Up to This Pointe (5 page)

I exhale. My face burns. Tears are frozen there, and they hurt.

Charlotte makes her cautious way back to me as the colony separates and swims around her retreating form.

“What do you think?” She smiles, stashing the samples and notes in her pack. We stand and watch the Adélies together.

“They're leaving in a few weeks,” she says, her face lit by the pulsing sun. “The babies will finish molting, winter comes, and they migrate all together.”

“Like emperors?” I can't imagine these sweet birds, the dads huddled together in the freezing inland wind, balancing their egg-bound babies on their feet while the poor females make the icy trek to the ocean. I've seen
March of the Penguins.
Those guys are nuts.

“No, not at all,” she murmurs, still intent on the rookery antics. “Adélies follow the sun. When it sets for winter, the Ross Sea freezes, the continent size nearly doubles. They walk with the ice as it forms, hundreds of miles, to always be at the water to feed. They walk straight into the horizon, following the sun so they've always got this sliver of a glow in their sight. Then, when winter's over and the sun rises, the pack ice melts and they stay on the shore and let the sun bring them right back to the rookery. It's magical. I love them so much. Follow the sun and you'll always be where you're meant to be.”

She pulls her mittens back on. “You still okay?”

I nod.

“Harper, you need to live this place for all it's worth. Do you understand? Every moment you're here, you need to be a lover of life. You need to think like a scientist.”

“Like—think in questions?”

“Yes! Turn what you think you know over and over. See what's underneath. Let yourself be surprised.”

“All I ever am is surprised.”

She puts her mittened hands on the sides of my hood. “Okay, then remember: ‘Science is nothing but perception'—that's Plato. He was all about getting out of the cave, seeing life from a new angle, in a new light, letting things move all they want. The ice we're standing on is shifting as we speak. We're not where we were five minutes ago. Be here while you're here. Understand?”

I imagine Earth in space, Antarctica at the very bottom of the axis. Gravity is holding us as we walk upside down, keeping the blood from rushing to our heads, the ocean safely at the shore. If there ever was a place to see things from a new perspective…

The Adélies are hushed, their faces turned up to the sun.

“I understand,” I tell Charlotte. “I do. I will.”

We return the snowmobile, give back our radios, and fight the wind to pull open the station door—dark and unfathomably cold. There's another guy at Ben's desk to sign us in to the dorm, thank God.

“I'm going to shower and hit the hay. You all right?” Charlotte says from inside her parka, already halfway up the stairs with her pack full of data. She calls over her shoulder, “See you at eight, bright and early! Meet me at my office then or at seven-thirty for breakfast. Sleep well!”

There are voices from the dining hall, and at once I'm hungrier than I think I've ever been in my entire life. I pull off my parka and mittens and grab a plate.

There are mashed potatoes. Dehydrated, probably, but still. Soup and corn bread and green beans, cheese and butter—it all looks amazing, and my stomach tightens. I fill my plate with salad. Splurge with Parmesan cheese. An apple for dessert.

It is late. Most of the tables are empty, and I fall into a chair by myself and destroy the food. I drink hot tea. My hands finally start to tingle and warm a little. I lay my head on my arms.

“Hey,” a voice says quietly near my ear.

“I'm up,” I mumble, half asleep.

A guy in an apron…half apron, tied around his waist like people on cooking shows wear them. T-shirt, jeans.

“Hey,” he says again, and smiles. “You need one.”

He offers me a tray of cinnamon rolls.

I can't stay here six months. I miss home so badly I could cry—what is this guy doing with cinnamon rolls? He's just standing here, holding the tray at my face.

“I thought there's no milk or eggs in winter. What's in these?”

“We'll run out for certain, but your plane brought the last of the freshies. We freeze them or use them till they're gone. Take one.”

He's Irish. Scottish? I'm awful—it's one or the other, one of those accents that give legitimacy to Hollywood movie spies and lean, muscular international criminals who go around committing treason and espionage with their strong jaws and dark curls and—Are his eyes really that green?

“Go on,” he says. “You must be starved, gone all day.”

The rolls look nothing like Dad's, but they have lots of melting frosting and they're warm. Straight from the oven.

“I'm sorry,” I sigh, and I am. “I'd love to, but…wait, how did you know I was out all day?”

