The Slope Rules

by Melanie Hooyenga

  “Is she in there?”

  Mike nods.

  I hand Blake my skis and push through the plastic door. Pop-up cots form two rows, one on each side of the tent, but only three are occupied. Amber’s in the cot farthest from the door, her red curls hiding her face, her leg elevated in an air cast. I’m at her side in two seconds and on my knees, clutching at her arm before she sees me.

  She jumps. “Jesus, Cally, you scared the crap out of me.” The smile that’s usually so quick to offset her sarcasm doesn’t touch her lips.

  “Amber, I’m so sorry.” I glance at her leg. “Is it bad?”

  Her eyes squeeze shut. “Broken in three places.”

  I rock back until I’m sitting on the floor. “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish. I’m done for the season.”

  My mouth falls open, but I don’t know what to say.

  She smirks. “I really showed that wall who’s boss.”

  I risk a smile back. “Those were your skid marks?”

  She shifts on her side to face me, but freezes, jaw clenched. Several deep breaths later she refocuses on me. “How’d you do?”

  I lift a shoulder.

  “Cally.”

  “Last I checked, I’m in first.”

  She pushes up on her elbows, her eyes bright, the grimace gone. “I knew you’d crush it!”

  “It’s not final yet.”

  “Whatever.” She leans back and closes her eyes. “Now I can die happy, knowing you won.”

  I smack her arm. “Stop it.”

  She juts her chin at the door. “Go watch the rest of the race. You don’t want to be in here when you win.”

  I frown. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

  “Just promise not to forget about me in here.”

  “I promise.” I give her arm a final squeeze.

  I emerge from the tent to find everyone staring at the leaderboard. Dad’s here, too. He smiles at me. “It’s down to the last two skiers.”

  I stand between Dad and Blake, slipping my arm through Blake’s.

  “You’ve got this,” he whispers.

  “So do you,” I whisper back.

  I barely breathe during the final two races. Only when the final competitor crosses the finish line and my name stays firmly at the top do I allow myself to smile. Mike and Evan jump in the air, hugging and screaming. Dad and Blake reach for me at the same time, enveloping me in an awkward hug that feels strangely like home.

  “Hey,” Evan says, grinning from ear to ear. “You know what would make this even better?”

  Let’s see. I won the Dash, got the guy, and put together a pretty kick-ass group of friends. What else do I need? “I have no idea.”

  “How about a puppy?”

  “Holy whiplash, Batman.” I touch his black armband, my thoughts all over the place. The race. Amber. Reece. And now puppies.

  “Dolly had them last night. Not what I thought I’d be doing the night before a race, let me tell you.”

  “Puppies?” I flutter my lashes at Dad, who laughs.

  “Don’t give me that look.”

  “But a puppy!”

  He closes his eyes and shakes his head, but it’s more a look of defeat than denial.

  “Is that a yes?”

  LATE JUNE

  “Cally, you can do this.” Blake’s leaning against the driver’s side of the Jeep, his hand on the open door. I’m five feet away, eyeing the seat like it’s the electric chair. “Come on, take another step.”

  Driver’s training starts in a couple weeks and despite threats from Mike—who got her license last month—to stop bringing me places, I’ve yet to actually sit behind the wheel. At this point I won’t get my license until long after my birthday, which is next week, but I’m okay with that. Blake’s upholding his promise to get me over my fear, but it’s not going as easily as he expected. Even his unceasing charm is no match for my irrational phobia.

  Speaking of charming, after Calliope’s opening in March—which was a huge hit, to the point that Dad had to hire extra staff after the first two weeks—Dad and I started looking at houses. The McMansion in Harmony Hills was nice, but it never felt like home. Dad didn’t seem freaked out that it was taking forever to find something I consider normal, but we finally did. It’s not purple, but it oozes character and it’s in a neighborhood filled with normal families who grill out and drop by with lettuce from their gardens.

