The Possibility of Now

by Kim Culbertson

  When we get there, he heads straight to Neverland, but I stop off at Elevation to buy Logan a bag of the cookies they sell by the register. “Which ones?” Natalie asks. When I tell her they’re for Logan, she points out the kind with dark chocolate and coconut. “His favorite.” She winks.

  I hurry to explain. “He’s helping me learn to ski — I just want to say thank you.”

  Five minutes later, the bell on the front door jingles as I walk into Neverland. Logan sits on the counter, wearing his Frost Boys sweatshirt and rifling through a stack of rental forms, but he looks up at the sound of the bell. “Hey,” he says in that low, easy voice of his that makes you feel like a favorite friend. “Oh, Pipe, come here, girl, give her some breathing room,” he calls to his golden retriever, who is showering me with love and fur.

  Extracting myself from Piper’s enthusiastic welcome, I hand Logan the cookies. “I got you these.”

  “Sweet, these are my favorite.”

  My limbs fill with warmth at his smile. “Thanks again for taking me skiing.” As he unwinds the twist tie that holds the bag shut, I hurry to add, “I would have baked them myself, but Trick doesn’t have baking stuff. Or an oven, for that matter.” He has a frying pan, a soup pot, a can opener, and a hot plate. The next list I make him needs to be kitchen supplies:

  mixing bowl

  slotted spoon

  cheese grater

  frying pan that doesn’t look like death

  (toaster) oven?

  Logan pops an entire not-small cookie into his mouth. “Tasty, thanks,” he mumbles through the crumbs, and holds the bag out to me. “Want one?”

  “It’s, like, eight-thirty in the morning.”

  “Power breakfast.” His eyes slip to where Trick comes out through the shop door, followed by a taller, older man who wears a battered black Spyder soft-shell jacket and a pair of jeans with holes in both knees. Judging by his shock of silver-black hair, he’s probably in his late fifties.

  “Oh, hey, Oli.” Logan nods at the man.

  “Mara,” Trick says, racking a pair of skis. “This is Oli. He’s an old-time Tahoe boy. Been skiing Squaw since …” He squints at Oli. “How long now?”

  “Since I could pee standing up.” Oli’s smile adds wrinkles to his face and animates his already bright cobalt eyes.

  “Nice to meet you.” I hold out my hand.

  He flashes Trick a bemused look. “Good manners,” he says to Trick, shaking my hand. To me, he says, “You can thank your mama for that, because I know you didn’t get them from this guy.” He hooks a thumb at Trick.

  “Well, she withheld food if I didn’t greet people properly,” I deadpan.

  Trick’s mouth falls open. “Is that true?”

  “Of course not!”

  Trick laughs out loud, grabbing a pair of bindings someone has left on the counter. “Right, sorry — okay, so you said you want to keep learning to ski.” He glances at Oli, adding, “All those years in San Diego, she never once skied.” Under it, just a shadow, is an accusation. Then he adds, “So I thought it might be a good idea for you to spend some time on the mountain with Oli. You won’t find a better teacher — no offense, Logan.”

  Logan waves him off, still working his way through the bag of cookies. “None taken.”

  I try to catch Trick’s eye — I was hoping he would take me. But he doesn’t glance up from the binding. “Logan has been teaching me,” I explain to Oli.

  Logan holds up the bag. “Will teach for cookies. Want one?”

  Oli shakes his head but says, “Mara, let’s go out tomorrow and take some runs. It’s important to also learn some respect for the mountain.”

  “Thanks, Oli. Love you, too,” Logan mumbles. His cookie bag depleted, he returns to sorting the pile of rental forms next to him.

  Oli scratches at the gray stubble of beard on his chin. “No offense. I was the same way at your age. Thought the only thing that mattered was speed.” Oli leans down to collect a stray form that has fallen to the ground and hands it back to Logan.

  I hurry to say, “Logan wasn’t like that. He really made sure I felt comfortable on the greens.” A hint of a smile plays at Logan’s mouth, but he doesn’t look up from his sorting. “Besides,” I say, “it’s just skiing.”

  Trick and Logan exchange sudden looks. “Uh-oh.” Trick raises his eyebrows dramatically. “Now you’ve done it.”

