Life at the Speed of Us

by Heather Sappenfield

  I had to stop. I had to be good. I had to make my life’s line curve up.

  I waved to Wash and started toward the lifthouse, but in a moment of inspiration, I wheeled into the lodge. Taking decent lunch to school would be the first step. In the restaurant, I snagged a pre-made roast beef sandwich, a brownie, and a water. I stowed them in my backpack and made for the door, just as Big John lumbered out of the men’s bathroom tugging on his gloves, Sarge close behind.

  “Sovern, good morning!” As a kid, I’d loved Big John’s booming voice.

  Sarge saluted me, grinning. “Ditto that.”

  Standing there, side by side, they resembled a giant and a dwarf.

  “We’re raising the pads,” Big John said.

  The kid-me had loved it when they’d had to raise the red pads. The pads protected skiers from dying if they were dumb enough to run into the lift towers. Raising the pads meant the snow’s blanket had grown even thicker. I’d liked best when storms pummeled Crystal Mountain and the guys couldn’t keep up, because it proved that, no matter how we might try to fool ourselves, the weather was in control.

  Now I hated that. Mom’s death had reversed it.

  Make that line curve up, I thought and forced a crooked smile. “Thanks for telling me,” I said.

  I strode out the doors, their concerned gazes burning my back. The lift attendant waved to me. His green uniform reminded me of Súmáí. After two skiers disembarked from a gondola car, I climbed in. I let my backpack fall to my forearm and onto the bench. The car moved around the bullwheel, doors closing, and then accelerated away from the lodge.

  I snapped shut the rectangular windows at the car’s top, sat, and leaned back against the glass. I unzipped my parka and let warmth seep into me before the final leg of my commute to school. In all, it would take forty minutes. Not bad. Double my walk from the Condo, but now I could get lunch each day. I forced aside the thought of that spruce along the recreation path.

  The gondola car descended a knoll, and Crystal Village came into view. After a weekend away, it seemed foreign. I took in the narrow grid of shops, condos, and outlying homes. I looked toward the white ribbons of the golf course. In winter, its fairways became groomed Nordic tracks.

  Mom used to drag Dad and me out there to skate-ski. Skate-skiing made me breathe so hard I thought I’d barf, but I did it for Mom. She was really good and would win races. She said I was good too, but I didn’t believe her. I kept up, though, while Dad trailed behind. I remembered how yesterday I’d breathed like a train as I’d hiked toward the cabin with Súmáí. The old me wouldn’t have been huffing like that. All my smoking and movie-watching had taken its toll. I set that thought in my growing wall of resolve.

  I ran my fingers over the beads on my amulet bag. Inside it, Súmáí’s quill mingled with mine. Yesterday in the cabin, his face had held a loss equal to mine. Was it from seeing my world in the cabin, a life I considered heaven? When visiting other universes, I couldn’t take my hand from the spruce and stay there. How was Súmáí able to move freely in my world? Stop! I thought.

  At the base of the mountain, I exited the gondola car and strode out of the lifthouse against a current of skiers and boarders, past a heated fountain shooting timed arcs of water. I strode down Ruby Street, past art galleries, hotels, fur shops, jewelry stores, gear shops, clothing stores, a coffee shop, and a candy shop till I came to the famous Gem Bridge with its heated glass roof that bathed people in facets of rainbow light as they crossed Crystal Creek. Across the bridge, I waited for a town shuttle stuffed with tourists to roll by. I crossed out of town and onto the recreation path that led to Crystal High.

  About five minutes later, that spruce came into view. Like my Shangri-La spruce, it had girth and that Upward Dog bend at the base before reaching toward the sky. What was the probability of their similarity? I blocked the sun with my hand, and my head reeled at the chances of there also being a brown-gray lump in its upper branches, but that porcupine was there. I stepped toward the tree, itching to press my palm to it. I remembered Súmáí holding up two fingers and shaking his head: explosion. His warning. I remembered Wash’s two fingers gesturing toward his eyes. His caring.

