The True Colour of a Little White Lie

by Gabriel Bergmoser

  The office door opened and Dad entered. I went to stand, but he shook his head. He’d clearly been working in the kitchen as he was flushed and sweaty.

  ‘I don’t need the computer,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to talk.’

  I settled back in the seat, a bit confused. I wasn’t sure what Dad could want to talk to me about that didn’t involve telling me to do the dishes or to go to bed.

  ‘We’re going to be up at the lodge every weekend this winter,’ he said. ‘And Mum and I will be too busy to spend much time with you.’

  Both of those things were very much alright with me but I was careful not to let the fact show on my face.

  ‘We think you need to find something to do with yourself on the weekends.’

  I opened my mouth to tell him that between reading, movies and skiing I had plenty to do, but he wasn’t finished.

  ‘I think you should enter the Whitt.’

  I gaped at him, waiting for the punchline. It didn’t come.

  The Whittaker Classic was a race that took place every year on Mount Doon. There were a bunch of different categories for skiers and snowboarders in different age groups and anybody was welcome to enter. The problem with that was that a lot of people did enter and only the best got in, which kept it fun to watch and not fun to consider taking part in.

  ‘I’d need to be a good skier,’ I said.

  ‘You are a good skier.’

  ‘Not Whitt good.’

  ‘It’s not until the end of the season. If you spend your weekends training —’

  ‘Why would I want to spend my weekends training for a race I won’t even get into?’

  ‘Getting into it is exactly why you want to spend your weekends training.’

  ‘But I don’t want to spend my weekends training.’

  Dad closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. ‘You don’t do any other sports. You don’t do any other anything.’

  I glanced at the Escape 2 file.

  ‘You can’t spend the whole season sitting around watching movies,’ he said, sounding like somebody who’d once had patience described to them and had decided to give it a crack. ‘Besides, this will be good for you. Give you something to work towards. Take your mind off Pat leaving.’

  I looked away and willed my face to not go red.

  ‘You love skiing,’ Dad added.

  ‘That doesn’t make me good enough for the Whitt.’

  ‘Thinking like that won’t help.’

  ‘I can’t help how I think,’ I snapped. ‘I don’t want to do it.’

  ‘Too bad. Qualifying is still a few weeks away. You’ll at least try.’

  I glared at him and bit back the thousand retorts cycling through my head. It wasn’t like they’d do anything other than piss him off and then my chances of getting out of the race would be zero. I nodded.

  ‘Good.’

  He shut the door and was gone.

  I looked back at the screen. My hand tightened around the mouse. Embarassing myself by trying and failing to enter the Whitt was the last thing I wanted to worry about at that point. Not when, possibly at that exact moment, Madison was writing a letter that could change everything forever.

  3

  On Friday evening, sitting in the front seat of the car next to Dad (Mum, staying down to run the restaurant, would be joining us the next day) and staring at a grey cloudy sky above washed-out-looking paddocks, it was hard to feel especially thrilled about heading up the mountain. Which, for me, was rare.

  There aren’t many good things about my town. If you decided, for whatever reason, to make a list of pros and cons, the cons column would run over two pages and the pros would consist of ‘Mount Doon’ and maybe something about the place being really great for paddock enthusiasts. Even the name of the town, Snow Point, seems designed to remind people that there’s a reason to visit, despite the mountain itself being about half an hour north. To be fair, Mount Doon made up for about five cons by itself: it was one of the most popular ski resorts in the country and I’d always loved the mountain. There was something exciting and alive about the place with its bars and lodges and the way the snow looked at night under the starry sky and towering streetlights.

  Dad was an avid skier and so from the moment we moved to Snow Point about six years back, his first priority was to ensure that his son wouldn’t embarrass him on any of Mount Doon’s slopes. I wasn’t amazing, but I was good enough; and considering my track record in other sports, good enough was more than I ever could have asked for. Besides, I really did it for fun. I loved the speed; I loved being able to manoeuvre around beginners; I loved the spray of powder that came with every hard turn or quick stop.