  Oli stares at me intensely. “It is far more than just skiing.”

  “Watch it, Mara,” says Logan, holding up his hands in mock alarm. “Next he’s going to tell you the part about how the way you ski is the way you live.”

  Oli shoots him a sobering look. “Laugh if you must, Mr. Never, but I’m an old man and mostly an idiot about everything in the world there is to know.”

  Trick interjects. “You’re fifty-eight — hardly old. Talk to me in twenty years.”

  Ignoring him, Oli presses on. “I may be mostly an idiot, but not about this. I know skiing. I know this mountain. And I know that how a person skis this mountain speaks volumes about how this person walks the good earth we live on.”

  Where did Trick find this guy? “Like if they go fast, they’re a risk taker, you mean?” I ask.

  Oli fixes those dark blue eyes on me. “Nah, that’s just good fodder for ski documentaries. I’m not talking about black diamonds or out of bounds or any of the technical stuff. I’m talking about listening — about constant awareness and purpose and respect for the elements, for the shifting seasons and conditions, about knowing where you are in any given moment and the deep understanding of what track you’re meant to take. I’m talking about love.”

  “Love?” I glance at Trick to see if he’s laughing, if this is a prank, but he’s nodding as though listening to a familiar song.

  “Aw, give it a rest, you old hippie.” Logan grins, moving on from the rental forms to restock the lip balms and sunscreens in the spinning rack on the counter.

  “It’s a dance of love, skiing is,” Oli says, affecting a Yoda voice. He moves a few steps toward me and I almost need to lean back. He’s very tall, this snow oracle. “I’ll take you out tomorrow, introduce you properly to the mountain.”

  I swallow. “Okay.”

  He nods at Trick and heads for the exit. As the door swings shut, Logan catches my eye. “Congratulations — you’ve got yourself your own personal snow guru.” He yoga-bows at the closed door. “Namaste, Mountain Master.”

  I move to the window of the shop, peering out after Oli, but he’s disappeared into the sea of people moving by with their skis and boards, getting ready for another day on the mountain. “Um, how exactly will I find him? Will he just appear? Maybe send a droid with hologram directions?”

  Trick grabs a pair of skis to take back to the shop. “Well, he’ll be parked in our driveway for the next few weeks, so you won’t be able to miss him. And I don’t know about the droid, but I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  After meeting Oli, I head to Elevation so I can get some work done. I feel behind and I need to study for a history quiz if I’m going to take part of the day off tomorrow to ski. After a few hours, I look up from my laptop and see Isabel at the counter, grabbing a cup of hot water from Natalie. Unwrapping her own chamomile tea bag, she dunks it, then carries it carefully to my table.

  “What’s up, buttercup?” She peers at my laptop. “AP history. That looks familiar.”

  I roll my eyes. “Fun with DBQs.”

  “Ugh, I know.” She plops into the seat next to me.

  “What are you up to?” I ask, wondering vaguely when she has time to take an AP history course. It seems like she’s always training.

  “I’m going to hit the gym for an hour, then I have to study for a test tomorrow.” She sits up a little. “Do you want to come?”

  “To study for your test? No, thanks.” I tap on my history book. “Plenty of that right here.”

  “No, silly. To the gym. My mom could take us.” She picks up her tea and takes a
small sip. “I could show you some ski-specific exercises since you’re learning.”

  It’s tempting. And a change of scenery would be nice. My phone buzzes, flashing CHEM! on my Google calendar. “I would, but … I probably shouldn’t. I’m supposed to be starting chemistry now. And I’m taking part of tomorrow off for some ski lessons.”

  She shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

  “I’m going with a friend of Trick’s, actually. Oli.”

  She perks up. “Oli’s in town?”

  I frown. “Is he not normally in town?”

  Isabel winds the string of her tea bag around the bag itself, draining the liquid off, before she sets it on the table. “Oli lives in his Airstream. So he lives anywhere he feels like. Sometimes he’s here and sometimes” — she pauses — “he’s not.”

  “Oh.” He lives in his Airstream? I don’t even know what that means. I picture someone hunkered down in a wind tunnel.

  Isabel must see the confusion on my face, because she laughs. “His trailer. You know, those silver ones you tow behind a truck.”

