On a Slippery Slope (5 page)

The S Word

S
ki
. It sounds like such a cute little word, doesn't it? Let me assure you …
IT'S NOT!
In fact, it's a viciously cruel, awful word, like food poisoning or seasickness or eating creamed peas on toast! Seriously, my stomach turns over with dread every time I hear it, which is
super-unfortunate
because, as it turns out,
ski
is Gabby's absolute favourite word. I mean just in the last five minutes alone, I think she's said it like
thirty-two
times and in
every
possible way: ski, skis, skied, skiing, skier, ski hill, ski jacket, ski pants, ski suit, ski boots, ski, ski,
SKI
— I can't escape that word!

“I can't wait to go skiing!” Gabby says again, for the
hundredth
time today.

She really needs to stop talking; I'm not sure how much more of this my stomach can take. Why did I invite her to come over to hang out after school? I knew this would happen! Am I subconsciously trying to torture myself?

She tears open my curtains, looks out at my
snow-covered
backyard, and lets out a satisfied sigh and nods. “Saturday.”

“Wait, what!” I exclaim as my brain registers the word
Saturday
. “What about Saturday?”

Gabby claps her hands together. “We're hitting the slopes!”

“The slopes?” A lump of dread rises in my throat. “You mean … a ski hill?”

“Of course I do!” she says, laughing.

I can hear my blood pulsing in my ears as I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to think
— can I do it? Can I learn to ski and snowboard in four days? No, she can
'
t mean this Saturday; can she?
“You mean this Saturday?”

“Yes, this Saturday!” she answers, her face absolutely radiant.

My mind is racing.
What am I going to do? I can
'
t learn to ski by Saturday. That
'
s just crazy! It can
'
t be done.
“No!” I hear myself yelp. I really, seriously think I'm going to be sick.

“No?” she says pulling her head back like I've said the craziest thing she's ever heard. “I'm sorry …” she adds, tapping her finger to her lips, “but ‘no' is not an acceptable answer. We're going this Saturday, end of story.”

Hold it! Did she just say, “end of story”? Don
'
t I have any say in the matter? Doesn
'
t my opinion count? What if I
'
m busy? What if I have plans? I have a life you know!

“And don't say you're busy,” Gabby blurts out, “because you already told me you're not.”

“No I didn't.”

“Yes you did.”

“When?”

“Yesterday, remember? I asked you what you were doing this weekend and you said, ‘Nothing. I have no life.'”

I bite my lip. “Oh yeah.”

“And this is way more fun than nothing, right?”

Yeah, potentially killing myself sounds way more fun for sure!

“Sooooo,” she continues, her face breaking into a huge grin, “where are your skis?” She's so excited, her eyes are dancing in their sockets.

Great! She wants to see my skis … my skis!
I DON'T HAVE ANY SKIS!

“My skis?” I say, gnawing at the one fingernail that I have left.

“Yes, your skis. I want to see them!”

“Why do you need to see them?” I ask as calmly as I can manage, which I'm pretty sure isn't calm at all, because my voice has gone all
high-pitched
and weird.

“Why wouldn't I want to see them?” Gabby looks confused. “Are you okay? You sound weird.”

“I do?” I say with a nervous chuckle.

Gabby throws her arms up and laughs. “Yes, now will you
please
show me your stuff?”

“But why … why do you need to see it?” I squeak.
Why won
'
t she just leave me alone! Make it stop!

“Because you are an amazing skier and you're from Vermont, Hannah.
Vermont
!
Filled with
ski
villages and
ski
chalets and
ski
shops and
ski
…” — (Why does she keep saying
ski
?!) — “everything. I mean you must have tons of stuff that we can't even get here, like
super-cool
, professional stuff, like stuff they use …” she gasps “….
in the Olympics
! Oh, Hannah!” Gabby throws her hand to her chest. “Do you think —” she takes in a deep breath, “— you'll ever try out for the Olympic team?” Her eyes are wild with excitement. “I mean you're probably that good, right? Right!”

