Winter Fire (Book I of the Winter Fire Series)

“Your friends seem very nice,” my mother said from behind the reception desk. The snow had already thrown down a couple of inches on the roads and Sydney was late.

  “Yeah,” I said, wondering how she'd gotten a glimpse of everyone without my noticing.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind about taking lessons?”

  “Can I just not hear any more about it?” The irritation in my voice surprised both of us. I glanced down at the counter. “Sorry. It’s just that everybody’s really on me about it, and I feel stupid enough that they were all out there having a good time and I was just sitting there.”

  “Well, you have a choice to make then, don’t you?” Her tone was gentle, but she sounded more like my father than herself. “It’s all right if you don’t want to, as long as you’re not letting anything stop you.”

  I shrugged one shoulder, my classic stonewall, and she smiled and turned back to her paperwork.

  It was employee night again, but there were fewer of them on the slopes than usual. The snow had sent the townies home early, leaving the mountain to the live-ins. I brought a cup of steaming tea onto the deck to watch them for a while. I didn’t see Bren or any of the others at first, but just as I was about to go in, I spotted the girl with the copper braids and her boyfriend walking hand in hand toward the lift. She was smiling, peering up at the falling snow, but he had that same intense look on his face, his eyes dark and far away. I glanced behind them as far as I could see. They were the only two. They settled into a lift chair, their boards dangling as they started up. After a moment, she rested her head on his shoulder.

  It hurt in a way I could not quite understand, watching them. It was like knowing you had lost or forgotten something, and not being able to remember what it was. I was suddenly sad that I could not ride to the very top of a mountain, look down on the whole world as if it was a small and insignificant dream, and then, at my whim, descend upon it until it rushed back into reality around me. That I could not rest my head on someone’s shoulder.

  I made a decision then. It changed everything.

  I slid the board back and forth with one foot at the top of the bunny hill. The employees pretty much had run of the rental shop on these nights - ‘unless the privilege is abused,’ the sign behind the counter read – and I had managed for the second time to find some boots that fit and a board that looked right. Now all I had to do was clamp my other foot in and find some courage. I hobbled to the edge of the hill and plopped down on my butt. Neither my snow pants, nor the freshly fallen flakes, provided much cushioning.

  I had made sure before I went to the rental shop that the lift was running and the booth was unoccupied. It was ‘strictly forbidden’ to run the lifts without an operator, but none of the employees wanted to miss out on the ride, and as far as I could gather, no one ever checked. I knew it was stupid, what I was doing, and that I would have no excuse if I got badly hurt, but I thought the embarrassment of someone watching me kill myself would be worse than if I was just found that way after the fact.

  I bent my knees and let the board’s back edge dig into the snow. Then I buckled my other foot in and scanned the hill. It was empty. Everybody was on the big mountain, which was exactly how I wanted it.

  A few flakes settled on my pants. White on white. Then one on my eyelashes. I’d thought the snow had let up a little. Maybe this was a bad idea. No Jenna, I told myself, you’re just looking for an excuse. Then I remembered the chant I used to use when my father was teaching me to do something new - to dive into the deep end of a pool, or freeclimb rocks on a difficult hiking trail. No fear. No fear. I didn’t know if it denied fear or banished it, but it always got me moving. I said it under my breath now until it changed from a hysterical plea to a focused demand, then planted my hands behind me and pushed as hard as I could. I rose a foot or two off the ground and fell back down. I shimmed downhill a few feet and tried again, this time pulling my arms closer to my body, and managed to hoist myself all the way up. Teetering on my back edge I bent my knees to keep my balance, and raised my arms out to the sides. The board started to scrape the hill in little stutters…stop, go, stop, go… then began a smoother glide to the right. As I picked up speed, I looked down, watching the board wobble in the snow. My legs shook and I resisted the urge to relax them in some way, straighten them out or let the muscles soften, and when I glanced up again, I was heading fast toward the trees at the edge of the hill. Panicking, I threw my hands behind me and reclined until I skidded onto my back. My head bounced off the packed powder and a pile of snow plowed underneath my shirt between my pants and jacket. I didn’t even sit up to scoop it out. I just stared up at the charcoal sky, swirling with ashy flakes. There were stars now, but not the real kind. My head ached. I closed my eyes.

