Until It Hurts to Stop (8 page)

twelve

I’m still terrorizing myself with the hiking-forum posts on the dangers of Crystal Mountain when my phone beeps with a message.

I expect it to be Nick or Sylvie, but it’s Adriana, with a question about the bio homework. I reread her message, searching for hidden attacks, but I can’t find any dangerous subtext in 

_did 
we have to read all of chap
4
or just as far as p
. 115?
I reply:
page
115.
btw
,
where did you get my number
?
from sylvie
.
hope you don
’
t mind
.
thanks for the info
!

Sylvie. Naturally. She would have no reason
not
to give out my number. And if she’d asked me first—what would I have said? How could I explain why I don’t trust Adriana, without going into all the junior high drama?

I return to the Crystal Mountain descriptions, immersing myself in tales of broken legs, wild animals, and loose rocks hurtling down slopes. For all the hazards lurking there, I’d still rather take my chances on the trail than in the school halls. I

text Nick:
reading about how dangerous this mountain is
.
you have a strange idea of fun
.
He answers:
so you want to back out
?

I remember how it felt to stand on top of Eagle after fighting the rain and my own doubts, after pushing myself higher than I’d ever gone before. I remember the hug Nick and I shared at the top. And most of all, the energy that surged through me. The way I felt that I belonged there.

I answer Nick:
_no
.
that
’
s what i thought
.

In Monday’s French class, the teacher tells us to pair up for a conversation exercise. Vanessa Webb swings her chair over to my desk, even though she usually works with the girl on her other side. “
Bonjour
, Marguerite,” she says.

“
Bonjour.
” I don’t know why she’s chosen me today, but I’m not going to question it. At least I don’t have to go through those anxious moments while everyone else couples up, wondering who will be left over.

Our assignment is to have an extremely artificial conversation about how we celebrate holidays. The book suggests that we say things like, “And your family, does it travel to the beach in the summer? There are many fine beaches.”

Vanessa and I trade a few dull, clunky observations about summer vacations. I’m wishing I knew the word for “fireworks,” instead of calling them “fire in the sky,” when she slips off topic. Still in French, she asks me, “Nick Cleary is your friend, right?”

“
Oui
,” I answer, startled, but relieved to stop straining for small talk about the Fourth of July.
She switches to English. “I thought so. I saw you two sitting together at lunch.” She hesitates, running a sculpted fingernail along the spine of her French book. “Just friends?”
That question makes me swallow, sends alarm signals all the way out to my fingertips.
Good question, Vanessa.
But I simply say, “That’s right.”
She smiles. “Well, I’m having a party Friday night. The two of you should come. I live on the corner of Ridgway and Main. Do you know where that is?”
“Yes.” I’ve seen her house; it dominates that corner, with its white columns and vast sweep of lawn. “But I don’t know if we can make it. We’re getting up early on Saturday to hike.”
“You don’t have to stay late. Just come for a little while. Any time after eight, all right?”
“Maybe.”
“On the Fourth of July we have a picnic with much good food,” she says in French, and her shift back into the assignment makes me blink.
I want to focus completely on the Saturday hike. I need to gather myself for Crystal Mountain, not only because it’s a tough hike, but because it will be my first full day alone with Nick since we kissed. It will be the real test of whether we can be friends—still friends, just friends. I’d rather not have this party to worry about, blocking the entrance to my weekend like a spiked metal gate.
And what does Vanessa want with Nick, anyway?
Well, I can guess that.
Vanessa and Nick. I can’t fit them together, even in my imagination. I don’t think they know each other that well. What could cool, polished Vanessa, with her immaculate clothes, see in Nick the hiker, Nick the basketball player? What could he see in her?
But maybe I’m reading too much into this. Maybe she just wants a big crowd at her party, so she’s asking as many people as possible. (After all, she’s inviting
me.
)
I don’t know. I can’t figure out people at all.

