What Happens Next (2 page)

“Why don’t you guys go on ahead?” I offer. “I’ll be okay here on the bunny hill.”

“What? No, it’s fine. You’re getting the hang of it! Really!” Kirsten says.

I look at her flatly.

“Uh, Kirsten, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’ve been here for two hours. For two solid hours, every trip down that tiny lump of hill has ended with me tumbling into a crumpled heap at the bottom. You guys paid good money to be here and shouldn’t be stuck babysitting the ski-impaired all day.”

Paige’s smile disappears. “But you’ll be all alone.”

“There are other kids from school here,” I say. “I do have other friends besides you two.” I look around for a familiar face. “Look,” I say, pointing over toward the lift line at a group of snotty girls from school. “My fellow cheerleaders are right over there, just waiting to welcome me into the fold.”

Starsha Lexington, Amber Franks, and the rest of the squad are huddled together like a package of pink marshmallows. They see me pointing at them, scowl, and then turn into themselves to whisper. They’re probably sending up prayers to the Barbie gods in hopes that I break my legs so Cameron Fitzpatrick can finally be restored to her rightful place on the squad—the place that I callously snatched out from under her last year when I had the unmitigated gall to try out for cheerleading.

“You get onto that ski lift with Starsha,” Kirsten says, “you better chain yourself to the seat, sister. Otherwise you’re goin’ down.
All
the way down.”

We laugh, but I still feel like a ski bunny reject holding back her two best friends, who’ve been skiing since they were in diapers.

“Seriously, guys,” I say, “I need a break anyway. I’ll go to the lodge and get a hot cocoa or something. I’ll find someone to hang with. I’ll text you later for lunch or something.”

“Are you sure?” they say.

“Yes! Now go! Have fun!”

I shoo them away from me and they slide effortlessly off toward the black-diamond runs. As I watch them disappear around a thicket of trees, I think about how excruciatingly long this weekend just became.

I don’t go for hot cocoa.

I dig my heels in, determined to get it done.

I’ve been called a lot of things in my life—fat, obnoxious, snarky—but never a quitter. I work hard at the bunny hill, and after about an hour, my body starts cooperating a bit. I do finally start to get the hang of it. I think the pressure of being watched and critiqued was affecting my confidence. I head toward the intermediate runs, skipping the easy trails altogether. Unless I plan to spend the next two days alone, I need to step it up.

Sweaty and nervous, I get into the lift line at Snowshoe Dip. I look around at people and notice a hot specimen in the crowd. Is he staring at me?

Snowboarding tweens to the left.

Geezers to the right.

Yes.

I’m pretty sure he is staring at me.

I take off my gloves and casually run my hand over my face, sure that I have something disgusting smeared across it. The slopes are packed and the grouchy crone running the crowded lift shouts out for single skiers, pairing people up if they’re alone. Staring Hot Guy bustles through the crowd and plants himself next to me.

“Hey there, how’s it going?” he says, smiling directly at me, beaming with that self-confidence that only the truly gorgeous or truly disturbed seem to possess. I force an awkward smile before looking down at my skis.

Our turn is up. We both stumble forward, shuffling like mad to beat the bench that is fast approaching our rear. Staring Hot Guy grabs my arm and nearly sends us both crashing to the ground but then right at the last second, the seat clips the backs of our knees and scoops us up in a tangle of skis and poles. He starts laughing, which makes me laugh, too.
Ho! Ho! Ho!
We are both laughing away, hanging on for dear life, up, up, and away we go, just the two of us, suspended in midair for the next ten minutes.

When we settle into the seat, he pulls down the safety bar, leans in, and flashes his Colgate smile. “Apologies. I don’t usually maul unsuspecting females in public. I’m new to this skiing bit.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I stink, too.”

“Dax Windsor. I’d shake your hand but I’m afraid I’ll lose a glove or a pole.”

He looks below us at the snowy ground, which is getting farther and farther away.

“Cassidy Murphy. Or… um, Sid.”

“Nice to meet you, Cassidy Murphy.”

I say his name in my head.
Dax Windsor.
It is beyond a doubt the coolest name I’ve ever heard in real life. He proceeds to talk my ear off the whole way up. Not that I mind this, of course, because, well, did I mention that he’s hot?

