Cycler (8 page)

I panic.

He skis over to me and gently pulls my visor off. “I don’t think you’ll need that.” He puts it on the bench. Then he tucks both his poles under his left arm, takes my hand and pulls me toward the rope tow. “Keep your skis parallel,” he says.

There is a gentle dip over which we pick up speed and I start to wobble on my skis. He puts his arm around my waist to steady me, then stops us at the approach to the rope tow.

The Bump is virtually deserted but for a group of eight-year-olds getting a lesson from a woman I think I recognize from the flower shop on Arbor Street.

“The important thing to remember,” he says, “is that you can always let go of the rope. If you start to fall, your first instinct will be to cling harder. Resist that impulse.”

He stands parallel to the path of the rope, lets it run over his open hands for a few seconds, then grabs it and starts moving up the hill. Only a few yards away, he starts to wobble theatrically, lets go of the rope and falls over onto his side with his skis crisscrossed.

I try to ski toward him, but I’m not sure how to get up the hill.

Pulling himself to his feet, he skis deftly back to me. “See?” he says. “If it gets rough, just let go.”

I have to admit, his mastery of skiing is surprisingly sexy.

“All right,” I say.

He smiles and guides me to the rope tow. “Let it run through your hands first,” he says.

I make big scoops with my hands as if I were holding a large stick, and place them under the rope. The speed surprises me as it skims my gloves.

“Skis parallel,” he says.

I look down and straighten them.

“Bend your knees,” he says. “And don’t forget. You can always let go.”

I stare at the rope rushing across my palms, bend my knees, then squeeze it tight. My body jerks forward, and a terrifying second later, my skis follow.

“Bend your knees!” he says.

I bend them deeply, which can’t be alluring, but I don’t know which is worse—squatting over an invisible toilet or falling into the snow.

“You’re doing great,” he says.

Chancing a quick look over my shoulder, I see that he’s behind me on the rope tow, smiling encouragingly.

“Get ready to let go,” he says.

“Okay,” I say. I don’t even try to sound casual. I am terrified and my whole body exclaims the fact.

Within seconds I’m at the top of the hill.

“Now!” he says.

I release the rope and the skis carry me a few more feet, then stop. Before the full horror of slipping backward down the hill sets in, Tommy’s at my elbow, his perfect stop sending up a low crest of snow.

“Très smooth,” he says.

Eyes glued to mine, he skis around me and rotates my body until my skis are perpendicular to the slope. Then he looks away and surveys the view. It’s not exactly Everest up here, but it’s higher than I thought. Smoke wafts from chimneys in the little houses on Grapevine Road, and a handful of cars, filmed in salt and frost, dot the Bump parking lot.

“Pretty,” I say.

He sticky-eyes me for two breathtaking Mississippis, then says, “Ready to learn from the master?”

“Sure,” I say. “When does he show up?”

“Ooh,” he says. “You’re going to pay for that.”

I have to admit it was a brilliant improv, but it does precious little to mitigate the gut-wrenching fear I have of tumbling gracelessly down the hill.

For the next half hour, Tommy teaches me how to snowplow, which means zigzagging slowly down the hill with your skis pointing inward like pigeon toes. Mercifully, the lesson proceeds without incident, and after a dozen or so journeys up and down the slope, I conquer my fear of the rope tow.

Between useful instructions like “try not to wobble” and “don’t grip the poles so hard,” Tommy finds opportunities to destabilize me with his laser-beam eyes. Nevertheless, I do manage to stay mostly on my feet.

The last thing he teaches me is the hockey stop.

“It’s just like skating,” he says.

He skis a quarter of the way up the hill, then shouts down at me, “You skate, right?”

“I used to,” I shout back. “I took figure skating lessons in third grade.”

“Cool.”

“It ended in tears,” I say. “And stitches.”

He laughs. “Watch.” He skis right for me, then juts his hip out to twist his skis to the side. A small flurry of snow drifts over my legs.

“Got it?”

“Um.”

He takes my hand and pulls me a quarter of the way up the slope. Then he skis down and executes another perfect hockey stop. “All right,” he says. “Head straight for me.”

I push off with my poles and aim for him. But when I jut my hip out, nothing happens. To avoid crashing into him, I make a wide and sloppy half turn followed by a slow-motion drop into the snow.

Tommy skis over and hovers above me. “That was pathetic.” For a second, I think he’s going to plop down in the snow so we can make angels together. Instead, he offers his hand and pulls me roughly to my feet.

It’s dusk now, the warm reds of the sky gone blue and gray. The kids are gone. The Bump is empty. Tommy clings to my gloved hand and we stare at each other for an exhilarating three Mississippis.

Then he lets go and says, “So, Jill, there’s something I need to ask you.”

Okay,
I think.
Stay calm. You’re prepared for this. Don’t look expectant. And don’t scowl.

“Really?” I say.

He starts to bounce nervously against the cold. “Yeah,” he says. “Um, I don’t know how to exactly . . . well, I guess I should just sort of . . .” He looks at his ski boots and exhales sharply. “This is really hard,” he says.