  I touch a folded piece of paper in my pocket and take a breath. I’ve been carrying my fourth essay since Ms. Simpson returned it with a giant A scrawled across the top and a note that I should use it as a reminder of what I can overcome. Instead of focusing on the details of Mom’s accident, I wrote about how it’s affected me and my family, even after all these years. In a moment of impulsiveness, I shared my fear of being on the left side of a car and she’s since become my personal cheerleader, insisting I talk to Dad about it, which I did. The thing is, I already knew my fear was irrational, but my brain and my body won’t listen to logic.

  Which brings us here, in the empty school parking lot. Just me, Blake, and his kick-ass Jeep which my brain seems to think is out to get me.

  “Maybe if you get in first.” He moves around to the passenger side and I shake my head. “No, the driver’s side.”

  He stops, hands on the hood. “You’ve seen me drive a million times.”

  “Just get in.”

  He obliges, and I take a step closer to the Jeep. As if understanding what I’m thinking, he drops a leg out the door to make room for me. I grab the door and rest the other hand on the roof. Deep breath.

  He runs a hand along my side and I shiver. Even after all this time, he still makes me googley whenever he’s around. “You got this, Cally.”

  I lift my leg and rest my foot on the running board, and he kisses my cheek. I graze my hand over the steering wheel but quickly jerk it back like I’ve been scalded. This shouldn’t be this hard. Just climb in. This time I avoid the steering wheel and use my legs to push up and into the seat. Blake’s arms wrap around me, holding me close against his chest.

  My breathing is ragged. I squish my eyes closed and focus on his arms. If it weren’t for the steering wheel pressing into my legs I could pretend we’re on the couch watching a movie.

  “Okay so far?”

  I nod, smacking the back of my head into his chin. “Sorry!” I twist around as best I can in the tight space and touch his face. My gaze drops from his eyes to his lips and his breath hitches. I press my lips to his, pushing away thoughts of cars and driving and irrational fears, and he pulls me closer.

  My leg starts to cramp from the awkward position. I break the kiss, but don’t pull away. “Can’t I just have a chauffeur for the rest of my life? This whole driving thing is overrated.”

  He laughs against my cheek. “Yeah, driving, independence... totally overrated.”

  “I mean, I get the allure, but people pay big money to not have to drive. I’m not being completely irrational.”

  “Not completely.”

  “But you’re gonna make me do this.”

  He pushes my shoulders back so he can look me in the eye. “I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to. But I know you can do this. I mean, have you seen the crazy stunts you do on skis? This should be easy.”

  I drop my gaze. “Should be.”

  He lifts my hand and brushes his lips over my knuckles. “Turn around.”

  I do, and ignore my heart as it tries to claw its way out of my chest.

  He slips his hands beneath mine so my palms are on the back of his hands, then places his hands on the steering wheel. We sit like that for several minutes and even though I know what’s coming next, I feel like I’m watching a horror movie, waiting for the bad guy to spring out of the closet with a chainsaw.
r />   But Blake’s movements are slow, patient. He removes one hand from beneath mine, finger by finger, so now I’ve got one hand on the wheel and the other still on his.

  I take another breath, then he does the same thing with the other hand. He keeps his fingers pressed lightly against my wrists—not holding me there, but reassuring me that I’m not in this alone. I lean my head against his shoulder, close my eyes, and wrap my fingers around the wheel. The grooves on the backside cradle my fingers the same way ski poles do. My eyes flutter open and I look more closely at the wheel. “I never noticed that before.”

  “What?”

  “How the steering wheel is molded to fit your hand.” I run my fingers over the bumps that cover the wheel.

  “If you think that’s cool, you’re in for quite a treat.” He reaches around me and before I can stop him, turns the key. The engine rumbles to life, a sound I’ve heard a bazillion times but this time is different. Terrifying. And a little thrilling. This time I’m in charge—literally in the driver’s seat—and this beast will do whatever I tell it.

