The Snow (12 page)

By now Blake surely had a new girlfriend to match himself: beautiful and well dressed and sleek. Why would he bother again with Anya?

Anya said, “Chrissie, I can’t wait to go skiing.”

Christina was amazed. Anya was being brought on the ski trip rather like a suitcase or a bathrobe. Nobody expected her to ski. “That’s great, Anya,” said Christina. “Do you know how to ski?”

“No,” said Anya. She laughed — a real laugh — her old laugh. “But Blake does.”

Christina repeated, “Blake?”

Anya’s joyous laugh rang like church bells. “Blake answered my letter,” she said. “His boarding school is only a few miles away from the ski resort we’re going to. He’s meeting me!”

Christina gasped. Blake — an ally! Right there! Blake had known more about the Shevvingtons than anybody, and Blake had believed. “Anya, you didn’t tell the Shevvingtons about this, did you? They don’t know, do they?”

“Tell the Shevvingtons?” said Anya. “What — do you think I’m crazy?”

They both laughed. Gales of sane girlish laughter.

At last, at last — they knew something the Shevvingtons didn’t.

“D
ON’T TELL DOLLY,” WHISPERED
Christina.

Anya nodded. “I won’t. Dolly loves the Shevvingtons.”

“But how did you get a letter back from Blake? The Shevvingtons get all the mail first.”

“I put the laundromat as my return address,” said Anya. Her huge, dark eyes flickered in her chalk-white face, like a poster child from a country filled with starvation. “I don’t have any clothes to wear, Chrissie. I’ve never been skiing.”

“Neither have I. The Shevvingtons bought Dolly a beautiful emerald-green ski suit. She looks like a Christmas tree ornament.”

“I know. I saw. You and I will have to come up with something. I have to look perfect for Blake.”

Christina thought this was the most romantic thing ever to happen. True love was going to rescue Anya.

We’ll whip the Shevvingtons! she thought. Blake and Anya and I.

Now Christina could hardly wait for the three-day weekend.

The joy of revenge bubbled in Christina like soda pop. When she and Anya entered the high school, she was all but dancing. They handed their cardboard tickets to the kid at the gym door and got their hands stamped with the school initials. Biting their lips to contain their wild laughter, they took two steps — and Mr. Shevvington blocked the way.

She had forgotten that the principal attended home games.

“Anya,” he said. His voice was soft. He wet his lips. “You look so lively. Has something happened?”

Anya put up quivering hands to protect herself from the piercing shaft of his eyes. They were blue tonight, blank as insanity.

Mr. Shevvington took Anya’s wrists and lowered her hands. “Tell me, Anya,” he coaxed.

She would tell. Christina knew it. Then the Shevvingtons would know, could protect themselves, and what was worse, would laugh at Christina for deluding herself that she could beat them.

“I decided to kick butt, Mr. Shevvington,” Christina said crudely. “I’m gonna shape her up. I put lots of makeup on her. She’s gonna scream for the team or else.”

Legs flaring left, pompons rustling right, the cheerleaders were shouting, “
Michael, Michael, he’s our man, if he can’t do it, no one can!
”

“Christina, Christina, she’s our man,” said Christina to the principal. “If she can’t do it, no one can.”

Mr. Shevvington laughed. “Getting her cheeks rosy with rouge, Christina, is hardly putting her back together again.”

Anya said fretfully, “It’s noisy in here, Chrissie. I wanna go home.”

“I’ll be with you,” said Christina. “Don’t whimper.”

Anya dipped further into baby talk. “I’na go home,” she mumbled.

Mr. Shevvington smiled and turned away to greet a basketball parent.

“Oh, Arthur,” said the parent adoringly. “You’re not only here for every game, you don’t miss the Junior Varsity either. It gives the boys such a boost that their principal always supports them. With your schedule I just don’t know how you do it.”

Christina yanked Anya by her coat collar. On the bleachers the kids were kicking the boards with their heels. “Air ball, air ball, air ball!” screamed the kids hopefully.

At games the kids bunched by grade, and within that bunch by cliques. Christina had never been to a game before and did not know where to sit. Anya no longer had a grade or a clique. There’s Jennie, Christina thought with relief, and behind her is Robbie.

