Cycler Page 5

  Ramie lets go and stamps her foot on the wooden floor. “I can’t believe you want to just sit here and wait for—”

  I leap up and slap my hand over Ramie’s big fat mouth. “Ramie, we promised ‘Melissa’ we’d be waiting in the cocoa shack when she got here. Remember?”

  She tears my hand from her face and squeezes it hard. “I’m sure ‘Melissa’ will understand if we take one eensy weensy run on the Bump. After all, we must look like a couple of idiots sitting here waiting for ‘Melissa’ when we could be skiing.” She flicks her eyes to Norm.

  Norm is staring at us, mouth opened, but only vaguely intrigued.

  As much as I hate to admit it, Ramie’s right. Norm must know Tommy. It’ll be suspicious indeed if we sit around in the cocoa shack until Tommy arrives.

  “Fine,” I say. “One time.”

  Ramie bounces in glee, then goes to Norm and rents me a pair of skis.

  Let the record show that it was under the influence of too much cocoa that I made what will undoubtedly stand as one of my top five worst decisions.

  The rope tow is out of the question. I am simply not grabbing on to that high-speed rope-burn machine to get dragged uphill at a million miles an hour with a pair of chopsticks bolted to my feet. But so zealous is Ramie to make a skier out of me that she risks her own cred to teach me how to use the much kinder J-bar—basically a hunk of metal shaped, as the name would suggest, into a J and hanging from a very slow-moving rope tow. We have the J-bar to ourselves because, as Ramie explains, “only bed-wetting babies have ever been seen on the J-bar.”

  Now, the secret to successful J-bar mastery amounts apparently to one golden rule: Don’t Sit Down.

  “Whatever you do,” Ramie says, “just lean against the bar like this.”

  Ramie demonstrates by positioning herself between two slow-moving and widely spaced J’s, then lets one tap her just above the tailbone. She then holds on to the upright part of the J and lets it carry her slowly up the hill. After a few seconds, she skis away from it and back toward me.

  “Easy as pie,” she says. “Your turn.”

  I wait for a J to pass, then slap my big dumb skis into position.

  “Keep them straight,” she says.

  I straighten my skis into a perfect parallel, then look over my shoulder until I feel the J-bar tap me just above the tailbone. Grabbing the upright bar with my right hand, I cling to the horizontal bar with my left.

  “Keep your skis straight!” Ramie shouts.

  I straighten them out and slowly, very slowly, the J-bar carries me up the hill. To my right, rope-tow jockeys point and snicker at me. Like it’s some big accomplishment to hold on to a piece of rope.

  “I’ll meet you up there!” Ramie shouts.

  I don’t turn around or acknowledge her because I’m focused on leaning, not sitting, while keeping my skis perfectly, mathematically parallel. Plus I’m gripping both bars of the J as if my life depended on it. Eventually, Ramie passes me on the rope tow and blows me a kiss.

  That’s when tragedy strikes.

  I raise my left hand from the horizontal bar to wave at her when, lo and behold, the bar slips past my tailbone. Gripping it firmly, I try to adjust it back into position but it keeps sliding down the backs of my thighs. Before I know it, I’m toppling backward over the J-bar. My head and shoulders land in the snow. The horizontal bar snags behind my knees, and in the struggle to slide my legs off, my skis crisscross and somehow get stuck together.

  Slowly, very slowly, the J-bar hauls me up the hill like a side of beef.

  I struggle to jerk my legs off the bar but can generate no traction against the slick snow sliding beneath my back and head. Dropping my ski poles, I grab the bar and try to push it forward beyond my knees, but the moving surface beneath me and the natural wobble of the J-bar prevent any progress. My blush slips out of my coat pocket and slides backward down the hill.

  Beaten, I lay back and stare at the stubborn X of my conjoined skis against the blinding white sky. At the top of the hill, an assortment of gears grind each J-bar through a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn to send it back down the hill.

  My right boob vibrates.

  Scrambling out of my ski gloves, I unzip my jacket and dig out my cell phone. My lip gloss tumbles free.

  “First positions!” Daria says.

  “Oh mal.”

  “He’s . . . hold on,” she says. “He’s getting out of the car and heading for the cocoa shack. Are you in positions?”

