The Shuddering (11 page)

“It just seems like something you would have told me,” she said, stepping across the room to grab the can of soda while Sawyer unfolded the bed, the stiff metal springs creaking in the quiet of the room. She cracked the can open and turned away from him, her gaze scanning the spines of hardback books squeezed tight onto a shelf. They were all classics—Austen and Brontë and Sir Walter Scott. Her fingers drifted across Stoker’s
Dracula
, one of the few she’d read. All those books made her feel small, uneducated, but they also made her inwardly grimace at how ostentatious they were. Not a trace of King and Koontz, of books people actually read and enjoyed.

“Does it?” Sawyer asked, stepping away from the couch as if to assess his morning back pain. April frowned as she tugged down on the hem of her shirt, her bare legs growing cold.

“Don’t get mad about it,” she said. “I’m just making an observation.”

“Did I say I was mad about it?” he asked, tossing a folded sheet onto the bed. April took a sip of soda before grabbing the end closest to her, sliding an elastic hem over one of the mattress corners.

“You don’t have to say it,” she told him. “It’s kind of obvious.”

“What?” Sawyer straightened, pushing his fingers through his hair. “That I’m upset they aren’t like
us
?”

She didn’t like the emphasis he put onto that last word. It made it sound like there was no
us
at all.

“Why are you so touchy?” she asked. Jane had left a folded comforter on the chair in the corner of the room. April grabbed it, tossing it at Sawyer with a scowl. “You’re acting completely weird.”

Sawyer shook his head. “Sorry, it just bothers me.”

“What does?”

“The whole ‘they aren’t like us’ thing. I hate it.”

April stepped around the bed as he straightened the comforter, stopping when she was chest to chest with him. She gave him an apologetic smile before sweeping a strand of his hair behind an ear.

“I’m sorry,” she mewed, tugging on the neckline of his shirt. “I like your friends.”

It was a bald-faced lie. These were the kind of people who made going to school a living hell for her. Ryan all but made her skin crawl with how much he reminded her of the jocks, the preps, the guys who twisted their faces up in judgment as the girl in the combat boots and ankle-length duster tried to make her way to class. Lauren had most certainly been on the volleyball team; probably dated the quarterback and wore the homecoming crown. And Jane…she was the one who piqued April’s curiosity. There was something about her—a shadow of something that April was picking up on but couldn’t place.

“Let’s just go to bed,” Sawyer suggested.

April nodded, allowing her hand to trail down his chest before grabbing the soda he’d brought upstairs for her and turning away. She frowned as soon as he couldn’t see her face. She’d always been a bad liar. If she had been better at it she would have laughed it up at the dinner table with the rest of them, convinced them all that, oh
yeah, The Sound of Music
was her favorite, that she’d grown up watching
Mary Poppins
and
Oklahoma!
and whatever other ridiculous musicals she could think of on the spot. She would have convinced Sawyer that she
did
like his friends when, in fact, she would have been happy driving back to Denver in the dead of night.

“Ape.”

She crawled onto the bed, waiting for him to say what he was going to say. But Sawyer shook his head after a while, dismissing whatever had been on the tip of his tongue.

“I still say you’re acting weird,” she said.

This time Sawyer didn’t dissuade her uneasiness. He held fast to his silence instead.

Exhaling a sigh, she pulled the covers over herself and closed her eyes. He had been right to discourage her; she shouldn’t have come, but she didn’t like being alone and had figured, hell, if she had already met his parents she might as well meet his friends too.

