Chapter 4
Lost Boy
Paisley
I wake up ten minutes before my alarm rings. My stomach is tingling, and my heart is racing. It feels just like when I have an event; it’s just that today doesn’t have anything to do with a medal.
Today is my first official day at iSkate. I’m going to sign my contract. A contract watched over by the sword of Damocles from the very beginning, waiting for me to do myself in.
Don’t think about it, Paisley.
The lilac-scented sheets rustle as I turn onto my side. I ball the pillow together to bury my face and allow my quivering breaths to die down. I kick the comforter to the end of the bed, swing myself up, and turn on the lamp on the nightstand.
It’s early. Shortly before six. Between the slats of the window blinds, I can see the moonlight illuminating the dancing snowflakes, as if the sky was their stage.
They remind me of myself, bringing back images from long ago.
I see myself as a child, with a dazzling smile, in a cheap, secondhand figure-skating dress, following my first ever public ice dance.
Every step was accompanied by a kind of magic that only I could see.
And that magic has remained. It’s my constant companion. The power that drives me forward. My best friend. The voice within me that courses through my veins with its prickly whispers and settles in my heart. The voice that tells me I have to fight if I don’t want to lose the magic.
I’ve got to hold onto it. And that’s why I don’t give up. That’s why I’m here.
With a soft swish the slat falls back into place when I pull back my hand and nervously make my way through the room to pull my training tights out of my bag. They’re underneath my other things, which is why I spontaneously decide to sort the few pieces in Aria’s spacious wardrobe.
I open the doors and stop short. Either Ruth’s daughter forgot a few things or…
she’s a shopaholic. The pieces inside don’t exactly give the impression that their owner is on the other side of the country.
There is hardly any space for my few things, and, ultimately, they end up in a disordered bundle between Aria’s shirts, hoodies, and tops. A miserable sight.
I’m about to close the door again when I notice a pair of Asics. I hesitate a moment before finally bending over and having a closer look.
Size 7. They don’t look like they’ve even been worn. I’d planned to go over there in my boots, but now that I’ve got the opportunity… I’m sure it wouldn’t bother Aria at all.
It’s only when I pull the shoes out that I notice the crumpled photo in the gap between the bottom of the wardrobe and the wall. I carefully pluck it out so that it doesn’t tear and have a look.
The guy staring back at me with a wide grin and a beer bottle in his hand is unmistakably that guy Wyatt from Kate’s Diner.
I don’t know the girl next to him. I assume it’s Aria.
Full-bodied, brown hair tumbles out from beneath her baseball cap and falls to her shoulders in waves.
She has freckles, but just on her nose, and her green eyes are shining as she casts Wyatt a sidelong glance.
Suddenly I feel terrible. As if I’d come across Aria’s diary and read her most intimate thoughts. I quickly stuff the picture back into the gap and close the wardrobe with the firm intention of never sniffing through her things again.
I slip into my leggings and sneakers, plug my headphones into my phone, and take the hair tie off my wrist to pull my blond hair back into a messy ponytail.
Then I pull on my gloves and cap and tiptoe as quietly as possible down the narrow hall, through the door, and down the stairs to the guest area.
The steps creak. It’s so quiet that the noise almost feels spooky. Behind one door I catch the unmistakable sound of a loudly snoring guest.
After turning the deadbolt, the front door opens with a soft click, and I step out into the icy morning air.
Although Aspen is one of America’s wealthiest cities, right now it couldn’t feel any lonelier.
The streets are empty. Not even the streetlamps are on; just the pale moonlight casting a gray light onto the snowy ground.
In the distance, the tops of the Aspen Highlands tower into the horizon and, for a moment, take my breath away.
They’re terribly big and bewitching at the same time.
Online I read that Aspen is surrounded by four mountains: Snowmass, Buttermilk, Aspen Mountain, and Aspen Highlands.
I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful than this view.
Like looking at an image on Google and knowing immediately that it’s been retouched with Photoshop because it’s so beautiful.
