“Get over the drama already. He’ll forget you by the time your shift is over.” With her arms crossed over her brown leather jacket–clad chest and her true chestnut-colored hair back in a ponytail, the girl shakes her head.
Melissa corrects her without thinking much about it. “Changeover. When your guests leave and new ones come in, it’s called changeover.” The leather-jacket girl stares blankly ahead. Melissa knows that terms are important here—like any job, the ski season life comes with its own language: Chalet staff serve the guests, burn-out happens if you partake in too much of the nightlife and slopes, midseason blues are a given (as amazing as it is to wake up surrounded by mountains, snow, and a routine that’s different than homeroom and classes, it’s still a routine), and bunking in describes the rooming situation. Singles—as in the room—almost never happen, and the dreaded mezzanine rooms—where a bed opens from the center of the living room—are the most feared (you can’t go to bed until everyone else is asleep, and what little privacy you have is taken away). Melissa thinks about a certain term—humble pie—when the inevitable embarrassing incident involving a friend, fling, or flame ends in an uproar.
“Next!” shouts the check-in woman to all the people standing in line. “Get over here or lose your place. Even if we’re here all night, you still have to work tomorrow. And for most of you—that means up, dressed, and socially presentable at seven A.M.”
“Are you going or what?” brown leather-jacket girl asks Melissa.
“You go ahead,” Melissa says, figuring she’ll be nice.
“Suit yourself.” Her worn-in boots and straight-legged jeans make her seem even taller than she is.
Then Melissa remembers what JMB said—she shouldn’t start the season being trampled on. So she takes her passport and other identification papers and tags along with the leather-jacket girl to the registration desk. Conversation and flirting are already thick in the air around them, with all the staff trying to figure out who lives where and with what job; cliques abound with the hosts at the top rung of the social ladder, cooks in the middle with the nannies, and the maids the lowest. The ski aces, the ones trained for the elite guide positions, formed their own, impenetrable pack, giving ski tours and exploring unplowed trails. Melissa remembers the same kind of check-in last season, how it took so long some people fell asleep on their bags, others played cards, a few couples went to the bathroom—together.
“What do we have here?” asks the check-in lady. She has a thick accent and a sour face. “You two twins or something?” she laughs.
“No,” Melissa says. There’s no way she’d ever be mistaken for this girl’s twin. Everything about Melissa is round—her great tight ringlets, her cheeks, pink as lemonade, and her full mouth. Her hips have a little padding, and her chest is full enough that she’s never once thought of a push-up bra. More the push down kind. She feels like an apple shoved into her ski gear—the ski pants add weight but were too puffy to fit in her bag. I’m an apple, Melissa thinks, and she—the leather-jacket girl—would be celery. If celery were really sexy.
“I’m Harlan Iverly. Harley.” She leans forward onto the desk, causing her jacket to make a crinkling noise. Melissa watches her check in. Harlan. Harley—even her name is cool. Leather jacket, killer legs. The jacket rustles again. The sound makes Melissa think about someone else she knows—or knew—with a jacket like that. Harley remembers the brochure she read about being a Chalet Girl. Back in Breckenridge, Colorado, the cozy accommodations, candid photos of smiling girls and cute guys setting up for the holidays seemed the perfect escape. Then again, she’d have given pretty much anything to get away. The rooms in the brochures looked spacious and sunny, and the people in the photos—teenagers on break looking to make some money, or college kids taking a year off to earn some funds and have fun—all seemed caught up in the fun. Who cares about work and what’s expected, Harley thinks while she waits for the woman to assign her a place to live; anything’s better than her world back home.
“And you?” The counterwoman looks at Melissa and waits.
“I’m Melissa Forsythe.” Melissa wonders how many times in her seventeen years she’s already said her name. Too many times without enough happening. She sneaks a look at Harley next to her—probably when that girl says her name explosions occur. And the one time I said it and something could happen, I managed to call myself Mesilla. Nice.
