“Not going to tell you,” he says cunningly. “Not yet. But I’ll take you to visit her sometime.”
“Tell me!” I demand, playfully swatting his arm.
“Nope. I want it to be a surprise.”
George is just full of surprises today. I’m actually having a good time.
>
“I can’t wait for you to meet her. You two are going to love each other.”
“I can’t wait to meet her, either,” I gush with enthusiasm. Wow. A real writer. I’ve never met one, with the exception of Mary Gordon Howard.
We slide off the chairlift and pause at the top of the run. And then I take a look down the mountain. It’s steep. Really steep. “I’d like to get down this hill, first, though,” I add, clutching my ski poles.
“You’ll be fine,” he says reassuringly. “Take it slow and do lots of turns.”
I do pretty well at the top of the hill. But when we get to the first drop-off, I’m suddenly terrified. I stop, dizzy with panic. “I can’t do this.” I grimace. “Can I take off my skis and walk down?”
“If you do, you’ll look like a total wimp,” George says. “Come on, kiddo. I’ll go ahead of you. Follow me and do everything I do and you’ll be fine.”
George pushes off. I bend my knees, picturing myself on crutches, when a young woman glides past. I only catch a glimpse of her profile, but she looks oddly familiar. Then I register the fact that she’s incredibly stunning, with long, straight blond hair, a rabbit-fur headband, and a white one-piece ski suit with silver stars up the side. I’m not the only one who’s noticed her though.
“Amelia!” George cries out.
This gorgeous Amelia girl, who looks like she belongs in an ad for some fresh outdoorsy toothpaste, slides smoothly to a stop, lifts her goggles, and beams. “George!” she exclaims.
“Hey!” George says, and skis after her.
So much for helping the skiing impaired.
He slides up next to her, kisses her on both cheeks, exchanges a few words, and then looks uphill. “Carrie!” he cries, waving. “Come on. I want you to meet a friend of mine.”
“Nice to meet you,” I yell from afar.
“Come down,” George shouts.
“We can’t come to you so you’ll have to come to us,” adds the Amelia person, who is beginning to irritate me with her easy perfection. She’s obviously one of those expert-types who learned to ski before she could walk.
Here goes nothing. Gripping my knees, I push off on my poles.
Fantastic. I’m heading straight for them. There’s only one problem: I can’t stop.
“Watch out!” I scream. By some miracle of nature, I don’t actually ram right into Amelia, only scraping the tops of her skis. I do, however, grab her arm to stop myself, at which point I fall over and pull her down on top of me.
For a few seconds, we just lie there, our heads inches apart. Once again, I have a sickening feeling that I know Amelia. Maybe she’s an actress or something?
And then we’re surrounded. What nobody tells you about skiing is, if you fall down, within seconds you will be rescued by several people, all of whom are much better skiers than you are and filled with all kinds of advice, and shortly thereafter, the ski patrol will arrive with a stretcher.
“I’m fine,” I keep insisting. “It was nothing.”
Amelia is back up and ready to go—she only tipped over, after all—but I, on the other hand, am not. I’m petrified, envisioning another headlong plunge down the mountain. But then I’m informed—happily, for me—that my ski went and crashed into a tree all on its own. Said ski is now slightly cracked—“Better your ski than your head!” George keeps saying over and over—so I will not be attempting the Bradshaw skidoo after all.
Unfortunately, the only way I can get down the mountain now is by stretcher. This is horrendously embarrassing and excessively dramatic. I lift my mittened paw and wave weakly at George and Amelia as they lower their goggles, plant their poles, and leap into the abyss.
“Done much skiing?” asks the ski patrol guy as he tightens a strap across my chest.
“Not really.”