Golden Girl (15 page)

“Come on,” he said. “I'll race you to the lift.”

He was right; despite the amused looks of the lift operators, it was pretty cool to go down the chairlift. The pressure seemed to drop with the altitude, and by the time we reached the bottom of the hill, I was feeling pretty good about things. Good enough, in fact, to suggest that we go hit the bunny slope instead of going inside.

And so we did.

I'm not going to lie; the first trip down the beginner's trail had my heart racing all over again, and I wasn't halfway down before I tripped on an edge and fell flat on my face. But before I could manage to wallow in humiliation city, Logan was by my side, his hand outstretched and his face full of encouragement. I found myself grabbing his hand gratefully and pulling myself back to my feet, continuing down the mountain. It was a slow and torturous journey, but eventually we found ourselves at the bottom of the hill.

“Whoo-hoo!” Logan cried, whooping loudly and offering up his hand in a high five. “You did it!”

“A four-year-old could have done it,” I muttered, forcing myself not to leave him hanging, even as my cheeks burned. “Most likely without falling on her butt five times on the way down.”

“Who cares?” Logan scolded. “Everyone falls. It's no big deal. Seriously, Lex, you need to lighten up.”

“I know but . . .” My face twisted. “You don't understand. If I don't get back to where I was . . .”

“Forget that. Forget all of that,” he insisted, his blue eyes focused on me. “At least for today. Just forget about your training, the Olympics. All of it. Pretend you're only out here to have fun. You do know how to snowboard just for fun, right?”

Did I? I'd been training so long. So hard. The idea of snowboarding just for fun—without worrying about speed or form or skill—it seemed like a foreign concept.

But Logan wasn't about to take no for an answer. He reached down, scooping up a large handful of sticky snow, his eyes shining mischievously. “Do I need to teach you the meaning of fun, young lady?” he teased, stepping toward me, snowball raised and ready.

I shrieked and scrambled out of the way, grabbing my own fistful of snow and readying my aim. “Don't you even think about it!” I cried. “I've got a killer arm and I am not afraid to use it.”

“Yeah? Well, you'll have to catch me first!” he cried, kicking off on his board with his back foot and gliding toward the magic-carpet lift that led to the top of the bunny slope. Giggling, I planted my own foot on my board, following his lead. A moment later we were both headed back up the hill, panting and laughing.

And totally ready to have fun.

T
he day ended far too soon, and before I knew it we were back in the lodge, in front of the fire, peeling off layers of jackets, hoodies, ski pants, and boots, preparing to meet Logan's mother outside. We were still laughing, and my cheeks were flushed from a mixture of wind and excitement. Even though we'd never gotten farther than a green-circle easy trail, I couldn't remember the last time I'd had such a good time on the slopes. Logan had been right; over the past year I'd been so concerned with the competitive aspects of the sport that I'd forgotten how much I just loved the feeling of the wind against my cheeks and the snow under my feet.

But all good things must come to an end. We reluctantly piled into Logan's mother's station wagon and started back to Mountain Academy. The trip was at least a half hour, but it felt like only a few precious minutes before we were pulling up to the guard shack outside the school.

I watched as Logan pulled out my gear from the back of his mom's car, setting it down on the sidewalk. “When can we do this again?” I blurted out, unable to stop myself. The day had been a dream come true, but now we were back to real life. Tomorrow I had classes and my training sessions, and Logan had public school and probably work at his uncle's garage. Even if he did manage to get an evening off, he was still banned from the mountain and couldn't come for a visit.

Then there was my dad, who thought Logan was bad news. A lowly staff rat, unworthy of his ice princess. How could I make him see that Logan was the exact opposite? That a thousand training sessions with the coach he'd hired wouldn't be half as effective as a single day on the mountain with Logan by my side?

“Hey!” Logan exclaimed, catching my face. He grabbed me and pulled me into a hug. “We'll make plans for the weekend, okay? I'll make sure I get Saturday off work. Maybe we can go to a movie or something. How about that?”

“That'd be cool,” I said, trying my best to sound casual, though inside I was dancing with excitement. A week was a long time, but we could always text and stuff. Maybe even play some online video games.

