Three snowmobiles tore into the clearing. Stein yanked off his seatbelt and helmet and began unfastening me. Gary yelled a warning and slid to a precipitous halt inches away from us, Kate squealing with delight and Lydia yelling not to destroy the snowmobiles because she wanted her deposit back.
When I looked down, I saw that Gary’s snowmobile had run over the tiny fir, destroying forever that tiny frosted work of art. There was nothing left now but a torn raw stub and a little mangled branch twisted in the skis.
Kate leaped off, and she and Gary hugged each other and looked self-consciously at all of us and then kissed lightly, and Lydia said, “Later, children, later.”
“Why?” said Gary. “Best things first.”
Susan and Ross claimed to be starving and dying of thirst, so they broke out the thermos of hot chocolate and the first bag of ham sandwiches. Stein, of course, shunned anything as pleasant as a hot drink and fished out a cold Pepsi. He even produced a plastic cup into which he dropped the tip of an icicle from the falls to ice his drink satisfactorily.
“I wouldn’t use that for an ice cube,” said Lydia. “It’s probably frozen acid rain.”
Everyone but me laughed.
“Say, what’d you think of the game?” said Stein at large. Everyone huddled around the food, talking about how exciting the game had been.
I could not believe they were sitting around talking about ice hockey and crunching taco chips. It was all so beautiful! Why weren’t they gasping in awe and weeping because they hadn’t brought cameras and offering their taco chips to the birds in homage to the best Nature had to offer?
I gazed over Stein’s ample shoulders at the top of the falls, and for a moment watched a hawk circle lazily in the sky, a black and graceful creature against the deep, impossible blue of the sky.
The snowsuit was too warm. Who would ever have thought that Holly Carroll could get too warm? It mellowed me. I decided not to tell them that anyone who adored ice hockey was a barbarian and that Jamie Winter and Holly Carroll were the only outposts of civilization in a deteriorating world. I decided not to say that in my opinion a hockey stick was shaped exactly like a scythe—for slicing cheeks open, though, instead of reaping grain. I even decided to smile at Stein while he bragged about his chances at pro hockey and while I remembered Stein’s opponents who had left the rink needing stitches.
I am practically a saint, I told myself. I am a big, big person.
I glanced down at the huge fat beast I was with the snowsuit on and thought ruefully that there were two ways to interpret “big.”
“So, Holly,” said Lydia, in that sharp, cruel tone she uses to introduce torment. “So how’s dear little Jamie?”
Inside the suit I shriveled. Jamie was private. He was my fantasy. Lydia had no business introducing him here, for everyone to kick around like a downed hockey player. “He’s fine,” I said, trying to be casual. The blushes came and went on my cheeks like tides in the Bay of Fundy.
“Jamie who?” Susan wanted to know.
“Win—ter,” said Lydia, as if those two syllables described something utterly comical.
“Jamie Winter?” repeated Susan. “You mean that junior?” She managed to make a junior sound as remote as an Afghan.
“Right,” giggled Lydia. “Hollyberry here is crazy about him.”
Kate jumped in. She was not so much being a pal as she was preserving my chances with Stein. “Drop dead, Lydia,” she said crossly. “You’re like Hope Martin. Always nipping at somebody’s heels. Stop starting rumors.”
Susan had never once listened to Kate, and she wasn’t listening now. “But Holly,” she protested, looking at me with confused, surprised eyes. “Jamie’s so young. I mean I’m practically two years older than Jamie. Don’t you feel there’s a tremendous gap? What could you possibly talk about?”
Everything, I thought. A thousand more things than I could ever talk to you about. I found myself wondering how the eight of us had ever managed to get together. I wasn’t even sure any of us liked anybody else in the group very much. I certainly didn’t like Lydia. And Susan was pressing me pretty hard. And if Kate kept trying to sell me on or to Stein I wouldn’t like her anymore either. I said, “Actually, he’s kind of a neat person.”
I did it, I thought. I admitted it. I didn’t pretend he’s nothing but a clod to carry trays.
“She’s really into cradle-robbing this year,” said Lydia, smirking. “You know what else Hollyberry is into? Dollhouses.” Lydia’s distinctive laughter pealed out over the ice and vibrated in the woods. I considered violence.