  “Right, okay.” Not a wind tunnel. That’s what Trick must have meant when he said he’d be parked in our driveway. “He lives in it year-round?”

  “Yep.” She waves at a boy who comes through the front door. I’ve seen him before with Logan. One of the Frost Boys. “Hey, Bodie. Do you know Mara?” Bodie. The arm of the accountability triangle with the dentist appointment.

  He nods at me, his blue-tipped hair falling in a fence in front of his eyes. “My understudy! How’s it going?” He leans on the back of an empty chair. “Iz, your mom’s waiting.”

  Isabel stands. “Gotta scoot. Come hang out with us sometime.”

  “Thanks, I will.” I watch them leave. They pass by the tall glass windows, laughing, Isabel giving Bodie a playful shove at something he says. I’m distinctly aware of how much Tahoe belongs to them, and also how much of this place I’m just borrowing while I sort myself out.

  My phone buzzes again. “Okay!” I say to it, my face flushing as the guy at the next table raises his eyebrows at me over his coffee mug. I shrug sheepishly, hoping to convey Come on, it’s totally normal to yell at your phone, especially one as bossy as mine.

  Later, I lean on the counter, watching Natalie make coffees for a group of skiers who just came in off the mountain.

  “What’s up?” She adds a dollop of foam to each tiny cup.

  “I left something in Trick’s truck. Can I leave my stuff here and run out and get it?” I motion to my table over by the fire, knowing if I pack everything up, someone will steal it.

  “I’ll keep an eye on it.” She puts the four coffees on a tray and waves me out the door.

  I run to Trick’s truck. He never locks it, so I grab my chem textbook and start heading back toward Elevation, when I hear two people arguing in the next row of cars.

  “This is ridiculous, Beck. You’re going, end of discussion. Your mother doesn’t get to make plans on my weekend.” A man stands near the open door of a shiny black Range Rover, frowning at the boy in front of him.

  Beck, his back to me, has his hands shoved in the pockets of his parka. “Since when do you care what I do on the weekend?”

  The man folds his large arms across his chest. He has Beck’s thick head of hair, but perfectly cut. “You will show up at that dinner and you’ll leave that crap attitude at home. That’s not a request.” He’s not exactly shouting, but he might as well be. His voice echoes through the parking lot.

  “Sir, yes, sir,” Beck mumbles.

  The man’s hand flashes out and grabs Beck’s shoulder. “I’m not kidding, Beck. Lose the attitude.” He gives him a shake, a pretty hard one, then gets in the Range Rover. Beck practically has to jump out of the way to avoid getting run over.

  I hurry back to Elevation, hoping neither one of them sees me.

  Dressed in my new ski gear the next morning, I knock on the door of Oli’s Airstream trailer, which Trick told me is named Powder. Oli must have rolled into our driveway late last night at some point, but I didn’t hear him.

  He appears in the doorway, dressed in a pair of ski pants and a flannel shirt. I have no idea what color his baseball hat used to be. I can just make out its barely readable JACKSON HOLE logo. “Hiya there,” he says, slurping a cup of coffee.

  “Can I see Powder?”

  I follow him inside the coffee-scented space of the Airstream. Trick told me over breakfast that Oli has lived in Powder for as long as Trick could remember. He travels the country in it, crashing at campgrounds and RV parks and with friends. “How does he afford to do that?” I asked through a mouthful of cereal.

  Trick’s brow creased. “He lives simply. Takes on the occasional seasonal job. I guess he figures it out,” he said, shrugging. After a moment, he added, “He’s a master carpenter, so I suppose he makes some money that way. You should see the inside of Powder. She’s a beauty, so much detail and so many salvaged things. It’s a work of art, really.”

  Now, standing inside Powder, I can see what Trick meant. “Wow,” I breathe, taking in the Airstream’s cozy interior. It holds a bed covered in a faded quilt, a compact wooden table with padded bench seats, a narrow kitchen counter with cabinets, and a stall for a bathroom, all rich cherry wood, meticulously crafted. Hard to imagine fitting a whole life inside this small space, but he’s done it. Photos dot the walls and he seems to have a soft spot for vintage postcards from ski resorts. Or maybe they weren’t vintage when he first got them. “This is really cool.” My eyes rest on the row of paperbacks wedged into a built-in wood bookcase above one of the bench seats. None of the books from Ranfield’s reading list.

