Page 38 of Just Like the Brontë Sisters

Chapter 21: Skylar

I woke up early and trudged downstairs to the basement to use the treadmill and lift some weights. After Billy, my coach, insisted that if I want to compete in the Olympics I should be in peak physical shape, I decided to adopt a daily morning workout into my routine. I kept my eyes up, away from the moving belt of the treadmill. Otherwise I’d get dizzy. Forty minutes running and then I sprinted for the last ten. But my mind wasn’t as determined as my body and my thoughts sloshed around; what should I do about college, about Gavin, about Jo Beth?

After I finished running I did strength training, stomach crunches, and yoga stretches, listening to music from an iPod strapped to my arm. I had hoped the exercise would be meditative, that if I couldn’t find answers to my most pressing questions, I’d at least come up with ideas for my novel and compose some brilliantly eloquent lines in my head. But when I finished my workout I was not racing upstairs to flip open my laptop. Sadly, there was no need to type out my ideas before they evaporated because they’d never materialized in the first place. Instead I hiked with heavy steps up toward the kitchen, where I’d resist temptation and skip the almond poppy seed muffins that Gavin had brought over. I’d eat an egg white omelet instead.

But first I decided to check my messages. When I looked at my cell phone, I realized I’d missed a call from Jo Beth. Her recorded voice sounded almost manic.

Sky,

Why won’t you pick up? Mitch and Magda have been speaking in Spanish around me, like, all the time, and I think they’re planning something. What if Magda wants to take my baby away? What if Mitch lets her? I can’t deal with it anymore. Can you please, please call me?

I tried calling her back right away, but it went to voicemail. I called my mother instead.

“Mom,” I said, as soon as she picked up, “Jo Beth sounds really bad. I think we need to do something.”

“Oh, Honey.” Mom’s words sounded more like a whoosh of air than part of the English language. “I already talked to her. She must have called me right after she called you.”

“So why didn’t she pick up just now? Is she okay?” I paced around the living room, my eyes skimming over my notebooks and laptop that I left on the coffee table, and my favorite fleece pullover, which I’d draped over an armchair. I’d need to pack up all my stuff soon if I wanted to start my day.

“She’s fine, Skylar. I calmed her down. She’s going to try to get some sleep now, so don’t disturb her and try not to worry.”

Once I glanced at the clock I realized I didn’t have time to worry. If I didn’t get going, I’d be late for my first class. “Okay, Mom. But call me if anything else comes up, okay?”

“Sure, Sweetheart. Have a good day.”

We hung up, but my mind stayed with Jo Beth. At practice I could barely focus. Why would Jo Beth think that Mitch and Magda were trying to take her baby? Had Jo Beth gone crazy from being cooped up, or were Mitch and Magda up to something? Snow fell, muting the colors and visibility of everything. I could only sort of see through my fogged-up ski goggles, and that seemed appropriate. I had no clarity outside or in.

The course was buried in powder but I knew every ski run in Black Diamond forwards and backwards. The bright orange fences that barricaded the forbidden zone were easy to ignore as they quickly became camouflaged in white. I thought about how I used to ski these runs with Jo Beth—all the crazy risks she used to take—so I didn’t register any alarm or caution as I plowed into the prohibited area. Velocity was my only purpose and there was no turning back, no room for regret. I was straight-lining, breaking the laws of physics, when I hit a crack and suddenly, my skis were just two sticks suspended in the air.

I was flying.

A couple of seconds later, I was on the ground and Billy came running. To him, even though I had fallen eighty feet and arrived in a cushion of snow without a sprain or a break, I had still fallen.

“Are you insane?” Billy’s face was red from shouting and fright. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

My ski coach couldn’t seem to understand that I had risen to the laws of nature and fear is for the weak, and in that moment, I was closer to my sister than I’d been in years.

“No,” I replied. “I’m just trying to live.”

Later that evening I was still pumped. The dim lighting, soft classical music, and the glass of red wine didn’t mellow me out. Gavin stood over the stove, stirring his homemade marinara with a small wooden spoon and I pretended not to notice him watching me as I sat on a stool by the island in the kitchen, leafing through an Olympics brochure. I could feel the angry path of a scratch that started at my cheekbone and extended down to my jaw, but I refused to admit to any discomfort or pain. Doing so would invite in Gavin’s judgment and concern, and I knew I’d be ingesting them enough tonight as it was. They may as well have been ingredients in the spaghetti sauce.

I just talked as if his ears were receptive. “Billy pretended to be mad, but I think he secretly respected me. After practice today, he talked like there’s no doubt I’d be in the Olympics. And seriously, being suspended in the air like that… well, now I understand how people become adrenaline junkies.”

“I’m surprised you came out of the whole thing with only a scratch.”

“You sound like my dad.”

“Then I’ll try to be less protective,” Gavin gave me a twisty smile as he dipped the spoon into his sauce and came toward me. “Here, try this. See if it needs more garlic.”

Halfheartedly, I let him feed me a small amount. We made flat eye contact and I shrugged. “I think you could go either way. I mean, it’s fine, but is there such a thing as too much garlic?”

“I don’t know.” He raised an eyebrow. “I guess that depends; are you letting me sleep in your bed tonight?”

My eyes awkwardly glanced away from him and settled back on my Olympics brochure, which had a picture of a triumphant Bode Miller on the front.

“How long before dinner?” I kept my voice intentionally light, like I hadn’t registered what he’d just said. “I might go downstairs and stretch. I still have a leg cramp.”

“I can rub it for you later.”