  I studied Crystal Creek’s swirled ice, listened to its muffled sound of rushing water, and remembered feeding the clothes I’d stolen into its flow. A chickadee hopped across the ice and pecked at a speck of darkness. I remembered Gage standing with his arms crossed, watching me as I fed those things into the water. I’d been self-destructing and he couldn’t handle it. Two days ago in Shangri-La, he’d said “love” and I’d kissed him. Yesterday, I’d let him be renamed Dammit. Could I be any meaner? Any less predictable?

  Gage, Dad, Wash, the rest of my ski-patrol family—they were real people, here, now, with feelings. They cared for me. Mom, Súmáí, and the spruce trees were illogical. Insane. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to admit they weren’t real. I pushed my eyebrows as high as they would go with my fingertips.

  I pictured Dad and enlarged his image across all of my mind, blotting out everything else. I inhaled the creek’s muffled sound. I had to stay on track with him. With my whole ski-patrol family. I had to keep that lifeline rising. I would go to school, I wouldn’t ditch, and I would actually try like I used to.

  I rolled back my shoulders and willed this resolve to take root. Today, as a first step, I’d speak in Lindholm’s class. A thousand pounds seemed to press down on me at the thought of talking in front of everyone.

  “I can,” I said. A promise to Dad, to my ski-patrol family, and to myself.

  I arrived at Crystal High from its back side and rounded it on a connector path. As I walked through the doors, I shoved back my hood, eyes adjusting to the florescent light. The immigrant girls huddled on the big steps in the school’s entry, loosing high-tinted Spanish and laughing. I crinkled my nose at the repellent scent of the janitor’s cleanser. Honestly, officials somewhere must have searched long and hard to find the worst-smelling stuff. Nobody would use it at home.

  In the Student Union, Handler stood at a table of Student Council geeks. Shelley Millhouse glanced away from me like I was dirt. Handler nodded to me, and my heart tripped because I’d completely forgotten my promise to meet him before fifth hour. The day seemed to stretch endlessly ahead of me. Maybe I should just tell him the truth, I thought. But what would I say? Anything honest sounded insane. Anything honest would end with a phone call to Dad.

  As I walked into Literature of Culture, I came face-to-face with Shelley, bathroom pass in her hand. Up close, her complexion was like velvet. She didn’t say anything, and neither did I, but I flung her a screw-you smile.

  Lindholm strode to the front of the classroom. She wore a blue-striped dress that hugged her slim figure. She wore a dress almost every day. I liked that predictable thing about her. When was the last time I’d worn a dress? Third grade, maybe? I could have worn one to the winter formal, but Gage and I had snubbed it. I’d scowled and insisted dancing was for dorks. Truth was, my body didn’t cup enough happiness to sway that way.

  Lindholm started discussing I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, so I set the voice recorder on my desk, turned it on, and ignored the stares. The memoir was narrow, and we were already halfway through. I took a deep breath and sat taller, determined to be a better person, but my face burned at the thought of talking in front of all these people after so much time in silence.

  Our discussion was about how church and racial segregation ruled Angelou’s life. I thought of how I’d only ever been to church once. For Mom’s memorial service.

  “So what exactly is Uncle Willy’s problem?” Lindholm said. She pointed to someone behind me.

  “He’s crippled,” said Paul Cummings.

  The class chuckled at the obviousness of his answer.

  “Why is that a problem?” Lindholm asked.

  Shelley returned her pass to the trough on the
SMART Board and slunk to her seat. I thought of Dad, of Big John’s smile, and of Sarge’s salute. I remembered Wash, pointing at his eyes and at me. I remembered Tara’s eyes in the snowcat mirror. I pictured the cookies from Crispy on our coffee table and the steady stream of baked love he sent us. I remembered the muffled sound of Crystal Creek beneath ice. For all of them, I raised my hand.

  Lindholm suppressed a grin. “Sovern?”

