Authors: Beverly Lewis
Because of her family history, Manda had decided at a young age to “wear the pants” in the family, so to speak. She was going to look out for her mom—make sure she was happy.
Most of all, Manda tried not to think about the other thing that gnawed at her. What if there
was
a good explanation for her dad’s leaving? What if he knew he was dying and didn’t want them to know? Wanted to spare them the pain . . .
But no, Manda honestly didn’t believe that. Not for a single second.
Manda opened the door to her mother’s semiprivate room and tiptoed inside. “Hey, good, you’re conscious for a change,” she teased.
A nurse helped prop some extra pillows under the
broken leg, now hooked up to a pulley system overhead. “Right on time,” the nurse said with a smile.
“That’s my girl—pert, persistent, and pretty,” Mom said, waving.
Manda clicked her fingers. “Three
p
’s—hey, you’re really with it today,” she said, laughing. “Did they cut off your morphine supply or what?” She knew better. The medication was necessary to take the edge off the worst pain. Otherwise, her mom would’ve continued to suffer unbearably.
“Come here, you,” Mom said.
Like a puppet doll, Manda jerked back and forth, inching her way to the hospital bed. “I love you, Mama.”
Her mother reached up for a hug. “I missed my girl,” Mom said, whispering.
“I came the instant school was out.” Manda watched the nurse stroll to the door. “I know how you hate this place.”
“Oh, it’s not so bad, I guess.”
“Just not quite home?” Manda remarked.
“Right.” Mom’s big brown eyes held a hint of worry.
Manda pulled up a chair and sat down. She took out a harmonica from her schoolbag and began to play. Self-taught, she liked to play when things seemed out of whack, which happened to be a lot during her younger growing-up years.
After a while, she paused to catch her breath. “Any idea when they’ll let you out of here?”
Her mother sighed. “First things first. The operation is scheduled for next Monday. After that, I’ll be in a leg cast for a month or so.”
Sighing, Manda looked around at the plants and flowers lining the windowsill. There was a TV hanging in midair, it seemed, against the opposite wall. And a cream-colored, not-so-opaque draw curtain hung between Mom’s bed and that of the other patient, Ethel Norton.
Ethel, gray-haired and wrinkly, had asked to be called either Auntie Ethel or Nana Ethel. “You pick,” she’d said on the first day when Manda met her.
Hesitant about it, Manda had chosen Auntie. It seemed to work better with Ethel than Nana. Besides, Nana reminded her of a goat or something.
She fidgeted. This place was too confining—too smelly—for her outdoorsy, robust mother. She scooted the chair closer to the bed.
Mom wore a forced grin. “I’m doing just fine. Don’t worry.”
“C’mon, Mom. You’ve got a full-blown fracture to the fibula. You’re
not
fine.” She scratched her head. “Besides, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. . . .”
“Uh-oh. Should I be worried?” Mom smiled.
“Listen to me.” She glanced at the curtain between the beds. Yep, Auntie Ethel was listening, too. Manda lowered her voice. “Since you’re gonna be laid up for a while, I’ve made some plans. I have a fantastic idea.”
Mom pretended to faint, her hand on her forehead. “Please, don’t tell me.”
“Seriously, I have this great idea,” she repeated. “I’m taking over your job till your leg heals.” She stole a quick look at the gauzy curtains. Auntie Ethel turned on her bed light, making it easy for Manda to see her “thumbs-up” approval. “Thanks, Auntie Ethel,” she said.
“Good for you, honey,” the old woman replied.
“Whoa . . . wait a minute. You’re
what?
” Mom seemed upset.
“I’ve already worked through the angles—talked to your boss and everything,” Manda told her. “He thinks it’s a terrific idea.”
Mom leaned her head back against the pillow. A tear escaped the corner of her eye and rolled down the side of her cheek. “Oh, sweetie, you don’t have to do this,” she whispered.
“Please don’t cry, Mom.”
But it was too late. The tears were already coming fast. Manda found a box of tissues and handed it to her mother. “Oh nuts . . . go ahead,” she mumbled. “Sometimes tears are just what the doctor ordered.”
Taking a deep breath, Manda played two church songs, one right after the other. The harmonica blocked out the sound of sniffling.