“In the meantime,” he added, “you have to promise me you'll keep practicing. And that once in a while you'll just go out and snowboard for no reason at all—except to have fun.”

“I think I can handle that,” I said with a grin.

“Good,” he declared. Then he wagged his finger at me. “And anytime you start feeling the pressure—from your coach or your dad or whatever—you just remember that I think you're awesome. And who are
they
to tell me
I'm
wrong?”

I laughed out loud. I couldn't help it. Suddenly I found myself wanting to hit the biggest jump I could find in the park—at full speed for the whole world to see. And I could do it too. Because Logan thought I was awesome.

And if Logan thought I was awesome, well, who cared about anyone else?

T
en minutes later I was opening my dorm room door. Caitlin wasn't there, so I dumped my bag on my side of the room and decided to put on some music to help me wind down. After scrolling through my iTunes collection for a few minutes, trying to decide what to put on, I remembered the Manic Pixie Dream Girl recording Scarlet had given me before I left Bill's yesterday. I slipped the thumb drive into my MacBook, my finger hovering over the play button. I was admittedly more than a little nervous to hear it—to discover whether I really was any good or if they were only being polite. Then I remembered Logan's parting words. He thought I was awesome.

I hit play.

The first song burst through the speakers, Roland wailing on his guitar, Scarlet pounding out the beat. I lay back on my bed, staring up at my ceiling, wringing my hands together nervously as the vocals kicked in. At first my voice sounded tinny and small—and I could hear the uncertainty as I stumbled over the unfamiliar lyrics and tune. But by the third or fourth song I seemed to have found my groove, and a rich, powerful voice started belting out from my computer speakers, actually giving me goose bumps. Was that really me? I had to double-check the thumb drive to be sure. I sounded good. Really good. Guess all those misspent nights with Mom doing karaoke had really paid off.

“Hey, is that Manic Pixie Dream Girl?” Coach Basil poked her head into my room. “I recognize the song, but they sound different.”

“You know Manic Pixie?” I asked, sitting up in bed, surprised. I knew Coach Basil was a huge indie-music fan, but still!

“Sure,” my coach replied, entering the room and plopping down on Caitlin's bed. She nodded her head in time to the beat and mouthed a few of the lyrics. “One of the girls' moms works in the admin building here at Mountain Academy. She heard I liked music and gave me one of their demos—to see what I thought of it.” She paused, then added, “She told me the other day they were all bummed out 'cause their singer quit on them. Sounds to me like they found a pretty good replacement.”

Wow. I hugged my knees to my chest, feeling my face flush. Should I tell her? “Um, that isn't their replacement,” I confessed, deciding to go for it. “That's just me.”

Coach Basil cocked her head in confusion. “What do you mean, just you?”

I stared down at my lap. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything. “Just me, singing?” I finally explained. “I met up with them yesterday and we messed around a little. No big deal.” I swallowed hard as I realized I'd just basically admitted to going off campus without permission. Hopefully, she wouldn't pick up on that.

“Are you kidding?” she cried, luckily in music-lover versus den-mother mode. “It's huge! Lexi, you sound incredible. I mean, I've overheard you singing in the shower a few times, but this!” My coach paused, listening intently as the second song ended and the third began. “Were you auditioning for them?” she asked. “Are you looking to join the band?”

“Well, they did ask me,” I admitted. “But, of course, I can't do it. I mean, there's no way with all my training and school and stuff. I lost a whole year because of the accident; I have to work double-time to catch up. Maybe even triple. Which doesn't leave me any time left for things like band practice.”

Coach Basil's enthusiasm deflated a little, and I got the weird feeling that I'd somehow let her down. “I suppose you're right,” she said at last. “The schedule they keep you girls on . . .” She shook her head. “I remember what it was like. All that dedication. No time for anything else. And then . . .” She trailed off, staring into the distance.

I knew exactly what she was thinking about. Her own stalled-out career after an accident like mine prevented her from competing. It was all-too-familiar territory for me now.

