Jolie sees me and her eyes brighten, and she waves, a beautifully ridiculous silhouette.
Jaxon tromps right up to me in all that highlighter pink, liner dark around his gray eyes. All of the pizzazz here really makes his usually suntanned skin look weirdly pale. Hot pink doesn’t do great things to winter coloring; someone ought to tell him.
Jaxon says, through the huge, toothy grin on his face, “Hey there, little cuz.”
“I’m not that much littler than you.” I fake glare at him, hands on my hips—or where I think my hips probably are under this giant mess of water-resistant fabric.
Jolie bumps me in the side and I almost fall over. “Missed you last night.”
“I was tired,” I say.
“Mmhmm,” she says.
I frown, amazed I can in this cold. I’m surprised my face muscles aren’t all frozen together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” I hear from behind me, along with the crunch, crunch, crunch of booted feet through the snow, “that we all know your parents are scared shitless of me.”
I feel it on my neck when he talks. I don’t move.
I just glance to the side, where Jonah Ramirez now stands an inch from my shoulder, and breathe out, “Oh, is that right?”
“That’s right.” He smiles and clenches a honey straw between his teeth.
Jonah is like the rest of us—in absurdly puffy ski gear he probably got off Craigslist. His is black like mine, simple. And he doesn’t . . . well, he kind of does look stupid, but he doesn’t look like he even notices, which changes everything.
I guess I never really mentioned that while Past Jonah used to be this annoying gangly walking smirk, Recent Past Jonah had turned into something tolerable, and Current Jonah is just . . . just a straight up problem. I don’t know how to talk to him like a normal person, because I have no freaking idea where I’m supposed to look.
His eyes are so dark they practically glitter, and he’s got this intensely perfect nut-brown skin, dark freckles dusting his cheeks and nose. Hard jawline, cheekbones, sharp smile, the works. And dimples—the audacity of dimples on a guy like that.
And he doesn’t ski, he snowboards. Of course he snow-boards. I’m a little nervous about his board’s structural integrity, truth be told; it’s scratched to hell.
Of course it is. Of course even his snowboard rides the ragged edge of safety.
“Well,” I say, “I’m not my parents.”
His eyebrow arches and he takes that straw out of his mouth, which I bet right now would taste like honey.
Jesus Christ, Hal; what is your problem?
He’s off-limits.
And even if my parents are being pretty unfair about him, blaming Jaxon’s autonomous (and not all that scandalous) life choices on him, there’s nothing drawing me there except the air about him. The one that says he’s a little dangerous.
And Oh, he just seems so DaNgErOuS is not exactly the opening line to an epic love story, is it?
Well.
Okay.
The danger, and the dimples.
Jolie coughs, and Jonah scrapes his teeth over his lip and kind of laughs. It’s a little throaty, a tic raspy, and I assume it’s the dry cold.
I hope it’s the dry cold.
And Jaxon says to his super dangerous best friend, “Come on, Ramirez. Keep me warm on the ski lift.”
“Why, Jaxon,” Jonah says, pressing his hand to his chest, “that’s so forward.”
Then he smacks Jaxon on the back and they head to the line.
“You ready for this?” I say to Jolie.
“Oh god,” she says. “If I could just . . . just stay in and read a book.”
I fake a sob and we link arms, ready to brave the mountain together.
CHAPTER TWO
DAD SIDE-EYES ME THE second I make it back into the ski lodge.
“What?” I say when Jolie shoots me this knowing Uncle-Uri-Am-I-Right kind of smile and heads upstairs to change out of her soaked clothes. I’d kind of like to be doing that right now; it turns out, when you haven’t skied in forever, what happens when you jump back on those long, skinny death traps is you spend a lot of time rolling down the mountain.
The number of times Jaxon and Jonah passed us, laughing their asses off (and that we recovered, only to find both of them absolutely eating it thirty yards ahead), was truly astounding. I can’t even begin to imagine what every single spot on my body is going to feel like in the morning, but I can tell you this: all my skin is going to be purple.
I would like a shower, and then I would like a hot tub.
And then I would like a dang book.