“So, where you from, Sid? No, wait, let me guess. I can already tell you’re a Midwesterner, but if you answer
three
questions then I’ll tell you within one hundred miles where you’re from.”

“Oh, like what’s the capital of your state or who’s your congressman?” I say with friendly sarcasm. Not that I would know the answer to that second question if he
did
ask it.

“No, not ones that are dead giveaways. General questions about what you call things and how you say things. I’m taking a course on shedding accents and perfecting the non-regional American dialect. I’m studying broadcasting at Central U. I can pinpoint accents and vernacular down to under a hundred miles.”

“Okay. Shoot.”

Then, slow and deliberate, he asks, “What do you call a carbonated beverage that comes in a can?”

“Pop.”

“Okay, you’re from western Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, or Michigan.”

“But which one? That’s a lot of territory you’re covering there.”

“Oh, you don’t think I can do it?”

“No, it’s not that, I’m just saying that you—” The more I talk, the more I am giving him information, so I cut myself off, zip my mouth shut, and pretend to throw the key over the side of the bench.

“Oh, a wiseass. All right. Number two: Is it a drinking fountain, water fountain, or bubbler?”

Bubbler? What the hell is a bubbler?
And my confused expression gives me away.

“Cross out Wisconsin,” he says smugly. “So which is it? Water fountain or drinking fountain?”

“Water fountain.”

“Okay, I already know the answer from the way you said water, but I’ll go ahead with the last question. Shits and giggles.”

“Well, if you already know the answer, then tell me where I’m from, smart guy.”

“But then the fun is over, and I want to hear you say it.”

“Say what?”

“The answer to the last question.”

I mull this over for a second.

“Okay, I know,” I say. “Write it down ahead of time, and when I answer the question, we’ll see if you’re right.”

I hand him my poles, reach into my pocket, and pull out a tiny pencil that I accidentally filched when I was filling out my ski rental forms. Then I fish around for some paper until I find a piece in my snow pants.

“Okay, here. Write it on the back of this receipt,” I instruct, handing him the pencil and paper.

I hold his poles while he writes his guess down.

“So what if I guess correctly after only two questions? Do I win something?” he asks.

“You win the satisfaction of knowing you are Master of the Universal Accent or whatever you called it. Anchor of the Year!”

“Nah, that’s not good enough. I want you to promise to come to a party.”

My heart jumps.

“A party?”

“Yeah. At my roommate’s uncle’s condo tomorrow night. We have this dinner thing tonight, but Tony’s uncle’s leaving in the morning. My roommates and I are planning the mother of all blowouts. Bring your friends, roomies, sisters, whatever. So long as it’s female and at least
half
as gorgeous as you.” Then he bumps his knee against mine, grins, and says, “Just kidding. You can bring your ugly friends, too.”

“Ha, ha,” I say dryly, but on the inside I’m jumping up and down, screaming,
Hooray!

“No, for real, if I guess right, you have to come.”

He looks at me and he is not joking. It’s a real invite. I start to get panicky as my mind races in circles. A party? I just met this guy. He’s in college. He looks like he’s in his twenties. He said “roomies,” so he thinks I’m in college, too. Holy crap! Somebody pinch me. What do I do? Do I tell him how old I am? That I’m a sixteen-year-old junior who rode in on a big yellow bus with the rest of the ski club from Lakewood High? That I have a curfew and if I’m caught breaking it, it means deep shit trouble and a guaranteed suspension? How do I politely decline without looking like a toddler freak? Did I mention that he is hot?

“Okay, deal.”

And I say it, not having the slightest clue how I will go about
honoring
said deal if I lose the bet. I guess I’m hoping deep down that he’ll guess Pittsburgh or Detroit and I’ll be off the hook.

“Cool. All right, here we go. Ready?”

“Ready.”

“And no cheating by throwing in a fake British accent or something.”

I nod.

“Okay. What does C-A-N-D-Y spell?”

“Candy,” I say, biting down on that first syllable to where it sounds like
Kyandy.

I am trying to fool him into guessing Chicago.

He flips over the receipt. It says,
Cleveland Rocks!!!

“You’re good,” I say, looking at him wide-eyed.

“Yep, all that from the way you said one little word.
Candy?
” he says smoothly while pulling out a half roll of Life Savers, offering me one.

