The Possibility of Now

by Kim Culbertson

  “Mara?” Josie peers into the camera. “It would be fine to come back. No one’s even talking about it anymore. You know people around here have the attention span of a fruit fly. Besides, last week, Jaelynn Chambers cut off all her hair, dyed it magenta, and got an eyebrow ring. A hoop. Believe me, no one’s talking about you anymore.”

  “Are you serious?” Jaelynn Chambers is student body president. Her dad is an important conservative congressman. He must be freaking out. Which, I’m sure, is the whole point.

  “I think she looks great, but yesterday her mom picked her up.” Jaelynn’s mom never comes to school unless it’s for a photo opportunity.

  My phone buzzes next to me on the bed. A text from Logan:

  heard you rocked it up there today. want to go up tomorrow? i’m no mountain master but i buy hot chocolate — thx again for the cookies.

  He’s attached a photo of the empty cookie bag superimposed on a picture of Cookie Monster.

  Josie looks annoyed. “Um, hello?!”

  “Sorry,” I say sheepishly, pushing the phone away. “I should go and call Mom. You know how she gets.”

  “I do — talk soon.” She signs off.

  I stare at the blank screen, feeling like a lying jerk. I didn’t say, That was Mom on the phone, so now I have to get going. But I implied it. Still, that’s not why I feel guilty. It’s that the whole time I was talking with her, I kept thinking about how I don’t miss Ranfield at all. I miss Josie, but that’s it. It’s Tahoe. There’s something about this place — the snow, the mountains, the dark green of the trees, even the cold bite of the air — that’s acting as a kind of memory eraser. I felt it on the mountain today, like I’m being recalibrated by the uncomplicated pace here. By its simplicity.

  And I like it.

  Picking up my phone, I stare at the message from Logan. I text back:

  time? place? I’ll bring cookies.

  A minute passes. Then,

  funi. 10. nom nom nom.

  I lie down on my pillows, my muscles already itching to be back on the mountain. Something else feels itchy, too, as if I’m forgetting something, but I can’t place it. Should I have told Josie about Logan? Not that there’s anything to tell. He has a girlfriend. Was I supposed to check in with Mom? I rack my brain. What else? I scan my phone, check my binders and lists.

  Nope, nothing due today.

  Whatever it is, it can’t be that big a deal if I can’t remember, right? I’m not going to let it ruin the melty weight of my tired muscles, and before I can even brush my teeth or change into my pajamas, I’m falling into the heavy sleep a day on the mountain gives you.

  I get up early Friday morning to submit an assignment for AP chem. I probably should be working on my English homework today since I haven’t even starting reading The Great Gatsby yet and the essay is due Monday, but I really want to go skiing with Logan. The book sits there on the coffee table, staring at me. “I need PE credits, too!” I say to its blue cover, its judgmental eyes following me out the door.

  Outside, my breath makes patches of fog in the morning air. Trick sits in his truck, letting it idle. I move past Oli’s quiet trailer and notice his truck’s missing. On the way down the hill, Trick glances sideways at me and clears his throat. “So I got a call from that therapist guy, Dr. Elliot, yesterday afternoon — sorry, forgot to mention it last night before you turned in. Totally spaced it.”

  My stomach drops out. My appointment. That nagging itchy feeling that I was forgetting something last night. I missed my therapy appointment. “Oh, no,” I breathe, my heart skipping.

  “Yeah, he said you could reschedule or just come in next week. Whatever works. Maybe give him a call later?” Trick takes a right onto Squaw Valley Road, winding toward the Village.

  Despite the cold, my hands begin to sweat. “I can’t believe I did that. I went skiing. I completely forgot.” My voice wavers in the cold air of the car.

  Trick’s eyebrows lift at the sound of it. “No harm, no foul. He’s not even going to charge your mom for the session, which was cool of him.” He pulls the truck into a parking spot.

  What’s the chance Mom doesn’t know about it?

  My chest tightens. “But is he going to tell Mom?” I fiddle with the latch of my seat belt. “Because that was part of the deal for me being here. That I see him. I can’t believe I did that. I’ve never missed any appointment before.”