Gary said mildly, “Jamie’s six feet tall, Lyd. Little large for a cradle.”
I forgave Gary for running over the fir tree.
And then Stein said (Stein!), “He is a neat person. He’s kind of weird. Doesn’t like sports even though he’s got the build for them. Lifts weights, though, I think. But he can do anything mechanical. He’s got a parts inventory in that garage of his like a J. C. Whitney catalog.”
I forgave Stein for being a jock.
When God moved through Gary and Stein, He was definitely moving in mysterious ways.
Kate moved the conversation into the conditions on the various ski slopes, and pretty soon everyone was busy defending Loon versus Waterville.
I slid into a ski dream of my own…water skiing…off the West Coast, not down a mountain…under a hot California sun…with Jamie Winter.
Fifteen
MY ANKLE CAST WAS turning gray and ragged. I hated it now. It was a prison. I was even daydreaming about the moment the cast came off and I could have the glorious joy of kicking my foot and bending my ankle.
Dad drove me to school, because I found getting on and off the bus too difficult. We drove past my stop. The same kids were playing in a new layer of snow. The ones who usually leaned against parked cars and telephone poles were silently leaning. And Jamie was standing alone, staring off into the sky.
He didn’t see us drive by.
Okay, I said to myself. The situation here is really very simple. I have determined that of all the boys in high school, I like him best. Unfortunately, I have alienated him. Justifiably, he no longer wants to attempt to be around me. I must retrieve the situation. I have to take the first step.
It sounded so easy, sitting there in the car next to my father, who could always take any step.
I saw myself trotting down the hall after Jamie, Hope on one side making remarks about how I couldn’t even talk to a college man and Lydia on the other side, wanting to get tips on cradle-robbing. Meanwhile, a hundred other passing students were listening and giggling and pointing. Then I’d corner Jamie and explain that while I had said he was nothing but a young clod to carry trays, actually I adored him and could we go out? I’d pay, he wasn’t to worry about that.
Then, of course, Jamie would look at me in absolute horror because all he was doing was carrying my tray. While Hope and Lydia laughed themselves sick, Jamie would flee down the hall, never to be seen again.
I no longer care about Hope and Lydia, I said to myself. They stink. Their boyfriends stink. All they want is to be unkind to other people and prevent other people from having fun.
I got out of the car and said good-bye to my father and went into the school with such determination I practically dug holes in the floor with my crutches.
And then, of course, I didn’t so much as catch a glimpse of Jamie.
In English class I stared out the window, thinking about him. Our high school is built on a bill and from the top floor you can see through the tracery of naked trees to the college ski slope. It wasn’t as crowded as on a weekend, but there were plenty of skiers. Tiny figures of scarlet, emerald, vibrant yellow, and royal blue danced against the white snow. Little feathered trees separated us. I daydreamed, half asleep. Was Jamie daydreaming of me? Or of hot buttered muffins in the Pew? Or of steam engines and college?
After school was the big meeting to organize the high school participation in the
college’s Ice Sculpture Festival. Tens of thousands of people come to the weekend, and for the last few years the high school has run children’s games and small booths to raise money. This year our project was building a solar greenhouse off the biology rooms, and we needed several thousand dollars for materials. It had to be a lot more professional than in previous years, but it was a bad year for raising money; what with the economy and inflation, people weren’t going to be eager to throw dollars away on stupid little nothing prizes and games.
There were probably forty kids at the meeting. About half were seniors and the rest were a mix of freshmen, sophomores, and juniors. Jamie was one of them.
My heart jumped when I saw him. It seemed to me the whole room would turn around and see me breathing quicker, but no one did. Not even Jamie.
He was sitting on the far side of the room. On one side of him was an empty chair and on the other side sat a junior girl named Elsa Worrell.
My heart sank as quickly as it had risen. Elsa is a dreadful name, but Elsa’s one of those perfect, sparkling little gamines who make you wish you, too, could be named Elsa and be a perfect, sparkling little gamine like that. Jamie was laughing with her. He was not going to look up and see me because the view of Elsa was far too nice to expect anything better to come in the door.