“Watched you go this morning. Are you gluten intolerant?”

“No.”

“Diabetic?”

“No.”

“Allergic to perfection?”

The cinnamon and cream cheese are killing me, they smell so good. I swallow and shake my head. “Sorry.”

He puts his hand over his heart, dejected.
“Really?”

“Thanks, though.”

He takes my cold left hand in his, shakes it. “You're Harper. Scott, yes? High school grant student? I'm the third! Astronomy. I got stuck with a Beaker who never wanted an assistant but got assigned me anyway, so I'm sort of also work study in the kitchen. Aiden.” He pulls my fingertips closer to his eyes. “Your nails are blue. Should you go to the infirmary?”

I pull my hand back, stand, and pick up my plate. “They're always blue. I think I just need sleep.”

He blatantly takes in my bony frame. “You're sure, then? Not just one small bite?”

I want to eat them all. I shake my head once more.

“All right,” he says. “Coming to breakfast?”

I nod. He smiles.

“I'll save one for you.”

I drop my plate in the dirty dish tub, climb the stairs to my room, get my shower caddy, and take a seven-minute shower. Because I'm frozen and tired, and the whole shower thing is on an honor system anyway. It's not like they've got timers on the showerheads. I don't think. I need to ask Charlotte.

I pull the blackout shades over the window. I should unpack. I should also call Mom and Dad again, but I can barely lift the blankets of the unmade bed to crawl in and finally close my eyes, let alone go find Charlotte and ask to use her office phone. They'll live. This bed is so comfortable I can't believe it; what am I lying on here, a million kittens?

In the dark, quiet hum of the heat rushing through the pipes, I close my eyes and hear the Adélies, their bossy, barking words. I hear the crashing waves and the snowmobile's engine skimming the ice away beneath the sun, straight into the wind all the way from the rookery. Perfect penguin feet, sleek and fuzzy bodies so graceful. Elegant. Shackleton's cabin, just as he left it. Blankets folded. Cream cheese. Cinnamon and powdered sugar. Home.

In a drawer, the unopened letter waits patiently to be read.

“Good morning, Anna Pavlova,” Dad sings as I stagger in the kitchen door, boots off and bag dropped beside them. He's already been to the bakery and back, never not in a kitchen. “How were the kindies?”

I sigh happily and fall into my seat at the table, right on my bruised hip. “Argh, my ass is totally broken! I actually just had the first graders, but my kindies are amazing. They're picking up the steps so fast, and they just want more—more turns, more travel patterns.” I rub my poor, broken body. “I've got an hour, and then I've got the kindies to teach before rehearsal, so let's get this show on the road!”

“I'm here! Feed me!” Kate calls from the door, collects a hug from Dad, and drops her bag beside mine.

“Perfect timing,” Dad says. “What would you like in your crepes and how many?”

“Strawberries and as many you can fit on the plate, please.” Okay, so people like Kate are where the urban legends come from. Racing metabolism or something. She pours a glass of juice for Mom, who shuffles in, still half asleep, kisses the tops of our heads, and sits.

Dad puts my Saturday oatmeal in front of me: steel cut, blueberries, bananas, raspberries. I hug his neck.

Kate's plate is heaped with crepes. “How are we going to survive in an apartment on our own when we're used to this spoilage?” She sighs.

“We'll live on Cream of Wheat and carrot sticks,” I say. “And Dad will come make us breakfast every Saturday. Right?”

“Absolutely not. You people are on your own.”

“Don't talk about it,” Mom wails from behind her juice glass. “I can't think about you not being home, and speaking of which, did Luke go out?”

Saturday breakfast happens only once a month. Dad does his 5:00 a.m. check-in at the bakery, then leaves it in the hands of his staff every first Saturday so we can all eat together. Mom and Dad are militant about it; we may not get to eat together during the week, but our monthly morning together will happen come hell or high water.

“I'm here, sorry!” Luke hollers right on cue from the front door, cold air and some guy following him in. “This is Owen, friend of a friend from school. Okay if he stays? Hey, Kate.”

Kate waves. Kate is probably the only reason Luke ever shows up to monthly breakfast. Which is hilarious for two reasons: The Plan precludes any kind of distracting fraternizing with boys until employment is secured, and also, dating her best friend's brother? Too much awkward for one lifetime. It's not going to happen. He needs to let it go. Poor guy.