  He slides the keys from the ignition. “You’ve never missed any appointment before?”

  “Not without calling first, without rescheduling.” I tug more at the seat belt. Why won’t it unlatch?

  Trick leans over and unclicks me. “Wow, Mara versus the seat belt. Seat belt takes the first round,” he teases.

  I’m not in the mood. “Mom’s going to kill me.”

  He gathers up his jacket and wallet. “I doubt that.”

  My phone rings. Glancing at it, my heart picks up pace. We both stare at the incoming name on the screen. “It was nice knowing you,” I tell him. With a low chuckle, he pushes open the driver’s-side door and leaves me in the truck to face the Wrath of Mom.

  I answer the phone.

  “You completely skipped an appointment,” she states, her voice echoing in a way that tells me she’s driving.

  “I know, I’m sorry.”

  “You can’t stay up there if you can’t stick to your commitments. That was part of the agreement. It was in your calendar.”

  Wait. I had checked my phone and hadn’t seen it there. My body floods with hope. Could I possibly get off on a technicality? “Mom, I checked my phone. It wasn’t there.” I don’t mention that I checked my phone about four hours after I should have already been at the appointment. That doesn’t seem relevant now, right?

  She turns her phone into a wind tunnel with her sigh. “Your brothers had the same thing yesterday. Their schedules were totally blank. I’m not sure what happened.”

  I love technology. “I’m sorry I didn’t remember, Mom. But it wasn’t there.”

  “You need to call Dr. Elliot. Today. Reschedule, okay?”

  “I will.” Guilt needles me.

  But before I can confess, she says, “I have to run, Mara — I’m late,” and then she’s gone.

  Logan is waiting for me outside the funi building, checking his phone. I hurry to meet him, or whatever hurrying looks like in ski boots, like a drunken robot, probably. “Sorry I’m late. Mom drama.”

  He zips his phone into his jacket and smiles at me. “No problem. I don’t practice today until two and I already did my gym reps.” He takes a closer look at me, his smile fading. “You okay?”

  I try to look relaxed. “Oh, sure. Let’s get up there!” We scramble through the gates and onto the funi. Logan leans our skis in the corner and stretches out on the bench perpendicular to mine. I try not to glance out the window as the funi lifts us out and up, my stomach clenching with that first swing out of the dock. I thought it would get easier each time, but it doesn’t. Staring at my snow-caked boots, I try to shake off the list of our progress up the mountain that peppers my brain:

  Now we’re as high as a tree

  Now we’re as high as a three-story building

  “What’d your mom want?” Logan tries again.

  “I just missed an appointment yesterday and she was checking on why.”

  “Was it important?” He looks genuinely concerned.

  “Not really.” Logan Never does not need to know I’m seeing a therapist.

  He watches me for a minute, waiting for me to elaborate. When I don’t, he simply says, “Okay,” and rests his arm along the back of the bench. We stare out at the white world below us. “But you can talk about it if you want,” he adds.

  “Thanks. It’s really nothing.” We’re quiet, listening to the creak and shift of the funi. He’s nice to even ask and my stomach gets swirly and strange watching him sit there, his long legs out in front of him. I clear my throat, trying not to think about how much I might like t
his boy. Because I definitely don’t need to add that to the messy list of my life right now. A boy. A boy with a girlfriend. I try to focus on remembering some of the vocab for my French quiz on Monday.

  How do you say Pull it together in French?

  Even if I don’t fall as much as the first day I skied with Logan, I start off sluggish. After a couple of runs, though, I feel my body loosen and I start to trust the feel of the skis beneath me. Of course, as soon as I start to feel a sense of ease, just as I begin to move faster down the mountain, I catch an edge of my ski and end up on my butt.

  Logan skis over and offers his pole, but I don’t reach to take it. “Turns out, I suck at this whole skiing thing. So much for genetics,” I say, staring up at him. “Surprise!”