After school, Nick and Luis get their basketball fix by playing an informal game with their teammates, because, apparently, that’s the only way they will all survive until the season starts in a couple of months. I decide to wait for them so I can get a ride, rather than face the unknown dangers of the bus.

I lie in the grass near the court, thumbing through my mushroom guide. I know the names in this book by heart now, from false morels and liberty caps to parrot mushrooms and destroying angels. I can reel them off like a memorized poem. It fascinates me that my book labels certain mushrooms as poisonous while acknowledging that some people do eat them. The book speculates that the differences in mushroom toxicity may be due to the fact that mushrooms live off different materials in different places. They absorb what they live on.

While I consider the line between food and poison, the game provides soothing background noise: the irregular beat of the guys’ feet as they run and pivot; the shuffling; the squeaking halts; the sudden thunder of the fast break.

Sylvie flops down beside me. Her eyes follow the clump of boys who migrate back and forth between the two baskets like a pendulum. “Do you think they’d let me play?” she asks. She leans forward, and her leg muscles strain, as if she has to keep herself from jumping up and joining in. She’s on the girls’ team during the winter.

“They’re in the middle of a game now. Grudge match, very serious, out for blood. But I bet they’d let you play another time if you came at the beginning.”

“Maybe I would, if I didn’t have so many meetings. I’d be at Spanish club now, but it got canceled at the last minute.”
Her arrival has changed the air on court. Some of the guys run faster, make bolder grabs for the ball, deal out rougher fouls. It doesn’t matter that Sylvie prefers girls and they know it. She’s beautiful, she’s watching them, and they play harder. I, on the other hand, inspire them about as much as the concrete water fountain at the side of the court.
In books and movies, popular girls are mean, but not Sylvie. She’s popular because she talks to everyone and volunteers for everything. She remembers names. She puts birthdays in her calendar and sends out personalized birthday messages. Yet she doesn’t do it for the
sake
of being popular. When Sylvie asks how you are, she wants to know. She genuinely cares about whether you got that role in the play, or how long you’ll have to wear the cast on your arm.
“I don’t know how you keep up with everything,” I say. It would exhaust me to keep track of so many people.
“Yeah, Wendy’s been complaining that we don’t have enough time together. Which is ironic, because the last three times I called her,
she
was busy.” Sylvie scrolls through her messages. “She hasn’t even texted me today.”
“Listen, Sylvie—did you hear anything about a party at Vanessa Webb’s this weekend?”
“On Friday? Yeah. I can’t go because that’s the night of my cousin’s wedding.” She looks up from her phone. “I got a new dress for it, but now I’m thinking it’s a mistake. It’s garnet, and it kind of washes me out.” She tilts her head and studies me. “It would look perfect on you, though, with your dark hair and eyes. Why don’t you wear brighter colors?”
Because I’m just trying to get through high school without anyone noticing
, I think. “I don’t know.”
“The skirt would be the right length for you, too. If my legs were in as good shape as yours, I’d wear skirts all the time.”
I look down at my jeans. Raleigh always said my knees were too knobby, so I hide them as much as possible. But maybe hiking has built up my leg muscles?
Or maybe Sylvie’s only being nice.
She scrolls through her messages again, frowning. “Wendy didn’t text me yesterday, either.”
But my mind is on the party, on trying to prepare for it any way I can. “What do you know about Vanessa?”
“She’s on a couple of committees with me—she organized the bake sale. And she helps me out with math sometimes.” Sylvie starts typing. “I’m going to see if I can get ahold of Wendy.”
I was hoping to hear something juicier about Vanessa— anything to indicate she’s less than perfect. Even just an embarrassing nickname. But Sylvie isn’t much of a gossip, even if she knew anything scandalous about Vanessa.
I chew on the sweet white end of a grass stem, thinking about Vanessa and her invitation, while Sylvie tries to reach Wendy.

The game breaks up. After Nick and Luis suck down water from the fountain, they join us. Even though I didn’t watch much of the game or track the score, I can tell they won by all the strutting and grinning. “Good rebounding, Luis,” Sylvie says.