Sawyer fell asleep almost immediately while April tossed and turned. At first she blamed it on the mattress, but after half an hour of lying in the dark, she realized that it wasn’t the bed; it was the noise outside. She was a light sleeper, and even the faintest of sounds could keep her awake all night or rouse her from sleep. This was an odd moaning noise; a deep, throaty, repetitive groan accompanied by scratching, like something skittering across the porch one story below. Nearly convincing herself to get up to peer out the window, she decided against it. She was warm under the covers, and she wouldn’t be able to see anything anyway. If Ryan wanted to leave his dog outside in the cold, that was his problem. It would have been nice if the guy had an ounce of courtesy and realized the husky was probably keeping people up, but what was she supposed to do, march down the hall and demand Ryan let Oona in? Rolling over, she pulled the comforter over her head with a rough sigh and squeezed her eyes shut, one ear against the pillow, her palm pressed over the other to block out the sound.

T
he sun rose over the hills to reveal new beauty. It had snowed overnight—the lightest dusting, like powdered sugar. The trees sparkled, flocked with a fresh blanket of white, glittering as the sun burned away the early morning haze.

Despite Ryan’s best efforts to keep the group on track, they were late piling into the car, but they were cheerful and warm, bundled up in their gear while the Nissan rolled down the slope of the drive. Jane gazed out the passenger window, oddly quiet; Sawyer sat in the middle of the backseat like a sultan, a girl on each arm. After half an hour of highway, the Nissan coiled up a series of twists and turns, ascending a mountain that only got more gorgeous—leafless aspens shining in the crisp morning air, as though their branches had been dipped in silver. The clouds that had been thousands of feet overhead were suddenly nothing but a fog slithering around the bases of tree trunks, whispering across a glistening onyx tarmac. The ebb of down-tempo music offered the perfect sound track, lulling Ryan into Zen-like contentment. By the time they reached the ski resort’s parking area he felt renewed, ready to embrace the day despite the early hour.

Ryan climbed onto the Nissan’s running board and unstrapped the boards from the roof rack while Jane and Lauren shoved thickly socked feet into their boots, awkwardly waddling around the car after their ankles had been secured. Sawyer concentrated on his iPod, shuffling through playlists, making sure
he was ready to go—because when it came to Sawyer, music was key; everything else came second. April sat in the backseat, her legs sticking out of the Xterra, her shoulders pulled up to her ears against the chill. She looked uncomfortable as she watched everyone busy themselves around her.

When Sawyer had admitted that April hadn’t boarded before, Ryan had been pessimistic. It was hard to tell with novices—they either took to it like a duck to water or had a miserable time. Jane had been in the latter group, having spent two days on her ass, overcome by a few fits of frustration that had reduced her to tears. Ryan had stuck with her, spending days on the bunny hill with his sister. He eventually got her on her feet, but it had taken a lot of time, a lot of patience, and, on Jane’s part, a lot of pain. He wasn’t sure how it was going to work with April: whether she was the type of girl who would stick it out because it was something she really wanted to do, or whether she’d throw her hands up and admit defeat after a handful of falls. After a few minutes the group left the car, the four of them stiffly marching toward the lift ticket windows while April trailed behind.

The closer they got to the ticket counter, the less April wanted to go through with it. There was a ski lift to the right of them—a four-at-a-time monster that whipped around the curve at a speed that seemed impossible; yet people were falling into the chairs, unscathed, laughing as though they were having the times of their lives. Up ahead, a girl in a pink jacket caught the edge of her board on the snow. April winced as the girl flew onto her stomach with a squeal, her hat popping off her head and landing a good three feet ahead of her. For a second April was sure the girl wasn’t going to get up, but she did, giggling madly as a couple of skiers helped her to her feet.

She tugged at one of Sawyer’s many jacket zippers, chewing her bottom lip as they continued to walk forward. Ryan was leading the pack, a good ten paces ahead of everyone, probably trying to make up for lost time.

“I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” she whispered.

Sawyer shook his head and pulled the bud out of his ear.

“This,” she said, waving a hand at the lift. “Me.”

“What?”

“I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” she repeated. “You know…” She gave him a look, willing him to understand without making her explain.

Sawyer slowed his steps, allowing distance to grow between them and the rest of the group.

