“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 struggle 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 am scared, but the idea of Tucker thinking I’m chicken makes my jaw tighten in determination. I position my skis in a careful V, the way he showed me. Then I push off.
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, frowning, 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.”
“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.”