  The problem was, I was yet to get a reply from Madison and that fact was leaving no room in my brain for excitement about a weekend on the mountain. I’d checked the mailbox every day, asked Mum over and over if she was sure that she hadn’t accidentally thrown something out, and even on a couple of occasions watched the sky for any approaching carrier pigeons.

  On Thursday night, mustering the courage that had previously escaped me, I had dialled Madison’s number, then, with plenty of ums and ahs, asked her if she could just tell me her answer over the phone.

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I’ll write you a letter.’

  There was nothing in her tone to tell me what she was thinking, or what I could expect when this fabled letter eventually arrived. And so now, heading up the mountain for the first weekend of the ski season, I felt like I was in a weird state of limbo.

  ‘You’re being very quiet,’ Dad said, about halfway there.

  I didn’t reply. I kept my focus on the towering gum trees that lined the winding road; trees that, as we got higher and night slowly descended, turned eerie, coated with brilliant white snow that seemed to shine even in the dark.

  The mountain village was always beautiful to me, with its stone and wood buildings illuminated by all the lights but for once I didn’t pay any attention as we drove through it, past the first guests hanging out around the lodges that were already open and the mounds of shining snow cleared from the paths.

  As Dad pulled the four-wheel-drive up out the front of the Victor Gallagher Memorial Lodge, people were already hurrying in and out carrying boxes, kegs, skis, and all sorts of other things I didn’t know the purpose of. The first day of the season was tomorrow – although the Gallagher wouldn’t properly open until Sunday – and apparently nothing was prepared.

  I’d been to the lodge a couple of times before. As one of the oldest on the mountain it was also one of the least impressive or interesting to look at. It was a two-storey building that seemed to grow out of the slope behind it. The sliding doors of the front entrance stood to the right of a huge garage that was currently open and admitting many of the hurrying staff members. Above the garage were the windows into the main restaurant area and a balcony that looked out over most of the village.

  The front foyer was packed full of tottering piles of boxes that obscured a glass trophy cabinet and black and white photos of long-dead skiers. To our left was an unattended reception desk; to our right, the wide staircase that led up to the bar and restaurant areas. Between them was a hall that Dad directed me down, which as it turned out led to the accommodation area. Until the place filled for the season we were staying in one of the deluxe suites. Soft golden lighting, plush carpets, two bathrooms and two separate bedrooms.

  Dad hurried off to help with the preparations, leaving me alone in the suite with all the thoughts I didn’t want to think. I tried to read my book, but the distracting ticking of a clock made that nearly impossible. I sent Pat a message about the lodge, making it all sound better than it actually was, and mentioned that he should come up for a weekend. He didn’t reply.

  I was hit with a brief memory of the day Pat left. I’d barely been able to speak to him despite knowing the move had everything to do with his mum’s job and nothing to do with Pat wanting to go. All I could think about was what I was supp
osed to do in the weeks and months to come.

  ‘We’ll be able to talk all the time,’ Pat had insisted as he lifted the last box into the car. ‘Every night if you want. And I can come and stay during the holidays. Nothing will change.’

  Except everything had.

  Wanting to think about something else, I decided to explore. But it was hard not to feel in the way. People were hurrying in all directions, everyone looking on edge, nobody paying any attention to the skinny teenage kid with the book under his arm.

  At the top of the stairs in the foyer was a long hallway that ran to the back of the building. The first couple of doors opened onto the main restaurant, which was full of boxes being unpacked by bustling people. I made to hurry past but somebody stepped into my way.

  ‘Hey man, what are you doing?’

  He had a British accent and was maybe in his early twenties, dressed in a leather jacket and jeans. He had black hair and a face that looked used to grinning, although right then he seemed flustered.

  ‘Um … nothing?’

  ‘Right, well, you mind helping out?’ he asked. ‘It’s all hands on … Wait, how old are you? Do you work here?’

