not into the extreme stuff — my goal is to become a black diamond girl, nothing fancy. Teton Village is funny, with its signs always reminding you that THIS MOUNTAIN IS NOTHING YOU’VE EVER EXPERIENCED
BEFORE and if you don’t know what you’re doing, YOU JUST MAY DIE. The backcountry signs say stuff like BEYOND THIS POINT IS A HIGH RISK AREA, WHICH HAS MANY HAZARDS INCLUDING, BUT NOT LIMITED TO, AVALANCHES, CLIFFS, AND HIDDEN OBSTACLES. YOU MAY BE
RESPONSIBLE FOR THE COST OF YOUR RESCUE and I think, um, no thanks. I choose life.
Is this girl talking to Tucker now his backcountry partner? I take a few discreet steps to the side so I can see her face. It’s Ava Peters. She’s in my chemistry class, definitely one of the pretty people, a little busty with that superlight blond hair that almost looks white. Her dad owns a white-water rafting company. It doesn’t surprise me to see Tucker with a popular girl, even though he’s definitely a Have-Not. At school I’ve noticed that he’s one of those guys who seems to get along with everybody. Everybody but me, that is.
Ava’s wearing too much eye makeup. I wonder if he likes that kind of thing.
He glances over at me and smirks before I have a chance to look away. I smirk back, then try to saunter over to the deli counter, but I can’t pull it off. It’s impossible to saunter in ski boots.
I stand with a few spectators on the side of Werner run and watch Christian hurl himself at the gates, sometimes grazing them with his shoulders as he passes through. It’s graceful, the way his body bends toward the gate, his skis coming up onto their edges and his knees nearly brushing the snow. His movements so careful, so purposeful. His lips pursed in concentration.
After he blasts through the finish line I penguin-walk over to where he’s watching the other racers run the course and say hello.
“Did you win?” I ask.
“I always win. Except when I don’t. This was one of the don’ts.” He shrugs like he doesn’t care, but I can tell by his face that he’s unhappy with his performance
“You looked good to me. Fast, I mean.”
“Thanks,” he says. He fiddles with the number that’s strapped to his chest: 9. It makes me think of 99CX, his license plate.
“Are you trying for the Olympics?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. I’m on the ski team, not the ski club.”
I must look confused, because he smiles and says, “The ski team’s the high school’s official team, which only competes against other teams from Wyoming. The ski club’s where all the hard-core people go, the skiers who get sponsors and national recognition and all that.”
“Don’t you want to win gold medals?”
“I was in club, for a while. But it’s a little too intense for me. Too much pressure. I don’t want to be a professional skier. I just like skiing. I like racing.” He grins suddenly. “The speed is very addictive.”
Yes it is. I smile. “I’m still trying to make it down the hill in one piece.”
“How’s that going? Getting the hang of it?”
“Better every day.”
“Pretty soon you’ll be ready for the racecourse, too.”
“Yep, and then you’d better watch out.”
He laughs. “I’m sure you’ll crush me.”
“Right.”
He looks around like he’s expecting someone to join us. It makes me nervous, like any moment Kay will materialize out of thin air and tell me to step away from her boyfriend.
“Does Kay ski, too?” I ask.
He gives a short laugh. “No, she’s a lodge bunny. If she comes at all. She knows how to ski, but she says she gets too cold. She hates ski season, because I can’t really do stuff with her on the weekends.”
“That sucks.”
He looks around again.
“Yeah,” he says.
“Kay’s in my English class. She never says much. I always wonder if she’s even read the books.”
Okay, so my mouth is completely disconnected from my brain. I look at his face to see if I’ve offended him. But he only laughs again, a longer, warmer laugh this time.
“She takes honors classes to look good on the college apps, but books aren’t really her thing,” he says.
I don’t want to think about what her thing might be. I don’t want to think about Kay at all, but now that we’re talking about her, I’m curious.
“When did you and Kay start going out?”
“Fall, sophomore year,” he answers. “She’s a cheerleader, and back then I played football, and at the homecoming game she got hurt doing a liberty twist. I think that’s what it’s called — Kay usually tells the story. But she fell and hurt her ankle.”
“Let me guess. You carried her off the field. And then it was happily ever after?”
He looks away, embarrassed. “Something like that,” he says.
And there’s the awkward silence, right on cue.
