Girls Only!

by Beverly Lewis

  She paused, recalling how her dad liked to hear of her achievements, about the events of her day. She continued praying, picturing her heavenly Father listening intently, his eyes on her, wanting to share in her happiness. “I want to be . . .” Stopping, she felt suddenly sad. “I guess I ought to say that I want to be like you, God. But the truth is, I want my own way. I’m stubborn. And Kevin made me so mad when he dropped me and said . . . he said I was too heavy. I know that’s not true. How could he say something so stupid?”

  She sat down on the floor and cried. “I’m sorry, Lord. I had to do things my way. It was always about me . . . never about you.” She brushed the tears away. “Forgive me for being such a jerk to my brother. For . . . depriving myself of food, just because I was so angry, so determined. And so wrong.”

  Her heart opened wide to God, and she stayed there in the stillness long after she had said “Amen.”

  Kevin seemed surprised to see her when she went downstairs to the family room. Sure enough, he was lifting weights. Probably so he could lift her and feel strong and poised on the ice.

  “I’ll be out of here in a minute,” he mumbled.

  “That’s okay, take your time.” She switched on the treadmill, setting it on one of the slowest settings. She would wait him out. Talk to him when he was finished huffing and puffing and stopped perspiring all over the place.

  “So . . . when do you start your modeling work?” he asked.

  “I’m not.”

  “But I thought—”

  “When you’re finished working out, we’ll talk.” She continued walking at a snail’s pace on the treadmill.

  Upstairs, something wonderful was simmering on the stove. The smells from the kitchen were wafting down, tantalizing her as she breathed steadily, not overdoing it.

  “I’m finished now.” Kevin was standing in front of her. “So talk.”

  She looked at her brother. Almost a mirror image of herself. My dear brother and partner, she thought.

  “I’m sorry,” she blurted. “I was stupid.”

  “So was I,” he said.

  “What?”

  His face was serious, almost sad. “I think I started this whole mess, didn’t I . . . about you not eating?”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” she said quickly.

  “Well, I do.” He leaned his head against her forehead. “We have to work harder at considering each other’s feelings.”

  “From now on,” she promised.

  “Me too.”

  “Race you upstairs?” she said, daring him. “Bet I can eat more supper than you,” Kevin teased.

  “Bet you can’t.”

  * * *

  Joanne was setting the table when Heather came into the dining room. “I’ve been borrowing your body books,” the younger girl confessed.

  “So you’re admitting it . . . you’ve been hanging out in my room, after all?”

  “Just borrowing that’s all.” Joanne was determined, it seemed, not to be called a liar.

  “Why didn’t you ask me?” She placed the napkins under the forks on the left.

  “Didn’t feel like it.” Joanne cast an I-dare-you-to-yell-at-me look.

  She waited for Joanne to finish with the knives and spoons. “Does this mean you’re keeping your nose out of my stuff?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’d better.”

  Joanne grinned up at her. “Guess if you can forgive Kevin, you can forgive me, too.”

  She hugged her bold little sister. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  * * *

  Mom laughed till she cried when Heather told her the news. “I think I’d rather go to church tonight.”

  “You’re going to skip the modeling meeting?” Joanne said, twirling around in the kitchen.

  “I sure am.” She couldn’t help but smile. And Kevin was grinning right along with her. “Tomorrow, I need to get my hair trimmed at Dottie’s Boutique,” she said, heading for the dining room.

  “How come?” Joanne asked.

  “Makes me feel lighter.” Getting her hair trimmed up always did that for her. It sure beat starving herself. “Do I have time to make a phone call before supper?” she asked Mom.

  “Make it quick.”

  She hurried to the telephone and dialed Jenna’s number. “I’ve got some good news for you.”

  “Let me guess,” Jenna said. “It’s about the modeling agency?”

  “Sort of.” She wouldn’t make Jenna guess anymore. She told her the real news. “I won’t be poking around at my food anymore. Doc says if I get back up to one hundred and five pounds, I’ll be about right for my frame and build.”