“
Somebody
has to get the rebounds.” Luis pokes an elbow into Nick.
“Hey, I don’t need to get that close to the basket to make a shot.”
“The only reason you take all those outside shots is that you can’t make a layup.”
“The reason I take all those outside shots is that I make them.”
And on they go, their bickering even louder and happier than usual because they were both on the winning team. I used to hate this kind of back-and-forth; it seemed nasty to me. And perhaps there is an edge to it, some real competition between them, but now I think this is the way Nick and Luis show how tight they are—maybe the only way they can show it.
Sylvie says good-bye. I get in the car with the guys, the air thick with testosterone. They take apart the winning plays, analyzing how they broke down the other team’s defenses. If they could bring this much insight to the actions and motives of world leaders, they’d have lifetime jobs in the State Department. They talk basketball nonstop until we drop off Luis.
I get in the front seat. “Can you maybe forget about the game for a minute?”
Nick laughs. “I can try, but I’m not promising anything.”
“Guess who wants to see you at her party Friday night.”
“Tilman?”
Mrs. Tilman is the school principal. “Ha. No, Vanessa Webb.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Do you know her? She invited both of us, but it was obvious you were the main attraction.”
“We had the same English class last year.” Nick pauses, taking a sharp corner. “Do you want to go?”
“Not really.”
“It could be fun.”
I suck in my breath. “Are you saying
you
want to go?” “I don’t know. Maybe. Why not?”
“It’s not exactly our crowd.”
He laughs again. “We have a crowd?”
“Well, no—that’s my point.”

We go to Nick’s house and slog through our homework, taking turns at his computer. I get it first while he showers off his basketball sweat. Afterward, we lie on his bed together, watching TV. I’m careful to leave several inches of space between us, preserving our just-friends pact.

During one of the commercials, I bring up the question that’s been bothering me since our ride home. “Why do you want to go to Vanessa’s party?”

It’s easier to ask those kinds of questions when you’re both staring at something besides each other.
“How come you
don’t
want to?” he asks after a long pause.
“It’ll be so crowded. And you know I don’t like to drink.”
“You don’t have to,” he says. “I won’t be drinking much, either, since I’ll be driving.”
“I still don’t see why you want to go. You’re not usually that big on—how shall I say this—
people.
” Other than me, Nick’s social circle consists mainly of guys who have one thing in common: they play basketball. Not that they don’t party. But a few beers after a game is a lot different from being invited, several days in advance, to go to someone’s house. I’m trying to picture Nick, in his boots and holey jeans, stomping into Vanessa’s tree-shaded, columned house.
“I want to get out for a change.” He taps the mattress. “Come on, we’ll both go. And if you stay over here that night, we can drive out to Crystal first thing Saturday.”
“I could stay over without going to the party.”
“True. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”
Well, if he’s determined to go, I’m not going to sit home preparing for my solitary future of having tea parties for my ten cats. I don’t want him to leave me completely behind while he tries out the junior-class party scene. “No, I’ll come with you,” I say. “Someone has to keep you out of trouble.”
“Good.” He shifts on the bed beside me, and I can hear him breathing. He picks up the remote, because a commercial has come on. Nick refuses to watch two minutes of advertising if he can use that time to click through fifty other channels instead.
“Nick,” I say, keeping my voice light, “people don’t actually die from watching commercials.”
“You mean nobody’s died
yet.
”
My eyes stray from the flashing screen to the map and photo on the wall: the jagged tooth of the Crystal Mountain summit, higher and sharper than that of Eagle. On Crystal, we’ll be alone together—back to our old selves, our old bond, the special world we’ve created with and for each other. If only I can get through this party first.

thirteen

After school on Thursday, Nick and Luis play another basketball game while I do homework in the grass near the court. The guys play hard, shoving and laughing, pivoting, faking one another out. Nick and Luis revel in it, pushing for every edge, striving to get the ball exactly where they want it even if they end up bruised. I still prefer hiking, where there’s nothing to fight, and there’s only the trail to test yourself against.