  “It’s a problem because a man in that place and time was measured by physical labor. By how much cotton he could pick. How he could provide. For his family,” I said.

  Everyone turned to look at me. No kidding.

  “Excellent!” Lindholm said. “And does he have a family, Sovern?”

  “No. Well, yes. Through his sister. And Maya and Bailey.”

  “So why does he stand tall behind the store’s counter, then, when the city couple are passing through?”

  I looked down at my hands. “He wants someone to see him as a normal person.”

  “Well done, Sovern,” Lindholm said.

  I glared at Shelley, and she looked away. Something in her face made me realize that perfect Shelley Millhouse, who should have been in AP Lit or AP Language, was in this class for English losers.

  When class was over, I shuffled toward the door, but Lindholm said, “Sovern?” I walked to her desk as the room emptied.

  “You’re recording class discussion?” she said.

  I nodded.

  “And you’re listening to this book?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m glad. Your insights are first-rate, and it’s good to have you be part of discussion.”

  I laughed at that, and then bit my lip to stop.

  Lindholm eyed me. “You weren’t in my class as a freshman.”

  “No.”

  “You had Ms. Summers?”

  I nodded.

  “Remember The Odyssey?”

  I’d never forget The Odyssey. Because I’d listened to it, the ancient language of Odysseus’s journey home had jumped to life and I’d heard the whole tale, while the rest of the class had struggled through an abridged version. Like always, Mom had made me read along where I could.

  “Do you remember that it was a poem? An epic poem?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Do you know why it was a poem?”

  “Rhapsodes.”

  “Very good. That’s how they retained culture, and the rhyme made it easier for the rhapsodes to recite it. No one knows why their written language was lost during that time. One of life’s mysteries.” She shook her head. “Civilization just never knows what might lie around the corner.”

  I analyzed her. Did she know I’d been traveling through the trees?

  “But really, only in recent times have stories been written down. For millennia, stories existed as oral traditions, and rhyme helped them be remembered. In the timeline of humanity, writing is a new phenomenon.”

  I snorted. She was talking about my dyslexia.

  “Sovern?”

  Lindholm was just trying to be nice, so I said, “Got it: stories with no writing.” I thought of Súmáí. Lindholm had taught us that the Utes had neither reading nor writing.

  She shook her head. “We all need stories, Sovern. Stories are bigger than writing. If we lost the written word, stories would continue on.”

  I didn’t know how to handle this kindness. All I could do was force out, “Thanks.”

  Bookmark:

  Schrödinger’s Cat

  Erwin Schrödinger

  Imagine a cat is sealed in a box. While it’s there, the cat exists in an unknowable state. Since it cannot be observed, we can’t know whether the cat is alive or dead. It exists in both states until we look into the box.

  19

  I stowed my lunch from the lodge in my parka’s pocket and walked out on the recreation path, but not so far as the spruce. I brushed snow off a bench, sat, and chewed my sandwich and brownie. Some crows squawked around, demanding my attention, hoping I’d feed them, no doubt. I was so tired, and I dreaded seeing Gage in the next class after what had happened yesterday.

  I returned to school at the last possible minute, strode into Calculus, and slid into my desk just as the electronic bell stopped ringing.

  “Open your books to page 583.” Kenowitz took visual attendance from his desk at the room’s front and entered it into his laptop. Handler would check on me, no doubt.

  “Dating a liftie?” Gage’s words hit like spit against my back, and I hunched forward.

  “No,” I said over my shoulder.

  “Right,” Gage said.

  I knew his expression that stuck to that word—his mouth cocked slightly open with calculation—was usually reserved for his dad. I turned pale and ran my fingers over my brow, pencil balanced between the first two.

  “Sovern,” Kenowitz said. “Please switch seats with Craig. Crack open that window beside the desk and give yourself some air.”

  Heat rushed up my neck as everyone watched me gather my books, and Craig passed me, scowling, but Kenowitz switched on the SMART Board, cut the lights, and started talking. I set down my book and folder and cracked the window.

