Golden Girl (4 page)

“Caitlin . . . ,” I tried. The last thing I wanted was to start this all up again. I turned to Olivia. “Look, Olivia, I—”

But Olivia just waved me off, glaring at Caitlin, the revulsion back in her eyes. “I guess we'll just have to see,” she growled in a low voice. Then she turned to her friends. “Come on,” she commanded. “The reek of desperation has made me lose my appetite.”

The three girls, none of who appeared to have been stricken by the same appetite loss, glanced longingly at the steaming cauldrons of soup and piles of French bread at the head of the line before reluctantly following their foodless leader back to their table. I gave Caitlin an exasperated look. Her face fell.

“Sorry,” she blurted out. “She just makes me so mad. I can't help myself!”

I gave her a rueful smile and put my arm around her shoulder. “I know,” I assured her. “I know. And I appreciate it. Just—let's not feed the trolls, okay? She's already nasty enough without you poking her on purpose.”

Ugh. I so needed to find Becca. She was the only one who would truly understand. But where was she? As we headed back to our table, I realized she was still MIA.

“Where on earth is Becca?” I asked Caitlin. “Why isn't she at our table?”

A shadow crossed Caitlin's face. “Um,” she said, gnawing at her lower lip. “There's something you should know about Becca. . . .” She trailed off, looking unhappy.

“What?”

“Well, it's just that . . . I mean you weren't here and . . .”

My heart thudded in my chest. “Come on, Cait. Spill.”

Caitlin looked at me glumly, then nodded her head to the right. I turned to look, my mouth dropping open in shock as my eyes fell upon something I would have sworn I'd never, ever see in the history of sight.

Becca. My best friend, the one I'd shared everything with since I was seven years old, was currently standing with the Boarder Barbies. A clique led by none other than Olivia herself.

I turned back to Caitlin, my eyes filled with questions. My roommate shrugged. “She's one of them, now,” she informed me.

Last year, before my accident, Olivia had formed this so-called secret club, which, of course, she then made sure everyone knew about. It was invitation only, and while I never did quite figure out what they did during their “secret” meetings, it seemed as if the club's sole mission was to make sure everyone not in the club was clear on the fact that they were not in the club for a reason.

Not like we cared. In fact, I remembered spending lunches with Becca, laughing so hard that food shot out of my nose as we made fun of the girls who would kiss Olivia's butt for the remote chance of getting invited to join her stupid club. We both agreed they were mindless little lemmings, ready to jump off a cliff for their fearless fashionista in a manner I previously thought reserved for bad teen movies.

So what in the world was Becca doing hanging out with them now? No, not only hanging out, but laughing out loud at something Olivia said. As if it were even remotely possible that my archnemesis could say anything the least bit humorous.

It was then that I noticed Becca's outfit. The tomboy who swore she'd never be caught dead in anything but a Boston sports team T-shirt and a pair of baggy jeans was currently dressed in a belted tunic top and leggings with sparkly flats on her feet. And was that actually lipstick on her lips?

“There's got to be some explanation,” I said to Caitlin, trying to swallow down the bile rising to my throat. “Like, maybe she's there on recon? Finding out their pathetic little secrets to use as blackmail later on when she needs extra points at the snack bar?” My bestie did love herself a bonus bag of Skittles or two. . . .

But Caitlin shook her head. “She was recruited back in February,” she explained, her normally cheerful face looking a little sad. “And she spends nearly all her time with them now. She even sits with them at lunch.”

My heart sank. Ever since that first day at school, when Becca had shared her chocolate milk with me, the alleged cootie victim, we'd never missed a lunch together.

“Maybe it's just 'cause I was gone,” I suggested, knowing I was starting to sound a bit desperate and ridiculous. “Maybe now that I'm back . . . ?” But even as I said the words, doubt started creeping through me. Suddenly I remembered all the times I'd tried to get in touch with her over the last year. She'd been busy or with no cell phone access or out of the country or could only talk for a second before dinner. All along I'd accepted her excuses—all of them—because we'd been such good friends for such a long time. But really, when was the last time we'd actually talked? I wasn't sure I could remember.