  He turns the key again and the engine quiets. “Baby steps.”

  I drop my hand to rest on his thigh. “Thank you.”

  He squeezes his arms around me, then smacks my leg. “That’s it for day one.”

  I hop out of the car and roll my shoulders, staring at the dashboard. Maybe I can do this.

  “Let’s go. We’re gonna be late for practice.”

  Remember the Eldora Dash? Yeah, we both won our divisions. Blake didn’t think he could be on the team and have a job, but his dad was so excited that he not only won, but made the team, that he let him cut back his hours. Evan was able to earn a spot at spring tryouts—yeah, stupid me never thought about the fact that there would still be tryouts for the team at the end of the season—and I’ve slowly cobbled together a new group of friends. Evan and Mike are still going strong, the Snow Bitches have melted into oblivion—well, not completely, but I ignore them so to me they’ve ceased to exist—and best of all, Sophia is coming to visit for my birthday.

  I climb into the passenger seat, smile at Blake, and remember the most important Slope Rule: None of this means anything if you’re not having fun.

  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: you are why I do this. I’ve always loved telling stories and being able to entertain people with my imagination, so thank you for spending time with me.

  Want more of Blake?

  If you write a review on Goodreads and the bookseller website where you bought this, email the link to MelanieHooyenga@gmail.com and as a thank you, I’ll send you bonus scenes from Blake’s perspective.

  One final note.

  Boulder, Eldora, and Monarch High School are real places, and while I did my best to research them (thank you internet!) any factual errors are entirely mine. As for the bullying at Monarch, the students have an active anti-bullying campaign and would NEVER tolerate someone like Brianna. To the students and faculty at Monarch, thank you for letting my imaginary friends roam your halls.

  Writing a novel is a solitary endeavor, but it’s never written alone. So many people helped me along the way:

  My early readers, whose insight and red pens shaped this book: Stephani Martinell Eaton, Brigid Gallagher, Lynne Cox, Nadine Nettmann Semerau, Sara Spock Carlson, Nancy Matuszak, Tammy Ruch, and Judy Hooyenga. (Yes, that last one is my mom but there’s no better proofreader.)

  My numerous friends who’ve continued to support me, the crew at the Bookman (the best local bookstore in the world), and everyone else who innocently asks what’s new and gets an earful about my writing.

  The online writing community, who have graciously accepted me as one of their own and answered my questions with patience and professionalism.

  My Facetious Friends, Sara and Nadine, thank you for being you. Navigating the writing, editing, and publication journey has been so much easier with you by my side. I’m so grateful to have you both in my lives and in my phone 24/7.

  And finally, my husband Jeremy. Your unceasing encouragement gets me through the hard parts and makes the good ones even better. Thank you for always being up for a competition—regardless of the event—and for acting out the tree scene in Chapter 7.

  While not a fan of matching Day-Glo outfits, Melanie’s been skiing since she was five and always points her tips up while exiting the chairlift. She lives in the land of lake effect snow—also known as west Michigan—with her husband Jeremy and Miniature Schnauzer Owen, and is always looking for ways to enjoy the outdoors.

  This novel, her fourth, inspired her to purchase her first helmet.

  Connect with Melanie online:

  www.melaniehoo.com

  MelanieHooyenga@gmail.com

  Facebook/MelanieHooyenga

  Twitter & Instagram @melaniehoo

  (she tried SnapChat and just doesn’t get it)

  Or if you prefer pen and paper:

  Melanie Hooyenga

  PO Box 554

  Grand Haven, MI 49417

  Sunlight pulses across the dashboard—light, dark, light, dark—and catches the dust dancing on the imitation leather.

  My eyes stutter, but I blink it away. My heart jumps around in my chest. I stroke the grainy piece of cement stuck between my back teeth with my tongue. The orthodontist swore he got it all, but that was as true as his promise that it wouldn’t be uncomfortable.

  Uncomfortable. Right.