The woman checks her papers, prints out some documents, and hands both Harley and Melissa folders. “This is your binder. In it is all the information you’ll need for a successful season. Matron will come and check on you this evening once everyone here is registered and set up.” Matron is the mountain equivalent of a school principal, and just as officious. The folders are heavy and navy blue with the signature red fleur-de-lis in the center. Melissa grips hers tightly. Harley shoves hers under an arm and sighs. All around them impatient people tap their feet, waiting to be assigned their jobs and cabins.
“Are we done here?” Harley asks.
The counterwoman furrows her brow. “Why, do you have better places to be?” The woman pauses while she consults her clipboard. Harley considers saying yes, she does—she could be walking around, anonymous in the village streets, or better yet, up on the mountains, free. “Do you know where you’re going?”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Harley says and shakes her head. She swipes a canvas bag from the ground, flings it over her shoulder, and heads for the door. “I’m sure I can find it on my own.”
“Good luck!” the registrar snickers. To Melissa she adds, “There are twenty-seven chalets, six private houses, three yurts, two big cottages, and one castle. It’ll take her all night to find hers.” Melissa looks back at the door and then to the window where she can see Harley trekking up one of the pathways to a random cottage. “Don’t tell me you feel sorry for her….”
Melissa nods, causing her ringlets to bob. “It is cold out there….”
“Never you mind, dear,” the check-in lady says and points to her clipboarded list. “No need to be the mother hen. That’s what Matron’s for. By the way, you’re in number fourteen.”
“Number fourteen,” Melissa says and nods again.
“Up the hill, round the back of the skating pond. And your friend—the one who is sure she can find it on her own—she’s in there, too.”
“Thanks,” Melissa says. She backs up from the desk and goes outside to her duffel bag, glad she brought only one big one and her backpack. She looks for the brown-leather-jacket girl—for Harley—to say they can walk to number fourteen together, but she’s nowhere to be seen. Up the hill and behind the skating pond. Melissa is about to start off when she can’t wait any longer before opening up the binder. It’s like reading travel guides—Melissa loves that, finding out what might be in store. Reading about places or events, what to expect.
She opens it up carefully and starts to read.
“Anything good?” Melissa looks up from the binder to see Harley sitting on top of the railing near her. “I figured I’d come back to make sure you were okay.”
“Oh, like I need the help?” Melissa rolls her eyes but is glad for the company. “We’re in fourteen, you know. Together.”
“I know—I saw her list—your name was next to mine,” Harley says. She has a habit of looking past people, off into the distance, and it makes Melissa annoyed.
Melissa shakes her head. “Fine. You know everything. Better?”
Harley bows and leaps off the railing. “I’ve just got this.” She points to her small bag. Melissa can’t imagine that the bag could hold all of the required clothing. “I figure I’ll just get things as I need them.”
“Looks like you left in a hurry,” Melissa says to Harley, still eyeing the small bag. Melissa remembers leaving last season as fast as possible—at night—how quickly she shoved everything into one suitcase and booked it out of there, never to go back.
Harley nods. “I’m a light packer, what can I say?” She
looks around and then back at Melissa. “Ready?”
“Sure,” Melissa says, determined to carry her duffel with grace and without asking for help.
“Here,” Harley says. “You take a handle and I’ll take one.”
“Thanks,” Melissa says. It’s the first nice thing anyone’s said or done for her. Second, if you count JMB and his words of wisdom—which Melissa does. She and Harley walk like that with the heavy bag swinging between them, past the parking lot. Melissa can’t help but look at the vans and cars to see if JMB is there, standing out in his orange and black jacket against the white snowy background—any background. But he’s not.
Harley looks at her boots as they tap the pavement. They look worn-out, she thinks, and her jacket does, too. Her face is plain, not a trace of makeup, and it feels great to her to be free of any foundation, gloss, or hair spray. To be free of everything she left behind.
“So,” Melissa says. “Did you look in your binder yet?”
Harley shoots her a look like she’s crazy. “Um, no? I’ve been in possession of it for all of three minutes.”