I watched as Becca reached out and poked Olivia playfully and laughed.

Could Olivia really have not only stolen my future—but also my best friend?

T
here's my little Golden Girl!”

My father's eyes lit up as I pushed open the squeaky front door and walked into the repair hut after lunch, giving him a small wave. The place was a mess, just as I'd remembered it, stacked floor to ceiling with bindings and boards, lug nuts and leather straps, screwdrivers and saws. The folks at
Hoarders
would have had a field day. But that was my dad; always refusing to throw anything away. You never knew, he'd say, when the one thing you thought was totally useless would end up saving the day.

It was kind of comforting, in a way. To know that no matter what had happened, no matter how long I'd been gone, no matter how traitorous my best friend turned out to be, some things—like the ski and snowboard repair hut—would always remain the same.

Dad dropped the bindings he'd been working on and walked around the paint-smeared worktable, grabbing me in a fierce hug and twirling me around, as was his typical MO. He smelled the same too, and I found myself taking in deep breaths of Old Spice, already feeling a little warmer than when I first walked in.

“I just ate!” I protested. “You're going to make me hurl.”

He laughed and set me down, giving me a critical once-over. I noticed a streak of salt and pepper at his temples that hadn't been there last year. I guess not everything could stay frozen in time.

“You're tanned,” he observed, a hint of disapproval in his voice. I knew it had nothing to do with his concern over my future skin-cancer bills.

“Yeah, well, Florida.” I shrugged. “What can you do?” Dad hadn't exactly agreed with the decision for me to stay down in the Sunshine State for two extra months, saying I could have found a new physical therapist in Vermont to complete my rehab. But Mom insisted. And she got the courts to sign off on it, leaving him little choice and a lot of resentment.

“Right.” He led me over to two dingy plastic folding chairs across from one another, gesturing for me to sit down in the closest one. Then he headed over to the shop's kitchenette and set out to make me hot chocolate, remembering, I noticed, to use two packets, just the way I liked it. “Well, how was the trip up? You made it in perfect time—we're supposed to get dumped on tonight. The powder will be unreal for first tracks tomorrow!” He grinned widely. “Are you psyched to be back or what?”

I made a face. He knew that I wasn't. He had to know, right? How in the world could I be excited to be back after all that had happened last year? But Dad, as always, was the eternal optimist, living in his fun, fantastical, glass-half-full world where nothing ever went wrong. It used to drive Mom crazy—probably one of the reasons they split—but I used to love it. To Dad every goal was achievable, every star was in reach. Anything we wanted could be ours, if we just kept a positive attitude and weren't afraid to chase after our dreams.

Now I was starting to see Mom's point.

“You should see what they've done to the course this year,” he continued, pouring hot water into my mug. “It's totally sweet. You're going to break records for sure.”

I squirmed in my seat. “Um, I don't know about
that
.” I didn't want to rain on his delusional parade, but it couldn't be helped.

He stopped, turning to me, furrowing his brow. “And why not, may I ask?”

Seriously, did I have to spell it out for him? “Um, hello?” I waved my hands. “A little accident a year ago? Broken leg? Dislocated knee? Ring any bells?”

He gave me a grim smile. “Yes, I do seem to remember something like that. But I also remember the next day—my daughter promising me she'd be strapping on that snowboard again in no time flat. Telling me that no little injury was going to stand in
her
way of Olympic gold.”

Had I really said that? “It must have been all the drugs they gave me in the hospital,” I muttered.

“Besides, I thought the doctor gave you a clean bill of health,” my dad added. “Your mom said you had permission to continue your training immediately.”

“Yeah. But . . .” I trailed off with a sigh. I was so not going to win this fight, and I knew it.

