Chapter 1
The spread of the village in my hometown is nice this time of year. Mid-January in southern Vermont never ceases to encompass all the magnificence of winter: the ground frosted over in a delicate field of crystals, the benches caked in thick, fluffy sheets of snow, and when it comes to the soft flakes and glistening spreads of ice emblazoning the very spirit of a Vermont winter – these are what always draw me back no matter where I may find myself, no matter where may I end up.
I remember when I was a kid I used to stomp on the ground, as hard as I could, until I crunched through to the dirt below just for the sound of ice crackling beneath my feet. I used to race past benches, and holding out my arm like a butter knife, I would run alongside the narrow seat, propelling my arm through the snow as if it were the top layer of frosting on a big slice of cake. I would watch as the dessert exploded into small, wet pieces just above my head. Then, in a gentle sizzle only I could hear, the snowflakes would fall to rest on my tongue, my lips, even the roof of my mouth. And I would feast.
When I stuff my fists in my jacket pockets and shut my eyes really tightly, I seem to be able to transport myself back in time to fifteen years ago, where I can still taste the sugary sprinkles of my imaginary confections.
This was the music of my childhood. I’ve walked these brick paths a thousand times – I guess it’s just the familiarity of the thing. I mean, it reminds me of where I grew up, where I made friends and went to school and learned to snowboard. It reminds me of who I am.
It’s also where I live when I’m not travelling. The places and food and cultures and snow were great for the first five years. Since then, it’s gotten really old, really fast. And about an hour ago, I received an email about something I’ll need to do for work. The snowboard company I work for has just had a shipment of demo equipment arrive, and we’ll have a few days between all the contests and promotions to test out some gear, pose for some magazine advertisements. Understand me; it’s not the distraction from competition nor promotion that has me so mixed up about the photo shoot. It’s the location. They picked Texas.
There’s an old, torn spiral tucked away in my back pocket. Something about that email from work made me dig it out of a box I was convinced I had thrown away years ago. I’d like to go back through it, read it one more time – really, for the first time – since the last time I read it, I was writing it.
The trees, that’s another thing I love about Vermont. The trees are still green and snow-capped this time of year. The scenery here in New England, can’t beat it.
I turned left into my favorite bar down the village strip to get my day-drinking on. It was pathetic. I moped my way through the door and onto a stool at the bar.
Seeing I was more down than usual, Jesse, my preferred bartender (because let’s face it, we all have one) grabbed the mic and announced with a few perforating glitches of feedback over the intercom system, “The regular, sir?”
I smiled, nodding my answer.
Jesse. I called him Vermont’s Lone Mexican. Sometimes, Yessy. Sometimes, Quetzalcoatl. He’s a full-time bartender and part-time student. Nursing. Radiology. He’s a couple years older than I am, has a young daughter and rides motocross in the terrain parks on the mountains nearby. Sometimes we ride the quarter-pipe together or something and have a good time, but our best memories are always at the bar, sitting across from each other, catching one another up on our life stories. I travel farther and more often than Jesse but somehow our experiences always seem to even out. Like the time he refused service to a biker who was completely canned. He punched Jesse; it broke his jaw, and Jesse has a really sick scar framing the bottom edge of his face to prove it.
He handed over my drink, asking me,
“What’s on your mind, k – ?” and as I drank, “Who’s on your mind, kid?”
The thing about Jesse is he always seems to know. It’s not a bartender thing; I would have noticed it in others. He has this kind of sixth sense which is what I think makes him such a great bartender. Because when people drink, what do they do? They talk. But Jesse works his magic before you’ve even taken a sniff of your whiskey.
I hesitated before sipping (Jesse certainly knew something was bothering me – he had made it a double) pulling the bent, crumpled concoction of metal and paper out of that pocket and setting it on the bar.
“I used to write. I used to write about the places I went and things I did.”
Jesse craned his neck to read the title, as he rinsed out and dried a clean shot glass with a white hand-towel.
“Wow, five years ago.”
“Yeah, I know. But I don’t write anymore. This was the last thing I ever wrote. It was a snowboard camp I coached that summer in Oregon.”
“Sir, quit bein’ a wuss. What’s her name?”
I laughed and shook my head, as I turned the front cover, half of which had already been ripped out from around the skewed metal swirls of binding. And there it was, just as I remembered the day I wrote it:
June first: There she was again. Alone. Eating lunch by herself at one of the picnic tables close to the lodge. There were other campers grouped at surrounding tables – they just didn’t seem to notice her. Nor did she seem to notice any of them. I watched her tear a corner off of her sandwich and place it in her mouth, lowering her face to chew the bite ever so slowly. Almost introspectively. And that was it for me. As a camp counselor, I had to do something. Because I had seen enough.