  I almost laughed. ‘No, I’m the chef’s son.’

  ‘Oh! Well, screw that then. If you’re not getting paid, live it up.’

  ‘I can help,’ I said, more because it seemed like the kind of thing I should offer than because I actually wanted to.

  He shook his head. ‘Mate, it’s bloody chaos in there. Trust me, I’m doing you a favour. Leave a kitchen over summer and it turns into something out of Alien.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘I’m Matt.’

  ‘Nelson.’ I shook his hand. ‘You’re working here?’

  ‘Kitchen hand, yeah. Not glamorous work, but it pays for a season on the slopes.’

  ‘Matt!’ someone bellowed from the restaurant.

  ‘Alright, that’s my break over,’ he said. ‘Enjoy the freedom, mate.’ He patted me on the arm and hurried back into the restaurant.

  Slightly further down the hall was a games room, then a spacious lounge area full of plump leather couches with a large fireplace and a stately sign on the door saying Governor’s Lounge, and lastly the bar area. The Governor’s Lounge seemed the kind of place someone like me would quickly be kicked out of, so I decided to go to the games room instead.

  The walls were lined with massive arcade-style consoles that looked at least a decade old; there was a table tennis table in the centre; a couple of couches off to the side; and an adjacent TV room at the back, beside a door that needed a code to get through.

  With nothing else to do, I settled on a couch and started to read. Reviews and horror sites had told me that Red Dragon was a classic of the genre and so I had dug up this copy, which also included the more famous sequel, from my school library. So far it didn’t seem especially exciting. Still, I was reading pretty intently when the door opened and a middle-aged woman walked in. She was about my height, dressed all in black with brown hair cut in a bob shape. She had a long nose and brown eyes that seemed twinkling and warm even at the briefest glance. In her hands were a bag of balloons and a pump.

  I gave her a quick smile and went back to my book.

  ‘Do you want to learn how to make balloon animals?’ she asked.

  I lowered the book. It was such a weird question that I wasn’t sure how to answer. The honest reply was no, not really, but for whatever reason I nodded.

  She sat on the couch opposite me with a grin. ‘I don’t really know what I’m doing myself. Only learned recently and I’m probably pretty crap with them. Oh, Red Dragon! Seen the movie?’

  My immediate instinct was to point out that I was fourteen and Red Dragon was rated MA15+. This wasn’t necessarily going to stop me from watching it, but considering this woman was probably staff and therefore worked for my parents, and considering the lengths I’d had to go to last year to hide the fact that Pat and I had secretly watched both Kill Bill movies, I didn’t want to risk anything getting back to them. At the same time, even I knew that reason was possibly the most pathetic thing I could say; and there was something about the fact that she’d asked so casually, without any qualifier about me being too young or anything. So I shook my head.

  ‘Oh, you have to,’ she said. ‘Well, really it’s The Silence of the Lambs you have to see. Red Dragon’s okay but Silence is amazing. One of the best movies ever made.’

  ‘I wanted to read the books first,’ I said.

  ‘So you should.’

  ‘Have you read them?’

  ‘Years ago. Back in the eighties, I think. I remember the movies a lot better.’

  ‘I didn’t realise they were so old.’

  She laughed. ‘Well, thanks for that.’

  It took me a moment to realise what I’d done wrong. ‘Oh, shi— I mean, crap. I’m sorry, I didn’t —’

  She was still laughing. ‘Relax, it’s fine. Getting old is like climate change: you can pretend it’s not happening all you like, but in the end you’re the one who ends up dead.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re old,’ I said quickly. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘That’s good, because I don’t either,’ she said. ‘There’s a difference between getting old and being old.’

  I didn’t understand that, but I nodded and tried to look thoughtful.

  ‘I’m Robbie,’ she said. ‘You?’

  ‘Nelson,’ I replied. ‘My parents are running the kitchen this winter.’

  ‘Have they done it before?’

  ‘No. First time.’

