Then he gets back in his truck and drives off without another word.
I look toward the ski hill, the same direction Tucker went, rethinking the whole skiing thing entirely.
“That Tucker seems like a nice young man,” says Mom as we walk back to the car.
“How come you’ve never told me about him before?”
Fifteen minutes later I’m standing in the area where students are supposed to meet their instructors, which is teeming with little, screaming kids wearing helmets and goggles. I feel completely out of my element, like an astronaut about to take his first steps on an alien planet. I’m wearing rented skis, rented ski boots that feel weird and tight and make me walk funny, plus every other kind of snow gear my mom was able to convince me to put on. I drew the line at goggles, and I stuck the unflattering wool hat into my jacket pocket, but from the neck down every inch of me is covered and padded. I don’t know if I can move, let alone ski. My instructor, who’s supposed to meet me at nine a.m. sharp, is already five minutes late. I just watched my pain-in-the-butt brother jump on the ski lift like it’s no big deal and carve his way down a few minutes later like he was born on a snowboard, the blond girl by his side. Life sucks.
That and my feet are cold.
“Sorry I’m late,” says a rumbly voice from behind me. “I had to drag some Californians out of a snowbank.”
It can’t be true. Fate is not so cruel. I pivot to meet Tucker’s blue eyes.
“Lucky for them,” I say.
His lips twitch like he’s trying not to laugh. He seems like he’s in a good mood.
“So you go around pulling idiots out of the snow and teaching them how to ski,” I say.
He shrugs. “It pays for the season pass.”
“Are you any good at it?”
“Pulling idiots out of the snow? I’m the best.”
“Ha-ha. You’re hilarious. No — teaching them to ski.”
“I guess you’ll find out.”
He starts right into a lesson on how to balance, position my skis, and turn and stop.
He treats me like I’m any other student, which is great. I even relax a little. It all seems fairly simple when you break it down.
But then he tells me to get on the rope tow.
“It’s easy. Just hold on to it and let it tug you up the hill. When you get to the top, let go.”
He apparently thinks I’m a moron. I make my way awkwardly over to the line, then shuffle up to the edge, where the greasy black cable drags through the snow. I reach down and grab it. It jerks at my arms, and I lurch forward and almost fall, but somehow I manage to get my skis in line and straighten up and let it tug me up the hill. I dart a quick look over my shoulder to see if Tucker is laughing. He’s not. He looks like some Olympic judge getting ready to mark a scorecard. Or some guy about to witness a horrific accident.
At the top of the hill I drop the cable and struggle to get away before the next kid plows into me. Then I stand for a moment looking down. Tucker waits at the bottom.
It’s not a steep slope, and there are no trees to crash into, which is comforting. But behind Tucker the slope keeps dropping, past the ski lift, the lodge, the small shops lined up in a path to the parking lot. I have a sudden picture of myself lying halfway underneath a car.
“Come on!” Tucker shouts. “The snow won’t bite.”
He thinks I’m scared. Okay, I
The cold air rushes my face, catches my hair and flutters it behind me like a banner.
I put a bit of pressure on one foot and glide slowly to the left. I try again, this time arcing to the right. Back and forth, I make my way down the hill. I go straight for a while, picking up some speed, then try again. Easy. When I get closer to Tucker, I put my weight evenly on both feet and push the V wider, the way he taught me. I stop. Piece of cake.
“Maybe I could try it the other way,” I say. “With my skis straight.”
He stares at me, his eyebrows drawn together, good mood apparently gone.
“I guess you want me to believe that this is your first time skiing,” he says.
I look into his frowning face, startled. Surely he didn’t expect me to crash on that little hill? I glance back at the other beginners. They resemble a flock of confused ducklings, just trying not to bump into each other. They don’t crash so much as flop over.
I should lie to Tucker now, tell him I’ve done this before. That’d be the low-profile thing to do. But I don’t want to lie to another Avery this week.
“Should I try it again?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I think you should try it again.”
This time he rides up behind me, and when I ski down, he’s right beside me. He makes me so nervous that I almost fall a couple of times, but I keep thinking about how humiliating it would be to crash and burn in front of Tucker, and manage to stay upright. When we get to the bottom he demands that we go again, this time skiing parallel style, which I like much better. It’s more graceful. It’s fun.
“I’ve been teaching this class for two years,” he says when we get to the bottom around the fifth time, “and this is the first time anyone has ever made it through the whole hour without falling down once.”