  “You’re photo perfect, Heather.”

  “Thanks,” she said, believing it.

  “Any time.”

  “I made the final cut with the modeling agency,” she told her. “But I’ve decided you were right. I want to focus on ice dancing for now. Skating . . . and good health.”

  Heather wondered what was keeping Mom in the kitchen. She could hardly wait to say good-bye to Jenna and find out.

  “The food smells so good,” she told Mom.

  Her mother smiled and dished up the baked potatoes. “Glad to hear it.”

  Heather carried the large bowl into the dining room. “Everybody, come and get it,” she called, the first to be seated at the table.

  After the prayer, Mom announced, “We’re all going to church tonight.”

  Dad seemed to catch on without probing. His eyes smiled at the corners as he reached for his napkin.

  “But first we’re all going to eat supper,” Heather said, picking up her fork. Her pin-thin days were definitely past.

  Star Status

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  It was a great honor and thrill for my family to witness (and cheer on!) the Salt Lake 2002 Olympic Torch Relay as it came through our little mountain town, on its way across America. We are now the proud owners of red pennants that read: “I saw the flame.”

  You can find out more about the 2002 Olympic Games at www.olympics.com, as well as the history of the . Olympics and other exciting information. Enjoy!

  Thanks to the International Ski Federation for vital information, as well as to my husband, Dave, an amazing skier of black diamond slopes.

  To

  Charlotte Rose Brown,

  a true and shining star

  to all who know her.

  Star Status

  Chapter One

  Miranda Garcia awakened before dawn, shivering. She reached for her comforter and pulled it up to her chin. Then, lying in the stillness, she listened for the furnace to kick on, straining to hear the soft purr of warm air creeping through the vents and into her room.

  She waited for what seemed like hours, and still no heat. The longer she waited, the colder the tip of her nose was getting.

  The last time she’d shivered uncontrollably was nearly a year ago. Actually, she had been much colder then, thanks to a swift-moving spring snowstorm that hurtled down on her and her ski instructor, Coach Hanson, as they worked the course. They had been speeding down the steep and treacherous Cascade Peak when the freak storm blew in out of nowhere, over the continental divide. There was little either of them could do when the blinding snow and fierce winds caught them off guard. Manda stumbled off course, finding a tree to hug, calling for Coach until the ski patrol finally came and rescued them both. But it was the bone-biting cold that stamped itself on her brain . . . and she wondered, at the time, if she might freeze to death so close to her home, just a few blocks from the base of the mountain.

  Manda, as she preferred to be called, had grown up in Alpine Lake, Colorado, a ski-resort town where there was plenty of opportunity for Alpine ski racing—her greatest passion in life. She also took ballet classes, lifted weights, and ran long distance—especially during the summertime “off season”—to keep in shape and build stamina. The exercise also helped her to maintain the “legs of steel” necessary to muscle through high-
speed turns, as well as to endure the thrashing of the steep and rugged downhill course. On top of that, Manda tried to squeeze in time for homework, a baby-sitting job after school, and her once-a-week Girls Only club meetings with three other Olympic-crazed friends: Livvy, Jenna, and Heather.

  Lately, though, she found herself twiddling her thumbs at club meetings. There were just way too many distractions, it seemed. Her next race was beginning to “close in,” which meant that along with grueling and exhausting physical preparation, there was mental groundwork to be laid before the race. March 17, St. Patrick’s Day. Ten days away.

  Girls Only Club members will understand, she thought. After all, the four of them were head over heels into athletics. Livvy Hudson’s dream was to someday skate in the Olympics. Jenna Song’s goal was elite-level gymnastics—for the next couple of years. And Heather Bock’s main interest was ice dancing with her older brother; the pair were now up for Junior-level international competition.

  For Manda, spacing out at the last few club meetings was essential to focus on her next event: the Dressel Hills Downhill Classic. This year, the stakes were exceptionally high. “VIPs will be watching in the crowd,” Coach Hanson had said. He felt she was primed and ready to be noticed. She must place high. Snagging first place had become her obsession.

