“I have good balance,” I explain. “I used to dance. Back in California. Ballet.”
He stares at me with narrowed eyes, like he can’t figure out why I’d want to lie about something like that, unless I’m trying to show off. Or maybe he’s stumped at the idea that some California yuppie could be good at something other than shopping.
“Well, that’s it,” he says abruptly. “End of lesson.”
He turns toward the lodge.
“What should I do now?” I call after him.
“Try a chairlift,” he says, and then he skis away.
For a while I stand outside the line for the beginner’s chairlift and watch people get on. They make it seem easy enough. It’s all about timing. I wish that Tucker hadn’t been such a jerk. It would be nice to get some instruction for this part.
I decide to go for it. I get in line. When I near the front, an employee punches a hole in my ticket.
“You alone?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Single!” he shouts toward the back of the line. “We have a single here!”
So embarrassing. I suddenly wish I had goggles.
“Okay,” says the ski lift guy, waving somebody forward. When the guy gestures at me I shuffle up to the line they’ve drawn in the snow, position my skis, look over my shoulder, and nervously watch the chair swing toward me. It hits the back of my legs hard. I sit, and the chair lifts me into the air. Then I’m rising quickly up the mountainside, swaying gently. I breathe a sigh of relief.
“That bad, huh?”
I turn to see who I’m sitting with. All my breath leaves me in a rush.
I’m riding the chairlift with Christian Prescott.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hey, Clara,” he replies.
He remembers my name. It was just a dream. Just a stupid, stupid dream.
“Nice day for the slopes, huh?” he says.
“Yeah.” My heart’s drumming a crazy rhythm in my ears. He seems perfectly at home on the chairlift. With his forest green ski jacket and black ski pants, a black hat with goggles pushed up onto his head, and some kind of fuzzy neck warmer, he looks like the poster boy for skiing. His eyes are gorgeous against the jacket, a deep emerald green. He’s so close I can feel the heat coming off him.
“Didn’t I see you at Pizza Hut the other day?” he asks.
He had to bring that up. Heat rushes to my face. He could be looking at my hair right now thinking Bozo, Bozo the clown. Why oh why didn’t I wear a stupid hat over my stupid hair?
“Yeah, maybe,” I stammer. “I mean, I was there, I — maybe you saw me. I guess you saw me, right? I mean, I saw you.”
“You should have come over and said hello.”
“I guess I should have.” I glance down at the ground rushing by beneath us, hoping for a topic of conversation. He’s wearing fancy black skis with a kind of curve to them, which seem a lot different than mine.
“You don’t snowboard?” I ask.
“I can board,” he says. “But I ski more. I’m on the race team. You want a Jolly Rancher?”
“What?”
He sticks his poles under his thigh and takes off his gloves. Then he unzips his jacket pocket, reaches in, and takes out a handful of hard candies.
“I always keep these in my pockets for skiing,” he says.
My mouth is suddenly incredibly dry. “Sure, I’ll have one.”
“Red hot or cherry?”
“Red hot,” I say.
He unwraps a candy and pops it in his mouth. Then he holds another out to me. I can’t even pick it up with my heavy glove.
“I’ll get it.” He unwraps the candy and leans toward me. I try to swipe my hair out of my face.
“Open up,” he says, holding up the candy.
I open my mouth. Very carefully, he lays the candy on my tongue. Our eyes meet for a moment. When I close my mouth, he leans back against the chair.
“Thanks,” I say around the candy. I cough. The candy is surprisingly hot. I wish I’d asked for cherry.
“You’re welcome.” He puts his gloves back on.
“So do you have to practice skiing every weekend if you’re on the race team?” I ask.
“I come up here on the weekends to ski for fun, mostly, and races, when they hold them here. During the