  “Are you kidding? You don’t learn to ski overnight. It takes years. You’re picking it up fast.” He offers his gloved hand, and this time I grab it. As he hauls me up, my skis slip out from under me and I fall into his chest. “Whoa, got ya.” He steadies me, dropping his poles to put both hands on my shoulders. His closeness sends that unfamiliar shiver through me again, and I scramble to push away from him, launching myself backward. “Careful!” He tries to make a grab for me, but I end up on the ground again. He looks confused, but also like he’s trying not to laugh at me. “Okay, not sure what just happened there.”

  “Lost my balance.” Because you’re too cute and need to stop touching me, I keep myself from adding. I take a deep breath, thinking about that confident line I’d drawn through “green runs” on my Now List a couple of days ago. Not sure I’ve earned it.

  I follow him back to the Big Blue lift, wishing I could shed the feelings of frustration with each sift of snow that falls from my dangling skis. I’m not sure what’s making me more frustrated, the skiing — or the way I can’t stop thinking about how nice it had been to fall into Logan, to have his hands on my shoulders.

  “Where’s Isabel today?” I ask brightly.

  He shrugs. “Not sure.”

  Maybe I should add negligent boyfriend to the list.

  Which is when it dawns on me.

  I’m still making a Logan Never List in my head. And it keeps getting longer.

  The way he smiles with the corners of his mouth

  How patient he is while he’s teaching me to ski

  How sweet he is with his dog

  How hard he works at Neverland

  How he never complains or seems stressed out

  His face, in general — he just has a really nice face

  And body

  Stop it. I don’t have time for Logan lists.

  Or maybe I do.

  Because it doesn’t really count, right? I’m not breaking any rules. I’m not here very long and he’s not available anyway. What was that thing Trick said this morning? No harm, no foul? I’m Tahoe Mara now. Be brave! (#9) I’ve never had time for a crush before. Crush, what a stupid word. What does it even mean? So what if I think he’s adorable and sweet and looks really good in ski pants. I mean, who looks that good in ski pants? I’m allowed to look.

  As he lifts the bar to get ready for another run, he says, “Seriously, Mara — you’re doing great out there. Trust me, it just takes time.”

  It just takes time. Good thing I happen to have a little more of that these days.

  Back at the top of the Big Blue, Logan and I are about to head down the mountain for a final run when someone calls out behind us. Beck slides up on skis. “Hey, bunny hill,” he says to me, his voice carrying a dark voltage just under the surface. “You two want to hit Shirley with me?”

  Logan kicks some snow from his skis. “I haven’t even done Gold Coast with her yet. I’m not taking her on Shirley Lake.” He avoids looking at Beck, instead watching the light shift across the patch of distant lake. “And I have practice in a half hour.”

  Beck fiddles with his sunglasses. “Shirley’s for toddlers. She’ll be fine.”

  “Do you think I can ski Shirley?” I ask Logan, my heart quickening. “Is it a green run?”

  “It’s a blue, but you could handle Shirley.” Logan bends down to adjust something with his bindings. When he stands, he says, “Most parts of it at least. I have to get to practice, but don’t let me stop you.”

  Am I imagining annoyance in his voice?

  The thought of skiing a more difficult blue terrifies me, but I don’t want Logan to know that. “Okay, yeah — I’ll try Shirley.”

  Logan’s lips pinch together in a thin line before he exhales. “Just remember your snowplow and try not to get going too fast, and —”

  Beck interrupts. “Pizza slice, French fries, pizza slice — she’s got this.” He tugs on my jacket. “Come on. Let’s show you some real mountain.”

  “Later.” Logan skis away, the familiar flash of his green jacket disappearing down the mountain. Wow, he’s fast when he’s not waiting for me.

  I follow Beck down the catwalk, my stomach dropping out as we come to the brim of a run. Shirley Lake looks hard and half of it is in shadow. I’m sure it’s nothing to Beck, but I might as well be jumping off a building. “Oh, wait,” I say. “Let me get your cell number in case we get separated.” That’s what Logan had done with me. Beck pulls out his phone, and I send him a quick text so he has my number. Tucking my phone back in my pocket, I take a deep breath. “Okay, ready.”