I could sit in the empty chair, I thought.
But Gary and Kate were already thrusting out a chair for me next to them. What if I went on by, and sat with Jamie, and he never even looked up from Elsa? Or looked up and was annoyed, and embarrassed?
It’s only a chair, I thought, despising myself. This is just a dumb meeting. What is the big deal?
I sat down next to Kate. We were on the Executive Committee. I rather like committee work. It’s always inside, I’m always good at it, and it keeps me busy.
“Okay, men,” said the faculty advisor, Mr. Hastings. “Let’s get this show on the road.” How dare he call us men, I thought.
Hope said icily, “It happens that the chairperson, vice-chairperson, and two of the five committee heads are female, Mr. Hastings. Perhaps you should say, ‘Okay, women.’”
Mr. Hastings chuckled agreeably. He was the sort of man my mother would loathe, because he could not quite believe women were ever in charge of anything. Why am I remembering my mother’s opinion? I thought suddenly. I’m seventeen. I loathe Mr. Hastings!
“Ladies and gentlemen,” amended Mr. Hastings.
I looked over at Jamie and Elsa. Elsa was not listening and didn’t care. Jamie was looking at Mr. Hastings with a bored, scornful look that put Jamie on my side. I grinned to myself.
“We’ve got to have a large number of inexpensive activities this year,” said Mr. Hastings. “Most of the booths have to be fifty-cent booths. All the kids will want to do several things, but their parents won’t be able to fork out two dollars each time. I figure we need at least ten booths or games.”
Ten! I thought, overwhelmed.
“Is it too late to resign?” muttered Gary.
“Holly Carroll,” said Mr. Hastings, terrifying me. “You did a good job on the Treasure Hunt last year. Want to do it again?”
Oh, that horrible Treasure Hunt!
I’d hidden the clues in snowballs, making up batches of snowballs for days in advance, keeping them outdoors and praying the temperature wouldn’t rise. We’d hidden the snowballs all over the college president’s backyard, among the shrubs and rocks and stone fences, and after each bunch of kids finished up and got their all-day lollipops, I’d have to run around hiding the next bunch. After two days of the festival, I was insane.
What have I been daydreaming about? I reproached myself. I have not given one moment’s thought to what I could do this year instead.
“I’d rather do something else,” I announced. I had to improvise fast. What are my natural talents? I thought desperately. Spanish…nice hair…hot weather…“The college drink booths are pretty adult,” I said. “A lot of cold drinks, plenty of coffee, some beer and some booze, but nothing for kids. I’d like to do a hot drinks booth. Small cups and small portions that cost very little. Hot chocolate. Hot buttered cider. Russian tea. Hot lemonade.”
Ask me anything about hot drinks, I thought. I know ’em all. Actually I rather enjoy hot Dr. Pepper, but it sounded too weird to mention, so I left it off the list.
Everybody thought that was a terrific idea. One of the freshmen thought small snacks would sell well, too. Plastic baggies with one doughnut, or two cookies, or a handful of popcorn.
Lydia agreed to do the Treasure Hunt. I revised my opinion of her yet again. She was certainly willing to work.
Darling gamine Elsa claimed to have an older sister who bred husky dogs. “Valery would give sled rides to little kids,” she said. “Once around the block. They’d love that. We’d probably do real well.”
Last year’s big hit was ice-chasing, where the biggest boys took little kids on their shoulders and raced across the ice. The kids loved the height and the speed. It was a little hard on the shoulders of the skaters, but that’s why they had those broad shoulders, right? Gary Beaulieu and Pete Stein, as our best and broadest skaters, agreed glumly to do that this year.
One of the freshmen had a peculiar idea that everyone laughed at at first but then decided was really pretty good. She wanted to fill waterguns with colored water (and alcohol so it wouldn’t freeze) and have children spray pictures on snow! They’d do a huge mural and each kid could pay a dime for his chance to empty a watergun and paint a blue tree or a red car.
“Take an awful lot of dimes to raise a thousand dollars,” said Lydia.