It is Luke's one Saturday off from the bakery, too. He works weekends and after school with Dad, between classes at SF State, where he is majoring in Living in a Van Down by the River, working toward a degree in mythology and comparative religion, an education perfectly suited for a career in decorating cupcakes with fondant.

“Nice to meet you, Owen. What would you like in your crepes?” Dad calls without turning around.

“Oh. Um…hi, thanks so much, I'm…”

“Just do it all, Dad, thanks. Hey, Mom.” Luke tosses his backpack on the sofa, rubs Mom's shoulders, and takes a clean plate from the dishwasher for this Owen person, and they sit opposite Kate and me at the kitchen table, where Mom pulls her robe around her and sits up.

“Owen,” she says, extending her hand across the placemats. “Lovely to meet you. You're an SF State student?”

“Yeah, yes. Great to meet you, too.” He's a total Luke guy: probably nineteen, jeans, hoodie. He's Chinese, taller than Luke, and leaner. Hair a little long around his face, but not in a sloppy way. He pulls off the hoodie, revealing lean, muscular arms in a faded SF State T-shirt.

Kate is wide-eyed.

“What're you majoring in?” Mom presses.

“Well, biology. I was premed. But—”

“That's wonderful! I'm amazed I haven't run into you in the science building.”

“Well, I'm—sort of—I'm taking a gap year.”

“Really. To do what?”

“Well…” He's got really good posture for a guy Luke's age. He moves his hair off his eyes.

Holy…Kate nudges me under the table.

Look at those eyes,
she mouths, not at all discreetly. I nudge her back. So dark. Insanely long lashes.

I'm suddenly aware of how postclass sweaty I am. Jeans, threadbare class leotard, no bra. My hair is probably coming loose. Jesus. I reach behind me into my bag for a hoodie, pull it on, and zip it up.

“Mom,” Luke sighs. “Enough with the CSI.”

“All right, fiddle-dee-dee…But you
like
school, Owen?”

“I do.”

“And you'll go back?”

“Of course.”

“Good for you.” Mom smiles. “We've begged Harper to apply….”

“
You've
begged,” Dad corrects from the sink.

Aaaand the humiliation begins. I become intently focused on the oatmeal in my bowl.

Mom shakes her head. “An education is something you'll always have; it changes who you are even if you major in something you don't end up working in. No one can ever take knowledge away from you. Critical thinking, a breadth of intellect and new ideas, challenging yourself—right, Owen?”

Owen turns his face across the table to mine, giving me the perfect opportunity to openly ogle his eyes. “I absolutely agree,” he says. Then: “Oh,
Harper
…like
To Kill a
—”

“Nope,” everyone else says in unison.

Kate extends her hand over the fruit bowl to Owen. “Hello,” she says, “I'm Kate. Harper's friend.” He takes her hand and smiles.

Dad finally sits down, scraping peach slices off his plate and into my oatmeal.

“Dude,” I whisper. “Enough!”

“You need vitamins,” he nonwhispers back. “So, Owen, whereabouts do you live?”

“Funny you should mention that!” Luke says. I push the peaches down under the fifteen other fruits in my bowl. Owen is watching. He doesn't look away. So I do, back down at my bowl.

“Owen lives in the Presidio,” Luke says. The Presidio is the forested hillside near the base of the Golden Gate Bridge, and it is dotted with gorgeously restored World War II barracks, now renting as homes. “Owen works at LucasArts,” Luke adds.

“Ohhh, Star Wars!” Mom says dreamily.

“Yes!” Luke beams. Mom and Dad are self-proclaimed “midichlorian-blooded Gen Xers.” They were born with lightsabers clutched in their baby fists. They named Luke after the Jedi. Luke Falcon. Not just for Robert Falcon Scott, but
Falcon
as in the
Millennium Falcon.
Seriously.

“You work on the movies, then?” Dad asks through a mouthful of crepe.

“No,” Owen says. “Games. Star Wars games.”

“Video games?” Mom says.

“Yes!” Luke is all antsy, smiling his face off. “Isn't that cool?”

Kate leans on her elbows toward Owen. “Which games have you worked on?”

“Um.
Republic Commando
?”

“Oh,” she says. “So you do the art or the story?”