But Dad says, “Did you have fun up there?”
He’s almost formal when he speaks. Well, not formal, not exactly, not like he’s giving a speech to the board or something, just . . . refined. Mom’s not quite so noticeably that way, but . . . still. She’s still so—so polished. It makes me feel like I should refine myself a little, and usually I do, so I can feel like I’m a Jacob in their presence.
Which I almost never do.
The limited times I’m with Jaxon, with Jolie, with their cool, weird hippie parents, then—then I feel like I was born with the right blood in my veins. I feel like they wouldn’t exactly say that; they can’t feel me wishing every second I’m with them that I could make those bold, impossible choices like Jaxon, or give you a detailed theory on the nature of G-d in one breath and pick out the perfect cruelty-free eyeliner with the capability of creating the most flawless wings in the other like Jolie. They can’t feel me wanting. If they could, they’d—I think they’d agree.
But I’m not with them, I’m with my dad. Dad speaks to me, and I stand a little taller, wipe my snow-coated hair out of my eyes. “Yes,” I say. Not yeah. Yes.
“Did you spend the whole day with—Jolie?”
I shrug. “Most of it. Hung around a little with Sam and Tzipporah, too.”
Dad glances behind me at the stairs, where Jolie is disappearing. He takes time before he speaks, measures his words. And says, “Well.”
He lets it hang.
Mom joins him and when I thought, earlier, about L. L. Bean models, this is what I meant. They don’t even look like they’ve been skiing today—Mom with her impossibly immaculate bottled blonde hair and Dad, not a speck of powder on his sleek bajillion-dollar ski outfit. The only real signal is the poles.
“Well,” he finally continues, “I’m glad you girls had fun.”
I blink. “Yeah?” I correct myself. “I mean, yes? You are?”
“Yes,” he says, adjusting his jacket on his chest. “This weekend is about family; I told you that.”
“Well . . . I know that. It’s just that usually . . . I just mean with, you know. With Jaxon and Jolie, you’re kind of . . .”
Dad purses his lips and Mom shifts her weight.
She says, “You know we’d never begrudge you time with your cousins.”
“And Jolie’s actually your age. Better that you spend time with her than all the . . . the college millennials on this trip.”
I cough. “Dad, people in college aren’t millennials. We’re all Gen Z.”
He harrumphs in the way that old people do and Mom pushes his shoulder and says, “Really, Uri. You’re embarrassing the rest of us. Being so old.”
I snicker and my dad says, “You’re older than I am!”
She shrugs. “But I’m not embarrassing the rest of us, am I?”
Dad narrows his eyes but laughs, and I swear Mom is the only person who can make him do that. The only one; it’s like a superpower. One I kind of wish I had.
I don’t know, though, I guess it kind of makes their thing special. And that’s nice to watch. It’s comforting, it’s secure.
“Go,” says my dad. “Hang out with your cousins.”
Hearing him say hang out is so bizarre that I expect him to follow it with as the kids say.
“Okay,” I say. “Yeah—yes, okay, I will.”
“We’ll meet up for dinner at the Blue Moose in a half hour.”
Ah, there it is. How much trouble can we really get into in thirty minutes?
I follow Jolie up the stairs to find out.
She told me she’d be in Sam and Tzipporah’s room and the door’s already open, like all the college kids here say everyone leaves the dorms. Kind of cool. So I just push my way in and I am greeted by a chorus of feminine “Hallieeeeee”s.
I smile and curtsy.
“Hallie,” says one of my cousins—one of the high school–aged ones. Lydia is a freshman and everybody kind of wants to protect her; she’s just that kind of person. She grabs my biceps and pulls me in the room, then shuts the door conspiratorially. “We’ve been laying a plan.”
Lydia waggles her eyebrows. “The cousins are sneaking out tomorrow afternoon.”
My face never hides surprise (or anything) particularly well, so I assume this is why practically everyone in the room collapses into laughter.
“Seriously?” I say, looking back at the most serious, oldest person in the room (Tzipporah) for confirmation.
