6. Zara
Zara
“I’ll never get used to this part,” I chime, placing my skis the way I was taught. Ready to get off the lift. I must have suicidal tendencies with this bullshit?.
“Hold your horses,” says Erik. The ski instructor I found while roaming aimlessly in search of food. He raises his hand to stop me getting off, “Since you did great on the last few runs on the little hill, I figured we’d go a step up. What do you say to that?”
“You think I’m ready?” I gulp, anxiously watching our stop pass us by.
“It’s not much bigger. I think you’ll do great.”
I lean back, keeping my skis as straight as possible. I did come out here to try new things. If this white boy thinks I’m ready, who am I to say no?
“Alright, let's do this.”
Too bad faking it ‘til you make it doesn’t work out here. If it wasn’t for the goggles and scarf I’m wearing, the scowl on my face would frighten the abominable snowman.
“You said it wasn’t much bigger,” I hiss. “Liar.”
“It’s not. I promise,” he assures, before leaning down and tightening my skis to my boots. “It’s just a little steeper. And there is a bend. But you did great on all your other turns. Just take your time. I’ll be right behind you.”
I shake my head and zip my lips, so I don’t argue. This has to be done, come hell or high water; I need to go down this slope.
Not just to prove a point to my family and friends and end the stupid stereotype, but to prove that I can. My bravery begins to falter.
“This is so stupid,” I moan, and slowly start turning to face the hill.
“That’s right, you got this,” Erik, ushers me over, grinning like a fool while I anchor myself with my ski poles. “Whenever you’re ready, Zara.”
“First of never,” I mumble sarcastically under my breath.
My teeth clench, and start to chatter. I hate this.
I hate this. Why am I doing this to myself?
Why can’t I just keep my big mouth shut and let people say what they want?
Why do I need to get involved? Because I refuse to be told I can’t do something based on my abilities, or least of all the colour of my skin. That’s why.
I roll my eyes and lift my poles enough to draw a line in the snow, debating if I really want to go as I slowly inch forward. The back of my skis barely reach the line I drew when I start to change my mind.
“Hell no, not for me,” I start to say, shaking my head frantically; but before I can stop myself, a snowboarder from higher up wizzes past. “Oh shit!” I flounder.
I lean forward as it’s all I can do to keep standing upright. Next thing I know Erik is yelling from behind me as I take off. Something about being on his way and ‘to point your toes’.
I do what he says, turning my skis inward like he taught me. Only my right foot doesn’t stop. It keeps going, sliding over the left like a skate on ice. Oh crap.
I try to pull my leg back, but everything is happening so fast. The poles are useless, mostly getting in the way and making me trip more. Then the bottom ski pops off my boot, and I gasp as I head face-first into the ground.
Snow fills the neck of my jacket as I flip over, rolling and tumbling like a rogue snowball. At one point I'm sure my feet are over my head, and I can feel my back bending the wrong way.
“R-Ahhha! Help me!” I shriek between mouthfuls of ice.
Branches swat at me from all sides, one smacks so sharp it splits my cheek. Part of me wants to reach out, grab hold of something and hope it stops me. Another knows that it's better I don’t tempt fate. The last thing I want to do is wrap myself around a tree.
When I'm sure it's almost over, and my body is doing more of a barrel roll than a head over heel topple, the ground disappears from under me.
It takes a second for me to understand, and when I do I scream louder than I ever have before.
I've gone off an embankment, and realty hits me. I'm about to die.
“Aaaahhhhhhhh!!!!”