It’s just that this moment is real. Not Instagram fake.
No false perfection. That’s why I love nature. It never pretends.
Everything inside me is tingling as I start my playlist and jog off. The icy air cuts my face, but I enjoy it. I enjoy the cold wiping away my thoughts and filling my lungs with energy, allowing the magic inside me to awaken.
I jog without thinking about where my feet are taking me. It’s not hard to find your way in Aspen. The city is small, and the houses are arranged in orderly rows, one after the other. On Google Earth, Aspen looks like a Pac-Man maze.
The snow crunches beneath my sneakers. My feet are numb with cold, but I keep on running, ever farther, following the melody of winter beating in time with my heart.
At the foot of Buttermilk Mountain there are just a few houses. I slow down. Not because I’m tired, but because of the glittering reflections that jump into my eyes.
At first, I think there have got to be strings of lights in the firs. Every breath turns into a white cloud before me as I move closer to the trees. And then I understand where the lights are coming from.
Beyond this wall of snow-draped firs, there’s an ice-covered lake. The moon is reflecting on its surface, causing it to sparkle. Somewhere in the distance, a screech owl is crying. A few seconds later I hear the rustling of its feathers as it sets off into the sky.
I lay my palm against a solid fir trunk and linger a moment to stare at the frozen lake.
I’m agog with wonder. Aspen may have some places that are filled with magic.
Maybe this city is made for touching every soul in a particular way; I don’t know.
But for me, it’s right here. Aspen’s heart.
It’s right in front of me, so pure and clear, far away from the public, and it reflects my inner world.
I feel the magic pulsing within me and connecting with this place, and for the first time I have the feeling that I can look into its eyes.
After all these years. Here I am. And here it is.
For the first time in a long time, I feel alive again. Happy and hopeful.
I can feel life itself.
A sound to my right tears me out of my thoughts. It’s coming from the direction of the firs and sounds strange somehow, like a stifled groan. Squinting, I try to recognize something, but the trees are blocking the moonlight. It’s too dark.
I tentatively take a step forward while being careful to remain in the shadow of two trees. And that’s when I see him.
Knox is leaning against a trunk, his eyes turned toward the sky. Yesterday’s take-it-easy vibe is gone, replaced by a distorted face and trembling lower lip.
My God, I think he’s crying. Is he? Yeah. Definitely. His whole body is shaking while that strange, stifled groan keeps coming from his mouth.
There’s no doubt about it, he’s crying. But it’s like he doesn’t know how it works exactly.
I dig my fingers into the tree trunk. I can’t stop looking at him.
Yesterday I’d sworn to make a wide arc around him.
I thought I’d grasped the core of his being.
For me, the situation was clear: Knox was one of those sexist types with a shitty character, a person who was more interested in Instagram likes than any interpersonal relationship in real life.
But what I’m seeing here…this is making a totally different impression on me. Why is he crying? What’s wrong? And why on earth does he make such an effort to come off as the badass snowboarder when in reality…
When in reality…he seems pretty lost?
As if paralyzed, I watch his almost silent sobbing. Knox runs both of his hands across his face before lowering his gaze and staring out onto the frozen lake. I swear he looks even more pained. His shoulders are shaking, he’s gasping for air, and again that groaning starts up.
For the second time this morning, I feel as if I’ve invaded someone’s private sphere. I shouldn’t be seeing this. These feelings aren’t meant for my eyes. No matter how Knox treated me yesterday, this doesn’t feel right.
Nearly silent, I pad off through the deep snow that has already numbed my feet and bones. I keep looking over my shoulder out of the fear that Knox could notice me, but right now, he doesn’t seem to be noticing anything but his overwhelming emotions.
On the way back, I jog faster. My racing thoughts are driving me on, almost causing me to sprint while I’m trying to forget the image of his pain-racked face.
I don’t want to feel any sympathy for Knox.
I’d like to consider him the egoist that I’d pegged him for.