  The whish of snow beneath my head and the clang of my conjoined skis against the upright bar almost drown out Daria’s voice. Using all my strength, I try to yank my skis apart, but they won’t budge. Lifting my butt off the snow in an improvised pelvic thrust, I succeed only in dislodging my eyeliner from the pocket and launching it in a low arc over my head.

  “Daria,” I say, “listen to me. We have to abort!”

  “What? Why?” she says.

  “Get to the cocoa shack now!” I tell her.

  At the top of the hill, the J-bar lurches violently but fails to slough me off.

  “Look!” someone yells.

  My J sweeps through the switching gears with a clamorous grinding of metal, then reverses direction to head downhill.

  “Where are you?” Daria’s tinny voice shouts in my ear. I can hear her getting out of my car and crunching through the gravel parking lot.

  As the J heads downhill, it begins to rise off the ground.

  “Oh, no,” I say.

  “What?” Daria says. “What’s happening?”

  First my back, then my neck, and finally my head are lifted off the ground.

  Through the cell phone, I hear the telltale squeak of the cocoa shack door. “Where are you?” Daria whispers.

  Dangling now from the backs of my knees, my skis still married in their infernal X, I try not to look at the snowy ground ten feet below. Clumps of wet snow slide from my neck through my upside-down hair.

  “Daria,” I say. “Listen to me. I don’t care what you have to do to make this happen, but you cannot let Tommy Knutson out of the cocoa shack! Do you understand?”

  “I’m in the cocoa shack now,” she whispers. “Where are you?”

  As the J-bar carries me downhill, Ramie skis past me with an astonished look on her face.

  “He’s talking to that Norm guy,” Daria says. “What do I do?”

  “Abort!” I say. “Abort mission!”

  “How do we abort?”

  The J-bar starts to lower toward the ground. That’s when I notice that everyone on the Bump has stopped skiing and is pointing in horror at my airborne carcass.

  “Jill!” Ramie screams. At the bottom of the hill, she yanks her boots out of her skis and clambers up toward me.

  “Get me down!” I yell to her. Into the phone I say, “Daria, are you aborting?”

  Ramie shuffles quickly beneath me. “My God,” Ramie says. “Are you talking to Daria?” She wraps her arms around my thighs and tries to yank them free. “How on earth did you . . .” She pulls at my left ski, but it won’t budge. “Hold on.” She jams her fist into the boot mechanism and rips my left foot free. I topple over backward, but impossibly, my right ski catches on the upright bar.

  “What the hell!” Ramie says.

  The J-bar drags me downhill by the ankle while Ramie, clinging to my right leg, clomps alongside in her ski boots.

  “Daria?” I say. “Where are you? Where’s Tommy?”

  “Oh mal,” Daria says.

  Jamming her fist into my right boot mechanism, Ramie yanks my boot out of the ski and I tumble free just as the J-bar heads into the switching gears to reverse itself back up the hill.

  I lie in the cold snow and take exactly one relieved breath, then bring my cell phone to my ear. “Daria?”

  There is a pause. “Um,” she says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to abort.”

  I peel my head up from the snow and stare at the twenty or so people standing in a loose
semicircle at my feet.

  Among them are Daria and Tommy Knutson.

  Tommy steps forward and drops to his knees in the snow beside me. “Are you all right?” he says.

  His breath fogs the cold air and smells of peppermint. I don’t answer him.

  I feel Ramie’s hand on my shoulder. “Jill?” she says, dropping to her knees.

  Tommy looks at Ramie. “You think she’s in shock?”

  Ramie shrugs. “Jill,” she says. “Are you hurt? Can you hear me?”

  Ramie’s breath does not smell of peppermint.

  Somehow (it’s all a bit of a blur) Ramie and Tommy get me up and we trudge past the murmuring crowd in our ski boots. Clumps of wet snow slither between my jacket and sweater.

  Once we’re in the cocoa shack, Tommy sits me down on one of the wooden benches while Ramie, improvising, hangs back with Daria to flirt with Norm. She means well, but dear lord, is she on drugs or something? I can’t be left alone with Tommy Knutson in this state. Operation Swoon is in shambles. We need an exit strategy!

  Tommy sits next to me. “You’re sure you’re okay?” he says.

