Perfect. Part 7

Simone scurry back

to her desk. Do you want to call me?

Her forwardness is both a little scary and a lot refreshing.

"You know, I really would." We exchange appreciative smiles and cell phone numbers, as down the hall a door slams open, followed by scattered voices. One of them belongs to my mom. The others, I'm guessing, are Jenna's mother and her sister. Both of them look like her, except her sister lacks the abundant flesh that makes Jenna so attractive. She notices where

my eyes keep roaming.

My sister is a pageant girl, she says in

a low (luscious) voice. She also wants to

model, which is why

she thinks she needs her nose "fixed."

"I hope it's enough for her. Some people get addicted to the 'fixing.'" Some are never satisfied.

Jenna, However Appears more than satisfied with the way she looks, every move designed to draw the eye. My eyes, for sure. And I can't believe other guys wouldn't feel the same way. There is something extremely alluring about a girl who's completely at ease in her own skin.

And this one loves how she's put together.

Her sister, however, for all her beauty- focused goals, seems to hold something in reserve. She is closer to my age. But she is so not my type.

Not sure why I think Jenna is, but I can't wait to research.

Her mom tells her it's time to leave. I watch her exit, enthralled by the performance. She is one of a kind.

She Is On My Mind On the short drive to the All the Right Moves dance studio.

Usually, when I meet a girl, I make her wait a day or two before I ask her out.

For some reason, I'm driven to skip the whole coy charade and call Jenna right away. She answers on the third ring. "Hey.

It's Andre. Are you free Sat.u.r.day night?"

Wow. You're direct. I like that, and I'd

like to say yes, but I

kind of had tentative plans for Sat.u.r.day.

That stings. And I'm late for my lesson.

"Okay. I'll try again."

I go inside. The place is empty, except for Liana, who is on her own phone.

Warm up, she mouths,

nodding toward the open studio door.

I start my stretching, thinking about the magnetic smile that drew me immediately to the girl I can't seem to get off my mind. Liana comes in, and we begin a familiar routine. I've done these steps dozens of times, but I can't keep them in the right order. I can hear my dad saying how if he wants something, he won't let anyone tell him he can't have it. Andre!

scolds Liana. Where's your

head today? Did you forget how to count?

Focus, Andre, focus. One, two, three, four...

Somehow I make it through the rest of my lesson. Pay Liana the money I finagled from Mom. At last, I can call Jenna again. "You know those tentative plans? Cancel them."

Cara

At Last It's a perfect winter day.

No wind. No Arctic freeze.

Cloudless azure sky. A day to fly.

Snow drapes the mountain like ermine, fabulous feather- light powder coaxing me to flee the confines of my room, brave the mostly plowed road up to the closest ski resort.

To run from the cloying silence connecting Mom and Dad, into encompa.s.sing stillness far away from city dirt and noise.

Far above suburban gridlock.

Far beyond the grasp of home.

First Decent Day In Weeks Mt. Rose will be swarming by noon.

Good thing I got here early.

Nothing much better than first tracks beneath cloud-clear skies.

Heaven must be something like boarding on night-crisped virgin powder. Lingering atop a cornice, few other people in sight, I take a deep pull of winter-spiked air, finesse over the lip. Two sweeping turns to safety. Here, where there are no hypercritical eyes, I slip past denial, into the moment.

It's all up to me. Slide down the steeps, into belief. I am no more, no less than this ride.

Midmorning The crowd is starting to build.

Most people prefer the high- speed chairs, and those lines are long. Not sure why so few enjoy the old-fashioned slow lifts to the top, but I love these unrushed minutes. Suddenly the chair b.u.mps to a stop.

Problems below in the loading zone, no doubt. I look over at the racecourse run. The pines at its edges have grown. How long has it been since Conner and I raced there? Four years? Five? I was never fast enough to earn the medal I coveted. Conner often placed in the top three but never cared about winning. I've often wondered how twins could be so different. Why did the one with the talent lack the drive?

The Lift Starts Up Again I survey the terrain beneath me, find a relatively unpopulated route down through the trees. Risky to ride there alone, but I doubt I'll have a whole lot of trouble.

Despite my parents' lukewarm support, I've been skiing or boarding for years. I might not be as fast as Conner, but unlike him, I rarely take a fall. I disembark the chair, traverse the flats, brake to a stop beside a tall sugar pine, scan the landscape for the approximate path I saw. There. That's it, I think.

Swoop into the woods, slalom cedar and fir, each low branch a claw menacing my hair and face.

I manage to avoid them all.

What I don't miss is the boulder tip, lurking out of view, just beneath the surface of the snow.

It sc.r.a.pes my board, catching it just enough to send me, face forward, into a deep, wide drift.

I inhale snow. I swallow snow.

When I open my eyes, I see white.

I cartwheel my arms, but can't get traction. I bite back panic. Think.

For some weird reason, though I'm pretty much buried, I can breathe. What I can't seem to do is get myself out. I'm such an idiot!

I could die right now and who knows when they would find me?

Silent here, in my tomb. Warm.

I could sleep. That would be easy....

Suddenly I hear, Hang on.