But my thoughts keep growing louder, wilder, more transparent.
They’re confusing me. He confuses me. Above all, because, suddenly, I realize that Knox could be more similar to me than I’m comfortable with.
My legs are burning by the time I finally come to a stop in front of Ruth’s. Not from exhaustion so much as the cold. I desperately need a hot shower.
I step into the guesthouse in my borrowed wet Asics. The first early birds are already sitting around the long wooden table in the dining room. Snow falls off my shoes and onto the carpet.
Ruth is standing at the buffet, trading an empty bottle of maple syrup for a new one. She casts a glance over her shoulder when the door clicks in the lock and laughs. “I should call you Elsa.”
“Elsa?”
“The Snow Queen,” she explains. “Every time I see you, you’re frozen. You just need a couple of icicles.”
Ruth offers me an apple. I accept it gratefully and take a bite. “I went for a jog.”
“I can see that.” Her eyes pass over my leggings to her daughter’s sneakers. She grins. “Oh, those old things. Aria never wore them. It was her,” Ruth makes quotation marks in the air, “‘now-I’m-going-to-be-sporty phase.’”
“She doesn’t like sports?” I ask in surprise. After swallowing my bit of apple, I add, “In Aspen, you can’t get away from sports.”
Ruth reaches for the plate with the pancakes, which are gradually coming to an end.
“Believe me, Aria was a natural-born talent. She is curious and ambitious, but sports… God forbid.” At the memory of her daughter, a smirk crosses her lips before she winks at me and moves off toward the kitchen.
I’d love to know what’s behind her heavy movements. Osteoporosis maybe? Arthritis?
As for me, I can’t get into the shower quick enough to feel the hot water on my body, thawing with every second. I lean against the side of the shower, close my eyes, and heave a deep sigh.
Running into Knox has really gotten to me. For a while, it even drove off my nerves and made me forget that today was my big day.
But now it seems like my nerves have woken back up from their short nap and, within seconds, are ready to resume high operation. It feels like there are ants running back and forth beneath my skin.
I lick the warm water off my upper lip with the tip of my tongue before my gaze wanders down my body to the bruises that are invisible to everyone else.
I carefully run a finger over my left hip to the middle of my thigh. The swelling has gone down quite a bit, but the color has changed. It’s a bright green, and the edges are streaked a deep blue.
I screw up my eyes, turn off the water, and don’t think about it anymore. Soon, there won’t be anything left of the bruises, and I’ll never have to see them ever again.
Never. Again.
My body is steaming as I step out of the shower—at last I can feel my toes again—and dry off. I slip into fresh clothes, dry my hair, and gulp when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
The swelling next to my eye has grown more intense. Knox’s words from yesterday echo in my head.
I doubt it… Implying that I can’t assert myself. That I wasn’t strong enough.
I shake my head to dispel my thoughts and turn away. My eyes stop for a moment on a few makeup tools standing on Aria’s bathroom dresser next to the sink.
Normally I don’t wear any makeup. As an athlete, it’s counterproductive. Your sweat smears your mascara and makes you look like an emo kid. Then the foundation clogs your pores and causes you to break out in pimples.
I make my decision in the blink of an eye. I quickly grab the makeup and distribute the stuff across my face. Better a crater-filled emo kid than getting stared at on my first day of iSkate and everyone forming an opinion of me before they’ve even gotten to know me.
I’ve left that part of my life behind. And I have no intention of giving it any space to come back.
I blend in the last little bit across my face and then inspect myself. The early morning sun is coming through the window, causing my blue eyes to shine.
I cling to the side of the sink, trembling. “Do it for yourself,” I mumble to myself. “You’re strong enough; you can do anything.”
Three times I repeat these words until I feel that I have won.
It doesn’t matter how weak I feel and how much my past has left traces inside of me; the wolf in my heart will never allow the world to catch a glimpse of the lamb in my soul.
Because I’m strong.
I, Paisley Harris, am a goddamn fighter.