My favorite flavor peeks out the unwrapped end. Lime green. He takes the next one, cherry red, and pops it into his mouth.

“Two-twelve Snowbird Trail. Be there by nine, little girl.”

My stomach leaps when he calls me “little girl.” My heart hammers away inside my chest as I look out at the snowy mountain passing below us. I say nothing for the next few seconds as I ponder my unanticipated situation. This is the best-looking guy I have ever seen up close and he is interested in
me—
goofy, loudmouthed Sid Murphy, with my crazy red hair, bubble butt, and obnoxious laugh. The busty cheerleader who was put on the squad solely to hold up bony-ass princesses like Starsha Lexington and Amber Franks. Always stuck at the bottom of the pyramid while the
real
cheerleaders dive gracefully from the top like size-zero Christmas stars, right into the arms of good old dependable Sid. I mean, I’m not the girl who reels in the big fish. I’m the funny sidekick who gets the leftovers. I’m Sid Murphy: Designated Driver, Best Friend, and eternal Wingman.

“Okay. I’ll be there,” I say.

Dax leans in, smiles mysteriously, and raises one eyebrow. “You’d better come. Remember, I know where you live.”

It’s during the lean-in that I smell it—liquor mixed with cherry Life Saver.

“Oh, my god! Have you been drinking?” I ask, laughing.

He scrunches up one eye, makes a pinchy “little bit” motion with his fingers, and then puts a forefinger to his lips.

“Shhhhh. Don’t tell the snow patrol.”

I look behind me at the mountain below. We aren’t on the wussy hills anymore. It’s a long, long, steep way down.

I turn back to him.

“Are you crazy?”

“Certifiable,” he says, then pulls out a flask from his coat pocket, twists off the cap, and takes a long pull of what I can only assume to be hard liquor.

“You’re gonna kill yourself.”

“Liquid courage, baby,” he says, wincing as he swallows another mouthful. “Whooo. That’s the stuff.”

He holds the flask out to me.

“Wanna lil’ nip?”

“No! I can’t be skiing drunk! I’d be maimed!” I say playfully, turning my blushing face away from him to hide my shock.

I look over at the top of the forest passing next to me. Some free spirit had removed her bra and tossed it up into the top branches of a giant pine tree. Seventy feet in the air, it clings there, frozen stiff, for the world to see.

He continues to work on me.

“Come on. It’ll relax you, improve your game. We’ll be doing double diamonds by noon.”

I eye him suspiciously, then look down at his flask, then back up at his face.

God, that face.

I cave, take the flask and rock back a tiny sip, and start coughing as the fiery liquid lights up my pipes.

“What is that? Gasoline?” I sputter, handing the flask back.

“Gasoline? I
beg
your pardon,” he says, slapping me on the back a few times, and then takes another long drink before putting it away.

Neither of us has realized that the end of the line is fast approaching until the guy running the top of the lift leans out of his control booth and screams, “Lift up your bar already! Jesus!”

As Dax lifts the safety bar and readies his poles, he says, “That’s High Glen single malt scotch you’re drinking, aged fifteen years, little missy.”

Little. Missy. Double. Stomach leap.

And with that, he jumps off the lift and slides effortlessly down and around the operator’s booth. I stumble off and come to a ragged stop at the top of the mountain.

“Otherwise known as liquid courage!” he yells, and takes off down the hill at top speed howling, “Yeeeee-haaaww!”

We spend the whole day together skiing and falling and laughing our asses off. I text the girls and tell them to have lunch without me, that I’ve met someone.

They text back:
Where r u? We want 2 meet him!

I turn off my phone and go have lunch with Dax. If they come, they’ll ruin things by mentioning high school and asking him his age. I know I should ask him myself, but the stupid, selfish part of me doesn’t want to know. The stupid, selfish part of me doesn’t care how old Dax Windsor is because, well, I’m having fun with a hot guy for once in my life and screw it, I don’t wanna know.

I mean… he’s probably not that much older.

He buys me a Coke and a burger and we split a tray of chili-cheese fries at this ski-in cafeteria place. We talk about his classes and his dickhead roommates and my friends and books we’ve read, shows we like. I keep my end of it all very vague and noncommittal so he can’t pin me down to anything age-related.