities as Bodie hurries out of the room. I turn, searching the room, wondering where Logan went. No sign of him.
Someone dims the lights. “Okay, we have one last lip synch to share with you tonight,” Joy announces mysteriously, silhouetted against the flickering orange of the fire. “Sometimes you’ve got to fight for the right, so put your hands together for the Frost Boys! And Amanda,” she adds, grinning.
Logan, Bodie, and snowboardcross Amanda burst into the room dressed as the Beastie Boys. People whistle and scream. Wearing a black leather jacket and backward trucker hat, Logan struts around the room, chains swinging from his neck. He goofily hops around the stage one hundred percent committed to his role.
I can’t take my eyes off him.
Isabel, watching me, shakes her head.
“What?” I whisper, my face heating.
“Nothing.” She nibbles a bean-dip-soaked baby carrot, her eyes slipping back to the show, where Logan ends by dropping his fake mic and strutting from the room.
After, someone hooks up their iPod to Joy’s speakers and people spill into the empty space to dance. Isabel wipes her hands on her jeans, waving to Logan as he comes back into the room, dressed in jeans and a Dakine sweatshirt. “Good stuff, Never.”
He takes a quick bow. “Why, thank you.”
I brush some hair out of my face. “You were hysterical. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
He smiles, but his dark eyes send a current through me. “Well, you should get to know me better.”
I emerge sleepily from my room the next day to find Trick reading a ski magazine. “Morning,” he says.
I pour some cereal. “Morning.” I slide into the seat across from him.
“You were in late last night.” He doesn’t look up from his magazine.
My chest tightens. Is he mad? I should have called. “Yeah, sorry.”
“No prob.” He stands and starts to clear his bowl. Tucking the cereal box under his arm, he moves toward the kitchen sink.
“Wait—that’s it?”
He turns at the edge in my voice. “What?”
“Well, this would be the part where a normal dad says, Where were you? Why didn’t you call? This is the part where you’re supposed to say something like that.” I slap my hand on the top of the table, making my spoon rattle against the cereal bowl. We both look at the bowl, at my hand. I am not a table slapper and it feels childish. “And then I would say, Well, actually, I went to a party, but I should have called!”
He sets his bowl in the sink. “Sounds like you’ve got this conversation covered.” I glare at him and he clears his throat. “I’m sorry, but when have I ever been a normal dad to you? That ship, I think, sailed a long time ago.” He makes a move for the door, pulling his parka from the back of the chair he’d been sitting in.
“Trick!” Another hand slap.
Turning, his eyes wide, he asks, “What? What do you want me to say?”
“Something resembling what a real dad should say!”
Trick fiddles with the zipper on his jacket, his eyes darting around as if he’s seeking escape routes. “You have Will for that stuff. He’s
better at it anyway.”
“Yeah, he is.” I blink back the ghosts of tears starting to circle behind my eyes, my whole body shaking. “But that doesn’t matter. People aren’t batteries. You don’t swap one out for another. You’re my father. That’s biology. But I’m giving you a chance to be a dad and you keep ruining it.”
He swallows, avoiding my eyes, and doesn’t say anything. As usual.
Someone knocks at the door and Trick hurries to open it. A tall man with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and a gunmetal down jacket that I know for a fact sells for $375 at Neverland takes a step into the room. Something about him, not just his height, fills the whole space, and the cottage quickly feels the size of a breadbox.
“Trick?” His voice is polished, crisp. He slips his hands into the pockets of his designer jeans, and his gaze sweeps the room like a search lamp. “Sorry, didn’t mean to disturb. Just wanted to let you know we’re here. Decided to come for Ski Week after all.” The Stones. The family who owns the massive house and this cottage.
“Right, is everything okay with the house? I turned the water on, got the stoves all going.” Trick looks uncomfortably from Mr. Stone to me. “Chuck, this is my daughter, Mara. She’s staying with me for a few weeks. Mara, this is Chuck Stone.”
Mr. Stone has a hard-angled face that must dominate in boardrooms, the kind that so many of the fathers of kids at Ranfield have. When he smiles, his gray eyes shine with a practiced light. “Mara, a pleasure.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say through a dry mouth. None of this feels pleasurable. In fact, something unpleasant definitely simmers beneath his words.
“Well, I’ll let you two get back to your morning,” he says to Trick. “Perhaps we can talk later? I’d like to discuss the Airstream currently parked in my driveway. When you have a minute.” He flashes another polite smile in my direction.
“Um, yeah, sure.” Trick shakes Mr. Stone’s hand awkwardly and closes the door behind him.
The Possibility of Now Page 20