  ‘Ah, good,’ she said. ‘Mine too. I’m working on reception downstairs. Came from Queensland for the season. Bit of a change of scene.’

  ‘You been to the snow before?’ I asked.

  ‘Never. I feel like most of my time here will be pretending that I know how to ski while never actually doing it.’

  ‘Skiing is the best. Honestly, you’ll love it. I can teach you.’

  ‘Well, that would be way cheaper than getting an instructor. You seen the prices? All you’re doing is sliding around on some bits of wood.’

  ‘Well, they’re not exactly wood. And there’s a bit more to it than that.’

  ‘Convince me,’ Robbie said.

  It was beyond me how anybody could look at skiing and not think it was the best, but I was off anyway: telling her about how awesome it was to get lost on a long trail run, that wonderful tiredness you felt at the end of the day, and just how good a hot chocolate was when you were done. I was rambling so much that I didn’t realise ten minutes had passed until I caught a glimpse of the clock over her head.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I can go on.’

  Robbie smiled. ‘No worries. I love hearing about people’s interests. You can learn a lot about somebody that way. What else do you like?’

  As it turned out, film was one area of interest we did share. Another half an hour passed in what felt like seconds as we debated the merits of the Jaws sequels (2 being underrated, 3 and 4 disgraces to the franchise) and whether the Japanese or American version of The Ring was better.

  ‘You’re a very interesting guy,’ Robbie said after a while. ‘I’ll bet the girls are chasing after you at school.’

  I laughed, but it sounded fake even to me and I could feel the blush creeping up my cheeks.

  Robbie raised an eyebrow and I shook my head.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘If it’s not happening now it will soon.’

  I tried to smile. ‘Doesn’t feel that way.’

  She shrugged. ‘Sometimes people are ahead of their time. Everyone else just needs to catch up.’

  ‘But what if …’ I cleared my throat and tried to sound steady. ‘What if you’re the one who needs to catch up? And everyone else is right?’

  ‘Well, speaking as someone with a little more life experience than those girls at school, I don’t think that’s true.’

  ‘There is someone,’ I said. ‘Someone I reckon … someone who maybe d
oesn’t think I’m a weirdo.’

  And then, without even thinking about what I was doing or why, I told Robbie all about Madison: about the email and the phone call and the letter I was still waiting for. I told Robbie about the reasons I had to think this might work, but also about my terrible gnawing fear that Madison would say no, that my attempt to ask her out would become another tick in the loser column.

  By the time I was done I felt wrung out, but somehow a little better than before.

  ‘How old are you?’ Robbie asked when I was finally finished.

  ‘Fourteen,’ I said, sounding a little more defensive than I’d planned. The last thing I wanted or needed was anyone telling me there’d be ‘plenty of time for girls later’.

  ‘Most people your age wouldn’t have the guts to do what you did,’ Robbie said. ‘You put yourself out there and took a risk. Even if she says no, it doesn’t matter. If Madison is anywhere near as cool as you say, she won’t treat you badly because you did something brave. Little secret.’ She leaned forward. ‘Girls are just as insecure and scared of being hurt as guys. Even if Madison doesn’t feel the same way, she’ll be flattered that you even asked. If nothing else, you probably made her feel good about herself, and that’s worth something. So no, I don’t think you’re an idiot, although in future maybe pick up the phone instead of writing an email. Or do it in person.’

  ‘There might not be an “in future”,’ I said. ‘Not if Madison says yes.’

  ‘Maybe not.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘It’s late. I should probably do some actual work. And you should get some sleep if you want to go skiing tomorrow.’ She got to her feet and extended a hand. ‘It was great to meet you, Nelson.’

  I shook her hand, and she gathered up her unused balloon animal materials and left through the door on the far side of the room, the one that needed a code.

  I took my time heading back to the suite. Tomorrow this place would come alive for the season, and already I was feeling a new sense of excitement about that. Just meeting someone I could talk to and who listened was enough.