“Look, Lex, no one's expecting you to go out there and hit a double black diamond your first day back,” Dad told me as he sat down in the chair across from me, pushing the steaming mug into my hands. “But if you still want to chase this dream, you have to get right back on that horse. That's what professional athletes do. They heal and move on. This is a new year. We're starting fresh, and we're not going to let some little, old, completely healed injury get in our way, now are we?”

Don't let him push you
. Mom's words echoed in my head.

I stared down at my hot chocolate, no longer feeling like drinking it. I used to love how Dad would always say “we” when it came to my snowboarding career. Like the two of us were a team. That we were in this together—whatever might come our way. But now the implication only irritated me.
We
didn't crash into a tree.
We
didn't break our leg in two places.
We
didn't suffer through months of painful physical therapy to get back to where we once were.

You've got nothing to prove to anyone.

“Look, honey, I'm not trying to downplay your accident,” he assured me. “It was a horrible thing, and I thank my lucky stars every day you came out of it in one piece. After all, I know firsthand what it's like to deal with a serious injury on the slopes.”

I stifled a groan, knowing exactly what was coming next. That legendary story about how
he
qualified for the Winter X Games while suffering from a broken collarbone.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I qualified for the Winter X Games with a broken collarbone?”

My dad was nothing if not predictable.

I forced myself to slug down a mouthful of hot chocolate as he droned on, even though it tasted like mud. It was a story he'd told me a thousand times before. About him colliding with a fellow rider and ending up in the hospital. About evading the hospital staff and climbing out of a second-story window at first light—just so he could make it in time for the qualifying rounds of the event. About how, even in total agony, he managed to score his spot on the team.

A professional athlete, he would finish, never let an injury rob them of their dreams.

I wanted to mention that perhaps Swiss gold medalist Tanja Frieden might have disagreed, having had to retire from the sport in a wheelchair after tearing two Achilles tendons. But I knew Dad would just list ten other riders who had pushed through broken ribs, busted knees, and crippling concussions. Snowboard cross was the most dangerous sport in the Olympic Games, and I had always known it. But it was one thing to know you could get hurt. Quite another to actually feel the pain.

You're special, no matter what.

Dad rubbed my head, messing up my hair, his eyes shining with affection. “I know it's scary,” he told me. “But we're going to get through this. I'll be by your side the entire way. We're going to have a terrific year. And by the end of this month, I guarantee you're going to be saying ‘What accident?' as we start winning races and racking up the points toward our nomination for Team USA.”

I sighed. It was what I'd always wanted. The
only
thing I'd
ever
wanted. And Dad had done everything in his power to get me to this point. The hot chocolate churned in my stomach as I stole a glance at his hopeful face, begging me to agree with him. To say I'd keep going no matter what—so his sacrifices would not be in vain. Dad had given up everything to help me chase my Olympic dream. His job, his bank account, even his weekends—spent giving me extra one-on-one training instead of relaxing in front of the TV and watching football like other dads. And he'd never once complained about any of it.

So how could I give up now? How could I let him down? He didn't quit. How could I?

“Now, finish your hot chocolate and get out there,” Dad commanded. “You're meeting your trainer in half an hour over on Baby Bear.”

I looked up, surprised, my heart beating wildly in my chest as I digested his words. “What?” I managed to squeak out. “Today?”

“Yes today. Why not?” Dad gave me a surprised look. As if he couldn't fathom the idea of missing a single day out on the slopes. Which, of course, he couldn't. “We need to get you back in the swing of things as soon as possible so you can eventually rejoin your classmates.” He paused, then added, “I told you this on the phone, remember?”

“Yeah, but I didn't know I'd be starting today,” I protested, the prospect chilling me to the bone. I had figured I'd have at least a few days to settle in to life here before daring that first run down the mountain. I should have known better.

“Would waiting till tomorrow make that first run any easier?” Dad asked pointedly. “It's going to blow, no matter what, Lex. Better to get it over with.”