The snow crunched beneath my boots, as I tried to keep quiet while approaching her. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Well, if she heard, she didn’t bother to look up. In fact, she barely acknowledged my presence as I sat down across from her. When the bench creaked, her eyes did look up though, the striking green emeralds that they were.
Okay – I thought I had seen enough – until she looked at me without her snowboard goggles shielding the upper-half of her face. Jeez, I couldn’t believe how gorgeous they were. Man. They were tripping me up, that’s for sure. And I still can’t believe I had thought she was a boy earlier! But you know what? You try and pick out a boy from a girl in all these layers of snowboard clothes at a snowboard camp, okay?
Hey.
Hi, I thought I saw her whisper inaudibly, though her vision remained on the table and not me.
So, where’re you from?
Her eyes averted mine, as she swallowed a second bite then looked back up at me.
Me? Texas.
Wh – really? Texas? Ballin’.
And there it was. I knew I was falling fast, like an idiot, for this girl who I was supposed to be coaching and knew absolutely nothing about, but her next action sealed the deal for me. She smiled. It was blindingly white and straight and put every mouth I had ever seen before to shame. Instantly.
Yeah. She hunched slightly, as she took another bite. I sat with her in silence. I can’t believe I had let this green-eyed Texas chick who snowboards fairly well for living in the South and all, dumbfound me like she was. I mean, who would have guessed that I, me, Ryan, would ever have trouble talking to a girl? I talked to chicks all the time, and, somewhere between the booze and the grass, got along just fine. Miss Green Eyes over here had certainly put me in my place, redefining the definition of a decent girl along the way.
What’s your name? Yeah, I had heard it before. I already knew her name. I had heard it somewhere up on the mountain. Which escalated that gender misjudgment, since it was a completely neutral syllable, you know? So after that dude comment, I had to cover all my bases twice now.
L.
“Wait,” Jesse interrupted, shifting his weight to his other foot, as he leaned over the bar, “like the letter?”
“Yeah. Well, kinda. Not really.”
“Alright, keep going, man.”
Called it. Oh, well, better safe than sorry. Another bite. Talking with this one was like trying to pull teeth. My teeth, not her perfect ones.
I’m Ryan.
I know, she smiled, but chewed, so she didn’t show her teeth this time. And was still cute, as she angled her face downwards.
How long you been riding?
Four seasons.
What kind of board – Burton, right?
Burton now, but it sucks, so DC next season.
It was then I wondered if her humor was so dry, she had actually said Burton sucks because she knew that was the brand of board I rode. Or maybe it really did suck.
How old are you?
Can I get a lawyer?
Ah, her first joke. I guess I’m not so bad after all – except for maybe my preference in brand of snowboards. I chuckled.
No, I played, flipping my swoop bangs to the side with a side jerk of my face. All the chicks fell for it. Except this one who was conveniently looking down at the sandwich in her lap, tearing off another piece. Oh, the defeat. Where in Texas, cowgirl?
Just stick to the living arrangements, dork, I thought.
North Dallas. I’m eighteen.
You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been there aside from the airport. I bet Texas is fun, huh?
It’s the most boring place on Earth, so promise me if you do go, you’ll leave right after you pass the Reunion Tower and where Kennedy was killed, because that’s about all we have there. Well, in Dallas at least. San Antonio is a little better since they have the Alamo and the basement and all that.
I felt like her comment about San Antonio was a little off kilter, but I wasn’t quite sure what stuck out about it so much.
Jesse slapped the table in laughter.
“Bro, that’s hilarious! She pulled one over you!”
“What? What’s that from?”
“Pee-Wee Herman?! He goes to Texas to search the basement in the Alamo for his bicycle?! But it doesn’t exist – there is no basement! It is so funny!” he laughed, probably more at the fact he could tell I knew I was still missing something rather than at the actual reference itself.
“Well, then I’m sure she enjoyed my face when I didn’t get it,” I shrugged, continuing our conversation. Not the one with Jesse, the one with L, the girl from Texas.
Ten-four. Most boring place on Earth?
Her sight lifted to me again, and I held my breath. Why are you sitting with me? Her tone was far from accusatory, but I still looked around, confused, as she rested her chin on her palm.
Well, I was over there –
Where you should be.
Yeah, I guess, but then I saw you over here and I just….
Kinda felt bad? she offered, tilting her head in interest, taking yet another bite.
Yeah?
It’s okay, she chuckled, it’s not a trick question.