  I shake some snow from my totally ruined hair and try to repeat my mantra about being a busy girl with a rich, full life, etc., but I can’t focus with Tommy so close to me. “Yes,” I say. “I think I’m . . . Yes. I’m . . . Yes.”

  Tommy nods and waits for a more content-rich response.

  I try to think of something that’s both witty and aloof, but all I come up with is “I hate skiing.”

  Tommy’s face darkens.

  “I mean . . . ,” I say. “I mean, I don’t really—”

  Tommy laughs. “Don’t worry,” he says. “You’re not the J-bar’s first victim.”

  I giggle stupidly, then clear my throat, straighten my posture and turn away to look at the popcorn machine in the corner.

  “But you are its most theatrical,” he says.

  Turning slowly back to him, I realize I have inadvertently launched the alluring over-the-shoulder glance. Ramie flashes me the thumbs-up sign, so I decide to go for it. Inclining my head downward, I gaze upward just past Tommy at Ramie and Daria. Ramie makes the okay sign, to which Daria nods in agreement.

  Tommy follows my gaze to Ramie and Daria, who quickly return to flirting with an unimpressed Norm.

  “Did you hurt your neck?” Tommy says.

  I freeze for a second, then slowly, casually abort the move and return my gaze to the popcorn machine. “No,” I say. “It’s fine. Do you know what time it is?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tommy point to a clock directly above the popcorn machine.

  I laugh awkwardly and say, “Of course.” Then I meet his gaze for a nanosecond, glance away and say, “I have to go now. Thanks for your help.” I stand up, look at Ramie, point to my wrist and, with a head bob, indicate that it’s time to go. I’m seconds from a clean getaway when I feel Tommy’s warm fingers around my wrist. “Hey, Jill,” he says.

  For a moment, I dare to hope that the hunter has at last awoken.

  He stands up and pulls me toward the smelly popcorn machine. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Um,” I say. “Sure.”

  He releases my wrist, glances sneakily over my shoulder at Ramie and says, “What’s her deal?”

  “Huh?” I clear my throat. “What do you mean?”

  “Your friend Ramie,” he says. “She’s been asking people all kinds of questions about me, like am I gay and have I ever been in jail.”

  “What?” I say. “I can’t believe she’d—”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Some kids in my art class told me.” He taps his knuckles idly on the splintery cocoa shack wall. “They thought she was doing it on your behalf.” He smiles with only half his mouth.

  I stare dumbly at Ramie, who furrows her brow at me in utter confusion. Daria keeps tapping her on the arm and mouthing, “What? What’s happening?”

  When I flick my eyes back to Tommy, he’s smiling this enormous Cheshire cat smile at me. After holding my gaze for an excrutiating three Mississippis, he narrows his eyes, smirks and says, “Hey, by the way, if you hate skiing, what were you doing on the J-bar?”

  Gulp.

  I glance at Ramie and Daria, wondering how to blink the Morse code for SOS. All they do is stare back, confused. I’m on my own here. Operation Swoon is in tatters. No abort protocol, no exit strategy, and my mission partners may as well not exist. Shuddering with another shift of wet snow down my back, I take a deep breath and improvise a response.

  “Gee, Tommy,” I say. “I’m not sure what you’re suggesting, but it sure sounds like you have a rich fantasy life.”

  He absorbs my frigid stare for a moment, then looks down and laughs shyly. What an amateur.

  “Anyway,” I say. “Thanks for your help. See you in H Block.” With as much grace as it’s possible to muster in ski boots, I clomp my way toward the cocoa shack door.

  “No, you won’t,” he says.

  I stop and face him. “Pardon?”

  “You won’t see me in H Block,” he says, “because you never look at me anymore.” He walks toward me. “I’m flunking that stupid class. You were the only thing I liked about it. Now you give me the cold shoulder. What’s that all about?”

  “You’re flunking?” I say.

  He nods. “Tell you what. I’ll teach you how to ski if you help me pass calculus. I mean, you were here to learn how to ski, right?”

  The Cheshire cat smile again. He’s toying with me!

  But, on the other hand, I think he’s just made a semi-romantic overture. This is good news. I should accept his offer. This is mission accomplished, right? Mouth opened, I stare at Tommy, but I can’t figure out how to say yes. My hair’s a wreck and I’m still stinging from my public humiliation on the J-bar.