  A moment later, I heard a scrape just above me.

  No, I thought. That one word like a desperate prayer.

  “So you’re ready now?” He asked.

  Desperate prayer unanswered.

  “Clearly not,” I said, my eyes still closed.

  “Now you need a safety net.” I heard a thunk by my head.

  “What’s that?”

  “My helmet. You’re crazy not to have one.”

  “I’m not doing this again.”

  “You have to get down to get back up.”

  “I’ll walk.”

  “Quitter.”

  I opened my eyes. He could see me either way, it seemed.

  He slid down a few feet and sat next to me, resting his forearms on his knees. His cheeks were flushed from the cold. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, just his snow pants and a hoodie, red this time.

  I sat up and looked at him. “Why do you care if I learn to ride, anyway?”

  He shrugged. “You live here.”

  “So?”

  “So you shouldn’t take it for granted.”

  Here was that condescension again.

  “Take it for granted? I am not here by choice.”

  “I know that. But you know what? You could have said that as soon as you were born. Why don’t you take advantage of what you have?”

  “I’m sorry, did I pay for a counseling session?”

  He smiled while I fumed, and then I thought of something else. “And what do you mean, ‘I know that.’ How do you know why I’m here?”

  “Small place,” he said.

  “Nice.” I shook my head, imagining strangers talking about my mother and me, wondering how much they knew.

  “So do you want to sit here and argue with me, or do you want to get down the hill?” He asked, staring ahead.

  Frankly, I didn’t know. I suspected that I was arguing with him to avoid moving. But he was right. I had to get down. Walking back up would have been twice as humiliating now.

  “Good,” he said, even though I hadn’t answered him. He handed me the helmet. “So you need to get back up onto your edge like you were before.”

  Great. He had seen it all. He pushed himself up first, put his hands on his hips like he could have hovered there for years, and waited.

  Reluctantly, I put on the helmet, glad I couldn’t see how ridiculous I looked with red lightning attacking my head. I sucked in a big gulp of air and one snowflake, planted my hands behind me, and pushed off as hard as I could. I made it up, nearly toppling forward, and felt his hand on my arm. His grip was strong and warm.

  “I’m okay,” I lied.

  He let go and hopped back until he was a few feet away from me.

  “Now don’t lean forward,” he said, “just bend your knees and look where you want to go.”

  “I can’t see my bed from here." My voice was shaky. He laughed, and I felt myself relax a little.

  “Just let the board slide,” he said, “and when you feel like you’re going too far in one direction, turn your waist and kind of point in the direction you want to go. Like this.”

  He slid down ahead of me and let hi
s board follow a wide curve up to the right, then pivoted left, his arms like those on a weathervane, and curved the other way. Then he stopped, nearly vertical against the hill, and looked up at me.

  When I tried it, I forgot his instructions for a minute and went farther to the right than I wanted, but then I turned at the last second and the board started the other way underneath me. It was working. I was so shocked that I nearly fell on my face.

  “Now when you get a little further this way,” he called, “turn again and your board will go back.”

  I didn’t dare look at him, just kept my eyes in the right direction and my body turning, and my board kept swinging back and forth across the hill - just like a falling leaf. I didn’t know how long it was before I lost momentum, but eventually, my back edge cut firmly into the snow and I stopped. Caught off guard, I fell backward and sat down hard. When I looked up, I saw that I was at the bottom of the hill.

  “I did it,” I whispered to myself, a white puff rising from my lips.

  “I did it.” I said again, not quite believing it.

  Bren came skidding up beside me.

  “See?” He said. “You made it. You can quit now, if you want to.”

  But I didn’t want to. I had made it down. A few minutes before, I couldn’t do it. Now I could. It felt like a bolt sliding open on a heavy door.

  “I didn’t even fall,” I said.

  “You will.” He said this as if it were something to look forward to.

  “Or not,” I laughed out nervously.

  He smiled. “Time for the lift.”

  When he reached out a hand to help me up, I hesitated.

  “What?”

  I opened my mouth to say Brianna’s name and changed my mind. “A friend of mine said this was the worst lift to get off of.”