“How . . . ?” I started, not sure how to phrase my question. Coach Basil turned to look at me sharply. “How did you know?” I finally managed to say.

“That my career was over?” she asked pointedly.

I grimaced, but nodded, both wanting and not wanting to know the answer at the same time.

“I didn't at first,” she confessed. “I kept trying to get back to where I was before the accident. I trained every free second. I signed up for every race. I didn't let myself take the time to allow my body to properly heal. And so, a couple months later, I injured myself all over again.” She frowned. “I was lucky I didn't paralyze myself that time. Doctors said if I had fallen one inch differently, I would never have walked again, never mind snowboarded.” She paused. “After that, I had to face the truth.”

“That your dreams were over forever,” I concluded with a long sigh. Everything she'd put into the sport, everything she'd sacrificed to become the best—it had all been for nothing. Would that be my fate as well?

Her eyes turned stern. “Okay, so I can tell you're totally missing my point here,” she said. “All I'm trying to say is I pushed myself too hard, too fast. I was so worried about being forced to give up my dream that I made it happen all by myself.”

I hung my head, hearing all too well what she wasn't saying. She had been too worried about me, after my fall, to properly scold me for going against her orders. But now I was in for it.

“Look, Lexi,” she continued, giving me a sympathetic look. “I know how much you want to prove to everyone that you're fine. I was the same way back then. But pulling stupid stunts like you did in my class on Friday—well, that's only going to prove the opposite. And it could get you hurt—all over again.”

She was right. Of course she was right. What if I'd seriously hurt myself? Knocked myself out of the game forever, just to prove something to some stupid girl and her friends—whose opinions shouldn't even matter.

“If you concentrate on your recovery and you take your time, I have no doubt you'll eventually get back to where you once were,” Coach Basil said. “It may set you back a year. Maybe two years—who knows? And along the way you'll have people tell you you're not going to make it. That you're taking too long, that you're missing too many opportunities. But you have to force yourself to ignore all the noise. Concentrate on listening to your own body instead and what it's telling you. When you're ready, you'll know.” She smiled. “And then you can show them all.”

I felt the tears spring to my eyes. I opened my mouth to reply but found I couldn't form the words. But Coach Basil only smiled again, pulling me into her arms and giving me a warm hug.

“I believe in you,” she whispered. “You can do this.”

At that moment, as if on cue, the music swelled, and my own voice came belting out over the air in a perfect tune of solidarity and hope. Coach Basil pulled away from the hug, glancing over at the laptop with a knowing grin.

“You know,” she said a little impishly. “Music
has
been shown to have great healing properties.” She paused. “I mean, just saying.”

I stared at her. “You're saying I should join the band?”

“I'm saying . . .” She rose to her feet, heading for the door. When she reached it, she paused, then turned back to me and gestured to my laptop. “You should burn me a copy of this. It'd make a stellar addition to my collection.”

I grinned back at her, my heart soaring. For the first time in forever I felt a shred of hope. “I think I can make that happen.”

F
ive days later and I found myself staring down into Baby Bear, my heart pounding in my chest as I struggled to suck ice-cold air into my lungs. The trainer they'd assigned me was a new guy—transferred from our sister school out west—and not someone I'd known from before. Which was good, I supposed. At least he wouldn't know how far I'd fallen from grace.

I have nothing to prove to anyone,
I reminded myself, remembering Coach Basil's words.

After our talk I'd decided to take the week off, telling my dad I needed time to get back into the swing of things—get caught up on my schoolwork and better adjusted to life on the mountain again. He hadn't liked it, but Coach Basil, true to her word, had backed me up, and he'd eventually given his okay.

So Monday through Thursday I did just that. Went to school in the morning, then went back to my dorm and studied in the afternoons while everyone else was out on the slopes. Okay, I admit some of that so-called studying might have involved Manic Pixie lyrics and melodies—and singing along to the recordings Coach Basil had let me download from her iPod. I was still too chicken to actually text Scarlet and Lulu and tell them I wanted to join the band, but I did follow the band's Instagram so I could keep in the loop. And soon I found myself looking forward to everyone heading out to the mountain so I could score some solo singing time.