  “This is an easy shoot,” Beck assures me. “And it’s actually better if you go faster. Just follow me, okay?” Before I can answer, he takes off down the mountain and doesn’t seem to be stopping and waiting the way Logan always does. My body floods with a tingling blend of excitement and fear. Pizza slice. French fries. Pizza slice.

  Chewing my lip, I push forward, my skis tilted inward. At first, I handle it, cutting across the mountain the way Logan showed me, carving a smile into the snow. Then I pick up pace, and suddenly it’s too fast, too slippery. Halfway down, I turn too sharply, trees suddenly appearing ahead of me, a thicket of green in the blur of my vision. Too close. I can’t stop, can’t get my skis into a pizza slice in time, and end up yanking my body uphill to the right, the side of my helmet hitting the snow.

  Ouch.

  People speed by me, hazy impressionistic shapes.

  “Awesome!” Beck materializes above me, blocking out the sky. “That,” he says, grinning, “is what we call a yard sale!”

  “A what?” I murmur, trying to sit up. I find snow everywhere. In my mouth, in my ear. Both of my skis have popped off. One is nearby, but I can’t see the other one. Both of my poles stick out of the snow several feet away, and somehow I’ve managed to lose a glove.

  Beck hands me my other ski. “A yard sale. Your stuff went flying — that was sick!”

  “I think I broke my face.”

  Beck hoists me up, our faces so close our helmets almost touch. “Looks pretty great from here.” There’s that magazine smile again.

  I hurry to reassemble my gear and put on my skis, and ski slowly to the bottom and over to the Shirley Lake lift, nestled in the deep bowl of the mountain. This is definitely a more challenging part of the mountain than what I’ve been skiing so far. Huge peaks rise around us, and the lifts carry skiers high up into them.

  “Want to try again?” Beck asks as we move into the lift line. He leans his shoulder into me playfully, flushing liquid nerves through my limbs.

  “Better not. I think something isn’t totally right with my left knee,” I hurry to explain. “Besides” — I wave at the mountains around me — “I’ve had enough trouble for one day.”

  “Aww, come on,” he coaxes. “Take another run with me. If it doesn’t look like trouble, it’s not worth your time.”

  My stomach must house multiple flare guns. “Listen, peer pressure. I’m done for the day, okay?” But Josie’s newest addition to the list is poking me as we inch ahead in line. I glance sideways at Beck, at his mirrored glasses and auburn hair that curls from under his ski helmet, wondering if he’s the kind of trouble she had in mind.


  “Do you snowboard?” I ask as we move into place to catch the lift.

  “Sometimes. Why? You want to learn?”

  “Just wondering.” The Shirley lift chugs into view behind us, lifting us up, up, up and out of the snowy Shirley bowl to the place where I can head back down the front section of the mountain. I settle into the shiver of the lift, the cold wind on my tender cheek, watching as, up ahead, skiers and boarders cut down the steep first Shirley shoot, snow rooster-tailing behind them, like surfers against a blank white ocean. Beck leans into me, pointing out other parts of the mountain, and the strange prickly awareness at the nearness of him feels like the start of trouble to me.

  Later Friday afternoon, nestled on the couch at Trick’s with a bag of ice on my knee, I pull my binder onto my lap and read the essay prompt: “How does Nick’s role as an outsider impact his exploration of Tom, Daisy, and Gatsby’s world?” His role as an outsider. I should be able to answer that. If I’d actually read the book. Feeling the familiar creep of overwhelm, I toss the binder back onto the table and glance at my phone.

  Four messages. All from Mom.

  I click the fourth message and Mom’s voice spills out, edged and frustrated. “Mara, I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all afternoon.”

  It doesn’t even ring when I call her back. “Mara?”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “I, well, I went skiing.”

  “You went skiing?” Skiing comes out as if I’d said smoking.

  “I started learning a few days ago. Logan Never took me. I was on Shirley —”

  “What were you doing on Shirley Lake already?! That’s too hard for a beginner.”

  “Practicing my pizza slice, French fries,” I try to joke, but she doesn’t laugh. Remembering her dark look at Beck’s exit that first day in Neverland, I decide not to mention him at all. I then spend no less than five minutes proving to her that I haven’t turned into a ski-bum derelict.