  “I don’t know,” I find myself saying. “I’m a very . . . I’m a busy girl.” I turn away and clomp right out the cocoa shack door. I do not wait for Tommy’s response. I do not wait for Ramie and Daria. I do not even retrieve my shoes from under the bench where I’ve left them. I crunch my heavy ski boots through the gravel parking lot and grab the driver’s-side door of my Nissan. It’s locked.

  “Damn it,” I mutter to myself. Daria has the keys.

  A painful ten seconds later, Daria and Ramie burst through the door and walk briskly toward me.

  “Keys, Daria,” I say.

  I hold up my hand and she digs them out of her jeans pocket and throws them to me. I catch them, open the door, get in and start the engine. Ramie slides into the front seat and Daria gets into the back.

  “Oh my God,” Daria says. “You left your shoes inside.” She puts her hand on the door handle.

  “Forget it,” I say.

  I throw the car in reverse and back out. In the rearview mirror, I spot Tommy Knutson standing in the cocoa shack doorway. Our eyes meet for a terrifying half a Mississippi, then I gun it and leave the Bump and its infernal J-bar behind me.

  April 9

  Jack

  Do J-bar Jillie and Ski-dude get together? Does she help him pass calculus? Does he teach her how to ski? Are they—oh my God, I can’t even say it—going to the prom?

  Don’t lie. Of course you want to know. You don’t care about me. I’m the ugly wart on the pretty girl’s cheek, remember? The Baroness of the Bump is the star of this show. Well, here’s the update, ladies and gents. You know what happened after the catastrophic failure of Operation Swoon?

  Nothing.

  Zip, nada, zilch. Know why?

  I came early. Monday morning, in fact. No time for the little princess to execute damage control. Knutsack’s final image of Jill remains her frightened eyes in the rearview mirror as she fled the cocoa shack without her shoes. I wonder if he thought, Now that’s what I call a high-status woman.

  How a sensible, never-been-grounded, straight-A girl like Jill managed to acquire the requisite dumbness to get herself strung up by the J-bar is one of those perplex
ing mysteries.

  But you know what? Entertaining as it has been to recall Jill’s flamboyant undoing, I have not spent the last three days reveling in it. Oh, no. I have had other forms of entertainment superior even to that slapstick performance. Jill, bless her, delivered the goods. Well, Mom did, shockingly.

  I’m talking about porn! Lots and lots of porn. Six full-color magazines crammed with it. Playboy, Penthouse, Hustler, Juggs, Swank and High Society. Let me take you on a little tour.

  Crystal, a veterinary science student at USC, has pale blue eyes, pert little knockers and light blond hair that is, how shall I put this, clearly a dye job. LaTanya, from Louisville, Kentucky, enjoys dirty dancing, pancakes and attempting to lick her left nipple with an impressively agile, if not quite long enough, tongue. Betsy, twenty-four, from Cleveland, prefers to tinker with the engine of her red Mustang on laundry day, which is the only reason I can think of for why she’s doing it naked.

  Then there’s Martha. Sweet Martha with the wild tangle of chestnut brown hair. Oh to be that horse on which Martha lay draped, naked, eyes unfocused. What are you thinking about, Martha? Are you sad? Are you bored? Are you waiting for a hot steaming hunk of man to rescue you from equine ennui? I’m right here, Martha. Dig in your spurs and ride on over: 23 Trask Road, Winterhead, MA, 01984.

  Martha’s my favorite.

  Not that I’ve given the other ladies short shrift. There’s plenty of Jack to go around. At one point yesterday morning, I had all six magazines opened and spread out on the bed. Half a dozen naked and semi-naked girls stared up at me like I was their god. What a party that was. It was better than Christmas.

  But this morning, something very troubling happened: I started reading the articles. On the right-hand page, there’d be a photo of a naked girl spread-eagle on the hood of a Ferrari, and I’d be reading some blather about cuff links on the left. I was choosing journalism over tits! I’ve never even worn cuff links. I’ve never even seen cuff links. I’m seventeen years old, for cripes’ sake. I’ve spent my life in one room, utterly deprived of female contact. I get three days with a stack of porno mags and what happens? My most sacred base desires conk out on me like the engine of Betsy’s Mustang.