“Well, it has lots of useful info—tips and rules and social things….”
Harley stops in her tracks, jerking the duffel bag and Melissa to a full stop. With wisps of her hair blowing into her rich, dark eyes, she flips open the top of her mail-carrier bag. She pulls out her binder and comments as she reads, “Blah blah blah—meet here, go there … don’t fraternize with the guests … whatever.” She goes to shove it back in without tidying the papers inside, which makes Melissa cringe—she isn’t the queen of organization, but maybe the next in line.
“Wait,” Melissa says. “You’ll ruin it.” Carefully, she takes the binder from Harley’s hands and slides the papers inside in order. “See? Here’s the welcome letter.”
Harley gives an exaggerated sigh. “Fantastic news—thanks. What’s it say? Wait, let me guess … welcome?”
Melissa smirks at the sarcasm but reads aloud in her best voice. “‘Hello! We’d like to take a moment to welcome you after a long journey to Les Trois Alpes, your home away from home for a week, a season, or a lifetime.’” She looks up to see if Harley will say which one she’s here for, but she keeps quiet. “‘After you find your housing situation, please read through this manual in its entirety. I expect by our first meeting tonight that you will have memorized the rules, regulations, and duties for your specific job. Signed, Matron.’ … I wonder what she’s like?” Melissa has visions of Matron being like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music—fun but firm—someone everyone can confide in who will bake cookies and make the girls hot cider on their day off.
Harley twists her mouth to the side and gives her head a shake. “Let me guess, you’re actually going to this welcome meeting. Sad.”
Melissa looks at Harley and figures that this girl has never been anything but cool, so of course required meetings seem dull to her. “Anything else worth noting in there?” Harley thumbs to the binder. “This is probably the only exposure I’ll have to the contents, so you might as well read.”
Melissa pages through various colored sheets of paper, documents, and then closes it. She can read it later, when she’s settled in. “We should get going, don’t you think? Find our housing?”
“All I know is we’re in … The Tops, whatever that means.” Harley scans the houses in the distance as if one might announce itself as theirs.
“Yeah—I don’t know what that means, either. The Tops. It sounds luxurious,” Melissa says. “I mean, it’s not my first season or anything … but it’s my first here.” Melissa waits to see if Harley will tell her seasonal ranking and status, but she doesn’t. Instead, Harley looks over her shoulder. Melissa tries to crack a joke. “What, you think someone’s following you?”
Harley’s face falls to a frown. “No. I mean, why—did you see something? Did anyone say something?”
Melissa shakes her head. From where she stands, the Main House looks smaller, the mountains still enormous, and the streets and chalets filled with possibilities. Harley takes another look over her shoulder, and Melissa licks her lips in the cold wind as she wonders if the tour bus guide was right—maybe everyone here does have a secret—or will before the season is up.
3
When in doubt, smile.
LEAVING THE NEARBY TOWN, ski lifts, and Main House behind, Harley and Melissa trek up the steep path and finally find a small rectangular sign marked #14—THE TOPS.
“If you weren’t looking for it, you might miss it,” Melissa says, pointing to the brown and white script on the sign.
“But you wouldn’t miss that,” Harley says. “Check it out.” She tries to hide her awe, but the chalet in front of her is so amazing she can’t quite contain her cool. “Is that a hot tub?”
Melissa nods and sucks in the cold air. “Oh my god—this is incredible! Even better than the photos.” She remembers what Dove said, that you shouldn’t believe what you read, but smirks thinking Dove was obviously wrong. The Tops is better than in the books.
“It’s huge,” Harley says and takes the last two steps in one big stride so she’s in front of the door. She turns the wrought-iron handle without ringing the bell. “Why is it locked?” She pounds her fist on the thick wood. Melissa notices that Harley’s thumbnail has just a little bit of red nail polish on the side, as if the rest had been picked away, and thinks it’s weird—with her boots, rugged good looks, and so far free-roaming spirit, Harley doesn’t seem the type to paint her nails. “Damn it—I can’t get it to open and no one’s answering.”
