“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 week, I practice nights up at Snow King.”
“Wow, you can ski at night?”
He laughs.
“Sure. They have lights set up along the runs. I love it at night, actually. It’s not so crowded. It’s quiet. You can see the lights from town. It’s beautiful.”
“Sounds beautiful.”
Neither of us says anything for a while. He knocks his skis together gently, sending a shower of snow down onto the hill below us. It’s surreal, dangling in midair with him on the side of a mountain, seeing him up close, hearing his voice.
“Snow King’s that ski area right inside Jackson Hole?” I ask.
“Yeah. It has only five runs, but it’s a good hill to practice on. And when we race for the State Championships the kids from school can watch us from the parking lot.”
I’m about to say something about wanting to see him race, but that’s when I notice that the chair is approaching a little hut on the side of the mountain, and the skiers are getting off.
“Oh crap.”
“What?” asks Christian.
“I don’t know how to get off this thing.”
“You don’t—”
“This is my first day skiing,” I say, panic rising in my throat. The little hut is getting closer and closer. “What do I do?”
“Keep the tips of your skis up,” he says quickly. “We’ll come up onto the mound. When it flattens out, stand up and get over to the side. You have to do it pretty fast, to get out of the way of the people coming behind you.”
“Oh man. I don’t know if this was such a great idea.”
“Relax,” he says. “I’ll help you.”
The chair is seconds away from the little hut. Every muscle in my body feels tense.
“Put your poles on,” he instructs.
You can do this, I tell myself, sticking my fingers through the slots in the ski poles and gripping them tightly. You’re an angel-blood. Stronger, faster, smarter. Use it, for once.
“Tips up,” says Christian.
I lift my skis. We skim up a short embankment and then, just like he said, we slide onto level ground.
“Stand up!” orders Christian.
I struggle to my feet. The chair hits me in the calves, nudging me forward.
“Now push yourself over to the side,” he says, already skiing away to the left. I try to follow him, planting my poles in the snow and pushing with all my strength. Too late I realize that he meant for me to go to the right while he went left. He turns to check how I’m doing just as I shoot toward him, already off balance. My skis slip on top of his. I flail, and one of my arms catches his shoulder.
“Whoa!” he yells, trying to steady himself, but there’s no way. We slide for a ways and then go down in a heap.
“I am so sorry,” I say. I’m facedown on top of him. My red-hot Jolly Rancher is lying next to his head in the snow. His hat and goggles are missing. My skis have come off and my poles are gone. I struggle to get off him, but I can’t seem to get my feet under me.
“Hold still,” he says firmly.
I stop moving. He puts his arms around me and rolls us gently to one side. Then he reaches down, pops off the ski that’s still under my leg, and rolls away from me. I lie on my back in the snow, wanting to dig myself a hole and crawl into it for the rest of the school year. Possibly forever. I close my eyes.
“You okay?” he says.
I open my eyes. He’s leaning over me, his face close to mine. I can smell the cherry candy on his breath. Behind him a cloud shifts from in front of the sun, the sky brightening in that way it has of opening up. I suddenly feel aware of everything: my heart pumping blood through my veins, the snow slowly beginning to melt under my body, the needles on the trees shifting in the breeze, the mixed smell of pine and Christian’s cologne and something that could be ski wax, the rattling of the chairs as they pass over the poles of the ski lift.
And Christian, with hat hair, laughing at me with his eyes, a breath away.
I don’t think of the fire then, or that he’s my purpose. I don’t think about saving him. I think, What would it be like to kiss him?
“I’m fine.”
“Here.” He brushes a strand of my hair out of my face, his bare hand skimming my cheek. “That was fun,” he says. “Haven’t done that in a while.”
At first I think he means the thing with my hair, but then I realize he means falling.
“I guess I’m going to have to practice the chairlift thing,” I say.
He helps me sit up.
“Maybe a little,” he says. “You did great for a first timer, though. If I hadn’t gotten in your way you totally would have made it.”
“Right. So you’re the problem.”
“Totally.” He glances up at the guy sitting in the little hut, who’s talking into a phone, probably calling the ski police to come drag me off the mountain.