  He smiled again, this time with a little self-satisfaction. “Obviously, your friend wasn’t with me.”

  I didn’t know how to answer that one. He reached his hand out again.

  “I can do it,” I said.

  “It’s harder on the flats.”

  I raised my arm, imagining disaster as I slid around trying to heave myself to standing, but he pulled me up without any effort at all and held onto me while I unbuckled my back foot. At the lift, he told me to wait until a chair had turned the corner and was just in front of us, then move forward quickly for the next one. He held my arm until we sat. As we started up the hill, I let out a relieved sigh and reached up for the bar.

  “We don’t need that,” he said, waving it off.

  I didn’t want to seem like a snow geek, if there was such a thing, so I left the bar up and gripped the side of the chair. I didn’t like watching the ground fall away with nothing in front of me.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

  And then the next horrible thought came.

  “I don’t know how to get off this thing.”

  “When I tell you, just slide your board onto the snow and put your back foot on your stomp pad.”

  “Stomp pad.”

  “The rubber thing in front of your back binding.”

  I looked down, trying not to see the hill far beneath us.

  “Oh.” I turned to him. “But most people fall. I’ve seen it. It’s a mess.”

  “You won’t.”

  After a second, he opened his eyes and looked at me, the snow whipping between us. He smiled. “Don’t worry so much.”

  I smiled back, and worried.

  As the booth at the top came into view, I started to panic. I took a deep breath and held it. No Fear. The ground got closer, and just as I found a measure of relief in the fact that I wouldn’t die if I fell from our current height, the back side of the ramp passed underneath us and it was time to get off.

  I froze for a moment and felt Bren grab my arm with the hand furthest away from me. Wondering that he was still on the chair at that angle, I let the front of my board land on the snow and glide forward. When he pulled me to standing, I found the stomp pad with my back foot and started down the ramp. The tip caught in the snow and I whimpered, sure I was going to crash, but then he pressed his hand into my back and the ride felt smooth again.

  “You’re okay,” he said from behind me. "Just lean on your front edge until we stop.”

  And we did, just a few feet from the lift. Still standing.

  He bent and unbuckled his bindings, and then did mine. When he stood, his hair was disheveled and his cheeks were even redder.

  “So?” He said.

  Snow danced all around him, sticking to him and dissolving on his skin. He looked at home in the cold, like he’d melt anywhere else.

  “So.” I said. “I’m Jenna, by the way. I guess you knew that.”

  He nodded.

  “Bren?” I asked when he didn’t tell me.

  A smile played on his lips for a moment, then faded. His eyes slid to the side, as though he was listening for something, and his jaw tightened.

  “What’s the matter?”

  He remained still, a crease forming between his brows. Finally, he looked at me. “I have to go. I’m sorry. Don’t ride anymore tonight…it’s dangerous alone.” He picked up his board and held it in that shield clutch. “I’ll walk you back.”

  I shook my head. I didn’t want to go in yet, didn’t want my mother to catch me with a stupid grin on my face. And I wanted time to relive things. “I’m going to stay out here for a while.”

  He glanced at the board by my feet and back up at me.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “I’m done for the night.”

  He pointed at me as he backed away, a hint of smirk still playing in his expression. “I hope I can trust you.”

  A moment later, he turned and disappeared into the flurry.

  I sat at the top of the bunny hill and stared down, my perspective new and different. That someone like Bren would be interested in a girl like Brianna didn’t quite make sense to me, but I supposed that if what Sydney said was true, then Brianna would be the same to him as any girl. And so would I, maybe.

  Taking the helmet off, I glanced up at the lift, realizing for the first time how close I had been to him. I was too scared to be aware of it in the moment, and now I remembered how strong and warm his hands were, even through his gloves and my puffy jacket, remembered the sound of his voice when he first found me lying in the snow, and the way he had pointed and smiled at me as the distance grew between us. But this was the kind of gushing and obsessing girls like Brianna did over guys who didn't even care about them, and now that I had indulged in a few minutes of weakness, I would go back to my room and forget these things. Bury them in a book or homework. I had not come out here for help. I would learn on my own or not at all. And the next time I saw Bren, the first thing I would do is give him his helmet back.

  Chapter 6