Reach for the Stars
Chapter Three
The next day, Manda was in charge of the preschool instruction program at Alpine Ski Academy. The job was the ideal solution, even though the pay wasn’t the same as the school was required to pay a certified adult instructor. But she didn’t mind. She could hold the job while her mom’s leg was healing. Besides, the ski classes would keep Manda busy. And she enjoyed working with kids.
Between her own ski practice and filling in at the ski school, Manda figured she’d be able to squeeze in an occasional baby-sitting job, too, along with her homework—in spite of the computer being on the blink. Yep, she could even fit in her once-a-week
Girls Only
Club meeting on Fridays.
She liked to keep busy. She could pull it off easily enough. And with the help of Uncle Frank—her
mother’s only brother—they would do just fine financially. Money had never really been much of a problem after her dad left. Uncle Frank had always come to the rescue.
Manda hoped to pay him back someday for his kindness. Someday, when she won certain big competitive ski events, she would. That desire, coupled with the fact that she loved the daring aspects of skiing—just like Olympic gold medalist Picabo Street—was the reason for her passion and drive.
Manda surveyed the enthusiastic lineup of four- and five-year-olds. “Good morning, students. My name is Manda.”
“Good morning, Manda,” the kids chorused back.
“Is everybody here who’s supposed to be?” she asked.
The six children were adorable ski bunnies, dressed in everything from designer ski outfits to makeshift ski attire. All tiny . . . and cute!
“Somebody’s missing,” a little brown-eyed beauty spoke up.
Manda counted heads. “You’re right, but who
is
it?” she asked.
“Tarin’s in the bathroom,” another child volunteered.
Quickly, she searched through the student roster. “Tarin . . . Tarin who?” she muttered.
The children giggled.
“What?” she said, looking up. “What’s so funny?”
The same girl raised her hand. “Teacher?” she said.
Manda couldn’t see her name tag. “What’s
your
name?” She motioned the girl to come closer.
The girl looked down at her skis, then back at Manda. A fearful expression crossed her tiny face. Then she began to shake her head. “I’m Shelley Rolland, but I can’t move,” she said, staring back down at her feet. “I’m stuck on my skis.”
Of course you are
, thought Manda. She skied over to the girl. “I’ll teach you to ski like a pro. But first, can you tell me Tarin’s last name?”
She blinked her eyes. “Sure you wanna know?” Shelley replied in her husky, childish voice. She pulled on Manda’s sleeve. “Bend down. I’ll whisper it in your ear.”
Playing along, Manda leaned over.
“He’s Tarin the Terrible,” Shelley said, her nose tickling Manda’s ear.
Manda straightened to her full size. “Well, what an interesting name!” She observed the youngster. “Are you sure about that?”
Shelley began nodding her head up and down. “You’ll find out why,” she volunteered.
Tarin the Terrible
. . .
Flipping through her schedule for the day, Manda located the boy’s name. Sure enough, Tarin was listed. But his last name wasn’t Terrible. It was Greenberg.
She was smart enough to know, from the numerous baby-sitting jobs she’d had over the years, that you never got anywhere by debating with a preschooler. Nope. She wasn’t going to set herself up on her first day as ski instructor.
“Okay,” she said, offering a smile. “So Tarin the Terrible is missing. I think we’d better find him.”
As if on cue, a youngster emerged from the shadows. He was dressed in an orange, waterproof, one-piece suit. If she hadn’t known better, she might’ve blurted out that a miniature pumpkin had just shown up. But she smiled at the boy who, just a few seconds before, had been absent from the lively group.
She took a deep breath. “Welcome to the beginner’s ski class,” she began again.
“
I’m
not a beginner,” the pumpkin kid piped up. Manda paused. “Then maybe you’re in the wrong class.”
He shook his head. “I’m in the precisely correct class.”
Precisely correct?
Who did this kid think he was?
She was about to ask when Shelley Rolland pointed at the pumpkin-suited boy. “It’s him,” she exclaimed. “Tarin the Terrible’s right here!”
Oh terrific
, thought Manda.
“And he’s not called terrible because he’s a
bad
boy,” not-so-shy Shelley continued. “He’s terrible because he’s real smart.”
Manda wasn’t sure whether to ignore the statement or respond to it. Fortunately, she didn’t have to decide at that moment. Another class was forming off to the left of her group. “Let’s move closer together,” she said.
