Among Friends (16 page)

Snow days.

Oh, magic!

No school!

White, cold, shivery freedom.

In the old days, The Awesome Threesome was at its best on a snow day. Snowmen and sleds and skis.

I was sitting in my bedroom, staring down at the meadows and woods and hills of Lost Pond Road, thinking how gloriously beautiful it was in the first snow of winter.

And I truly thought—I’m not kidding you—I am not lying—I am not exaggerating—I am not trying to cover for myself! I truly thought those two men were some horrible gang, coming to rob or rape or vandalize. The roar of the snowmobiles was like the hill opening up, and the stones screaming.

Nobody around here has a snowmobile. We use skis. We don’t desecrate the serenity of Lost Pond with screaming, screeching snowmobiles. They sound like a gang of berserk chainsaws committing murder.

And those men—they were dressed all in black. Black boots, black jackets, black pants, black gloves, black helmets.

Naturally I ran down to rescue Hillary and Emily. (And, I suppose, rescue our friendship while I was at it.)

Well, okay.

It was an error.

A major error.

But it seemed reasonable at the time.

I guess that’s how it is with all major errors.

“Ye season, it was winter.”

Oh is it ever. And me frozen out.

They swung their snowmobiles in tight screaming circles. What a turn on! Literally! Scott twisted in two circles coming down the hill in our backyard, and Brandon fishtailed, and then they circled Hillary and me, and we were laughing and thinking—two boys! And two of us! Now that’s arithmetic!

Scott had filled out. All the boys do, between ninth and eleventh grade, but you forget just how much filling out is involved. Scott’s over six feet, and still thin, but now the thin isn’t junior-high scrawny: it’s senior-high lithe and athletic. He got a buzz a while ago, and it’s somewhat grown out: light brown bristles curling in places, and straight up in the air in others. I had to stifle an impulse to flatten it down with my hand. He no longer wore glasses: probably had contacts. His complexion was dark because he needed to shave.

Wow! If that’s what prep school does for boys, they should all go.

Oh, I hate Jennie Quint.

She did it on purpose.

She sat up there at that window of hers, and she couldn’t stand it that Hillary and I might have something she didn’t have.

My new ski outfit is mauve. I love it. And my day was perfect until two snowmobiles, huge screaming black models, like Harley-Davidson motorcycles without wheels, shrieked across the snow and cut through the top of Jennie’s land.

Snowmobiles are for people who are lazy and out of shape and hate nature. Nobody on Lost Pond Lane would ever think of owning one. Whoever rode that snowmobile
over Talcott Hill was trespassing, ruining the peacefulness of our road with that garbage.

But I certainly knew who it was.

And Emily and Hillary certainly knew.

Look how fast they waltzed out into the snow and stood there so nobody could miss them posing.

I said to Jared, “Two boys at a time. Even for Jennie Quint, that is conspicuous consumption.”

“What’s conspicuous consumption?” said Jared.

“You retard. We just learned about it in economics. Having too much just to show off by.”

Jared laughed. “That’s not just Jennie. That’s everybody on Lost Pond Road.”

Snow days. The whole town is out skiing and skating and making snowmen and tearing around on snowmobiles. We used to do that. Mom and I. Dad and I. Candy and Mom and Dad and I.

I thought I would stay Classified and have only the problems of Mom and Dad and Candy to deal with. (Only?)

But there are more!

There’s Emily—I owe her a debt, and I can’t seem to do anything about it.

There’s Mr. Lowe—he’s written me a letter and enclosed some cash. I spent it, which obviously means I accepted it, and now I have a debt there, too. And an extra
debt, because Jared and Ansley obviously know nothing about it.

And there’s Jennie. Who would kill herself over an A minus.

Would she really?

Those girls ganging up on her? Losing Emily and Hillary? Wandering around a slum at night? Getting weird talking about silver and gold?

Jennie I should help.

How crazy. The boy who has nothing thinking about helping the girl who has everything.

Me, naturally, I’m wearing Aunt Vicki’s old coat with the rips, and Emily’s little brother Trip’s scarf he usually uses on snowmen. Because I wasn’t going anywhere except Em’s. Jennie, naturally, she’s flung her mother’s new scarlet cloak over her shoulders, so she looks romantic, and snowy, and feminine, and perfect.