  She slipped out of bed and pulled on her robe. Then she hurried down the hall to her mother’s bedroom. Mom was sitting on the edge of her bed, wearing a thick, blue terry cloth bathrobe, her crutches propped against the bureau nearby. On one foot, Mom wore a furry white slipper. A full leg cast graced her other foot, due to a bad break on the slopes a month ago.

  “It’s freezing in here,” Manda said, standing in the doorway.

  Mom looked up. “The furnace must be on the blink.”

  “Again?” Manda groaned. “I’ll go downstairs and fiddle with the thermostat; maybe that’ll trigger something.” She really hoped so, because the last time the furnace played hooky was over a year ago, during Christmas break from school. What a disaster that was!

  She and her mom had gone shopping in Denver for the day, returning home to a burst water pipe. They’d spent days cleaning up the flooded mess, moving furniture, disposing of soggy rugs, having the hardwood floors retreated. Time-consuming stuff right in the middle of Alpine ski racing season . . . a major pain.

  In the end, it was Mom’s younger brother, Uncle Frank, who’d come to their financial rescue. The kind and cheerful soul had been helping them off and on since Manda’s dad had left the family. Yep, it was Uncle Frank who was mainly responsible for Manda’s dream-come-true life of downhill racing. He’d supplied first-rate ski instructors since second grade, and extra money for lift tickets, racing gear, and travel to Alpine ski races across the country.

  Rich and caring uncles come in handy, Manda thought gratefully, knowing that her hope to gain Olympic status would have been futile otherwise.

  Downstairs, she stared at the thermostat, first pushing it all the way back to fifty degrees. She waited a few seconds, then slowly inched the setting up to sixty-eight, right where Mom normally set it during cold months. She stared at the thermostat for several moments, hoping at least the fan might turn on. But nothing happened.

  Frustrated, she went to the fireplace and stacked up a few logs. Then she wadded up old newspapers before striking a match. “This’ll have to do for now,” she muttered. Crouching low, she watched the flame catch the papers, anxious to get the chill off the house before breakfast.

  The minute the plumbing and heating company opened, Mom would be phoning for assistance. About now, they could use a bright sunrise and extra-warm chinook winds. So far, March in Colorado’s high country had been anything but mild. Winter months were known to be weird and wacky in Alpine Lake. Unpredictable at best.

  Manda blew gently on the flame, hoping to get the logs burning good and strong as soon as possible. Anything to keep the water pipes in this old house from exploding again. There was rarely any money left over at the end of the month for emergencies—burst pipes or furnace repairmen. Uncle Frank would probably shell out for a new furnace pretty soon, but knowing Mom, they would try to “make do” until next fall. After all, summer was only a few months away. If they could just make it till warmer weather . . .

  “I’ve got a nice fire going in the fireplace,” Manda called up the steps. “Maybe that’ll keep the water pipes warm enough.” She truly hoped so.

  Mom appeared at the top of the stairs. “I’m sure you’re right, dear. Now . . . we’ll just trust the Lord to take care of things.” Slowly, Mom made her way down the stairs, favoring her formerly broken leg. “What’re you hungry for?” she asked.

  Breakfast? Hmm. Manda hadn’t really thought about eating. But today was going to be exceptionally busy, so she opted for eggs, toast, fruit, and a high-energy protein drink made in the blender.

  “Oh, before I forget, is it all right if Tarin Greenberg hangs out here after preschool?” Manda asked. Five-year-old Tarin was her baby-sitting charge three times a week. With the Downhill Classic creeping closer, it was becoming more difficult to concentrate on her speed and the race itself. Homework was the only thing, so far, she hadn’t chopped out of her demanding schedule. “Would you mind watching him for me?”

  Mom agreed to baby-sit. “Just don’t forget to notify Mr. Greenberg about Tarin—that I will be in charge of him today.”

