“He insisted on driving when Ian couldn’t get the car like he thought,” Sean explained.
“I didn’t want to drive,” Conor said. “You made me.”
“No, you just didn’t want me to drive your truck,” Sean replied.
“Exactly.”
“So. Nice weather today,” I said, trying to interrupt before they turned this into a full-scale, all-day argument. “Sunny, not too cold…”
“Believe me, there are things I’d rather be doing,” Conor mumbled.
“No doubt,” Sean said. “Like harassing someone else?”
We pulled out of the neighborhood and started heading down Interstate Highway 35. If we took this highway north, we’d end up back at my hometown. Which maybe wasn’t such a bad idea, with things going so strangely this morning. But we were going south.
I was completely confused by the Benson Boys.
First, one of them basically starts dating me and we kiss. But then I see him with another girl. He says it’s nothing, but I’m worried. And we kiss some more.
Second, the other one acts like he thinks I’m stupid. Then all of a sudden he starts following me everywhere. Then he almost sort of kisses me.
And now here I was, smushed between the two of them, with a mattress bouncing on the rooftop, being buffeted by the wind as we reached sixty miles an hour.
Conor accidentally put his hand on my leg as he reached to push the stick shift into overdrive. “Oh, sorry,” he said, turning to me with a bashful smile.
“Sorry,” Sean muttered. “You’re not sorry. Well, you are, but not that way.” Then he snuggled closer to me, and put his hand on my other leg.
I wondered how far away this Buck Hill place was, and whether we’d all survive the journey intact.
When we reached the ski area, we had to park at the outskirts of the lot because we were a little on the late side. Conor and Sean hoisted the mattress off the truck and carried it on their heads over to the staging area, near the rope tow.
A local radio station was sponsoring the event, along with several other businesses. They had tables set up and were selling T-shirts to raise money. Music was blasting from speakers on top of a black van. There must have been a few hundred kids milling around, some in costumes and some as spectators, and lots of parents, too.
When we went up to the table to register, I wandered up and down the line, checking out the other organizations there.
“Are you going to sign up for the loppet?” Conor asked as he and Sean came up behind me.
“No. What’s a loppet?” I said.
“A ski race,” Conor said. “It’s Norwegian. This one’s in Mora and it’s called the Vasaloppet—it’s 30K.”
“Oh. Well, then I don’t think so,” I said. “I’ve never really done much cross-country skiing before. I tried telemarketing once—”
“Telemarketing?” Conor burst out laughing. “Did you say ‘telemarketing’?”
“What,” I said.
“I think you mean telemarking,” he said.
I grinned. “Oh yeah. That sounds better.”
And everyone at the table started laughing at me, and both Sean and Conor were laughing, too. The one time they agreed on something, and it had to come at my expense.
“Yeah, that’s the worst kind of skiing,” Conor said. “You have to hold the phone to your ear while you’re going downhill. There’s the do-not-call list, and then there’s the do-not-fall list,” Conor added.
“Very funny,” I said. But I couldn’t stop myself from smiling, because it actually was.
“I’m going to go find the guys—we’re meeting over by the locker room. I’ll be right back with your costume,” Sean said. “Ian’s bringing it.”
After he jogged off, Conor and I stood there for a minute, looking around at all the other contestants—if that’s what you would call them. “Don’t you need to find your team?” I asked him.
“Oh, no. I’m not doing this,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Are you serious? I’m just here to laugh at everyone else.”
“Why? Is there going to be a lot to laugh about?” I asked.
“Yeah. I think so,” Conor said. “For example? Here come the seven idiots.”
Sean and his friends were walking toward us. Their costumes were simple, no-brainers: They wore hockey team jerseys, over jeans. Some of them wore ball caps. A few of them carried hockey sticks.
“Hey,” a few of them greeted Conor, and me. As they all gathered around me, all I can say is that one or more of their shirts definitely hadn’t been washed since the last game. Which I guess made it an authentic costume.
“Which one’s Dopey? That you?” Conor asked Sean.
“Ha ha,” Sean muttered. “Look, Conor, you’ve got to help us out.”
“Wait a second. I only count six hockey players,” I said.
“Exactly. That’s why you’ve gotta do it with us, Conor,” Sean said. He held out a jersey. “Tommy’s sick. You have to fill in for him.”
Conor stared at the jersey. “You want me to wear the sick guy’s jersey?”
“It’s not Tommy’s, it’s one of mine,” Ian said. “I brought an extra after he called to say he couldn’t make it.”
“Go change,” Sean said.
“Wait. Who said I was doing this?” Conor said as he caught the jersey Ian tossed to him.
Then Sean held out a sparkling tiara to me. “Here’s your crown.”
“Snow White wore a crown? Really?” I asked. I put it on top of my head and mashed it down so that it would stay there. “Okay, that was easy. I’m ready!”
“And…here’s your outfit.” Ian handed me a black garment bag.
“Oh.” I peeked at the dress inside. I nearly dropped it. The costume looked like it might fit someone half my height. I held it up against me. “You cannot be serious. This is going to be way too short on me!”
“Hey, maybe we’ll score more points with the judges.” Sean winked at me, and his friends laughed.
I don’t want to score more points with the judges, I thought. I really only want to score points with you.
Therefore, I’d wear the outfit.
“Be right back,” I told the guys. Unless of course I ditched this entire event and ran for the hills. There were lots of hills around. It wouldn’t be hard.
“You have to be kidding me. This whole thing makes no sense,” I muttered as I changed into the outfit in the women’s locker room. Fortunately there were a few private changing rooms so I didn’t have to try it on in front of everyone. “Since when did Snow White hang out with hockey players?”
This must be what’s known as “taking one for the team,” I thought as I examined the skimpy cocktail-waitress-type outfit. It must have been from some sexy costume shop. Or sex shop, rather.
There was a short black skirt—a mini—and a white blouse that cinched right below the bust line. I was a Vegas act waiting to happen. I slipped my pink, furry boots back on, to keep my legs warm. Then I put on some deep red lipstick I’d borrowed from Gretchen for the part, and fixed my hair with the tiara. Wasn’t Snow White a brunette? And I was pretty sure she didn’t parade her cleavage around town. But oh well. This was for Sean.
I put on my jacket and stepped slowly out of the locker room. A couple of girls gave me critical glances, and I winced. Why am I doing this? I wondered. No wonder that other girl dropped out. She probably saw the costume, then changed her mind.
When I finally met up with Sean, he was waiting anxiously for me. “Come on, they’re all waiting at the top. Our start time is in fifteen minutes,” he said.
He didn’t even bat an eyelash at the fact I was all legs. Did this not faze him? Or was I not impressive as a leggy fairy tale heroine?