Kate has never played a video game in her entire life.

“Well, it's all part of…I'm level design.”

“Wow…” She leans back in her chair. “That's amazing.”

This conversation is amazing(ly ridiculous). Owen seems embarrassed, though good-naturedly playing along. He leans forward, not to Kate. Toward me.

“So, not
To Kill a Mockingbird
?”

I shake my head. Could I not have splashed some water on my face, worn a nicer leotard? And why do I even care? He smiles. At me.

Okay, and the smile (poster child for orthodontics) has got a seriously competitive edge with his eyes for most striking part about his unbelievably handsome—
Oh my God, what is wrong with me? I need to get out of here.

“Owen works in the complex Lucas built at the Presidio.”

“Gorgeous,” Mom sighs. “Can you see the Golden Gate?”

“When the fog lifts,” Owen says. “The whole south side of the building is windows, and the commissary is all glass. We're sitting, eating burritos, and the Palace of Fine Arts and the Golden Gate are right there….It really is beautiful.”

Kate looks like a drunken bird close to falling off a branch.

“Level design,”
Mom hems. “That sounds very…involved?”

“Mom!” I say. “They haven't announced their engagement—what's with the third degree?”

Owen laughs, chokes on orange juice, and smiles gratefully at me, which nearly sends me out the door, and Luke whacks him on the back.

“Oh, honey, here…” Mom and Kate thrust napkins at the poor guy's face.

“Thanks, sorry…,” he croaks, still smiling.

“So when you return to school, what kind of medicine are you working toward?”

Owen cuts his crepe very neatly with a knife and fork.

“Mom!”
Luke whines.

“It's just a question!”

“No, it's okay,” Owen says politely to Mom. “I can't honestly say what will happen in the future. But I know right now, I love making games.”

She nods.

“Okay,” Luke says. “So here's the thing….”

“There's a thing?”

“Yes,” he says, and exhales. “I got a job.”

Dad frowns. “You
have
a job.”

“Yes, I…got another one.”

“Two jobs?”

“I got a job with Owen. At LucasArts.”

Dad sticks his fork in a grapefruit. Leaves it there. “Really.”

“Yeah.”

“Doing what?”

“Games!” he says. “Making games! Star Wars games!”

Mom and Dad just sit there. I can hear their wheels turning:
Video games
=
bad! But Star Wars
=
good! And…what about school? Tragedy!

Mom looks pale. “You're leaving school?”

“No!” he says. “No, not at all. I'll just be game testing! Part time.”

Mom nearly faints with relief.

“But so…,” Dad says, “you're…leaving the bakery?”

“Well. I mean…”

“I can tell you that even part time he'll be salaried,” Owen pipes up. “And he's eligible for our health insurance, which is insanely good. If that makes a difference.”

What is this guy, some kind of parental maneuvering wizard?

“Kind of does,” Mom says.

“You know how to…test things?”

“Dad,” I sigh. “He's spent fifteen years sitting around in his boxer shorts, playing
Halo.
I'm sure he can test the hell out of a game.”

Again, Owen laughs.

I suppress a smile.

Kate gazes at him.

Luke shrugs. “True.”

“Huh,” Dad says. “That's…” He wipes his eyes with his napkin.

“Dad,” Luke says. “Are you crying?”

“No! I'm…No one sculpts fondant like you. I'm just thinking about how everyone's going to miss your Yule logs, is all. Christmas.”

This is not a play for sympathy—the man is sincerely the mushiest, most full of often-embarrassment-inducing love any of us has ever met. Mom's a close second.

Kate, Mom, Luke, and I, even Owen, all breathe a collective and honest “Awwww!” and I lose my mind for a second and smile at Owen, then pretend it was meant for Mom, and then I'm back to staring into my nearly empty oatmeal bowl.

Will this meal never end?

“I don't start for a month,” Luke says. “I'll be at the bakery all through New Year. I can't even move in till, like, the middle of January.”

“Move in?” Mom says.

“Oh. I mean…” Luke shifts in his seat, messes with the grapes on his plate. “Owen shares a house with some other Lucas guys. In the Presidio—they
walk
to work! One of the roommates is moving out in a few weeks.”

Now Mom wads a napkin up on her face.

“You guys! I'm nineteen years old. I can't live at home forever!”