“Well, maybe we should look for another way in.” Melissa leaves her stuff and begins to look for a side door, a back door, any way into the palatial building she’s going to call home for the next few months. “Come on.”
Melissa ducks behind the carefully clipped hedge, and all the way at the back, covered by vines, finds a regular door. “Here. Let’s try this!” she shouts to Harley, who stands with her arms crossed over her chest like she’s bored or suspicious or both. Melissa knocks politely on the door, half expecting no one to answer.
“Maybe we’re at the wrong place,” Harley says. Over her shoulder she stares off at the mountains, the dots of skiers. There aren’t many yet—it’s the same thing back home in Breckenridge. If you live in a vacation town, you get used to the seasonal swings. Harley knows in a week’s time the crowds will come, wealthy couples, families, singles—then the slopes will fill up. And with any luck she’ll be on them.
Just as Melissa’s about to give up hope that she’ll ever see the inside of The Tops, ever roam around the luxurious accommodations depicted in her guides, the door opens with a loud squeak. Harley’s first thought is that she’d better acquire some WD-40 to make that sound go away—loud doors are the first giveaway when you sneak in at night.
As Dove stands in the doorway with a toilet brush in one hand and a green bucket in the other, her face reveals nothing of what she feels. “I take it you’re both attempting to get in here?” She puts her hand on her hip, then realizes the toilet brush might touch her and holds her hands in front of her.
“Hey—Dove, right?” Melissa points to herself. “I’m Melissa? We met before? And she’s …” She goes to point to Harley.
“I don’t need you to be cruise director. I’m Harley.” Harley breezes by Melissa and goes past Dove in the doorway.
“Charming girl,” Dove says as she watches Harley stomp her dirty boots onto the rugs. “Hey—I just vacuumed there!”
Melissa steps inside the small mudroom and looks around. This must be the staff entrance. In front of her is a narrow corridor. “I thought you were a guest,” Melissa says to Dove. “I’m sorry….” Out of respect, Melissa takes off her shoes. She notes that each cubby in the mudroom has a name tag—only no first names are used, just job titles: Cook, Cleaner, Nanny, Guide. “Depending on your guests and their needs, staff may change per holiday week,” she remembers reading. Suddenly it occurs to her just how much h
er identity will be wrapped up in her job. She also notices there’s no cubby marked Host—so she assumes someone forgot to allot a space.
“Don’t feel bad for me.” Dove breathes deeply and stands up straight. Bits of her thick bright blond hair fall from her messy bun, making her look stunning even though she’s wearing a ratty T-shirt and stained work pants.
“I’m not trying to …” Melissa bites her lip. “I’m not trying to offend you—it’s just … everyone knows cleaner is the worst position … and you don’t seem the type….”
Dove puts the toilet brush into the bucket, sending bleach fumes into the air. She laughs under her breath. “Listen—I know what being a cleaner entails. Believe me…. I have no delusions. Picking up people’s wet towels, making their beds, scrubbing their bathrooms—especially after they’ve been drinking …”
“Gross.” Harley comes back into the mudroom, kicking off her boots too late. “Hey, what’s the deal? Don’t I get a locker or cubby?” She makes the rounds, looking for her job title. “Hey—someone forgot to make a place for little old me.”
“Wait—don’t tell me you’re …” Melissa looks at Harley. Melissa wishes that she hadn’t assumed anything about Harley, or anyone for that matter, but being completely open and unbiased is difficult, something she’s working on. I’ll try harder next time, she thinks. I won’t assume Dove is anything other than what she is—pretty, soft-spoken, and a maid.
Harley shoots Melissa a look. “Right—you thought I was another maid, I bet? What is it about me that’s so …” She hesitates, not wanting to associate her name with words she’ll regret.
“Nothing,” Melissa says. And really, what was it about Harley that suggested the lowest rung on the Chalet ladder? Nothing superficial, looks can’t tell you much, Melissa thinks and blushes.
Balancing Acts Page 2