“
Um
… well… I don't …” I sputter trying to come up with something,
ANYTHING
, that won't tip Gabby off to the fact that I am a total fraud … a fake!
HOW AM I GOING TO GET OUT OF THIS?
I don't ski! I have no gear!

“So?” Gabby grabs my hands. “Are you that good?”

“
Um
… well … jeez. I don't think so.” This conversation is a
total
nightmare!

Gabby's lips form a confident smile. “
You can
't pull one over on me, Hannah Smart! You're just being modest.”

“
No
… no, I'm not,” I say, feeling my breath getting short.

“Uh huh.” Gabby winks. “Now where's your gear? I totally need see it!”

“No, you don't.”

“Hannah, you're acting weird. I bet it's amazing! Just show it to me.”

“It's …” I feel my breath getting shorter and shorter.

“Where is it?” Gabby demands again.

“I don't … I don't …” I try to answer but my head starting to spin.

“What do you mean … you don't?” Gabby looks at me, confused. “Wait!” she suddenly exclaims, “Are you okay? You look sick.”

Oh no
… what's happening? My heart is racing. Am I having a heart attack? Oh my gosh, does heart disease run in my family? I can't breathe … why can't I breathe? I'm feeling dizzy. What if I'm dying, right here, right now? I didn't even write a will!

“Are you okay?” she asks again.

“I don't know. I need to sit down,” I say breathlessly. Gabby studies my face as I lower myself onto my bed.

“Oh my gosh,” she says, frowning. “I know what's wrong! You have no idea where your stuff is, do you?”

“What?” I say, sucking breaths of air in through my nose, uselessly trying to slow down my breathing.

“You don't know where it is!” she insists.

“No, I don't!” I admit, now gasping for air.
This is it … I
'
m going to die!

“Oh my gosh!” Gabby shrieks. “Hannah! You're hyperventilating! You need a paper bag!”

Hyperventilating? She's right! My lips are tingling. I need a paper bag! “Gabby … get my …
lunch bag
… from my… backpaaaa …”

Everything goes black.

“
Hannah … wake up,” I hear Gabby whisper. “Hannah!” she says a little louder. Then
smack
… I feel a cold, wet facecloth on my forehead. “Hannah! You fainted. Wake up!”

I blink my eyes open and struggle to sit up on my bed.

“So, does this happen often?” Gabby asks, patting my cheeks with the wet cloth.

“What, the fainting or the hyperventilating?”

“Both, I guess.” She shrugs. “You really should get that checked. I mean to randomly start hyperventilating for no reason at all … weird, huh?”

“Yeah, weird.” I nod, avoiding her eyes.

“You really should get that checked though. You might have
a condition
.”

“A condition?”

“Yeah, like some kind of stress disorder or something. My dad is a pharmacist. I can totally ask him about meds for you!”

“No!” I cry out. “I mean … um … no. Please don't tell your dad.”

“Hannah, your mental health is nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“My mental health?”

“Yes. Obviously the move and starting at a new school have stressed you out. You're just overwhelmed. It's probably just temporary, unless it's not, in which case you should get checked out … like soon.”

“Fine.” I nod. “But just don't tell your dad, okay?”

“All right, but promise me you'll get to the doctor this week.”

“The doctor?” I can't believe she wants me to go to a doctor! Could this get any crazier?

“Promise me.” She narrows her eyes. “Hannah, this is serious stuff. You shouldn't mess around with a stress disorder; it's dangerous!”

She's right! This is ridiculous! Like, seriously nuts! I can't go around fainting every time I hear the word
ski
. What if it happens at school and I fall down and split my head open, or worse, start frothing at the mouth right in the middle of the hallway! Gross! That would be so embarrassing!

I have to confess! My only other option is to suffer through the rest of this year with a stupid stress disorder, which would be seriously awful. The truth must be told! Actually, it'll be a relief! I can finally get off this crazy rollercoaster ride of lies.

But then again … what if it makes Gabby hate me … maybe I shouldn't …
NO
! I have to tell her.
Come on, Hannah:
BE BRAVE
! Just say it! Spit it out!

“Gabby, about my ski gear … I don't …”

“Oh, Hannah, you don't have to say another word! I already know.”

“You do?”