“Motion to unify is good,” Tarin said unexpectedly.
“No kidding” was all Manda could say.
A light snow had begun to fall. The sun continued to shine down on her wee bunch, in spite of the feathery flakes.
“Look!” Shelley exclaimed. She stuck out her tongue—way out—to catch snowflakes.
Soon the others were imitating her. All except Tarin the Terrible. He was holding his ski goggles up to the sky, letting snow land on them. Then he began to clean his child-size goggles with a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket.
Tarin caught her watching him and hurried to pull the goggles down onto his face. He picked up his ski poles, bent his knees, and leaned forward on his skis. “Schussing, anyone?” he said with a mischievous grin.
Schussing?
she thought.
He’s right . . . he’s no beginner!
Manda called to the rest of her class. “Okay, enough
snow-feasting.” She began her talk on carrying skis and putting them on. Next, she demonstrated the ski stance. “Always keep your head up, eyes looking straight ahead, and make sure your neck is relaxed.”
They practiced limbering up their arms. She showed them how to place the weight of their bodies over the front portion of their feet. “Whatever you do, don’t stick your rump out like this,” she said, illustrating her point.
Giggles flurried like snowflakes from everyone but Tarin. He stuck out his chin and stared her down. No laughter, no smiles.
I need to talk to Mom about this boy
, she thought.
Reach for the Stars
Chapter Four
“He’s such a cute little thing,” Manda told her mom about Tarin Greenberg.
“They’re all cute at that age,” Mom said, smiling, her brunette hair pulled back on both sides.
Manda described each of her groups of skiers. “Tarin’s the only one who doesn’t seem to fit in,” she said. “Did you meet him?”
“I guess I would remember if I had,” Mom said.
“Maybe you blocked out the memory of him when you fell,” Manda suggested.
“No . . . I do remember a precocious young boy, now that you mention it.” Her mother’s smile wavered a bit. “He liked to use big words.”
“That’s the kid. He throws words around and watches
how you react to them.” She glanced up at the rings and pulleys that held her mother’s broken leg in place.
Trying not to let the worry show, she talked about other things. Like how pretty the snow was, falling so gently before lunch. How outspoken little Miss Shelley Rolland was. And somehow or other, the conversation swung back to Tarin Greenberg.
“He seems determined to outsmart me,” she admitted. “I can’t let a five-year-old take over that way. It’s not fair to the others in the group.”
Now Auntie Ethel joined the conversation. “Don’t let that young Einstein get the best of you, honey,” she croaked and pulled the curtain open between the two beds.
“Well, good afternoon,” Mom said, being polite.
Manda, on the other hand, wasn’t too pleased with the old lady’s eavesdropping. How much had she heard, anyway?
“Youngsters like that usually have something amiss at home. That’s generally the case,” Auntie Ethel continued.
Mom chuckled. “And sometimes it’s just that they’ve grown up around serious, academic types.”
Manda listened, curious about Ethel’s comment. “You sound like you know children,” she ventured.
“Oh, I don’t claim to know very much. But I did teach school for many years before I retired.” The exactness of the woman’s words hinted at such professional things.
“But I daresay your young fella has some problems, one way or the other.”
Manda glanced at her watch. It was almost time for her own skiing session. “Coach Hanson will be waiting,” she said, giving her mom a kiss and a hug. “I better scoot.”
“Come again soon,” Ethel called with a wave of her wilted hand.
“I’ll be back tomorrow after Sunday school and church,” she said.
“Have a splendid run,” Mom said.
“Downhill Dynamite will do her best,” Manda replied.
I always do
, she thought as she left the hospital room and headed for the elevator.
The practice run was as smooth as any. Even for having missed several days in a row, Manda was still on top of things. She was a hard hitter when it came to pushing herself. The mountain existed for the beauty of it . . . and to be conquered. That’s the way she lived life. Conquering one challenge after another.
She thought of young Tarin Greenberg. Nobody deserved a nickname like Tarin the Terrible, even though he did seem to flaunt his IQ. Still, she’d have to be cautious in her approach to the boy.
Yet she found herself thinking about Tarin throughout the evening, curiously drawn to the brainy kid. While she did her homework, she caught herself doodling—writing his nickname. And while she talked on the phone with Heather Bock, she doodled some more.