Christina hauled Anya over coats, between couples, and up four rows. Anya continued whimpering and resisting. Christina could not tell if Anya was acting for Mr. Shevvington’s sake or if she had slipped back into her old self. She could hardly ask. (“Are you sane or not right now, Anya?”) Christina found a space big enough for two and shoved Anya down. She sat — and found Gretchen and Vicki on her right.

“What’re you doing here?” said Gretch.

“We came to see Michael.”

“It’s about time,” said Vicki.

They watched the game. Two minutes by the time clock, eight minutes in real life.

Gretch said critically, “Anya looks pretty decent. She must be getting someplace with her psychiatrist.”

Anya’s cheeks stained red. Christina considered snapping off Gretchen’s fingers, when she realized it was the first time in months that Anya had been sufficiently aware to be hurt. Christina squeezed Anya’s hand for comfort, and Anya squeezed back. She’s in there! thought Christina, and her joy soared to the gym ceiling.

“So are you going skiing on the three-day weekend?” said Gretchen to Christina. “We always go. We have our own condo, of course. And season passes, so we don’t have to wait in line the way you’ll have to. What kind of boots do you have? Mine’re new this year, of course.”

Christina had nothing.

Gretch said, “You’ve never seen my new ski outfit either, Christina. It’s the height of fashion. I’m a very good skier, of course. Which slope will you be on? The bunny slope?” She giggled. “Last weekend when we were skiing, two kids broke their legs right there on the bunny slope. We laughed so hard.”

You are pond scum, thought Christina. Sewer sludge.

Vicki leaned over. “I suppose you’ll have blue jeans on. The first time you fall you’ll be soaked.”

“That’ll be in sixty seconds,” said Gretch.

Vicki and Gretch laughed and laughed.

Anya flushed.

Christina had seen the outfit Gretchen had ordered. She had shown it to the whole seventh grade. Gleaming synthetic skiwear that clung to the body like colored water. The kind of clothing perfect people wore.

Christina thought, Blake will be a fine skier. He’s that kind of person. He won’t want an Anya who falls over and is clumsy and wearing wet jeans. He’ll want somebody beautiful and graceful and brilliant.

What if Anya did not measure up? What if Blake abandoned them?

Christina shut it out of her mind. She watched Michael play. He was very good. Not enough height, but he made up for it in speed.

I don’t have enough height, either, thought Christina. But I am going to make up for it in cleverness. So there.

The next morning the Shevvingtons said they were signing Dolly up for Beginner Ski Class. “You’ll have such fun, Dolly, darling,” they said. “It’s children your age, with a very understanding, gentle instructor. Before you know it, you’ll be a pro!”

Christina could not help herself. “A class?” she said eagerly. “I don’t know how to ski either. May I take the class, too? I don’t mind being in with little kids.”

Mrs. Shevvington raised her caterpillar eyebrows above her bran-muffin face. “Really, Christina,” she said. “I hardly think your recent behavior warrants such a reward.” She turned back to Dolly. “And guess what else I got for you,” she said.

Again Christina could not help herself. She looked to Anya for comfort. Anya rolled her eyes and pantomimed.

What if the Shevvingtons saw?
What if the Shevvingtons found out that Anya was healing? What might Mr. Shevvington do to get her soul back?

Dolly said, “I don’t care. I don’t want to ski. I don’t want to go downhill anywhere, ever.”

Christina studied her breakfast cereal to keep herself from looking in Anya’s direction. She must never look at Anya again. It would betray them both.

“You won’t break any bones,” said Mr. Shevvington. “You’re so light and graceful, Dolly, you’ll land like a baby bird.”

“I won’t! I’ll land on my face. I can feel it. I dream about it. The ice will rip my face and tear my hair. Please don’t make me! Give the class to Chrissie. She wants it. I’ll just sit in the ski lodge and read a book by the fire. Please don’t make me go!” Dolly put her hands over her face, not to weep behind her fingers, but to save herself from landing face first.

“Dolly, see the lovely gloves I bought you?” said Mrs. Shevvington. “And you won’t fall. You’ll have poles to keep you up. All those dancing lessons will stand you in good stead now.”

Dolly took the gloves.

Christina had never seen such gloves. A green so dark and shimmering it was like the sea underwater, fabric so supple it was like skin — yet thick and waterproof.

The mittens her mother knitted seemed made for a heavy, ugly farm wife.

I want gloves like that, thought Christina.