“Jennie!” says this so-called threatening robber. “It’s only been two years and you don’t recognize me? I guess that’s what happens when you’re famous. You develop a whole new circle of friends and don’t talk to the old ones.”

“Scott van Elsen,” says Jennie, laughing. “I thought you were a fierce robber trespassing on Lost Pond Lane.” She gives him a hug. “Oh, Scott, you look simply wonderful. Of course, attack black is not your best color.”

“Looks good against the snow,” Scott tells her. And
then, as if Emily and I are not standing there, he performs introductions. “Jennie, I’d like you to meet my roommate, Brandon. Brandon, this is the famous composer, musician, lyricist, and scholar my mother was telling us about. We missed your pageant, Jennie, but I hear from my mother it’s going to be published.”

Jennie laughs gaily, flirting a mile a minute. She doesn’t say hello to us. She doesn’t even pretend to notice us. In fact, I don’t think she
did
notice us. “Your mother heard that from my mother. My mother would like to have it published, but so far it’s all in her head.” Now she starts flirting with Brandon, who is not half as good-looking as Scott. Maybe not a third as good-looking. Ten percent on a good day. “I’m from Georgia,” said Brandon. “I’m used to snow now that I’ve been at the Academy for three years, but this is my first time on a snowmobile.”

Listen, there’s no snow on Jennie. Quick as an ice storm, she cries, “I’ve never ridden on one myself.” Never mind that she wouldn’t be caught dead on a snowmobile, that we all hate them, that people with snowmobiles should be shot. Jennie bats her eyes, and sure enough, “But you’ve got to try mine, Jennie,” cries Scott, right on cue, as if Jennie had handed him the script of her life, “and then you’ll change your mind. We’ll see the woods the way you never have. Put away that ritzy uptown jacket and I’ll take you out.”

If looks could kill, Jennie would be embalmed. Now she turns to us and says, “Hi.” She swallows, like she doesn’t know how to keep her boyfriends and have her friendships too. I’m not surprised. I don’t know how she’s going to do it, either.

She says, “How are you?”

I say, “Oh, we’re quite well, thank you, Jennie.”

Scott is laughing at us.

Even when she’s being rotten, Jennie wins! Scott thinks
I
am funny because I’m jealous, and Jennie comes out smelling like a rose because she’s not jealous!

“A little New England hostility here, Brandon,” says Scott, revving his motor and following Miss Quint. “Kind of the opposite of southern hospitality, you know what I mean?”

Brandon must know, because he goes after Scott, ignoring us, and Jennie has two boys for the day.

Some snow day.

So I’m on a snowmobile for the first time, vibrating all over from the engine, my legs straddling Scott, his warmth soaking through me.

I am thinking of Emily’s face, and Hillary’s eyes, and I am afraid ever to come back down Talcott Hill.

How could I have done that?

I was terrible, I was awful, and every moment when I could have stopped myself, I didn’t.

It’s because I’m so mad at them both!

It isn’t my fault I’m smarter than they are! If they can’t flirt right with Scott and Brandon, that’s their fault! I tell myself, louder than the motors on the snowmobiles.

But I’m lying. I was getting back at them. I don’t care one whit about Scott or Brandon or their entire prep school of male bodies. I wanted to smack Hillary and Emily as hard as they’ve smacked me all year.

We skirted the old stone walls to find breaks. We came out at Burying Hill, which I didn’t even know you could get to from Lost Pond. The roar of the motors was like a great crashing chord that didn’t stop.

We went to the very top of Burying Hill, the thick snow welcoming us, slipping through thickets that would be impenetrable in spring. Scott turned off the engine. Brandon swerved up, slid in the snow, and turned his off, too.

In the sudden silence, I looked down on the valley as the first settlers must have known it.
Ye Season It Was Winter
. A sonnet to snow formed in my mind: beaten down by the elements, and yet worshipful. Reverent before God and nature.

Scott said, “What are you doing this weekend, Jennie? Want to go into the city with Brandon and me?”