“What we need,” said Mr. Hastings, “is one really good thing that we can charge more for. One really super idea to swing the whole high school end of the festival around.”
There was dead silence. Nobody had a single idea.
And then Jamie said, “Last year when I was in summer camp—”
“Camp!” moaned one of the senior boys. “Jeez, Winter, aren’t you past that stuff yet? How old are you, anyway?”
Jamie’s face tightened a little but he plowed on. I felt my stomach cramp up, worrying for him. Don’t say anything dumb, I prayed.
“The camp owned a hot air balloon. It was beautiful. Bright deep red with two rainbows on it. The town had a Fourth of July carnival, and they used the hot air balloon for fund-raising. The balloon doesn’t actually take off. You keep it moored and release it to the limits of its ropes, probably fifty feet up, but that’s enough for little kids. You can charge at least a dollar for that, because it’s so unusual. You can also have someone there with a color Polaroid camera to take snapshots of each kid as he goes up in the air, and you always sell those to the parents.”
“It’s a nice thought, Jamie,” said Lydia in her cruelest voice, “but we can’t afford the balloon, we can’t afford the fuel, and that also lets out the camera.”
I hated her. I truly hated her. It was a terrible feeling, to have so much loathing for one person coursing through me. I almost hit her. I think the only reason I didn’t was that Kate was sitting between us.
Jamie said, “I know a guy in Laconia who has a hot air balloon. His is emerald green with deep blue zigzags. It’s really pretty in the sky. He—”
“Jamie,” said Lydia, “who cares what color it is?”
Several people informed Lydia that she could shut up.
Jamie took a deep, controlled breath and said, “He’d be happy to do it for us. I asked him last week. He loves his balloon, he’s proud of it, he loves showing it off, and he likes taking kids for rides. All we’d have to do is pay him back the cost of his fuel afterward, and by then we’d have the money in hand to do it. As for the camera, I also talked to the Camera Shoppe in town, and they agreed to let us have the film at cost and furthermore to let us pay for it afterward.”
There was a moment of very impressed silence.
Stein said, “Winter, you’re something.”
“Yeah,” said Jami
e. “Well, there’s one hitch.”
“I knew it,” said Lydia.
Gary kicked her for me. Lightly, but still, a kick. That Gary had possibilities, too.
“He wants two free ski slope passes for a weekend,” said Jamie. Susan, whose father owns the Snowy Owl ski resort, immediately said, “Oh, no problem! My father always has a few passes on hand for special guests. That’ll be our donation. My father was just complaining last night that I’d probably expect him to kick in something, and now I can tell him precisely what!”
We all laughed.
Suddenly the festival seemed like something we really wanted to do. The thought of that huge, many-stories-high emerald green balloon soaring up in the sky, and the laughing, shrieking children in its basket, made us all cheerful and eager to get to work.
We broke into groups. By the time my committee had gotten its thoughts down on paper, it sounded like a major conglomerate preparing for a takeover. I had had no idea providing hot drinks for anywhere from zero to ten thousand people would be so difficult.
“Isn’t winter cute,” said one of my girls.
How anyone could find winter cute was beyond me. I made a mental note not to assign this girl anything very demanding.
“He seems to like Elsa, doesn’t he?” said another girl.
Wrong winter, I thought. I looked up immediately. Jamie and several boys were trying to decide what field they could use to moor the balloon. Elsa was dancing over to offer a suggestion, like a wood sprite, or a gazelle. Jamie was smiling at her. The sweet, private one-quarter smile we had shared in the cafeteria line.
My chest hurt again. I felt fat and ugly and stupid, the sort of girl who would have to resort to meeting men by computer, or in bars, or be introduced in pity by superior female friends with extra men around. Gloomily I wrapped up my committee meeting. People began rushing off to catch the late bus or call for rides home. Carpools were being worked out and mittens searched for. I shoved my stuff into my backpack (the general enthusiasm for carrying my things had long since worn off) and located my crutches. Hideous, evil instruments of torture. I jabbed them viciously into the floor. Elsa danced in front of me. I would have speared her except that she had done nothing to deserve it. It wasn’t her fault I hadn’t been bright enough to keep Jamie.
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