Tzipporah, who I can usually trust to be a rule-follower (like yours truly) smiles slow and sly, berry-colored lips going from studious to mischievous. “You up for it?”
I scoff like, Duh. Wouldn’t miss it. Psshhh, of course I am. Ha ha. This seems fine.
“She’s not up for it,” says Jolie, and I shoot a look at her.
“You traitor,” I say.
“Come on, look at you. You’re about to pass out.”
“I am not about to pass out. I’m fine.”
Jolie stares at me, clearly nonplussed and cocky about her maddeningly correct reading of me.
“I’m studying to be a firefighter, Jolie; I’m not risk-averse.” Cool. Say more stuff like “risk-averse.” “If I can handle charging into a burning building, I think I can handle sneaking out. Jesus.”
“Yeah,” Lydia pipes in. “She’s a firefighter.”
I say, “Well, I’m like half a paramedic.”
Lydia wrinkles her nose. “Aren’t those, like, totally different?”
I scratch at my ponytail. The sudden attention of everyone on me while I explain the intricacies of my career choice is kind of a lot. I’m practically mumbling. When I say, “Kind of but like, being a paramedic or an EMT is the best way to become a firefighter. So that’s . . . yeah, anyway. Anyway I’m just saying. I’m not prissy, Jolie.”
Jolie looks a little shamed, a little called out, and says, “Hey, I’m sorry. I was messing with you.”
“I know,” I say, although I’m not totally sure it’s true. Like I said, I love Jolie; she’s my favorite cousin. It just sometimes feels like . . . like I’ve been stifled in Massachusetts. Like growing up with my parents and away from the entire rest of my family that lives in Colorado has forced me into being this totally separate person from everyone else and I hate being singled out. Because I don’t . . . I don’t want to be That Person. I just want to be a Jacob.
“So,” I say, mustering a confidence I don’t really feel. Really amping myself for some rule-breaking, hell yeah, fun, THAT’S HOW WE HAVE FUN. JUST. SHATTERING SOME RULES. THEY WON’T KNOW WHAT HIT THEM. THAT IS ME. AND THAT’S HOW THIS SOUNDS. F-U-N. “What’s the plan?”
The plan, as it turns out, is to wait until late afternoon, when all the parents are exhausted from the back pain of barreling down a mountain and wish to retire to their wine and cheese. Then we send a scout (Tzipporah) to inform them that some of the elder youths are having a cousin night and we will be out late—dinner and exploring the little mountain town.
When we get the all-clear, we head out with coats, snacks, and various party provisions (the over-21s understand this to mean ALCOHOL, PLEASE, and at least a few of them understand it to mean weed, because that’s apparently the only thing that makes Colorado tolerable). We meet up in the parking lot, divide into cars, and head down the mountain to Old Snowy Ridge.
Snowy Ridge is where we are now. It’s where we’ve gone for years—where all the rich folks (or way-less-than-rich family of rich folks who don’t bother to consider the toll that might take on them for family meetups, sorry, Jaxon/Jolie/Oliver/Jonah) come to ski. Celebs ski this place.
Old Snowy Ridge is where the slope used to be before all the money showed up and the family bought a new fancier plot of land a half hour up the road. Back when it was just something medium-priced to do back in the mountains and the slopes were a little shitty and hidden and the trees weren’t as cleared as they should have been. That’s how they tell it to me, anyway; I don’t think anyone here remembers Old Snowy Ridge the way it was in its heyday.
They know it as the place adults sometimes go to snowshoe At Their Own Risk and the place you go to party when you don’t want ski patrol and cops up your ass.
I’ve never been.
It seems . . . a little risky, I guess, night hiking in the woods, but some of the cool advanced-at-the-time solar lights are still up there, trails snowshoed enough that it’s probably not a big deal. Plus, at least a few of my cousins have snuck up there a million times.
I think I’m just nervous because I’m a baby. But hell if I’m gonna let them figure that out. I’m going whether or not my nerves are rattling in my body.
I pack so much shit, though.
Like.