She wanted to take them from Dolly’s hands and put them on her own hands, and —

Jealousy was alive in her, snatching her good thoughts to make them bad. The Shevvingtons were smiling. The gloves aren’t for Dolly, Christina thought. They’re for me. To bring out the worst in me. To make me abandon Dolly.

At lunch in the cafeteria she told Jonah everything. He listened with his whole body. His sandwich hung untouched in his hand; he ate her words instead. “It’s looking good,” said Jonah. “Blake’s a great guy. With him there they can’t do much.”

“They did before. They convinced Blake’s parents to ship him off to boarding school, and Blake couldn’t fight back. All of a sudden he was gone.”

“They can’t manage that in a weekend,” Jonah pointed out. “Blake will protect Anya just fine.” Jonah frowned slightly. He took a huge bite out of his sandwich. Through layers of ham and cheese, he said, “Blake always liked you. And you always liked him.”

“I think he’s terrific. That’s why I feel so good about this weekend.”

Jonah took a more savage bite. “He’s old,” he said contemptuously. “He’s got to be eighteen.”

Jonah was jealous. Christina, ignoring several hundred witnesses, leaned across the cafeteria table and kissed Jonah on the mouth.

He couldn’t kiss back — he was eating. His eyes flew open with amazement, and he struggled with his ham and cheese. By the time he finished chewing, half the seventh grade had begun a football cheer — “
First in ten, do it again!
”

They gathered around Christina and Jonah, saying, “Well? Going to return the favor, Jonah? Come on. Let’s see your technique.”

Jonah threw his lunch bag at them but paper bags are poor weapons, and nothing happened, so he threw his orange.

Kenny threw back an apple. Jonah threw his half-empty chocolate milk. Ellen hurled her pudding, and within moments they were having the food fight of the year. People were taking advantage of this wonderful moment to even scores with people they had detested. Hot lunch people, who had spaghetti, emptied spaghetti down each other’s sweaters. Christina found a plate, its tomato sauce untouched in a puddle on the white pasta, and considered Gretchen’s white cashmere sweater.

“Who started this?” shouted the cafeteria proctor, racing among the tables.

“Christina did,” said Gretchen.

Christina stood very still, the spaghetti plate balanced on her palm as if she were a waitress serving dinners.

The proctor said grimly. “Well, Miss Romney, Mr. Shevvington will not be surprised to have you brought to his office yet again.”

Christina set down the spaghetti.

She had unknowingly played right into Mr. Shevvington’s hands.

He would take away the ski weekend.

Dolly and Anya would go without her.

“M
R. SHEVVINGTON IS NOT
in the office at the moment,” said the secretary, barely glancing up. It was what secretaries did best at this school — ignore the students. “He’s showing the school board members the leaking roof in the west wing. You’ll have to wait.”

Christina sat quietly on a bench in the outer office. One secretary typed, one filed, one talked on the phone, and one scrolled down a computer screen. The clerk who was typing finished. “I’m going to take this down to the science department,” she said. The one filing said, “I’m going on break now,” and waltzed out. The clerk on the phone argued with her caller, glaring into the receiver. The computer operator moaned, pressing her hands over her eyes. “Oh, no, I did this wrong; I have to do it over.”

Christina glided without sound across the office. She turned the handle to Mr. Shevvington’s office, opened the door, and crept in.

The briefcase, bulging, sat under Mr. Shevvington’s desk.

I have it! she exulted. I knew eventually I would win. Good
does
triumph over evil.

She wrapped her fingers around the handle. She walked past the clerk with computer problems and the clerk with telephone problems. Neither paid any attention. She walked out of the office.

She had taken two steps toward her locker when Mr. Shevvington appeared way down the hall, coming toward her. He was with a man and woman: the school board members.

Christina walked the other way. She did not run. Running made people realize there was something wrong. She knew she was recognized. Only Christina had the hair of three colors. And no student, even the most geeky nerds, carried a briefcase. But Mr. Shevvington had his image to keep up. He was not going to shout, “Stop thief!” in front of school board members. Besides, she might show them the contents.

Christina walked quickly the opposite way. It was a high school wing; the junior high students were not normally in the same halls as high school kids. The school had many wings radiating outward for the junior and senior high, with gymnasiums, auditorium, music rooms, and art department in the middle.