  Manda noticed the twinkle in her mother’s eye at the mention of Tarin’s father. In just two weeks, Mom and Mr. Greenberg had attended a concert in Denver, sipped cappuccino in the nearby village mall, and gone out for dinner twice. Not exactly sure what Manda dared to expect for the future—was a marriage proposal on the horizon? She certainly had high, secret hopes for Mom marrying the handsome, kind, and dashing widower.

  A forever kind of love would be nice this time around. Now, there was an interesting concept: a man who actually stayed put in their lives—other than cool Uncle Frank, of course.

  At times, Manda struggled with her true motivation for coveting star status on the slopes. Was it a deep-down desire to get her dad’s attention—wherever he was on the planet—by making her mark in the world of Alpine ski racing? Was that the reason she wanted to succeed as a downhill whiz?

  Last week she’d confided in Heather Bock, her best girl friend, about how to draw on every fiber of her being to win . . . win . . . win. “It’s ingrained in me. I have to win.”

  “Why? So you feel good about yourself?” Heather asked, frowning.

  “I’m a winning machine,” Manda declared.

  “But what’s behind your drive?” her friend asked in the privacy of Manda’s bedroom. “Is it about going to the Olympics? Is that it?”

  Manda had fallen silent that afternoon. But not for long. Slowly, thoughtfully, Manda opened up even more, revealing her enduring heartache. “We don’t even know if my dad’s dead or alive,” she said softly. “It’s been years, and even though Mom’s divorce is final, we’re not sure where he is.”

  Heather didn’t skip a beat. “But you’d like to know for sure, right?”

  Manda bowed her head. “Not anymore,” she whispered. “No. I don’t even remember him.”

  Heather reached over and touched Manda’s hand. “Why don’t you just ski for yourself, Manda,” she’d said. “Not to stick out head and shoulders above other superb skiers. Forget about impressing anyone, getting your name in lights or news headlines. Do your sport for you.”

  In that moment, her friend had pierced through a lot of junk, like a good therapist who, after months and months of listening, helps you open the key to your heart in a safe place.

  * * *

  Manda choked back tears, and Heather prayed that God’s hand would rest on “my best friend’s life—her downhill racing and everything she does.” Heather’s prayer had been a new beginning in many ways. Now Manda was encouraged more than ever to trust the issue of her rejection to her heavenly Father. God’s will was her goal. With or w
ithout Daddy in her life.

  “I’ll call Mr. Greenberg right after breakfast,” Manda told her mom as they sat down to eat. “You’re sure you don’t mind watching Tarin?”

  Mom’s dark brown eyes softened at the sound of the little boy’s name. “Why would I mind?” she asked. “I enjoy having Tarin around . . . anytime.”

  “Just checking.”

  “Tarin’s good company,” Mom said with a grin.

  Excellent, thought Manda, hoping Mom might also enjoy having the little boy as a stepson someday. Maybe . . .

  Star Status

  Chapter Two

  The phone rang just as Manda had finished dressing. She was dashing down the stairs when Mom answered. “For you, Manda,” Mom called from the kitchen.

  She hurried to the portable phone. “Who is it?” she mouthed the words.

  “Jenna Song.” Mom handed over the telephone, offering an encouraging smile. “Be nice,” she whispered.

  Yeah, right. Manda remembered how Jenna had been bugging her off and on for the past week. True, she had been dragging her feet about all things social, including Girls Only Club meetings, but was that any reason to hound her about it?

  “Hey, Jen,” she said. “What’s up?”

  “I was wondering that about you.” Jenna sighed loudly into the phone. “Is something wrong? I mean, you’re basically spaced out twenty-four/seven, you know?”

  “Like I told you weeks ago, the Classic’s coming at me fast. I’m thinking of dropping out of everything till it’s over.” She almost said everything unnecessary, but caught herself.

  “What about Sunday school and church?” Jenna asked.

  Manda wasn’t surprised at the question. In fact, she was pretty sure Jen would bring that topic up for discussion. “Well . . . I don’t know.”