Well, yeah. You looked really sad. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.
I’m okay, she shrugged but slammed her hand on top of my wrist when she realized I had interpreted that remark as a ‘so please leave.’ Don’t go. I’m sorry. I’m not so great in social situations as if you couldn’t tell already. Forgive me.
Oh, okay, yeah, well, don’t apologize, I shrugged back, sitting down. I just didn’t wanna bother you. And, I mean, it’s only the first day. You’ll make more friends here.
I have a hard time when a lot of people are around. But all it is here is that no one knows who I am and neither party feels up to taking enough initiative to make the first move. So thanks. Ryan. She nodded.
The butterflies break danced, as I registered her gloveless hand on my jacket. You’re welcome, I responded, focusing harder than ever on not looking down. She patted my arm and took her hand away almost as if reading my mind. My eyes followed.
What’s your story?
I looked up at the sound of her question, and she winked. Shoot, L shouldn’t be allowed to wink. Or blink. At all. My name’s Ryan Martain. I’m twenty years old out of southern Vermont. I ride for a living and learned how to snowboard when I was eight.
Impressive, she said, finishing her sandwich, first using her shoulder to knock her hair from behind her ear to in front of her face like a curtain. And she could have slapped me for this next remark, I didn’t particularly care. It would only mean skin-to-skin contact between us. Sounded like a pretty good deal to me.
You know, why do you do that? It’s really annoying, I informed.
She covered her mouth to shield food from coming out, though I doubt it would have. But I don’t know, she laughed pretty hard.
“Dude, she’s been eating this sandwich for like five pages. Is she hot or what?”
“She was beatiful,” I said quickly and took another sip. “That’s a good drink by the way.” I nodded at my glass before continuing,
I’m socially awkward, I already told you! she said with her hand up and mouth full, then swallowed and lowered her hand, shrugging her hair back. I don’t like to eat in front of people.
But you were doing it while I was way the hell back there.
And you were watching me.
Well, how would you know?
I just do. It’s kinda hard not to watch the little Southern freak in the corner over there, now i’n’t it?
Damn. Another trick question. I took a deep breath.
Yeah.
See? she smiled.
You’re not a freak.
Close enough, she waved off, opening a bag of chips, which she tilted in my direction. Then I was dumb enough to say, oh, no thanks.
That’s right; I bet coaches get the works on their meals, huh? Hors d’oeuvres, parsley, pigs with apples?
Is there an off-button on this wonder machine?
Not exactly. Same food. Separate area.
Because if there were, it would be a crime.
Why?
Well, don’t ask me. I just work here.
Okay. I won’t.
I opened my mouth to ask another question, but I couldn’t think of one, so I shut it. I knew next to nothing about her, but asking anything else would be crossing the coach-rider, student-teacher line. I already knew everything I was supposed to know as her instructor.
So….
Mhm? she asked, as the Doritos crunched.
So. So, what’s up? Fail. I crossed my arms and leaned over the table. She smiled with only her lips and cleaned her molars off with her tongue before showing her teeth. Putting the chips aside, she did as I did.
Nothin’ much, just chillin’, Coach, what about you?
Don’t call me that. Just Ryan. I’m doin’ all right. You did really good on that box this morning. Maybe she would forget that I was the one who patted her on the back earlier and said, hey, good job, dude, certain that I was complimenting a twelve-year-old boy, until she took her jacket off. Definitely not a boy. I mean, she had said, thanks, but it was muffled because her bandana was around her mouth, protecting her face from the wind and the cold. In retrospect, I know there was a smirk behind it. Yeah. Not a boy.
“What the hell?” Jesse asked me, shaking his head in dismay. “Bro.”
I hadn’t noticed before, but sometime between the time I had started reading and that pause, he had poured himself a drink, because, you know, it wasn’t like he was working or anything. Just another reason.
Our eyes met, and I thought she would give me a hard time, as it was obvious she remembered it exactly, but surprisingly, she didn’t even mention it.
Thank you. La fin, she said, wadding her trash into a ball and throwing it at a nearby trashcan. She made it.
Wrong camp, Madeline.
She looked back at me. And if I didn’t know any better, I would say I had her stumped. Finally. Je joue pas trop bien du basket et je suis pas française, she scoffed. Et toi, Monsieur Martain, n’a rien compris, quoi.
I can’t get ahead. I cannot get ahead with this green-eyed, snowboarding Texan.
Oh, time to go, she stood. The other counselors were congregating at the doors to the lodge and motioning the groups forward.
See you at dinner.
Or so I thought, but she never showed.
I sipped my drink again and looked up at Jesse.
“Day one.”
