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The Mouse and I forced Maggie to make a pact that we would never tell anyone what we saw that day in East Milton, because it’s Walt’s business and his to handle how he sees fit. Maggie agreed not to tell anyone—including Peter—but it didn’t prevent her from turning into an emotional wreck. She skipped two days of school and spent them in bed; on the third day, when she finally appeared in assembly, her face was puffy and she was wearing sunglasses. Then she wore nothing but black for the rest of the week. The Mouse and I did everything we could—making sure one of us was with her during breaks and even getting food for her at the cafeteria so she didn’t have to stand in line—but you’d think the love of her life had died. Which is slightly annoying, because if you look at it from a logical point of view, all that really happened was she dated a guy for two years, broke up with him, and then they both found someone else. Does it really matter if that “someone” is a guy or a girl? But Maggie refuses to see it that way. She insists it’s all her fault—she wasn’t “woman enough” for Walt.
So when George called and offered to take me skiing, I jumped at the chance to get away from my own life for a few hours.
And the minute I saw his steady, happy face, I found myself telling him all about my problems with Walt and Maggie, and how my piece came out in The Nutmeg and my best friend was weird about it. I told him everything, save for the fact that I happen to have a boyfriend. I will tell him today, when the moment is right. But in the meantime, it’s such a relief to unburden myself that I don’t want to spoil the fun.
I know I’m being selfish. On the other hand, George does seem to find my stories highly entertaining. “You can use all of this in your writing,” he said during the drive to the mountain.
“I couldn’t,” I countered. “If I put any of this in The Nutmeg, I’d be run out of school.”
“You’re experiencing every writer’s dilemma. Art versus protecting those you know—and love.”
“Not me,” I said. “I’d never want to hurt someone for the sake of my writing. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself afterward.”
“You’ll warm up as soon as we get moving,” George says now.
“If we get moving,” I remind him. I peer over the railing of the chairlift to the trail below. It’s a wide path bordered by pine trees, where several skiers in candy-colored suits weave across the snow like sewing needles, leaving tracks of thread behind. From this vantage point, they don’t appear to be exceptional athletes. If they can do it, why not me?
“You scared?” George asks.
“Nah,” I say boldly, even though I’ve skied a total of three times in my life, and only in Lali’s backyard.
“Remember to keep the tips of your skis up. Let the back of the seat push you off.”
“Sure,” I say, clutching the side of the chairlift. We’re nearly at the top, and I’ve just admitted that I’ve never actually ridden in a chairlift before.
“All you have to do is get off,” George says in amusement. “If you don’t, they have to shut down the entire lift and the other skiers get angry.”
“Don’t want to piss off those snow bunnies,” I mutter, bracing for the worst. Within seconds, however, I’m gliding smoothly down a little hill and the chairlift is behind me. “Wow, that was easy,” I say, turning back to George. At which point I promptly fall over.
“Not bad for a beginner,” George says, helping me up. “You’ll see. You’ll pick it up in no time. I can tell you’re a natural.”
George is just so nice.
We tackle the bunny slope first, where I manage to master the snowplow and the turn. After a couple of runs, I’ve worked up my confidence and we move on to the intermediate slope.
“Like it?” George asks on our fourth trip up the chairlift.
“Love it,” I exclaim. “It’s so much fun.”
“You’re fun,” George says. He leans in for a kiss, and I allow him a quick peck, suddenly feeling like a sleazebag. What would Sebastian think if he saw me here with George?
“George—” I begin, deciding to tell him about Sebastian now, before this goes any further, but he cuts me off.
“Ever since I met you, I’ve been trying to figure out who you remind me of. And finally, I have.”
“Who?” I ask, full of curiosity.
“My great-aunt,” he says proudly.
“Your great-aunt?” I ask, with mock outrage. “Do I look that old?”
“It’s not how you look. It’s your spirit. She has the same fun-loving spirit you do. She’s the kind of person other people love to be around.” And then he drops the bomb: “She’s a writer.”
“A writer?” I gasp. “An actual writer?”
He nods. “She was very famous in her time. But she’s about eighty now—”
“What’s her name?”