  “It’s home,” Oli says casually, but he looks pleased, like I’d complimented a favorite pet. “You all set to get on the mountain?”

  A half hour later, we’re riding up the funi, our skis tucked neatly next to us. It’s cold today, but bright, and I’m grateful for the smoky lens of my goggles as the funi lifts us up the mountain. As we climb, Oli asks me questions about what I’ve skied so far, and I fill him in on the Big Blue runs I did with Logan.

  “What have you noticed so far about yourself as a skier?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He sprawls his legs out in front of him. “What’s your sweet spot? Some people like to go fast. Others like technical terrain. Some people want to feel the mountain beneath them, enjoy the ride up the lift.”

  “I just want to keep getting better,” I say.

  He studies me through his own smoky lens for a moment, then turns and points to a woman skiing swiftly down the mountain below us. “See her?”

  I follow the shot of her body before she disappears around a curve. “Yes.”

  “Did you see how clenched up on her poles she was, how her whole body was bent and rigid?” He points out a man this time, with similar form. “See that tension?”

  I don’t really see any tension; they just seem fast. “Yeah, I guess,” I lie.

  “See how they ski — quick, aggressive? It’s like a migraine on skis. Now see her?” He points out a woman in a sleek silver parka and teal ski pants, her jet-black ponytail flying behind her. She’s fast, but moves with a relaxed waterlike grace. “She’s not in a fight with the mountain. Look at that awareness.”

  I’m not sure I’m seeing any awareness. I study the skiers moving below us, all so different. Some zipping past, some falling, some making wide smiles in the snow. “And that’s better?”

  The funi bumps into the Gold Coast building, and Oli gathers his gear. “Not better. Just different. Who do you want to be on the mountain?”

  “I would like to not fall on my butt every five minutes,” I say, collecting my skis and poles and following Oli’s warm laugh off the funi.

  We ski Big Blue two times, and I’m surprised at the muscle memory from my day with Logan. I figured I’d be starting from scratch, but my body sinks into the glide over the snow; it remembers. At the bottom of Big Blue, after the seco
nd run, Oli stops me. “Remember, Mara, skiing is a dance between you and this mountain. And it’s about listening. This time, as you ski down, really listen.”

  “To what?”

  “To everything.” As he skis into the lift line, I let a giggle escape. Is this guy serious? I think of Logan bowing to him as he left the store yesterday, and stop myself from calling out to him, Yes, Mountain Master, listen Mara will. But I follow him because, hokey or not, I feel completely at ease right now.

  In fact, this whole time with Oli, I haven’t made a single list in my head and I haven’t once felt that jittery, tense feeling I get, knowing I have homework waiting for me on the laptop.

  It’s a feeling I could get used to.

  “Skiing?” Josie frowns at me through the screen. “Sounds horrifying.”

  “You’d be amazed, Jo — it’s really fun.” I sit on my bed, my knees tucked under me, the night outside purple through the window. “Like flying.”

  “Flying’s for birds. Are you a bird?” I stick out my tongue at her and she giggles. “Well, don’t get hurt. I need my doubles partner back.”

  “Josie?” I hesitate, inspecting my nails. “Did you ever, you know, figure out who posted that video of me?” Before I left, sitting on my bed back home, watching me pack, Josie had said, her voice fierce and protective, I will find out who did it, I swear. I know people say things like that and most of the time they’re just words to make you feel better at the time. But, with Josie, they might actually be true. The intensity in her eyes had even scared me a little. Like maybe she might find out and then dispose of the body.

  Now she drops her gaze, revealing eyelids glazed in glittery silver eye shadow. “I haven’t yet.”

  I hurry to say, “It’s okay. I didn’t expect you to. Besides, I’m not sure I even want to know.” In bed at night, listening to the pop and crackle of the fire, I often wonder if it would be better to know or if it’s better this way. I’m far away in the mountains where I can’t see any of them anyway. But then I keep wondering, wondering, wondering. I can’t seem to let it go, shake it off, not worry about it.