  Kenowitz presented a problem where a lion and a ranger were in a nature preserve. He wrote the coordinates of their routes and their speed and started demonstrating how to figure out if their paths would collide. Collide. I glanced out the window. This classroom was on the school’s far side, closest to the recreation path, so I could see the connector path I walked on. I strained to hear the muted rush of Crystal Creek—hearing its sound would strengthen my resolve to be good—and then motion caught my eye.

  In the trees’ fringe, a little ways off the path, stood Súmáí. His feet were planted wide as he studied Crystal High. He looked so real. I felt my pulse in my ears, sensed Gage staring, and forced my sight away from the window. I glanced back and Súmáí was gone.

  “Incorporating Sovern’s method,” yanked me back to the classroom. Kenowitz was using my method for parametric equations. Though I’d already finished the problem in my head, I concentrated on him slogging through it to stay in reality.

  And then it occurred to me that Gage had seen Súmáí in Shangri-La.

  Class ended and Gage bolted, but I just sat, staring out the window, willing Súmáí to appear again. If he was real, then Mom in those other worlds was real too. I heard the creek through the open window and remembered my promise. I rested my forehead on the desk and shut my eyes. Finally I shuffled toward the door, but Kenowitz met me.

  “It looks as if Gage is a distraction for you?”

  I shrugged.

  “Why don’t you keep that new seat.”

  I nodded.

  “How goes the research into quantum physics?”

  “Okay.”

  I could tell he wanted to hear more, so I forced out, “Hawking is brilliant.”

  “You found him then?”

  “His Nutshell book.”

  “And?”

  “Weird.”

  “I find it hard to reconcile quantum theory with daily life.” Kenowitz’s eyes behind his gold wire glasses lost focus, and he stared at the bulletin board next to the door.

  “It explains everything,” I said.

  He frowned and nodded. “Sovern, are you challenged enough by this class? We could set up an accelerated—”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Okay. But I encourage you to keep challenging yourself. Don’t figure it all out in five minutes and dismiss it. Keep thinking of innovative ways to solve these problems. See if you can teach me something new again.”

  I could teach him things that would blow his mind. If I didn’t go crazy first. Even so, a weird giddiness lightened my steps as I moved down the hall. Two compliments in one day. Lindholm’s kindness
+ Kenowitz’s kindness = maybe my luck was changing.

  Just before I emerged into the Student Union, someone grabbed my arm.

  “Gage?” I rolled my eyes. His hand released its grip. He seemed pale again, and his eyes had pulled to pinpoints.

  “Look, Sovern, I’m sorry. It’s just … seeing you with that guy … ”

  I remembered that toothpaste-flavored kiss I’d given him on Saturday and blushed at how Súmáí and I must have appeared the very next day, gazing at one another with my fingers on his cheek. I stepped back. “Love,” he’d said, but even if I wanted to, I couldn’t love him back because me + anyone I loved = disaster.

  Handler’s voice came from nowhere: “See you in a minute?”

  Gage and I flinched. I didn’t respond, but Handler said, “Excellent.” He looked at Gage. “Still abstaining from college applications?”

  “I told you: I’m not leaving Crystal Village.” Gage stood braced, mouth cocked slightly open.

  “How are you feeling?” Handler asked him.

  “Fine.” Gage said it like, Go away.

  “You sure?” Handler said.

  “I’m sure.”

  Handler smiled at both of us, then strolled to the counseling office.

  Gage and I looked at each other, intensity gone.

  “I wasn’t spying on you,” he said. “It’s just … Shangri-La? Our stash?”

  I felt drawn to him then—wanted to hug him—but my promise pressed close, and I swayed. “I’m really confused right now.”

  “About what?” Now that he’d spoken the word “love” I could see it in his gaze.

  No way could I tell him all the things clogging my mind, yet I owed him something. “About who I am.” I realized it was the truest thing I could have said.