  A tingling sensation pricks the tips of my fingers. I press them together, watching the blood shift beneath my skin. The tingling turns to those sharp needles that remind me of anything but sleep.

  I press harder and my toes start tingling too. What the hell?

  The dancing on the dashboard gets faster. The trees here are taller, straighter, and the sunlight strobes through the branches. My breath catches and a sudden heaviness pushes me deep into the seat.

  I glance at Mom but she’s concentrating on the road, humming along with golden oldies or whatever the hell it is she listens to, oblivious to the fact that something very weird is happening to her daughter.

  To me.

  I close my eyes. The heaviness lifts. Too much. Now I’m floating and—

  “But Mom, I’m fine.”

  Mom crosses the kitchen and leans against the counter. “Biz, you’re going. The dentist said your face will change if you don’t get braces. Your entire face could look different…”

  A sense of déjà vu slams me over the head. I’ve had this argument. Next Mom is gonna grab the stack of mail that Dad left on the counter and toss it in the basket.

  She does.

  “Biz?”

  The words tumble out of me. “Mom…” The déjà vu doesn’t lift. This isn’t a memory. I’m not in the car anymore.

  I’ve gone back to yesterday.

  I’ve been flickering—jumping back to yesterday—since I was thirteen. The first time I thought the orthodontist gave me more laughing gas than he was supposed to, but in the four years since then I figured out I can use the light to my advantage. I’ve retaken tests, undone fights with friends, and repeated more than a few memorable dates.

  Unfortunately this is not one of those times.

  Music blares from a speaker in the corner of the gymnasium, the heavy bass vibrating through me and everyone else flailing on the dance floor. A disco ball throws flashes of light spiraling off every surface in the room. I throw my head back and close my eyes, pretending to lose myself in the music, when really I’m just trying to block out the damn light.

  “I love this song!” Amelia, my best friend, grabs my arm and bounces next to me. Her dark wavy hair sways with the music, unlike mine which hangs limp over my shoulders.

  My eyes open a slit. “Didn’t disco balls go out in the 70s?”

  She laughs, a throaty giggle that makes me smile. “So k
eep your eyes closed. I won’t let you run into anyone.”

  Yeah, right. I sway next to Amelia, scanning the crowd for Robbie, my boyfriend, and spot him against the far wall laughing with a couple friends. His blond hair practically glows in the blinking lights. He notices me watching him and smiles. As I lift my hand to give a half-hearted wave a low chuckle behind me makes me turn.

  “How long did you promise to dance?” Cameron, my other best friend, stands flat-footed with his arms crossed, indifferent to the movement surrounding us. His dark eyes twinkle, a smile lifting the corner of his mouth.

  Amelia spins, sending her hair flying. “Three songs! This is number two.”

  “And thank god it’s almost over.”

  She laughs. “Come on, Biz, you love it.” She throws an arm over my shoulder and we knock hips.

  Cam nods at our friends near Robbie. “I’ll be over there.”

  The song ends and the blinking lights slow to a lazy loop around the room. Crap. I also promised Robbie one slow dance, and from the look on his face as he weaves through the couples already pressed close together, I’m not getting out of this.

  He smiles. “They’re playing our song.”

  “We don’t have a song”

  “I know, but I requested it so that makes it our song.” His lips graze my cheek and he places my hands behind his neck. Our bodies brush as we turn in a small circle. “Is this really so bad?” he whispers.

  “No.” I rest my head against his shoulder. My eyes close but my thoughts are anything but relaxed. This is supposed to be what I want. A boy who wants to dance with me and spend time with me and seems to think I’m cute. So why do I feel so antsy when he’s around? I mean, I know why—he’s hardly the first boy I’ve dated and I always get this feeling after a couple months. But why can’t I just be happy?

  Robbie trails his fingers up and down my back, then pushes my hair off my shoulder. His warm breath on my neck gives me the shivers, but it’s not the reaction he was going for.