Enough shit that it’s going to weigh me down—What if we get hungry? What if it’s colder than we think it’s gonna be? What if someone gets hurt and needs first aid? It would be stupid of me not to take this kit; I’m going to be a paramedic/firefighter for goodness’ sake; this is not me being paranoid. No one else is going to do this; it’s up to me. Maybe a blanket. Maybe—well, I can’t fit two. What if? What if, what if, what if . . .
My bag is super heavy with what ifs.
But dammit.
If someone needs some toothpaste or some Doublemint for some breath-based emergency, well, THEN who will be laughing?
I pack some gum.
I pull everything out to double-check.
Like a completely reasonable person, I pack it all again.
CHAPTER THREE
IT FEELS SO MUCH more dangerous, so much edgier than it is, piling into these two old vehicles with the cousins. I mean, I guess it is a little dangerous; Tzipporah’s truck is only really built for four, three comfortably—the backseat is miniscule—and five of us are packed into it like sardines. Seems fine in the dark in the mountains in the snow.
I swallow and lean my head up against the back seat, ears smushing themselves between Jolie and Lydia. If I breathe, no one will know how nervous I am about all this. I’m not nervous! I’m cool!
Note how cool I am.
Note all the breathing.
Tzipporah has Top 40 on the radio, which seems about right because that’s the most likely to universally appeal to everyone here—this is the girls’ car. The boys are in Jonah’s beater coupe, and there’s only three of them coming tonight so they’re probably a little more comfortable than we are, but also it’s close quarters and the boys’ car so it probably smells like BO in there. Or who knows what.
Whatever it is, it’s too chilly to justify rolling the windows down, so it can’t be an ideal scenario.
We wind our way down from this mountain and then up to the other, and the mountains seem so much more treacherous from here. The roads are windy and thin, nothing like they are in the Northeast. There, everything is built around cow paths. Here, transportation is carved into ancient stone. It feels too shallow, too high, like every hairpin is taking a risk, even though it’s not even dark. The roads are barely icy. I see guard rails.
I lean back against the headrest as talk quiets and stare out at the mass of trees below me, and Tzipporah turns up the radio, and I ignore as best I can the snake of a road barely scraped into the mountain until we hit Old Snowy Ridge.
We fall out of the truck in a pile, everyone laughing and high on the forbidden fake danger o
f everything. I’m laughing, too, as my cheeks and nose pink and what feels like a billion cousins and friends bump into me from all sides.
“Ladies?” Jaxon calls, and Very Gay Sam catcalls back at him. He studiously ignores her, and we congregate.
The dark descends with the snow, way earlier than I think it will.
But what do I know? I’m reminded every year that this isn’t the place that’s mine, and now I’m reminded again, like always, because I don’t even know when it gets dark up here.
But it’s like five, and already the sunlight feels gray.
The temperature drop, even though it’s only a few degrees, is breathtaking in the dry cold when we leave the truck.
I run my hands fast up and down my arms inside my coat, even though no one else is doing that. Massachusetts gets cold, but it’s not like just because I lived somewhere that snows, I’m immune to it. That’s not how that works.
My breath clouds on the air and Jolie bumps my shoulder. “You gonna survive the night, Yankee?”
I roll my eyes. “Please, I’m fine. At least it’s not a humid cold. The humid cold—”
“Soaks into your bones.”
She says it at the same time that Jaxon does; she and Jaxon are so different, but sometimes being around them is like living life in stereo.
“Dry cold is like being freeze-dried,” says Jaxon.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say to Jaxon and they both grin—he looks mischievous, she just looks bright-eyed. Excited. She’s bouncing on her toes.
Though in fairness, that could just be the cold.
I zip my coat and pull my beanie over my ears and my backpack out of the trunk, then sling it over my shoulders.
“I guess it’s kind of a humid cold,” says Jolie. “It’s been raining all day on this mountain.”
“Mm,” says Jaxon, tossing his head so his hair falls out of his eyes for a half second. “Well, it needed it. Elk getting thirsty and all that after the half-drought.”
I shrug. Jaxon just isn’t the kind of guy you’d expect to be the walking Division of Wildlife, and yet, here we are.
The Liar's Guide to the Night Sky Page 2
