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“Shut up.” He sees me looking him over and gives me a glare.
“You look rough, dude.”
“I’ve got thirty stitches in my fucking forehead.”
“Language, boys.” Makis strolls over, his eyes widening as he gets his first look at post-hospital Nathan.
“Man, you’re fucked.”
“See, he gets it.”
While most of our seventh-grade dude posse fusses over Nate, I head back to the kitchen for a new ice pack and something else I think he’ll like. They told him he can’t have pain medicine for a few more hours, until he’s out of the concussion zone, but I know something he could have—if just a little.
Ten minutes and a Benji to one of the nicer cook ladies, and I’ve got the ice pack and a pocket bottle of bourbon. The kitchen here at Pontresina stays stocked up because the staff likes to take those little bottles on the slopes.
I check my phone before I get back close to Nate and Co. It’s been more than twelve hours, and he doesn’t seem like he has a concussion. I don’t think a little Maker’s Mark would kill him. And it might keep the little bitch from being sad about not skiing at the fireworks with Alana.
I wait for Makis and Farhad to clear out—Farhad, especially, is a gossipy motherfucker—before I slip Nate the bottle. I could get busted for this, but his dumb face looking all happy makes it worthwhile.
“Cover it with cologne, man.” I pull a bottle from my pocket, and Alfonzo laughs his ass off like a fucking hyena.
“You’re just jealous because that chick you tried to hit on yesterday turned out to be the new Spanish instructor.”
He shakes his head. “Boy be smelling like some Christian Dior.”
“Shut up.”
“Trying to impress that little—what’s her name, Nathan, the little Finnish chick he likes?”
“Milla.” Nate is smiling as he swallows the bourbon behind his hand.
I feel my neck get warm and want to strangle Alf. “It’s not for Milla.”
“Sure it’s not.”
“I brought it for Nate here.”
Nate winks at me, and I roll my eyes. “Okay, gossip queens. I’m gonna peace out, catch some powder.”
The slopes at night are probably my favorite part of our annual winter mini-mester at Pontresina. I like them almost as much as being home with Dad for Christmas. Even Christmases like this one, where I had to go to SoHo and see Mom and babysit her other kids on Christmas Eve while she went to a party with Rich.
Funny that I’m thinking of her as I ride the lift. My phone vibrates, and I dig it out to find a text from her.
happy new years declan
I frown down at it as snow kisses my forehead and catches in my lashes. Strange. No punctuation. As I squint down at the screen, another message comes up.
when I left when you were five, it wasn’t because of you it was because of me. I wanted to be sure you know.
I stand up at the top of the slope, in the shadow of the lift shelter, and peer down at the little greenish screen for a few minutes.
Happy New Year, Mom. It’s okay.
My breath clouds things up, so I have to hold the phone out as I decide what to add—if anything. I like the sound of what I have, though. It’s short, but it gets the point ac
ross.
When I glide out from behind the shelter, there’s Milla. Her blonde hair glows in the lantern light. Her snowsuit is Caribbean blue. She’s standing with a friend in a pink suit, and when I wave, they both turn and smile.