“Really?” he asked, jabbing a finger under his thickly woven hat, scratching an itch. It matched the scarf that April had noosed around her own neck—a set she had knitted when they had first gotten together. He looked like a rock star with those giant sunglasses glued to his face, sure to turn heads all day. She looked away from him, tired of staring at her own reflection in the black lenses of his shades.

“I’ll just sit in the lodge.” She gazed toward a massive A-frame, outdoor tables dotting its redwood deck, multicolored umbrellas decorating the majesty of an otherwise white and green landscape.

“All day?” Sawyer asked. “Ape, you’re going to be bored out of your mind.”

“I don’t care,” she told him, growing more insistent by the second. “I don’t want to do this. I know I said I did…”

“You said you did.”

“I
know
.”

Sawyer slid his glasses down his nose enough to look at her. She caught a glimpse of his chocolate-colored eyes, immediately
knowing that look. He was trying not to be annoyed, but she was cramping his style.

“Don’t worry about me,” she insisted. “I’m sure they have magazines or something.” She nodded, reassuring him that her decision was firm. There was no way in hell she was getting on that lift, especially with some slippery board strapped to her feet. There was no way she was going up to the top of that mountain—a mountain that, she was sure, would be the death of her. She hated sports, having no idea what had possessed her to think this was a good idea in the first place, that snowboarding would be any different. A couple of kids on skis buzzed past them. April squeezed her eyes shut, unnerved.

“It probably isn’t safe anyway,” she said, but it wasn’t what she had told him earlier. It had been the first argument Sawyer had made. But she had lied, had told him that she had checked with her doctor, that she’d be okay. Sawyer had wanted to come up here on his own, had offered to drop her off in Colorado Springs to see her grandparents—she had complained that she hadn’t seen them in so long—and yet, for some reason, she couldn’t bring herself to let him take this trip alone. And upon seeing Jane, she was glad that she’d fought him, because there was something there, something she didn’t trust. But despite her wariness, she couldn’t strap her feet onto a board in the name of espionage. “Just go,” she said. “Have a good time.”

Sawyer sighed, pulling the glove off his right hand before unzipping his jacket pocket and fishing out his wallet. “Here.” He pulled out a couple of twenties, folded them in half, and tucked them into the palm of her hand. “We’ll come back for lunch.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, hiding behind his glasses. He was trying to be understanding, but she could tell he was upset. “The
rental line is probably massive anyway.” April didn’t have gear of her own. She gave him a guilty smile.

“Hey!” Ryan waved at them from yards away. “What’s the holdup?”

She and Sawyer exchanged a glance before he smiled in return.

“See you later,” he said, then readjusted his board against his shoulder. She took a step toward him to give him a parting kiss, but he didn’t notice, too distracted by his friends.

April looked down at the money in her hand, chewed her bottom lip, then tucked the bills into her jacket pocket. When she looked up, Jane and Lauren were looking her way. Feeling her face grow hot, she looked away from them and turned toward the lodge.

They fell backward as the chair swept them off the ground and into the air, three boards pointing right while one pointed left. Ryan shifted his weight, an arm wound around the pole on the far left side of the lift, the weight of his board pulling heavy on his boot.

“I feel bad,” Jane admitted, her shoulder flush with Ryan’s as they continued to ascend.

“Don’t,” Sawyer told her. “It’s her choice.”

“Maybe she’ll change her mind,” Lauren countered. “After lunch or something.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Sawyer mused.

“It’s better,” Ryan confessed. It had been the one thing that had bothered him since Sawyer had mentioned April tagging along—the one thing beyond April tagging along at all. Someone was going to have to spend an entire day on the bunny hill with her if she did change her mind, and
that hadn’t been the point of this trip. With the beginner’s hill directly beneath them now, they bore witness to dozens of people lying in the snow like the dead, boards strapped to their feet, unmoving, probably wondering what bone they’d just broken during their most recent fall. “You’d be down there, otherwise,” he said.