He keeps his eyes on his boots, which gives me time to prepare myself for what I think is coming. I have to remember to act surprised, as if the thought never crossed my mind.
Prom?
What? Oh, is that coming up?
Like that.

Finally, after summoning some courage, Tommy looks at me and says, “The thing is . . . What I wanted to know was, um, well, what would you think if I told you I was into guys?”

Huh?

He takes both of my gloved hands and exhales a foggy breath. “I mean, I’m into girls too,” he says. “I’m way into you.

It’s just that sometimes I like guys.”

Hold on a second. Did those words come out in the wrong order?

“Jill?” he says.

Are my ears dyslexic? Did Tommy just ask me to the prom?

“Did you hear me?” he says.

Slowly, painfully, it begins to dawn on me that he did not just ask me to the prom.

“You’re . . . bi?” The words squeak out of me.

He nods. “Does that bother you? Because I wanted to make sure you were okay with it before we . . .” His expression collapses. “You’re not okay with it, are you?”

“You’re bisexual?” I say. “You’re telling me you’re bisexual?”

“Yes,” he says. “I’m telling you I’m bisexual.” He stares at me for a second, then tilts his head back and looks away beyond the cocoa shack. When he looks at me again, his face is darkened by pain and judgment. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t know why I thought you’d be cool with it.”

My lips come together a few times, but no words come.

“Better to know now rather than later,” he says. “I’ve learned
that
lesson.” He stares at me in expectation of a response, but I am incapable of anything but silent shock.

“I guess that’s your answer,” he says. Turning efficiently, he skis back to the cocoa shack.

When the paralysis wears off, I shuffle a few paces toward him. “Wait,” I say.

But he doesn’t hear me. Or he ignores me. The cocoa shack door slams against his retreating back and I don’t ski after him.

The cruel blanket of the deepening cold embraces me.

Tommy Knutson is into guys. The man of my dreams, the love of my life, is not even heterosexual!

In the parking lot, beyond a low brown picket fence, Tommy rushes to his Prius with his skis balanced on his shoulder, achingly bony even beneath his winter coat. Something in me wants to rush to him. But I’d never get to him on my skis in time, and anyway, I still have no words for this turn of events.

I drive home in a daze. Numb, confused, almost totally blank. Then something deeply disturbing occurs to me. When I get home, I rush upstairs, peel off the ski suit and stand in front of the mirror in my underwear. In a panic, I whip out my cell phone.

“Ramie,” I say, “do you think I’m mannish?”

“Huh?” she says.

“Masculine,” I say. “You know, like unfeminine?”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

I turn to the side and examine my torso. “My waist,” I say. “It’s not
super
thin. Plus, I’m barely a B-cup. And my hips, they’re kind of—”

“Jill, what brought this on? Have you been trying on clothes without me? How was your ski lesson?”

I face front and try to envision an hourglass superimposed on my form. “He’s into
guys,
Ramie.”

“Who?” she says.

“Tommy!” I say. “He’s bi.”

There is a deathly pause, during which I turn around and stare at the reflection of my ass. I always thought it was round and female. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I was dead wrong.

“Cool,” Ramie says.

“Cool?” I say. “Did you hear me? I said he was bi.”

“Yes, I heard you,” she says. “Bi means he’s into guys
and
girls, you nitwit. You
are
a girl, right?”

I cup my left breast gently. It’s barely a handful. And I have small hands!

“How much is a boob job?” I ask.

I hear a clatter as Ramie drops the phone. Then she picks it up and yells, “You are deeply not getting a boob job!”

We probably couldn’t afford one anyway, but I’m not ruling it out. A C-cup. High and assertive. Jack will freak, but desperate times, desperate measures and all. Wait a minute.

Jack.

Maybe Tommy senses Jack’s presence. Maybe Jack’s masculine traits are leaking into my phase!

“Ramie,” I say. “Please, I’m begging you. Be honest. Am. I. Mannish?”

“No. You’re. Not!” she says. “You’re actually annoyingly feminine, in a boring unreconstructed sort of way.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“You wouldn’t.”

I turn and stare at my ass again. Is it the ass of a woman?

May 3

Jack

So Mr. Dreamboat’s a bum bandit
. Paint me shocked. I didn’t see that one coming. Poor Jill. All that research and brainstorming. All that spying and plotting and scheming. What does she get for her troubles? A bad case of low self-esteem. I feel for Jill. I really do.

After his heartrending twilight confession at the Bump, the fledgling romance between them collapsed. No more Mississippi sticky eyes, no more lunchtime calculus sessions, no more ski lessons.

I’ve mined every waking moment of Jill’s life (and quite a few sleeping moments too) and never have I seen her so low. She spent most of the first week after what can only be described as the Second Bump Tragedy doing makeovers and stuffing her bra until Ramie extra-super-double reassured her that she was not mannish.

After achieving that, Ramie tried to persuade Jill that Tommy’s bisexuality should not disqualify him from prom contention. She thought Jill should apologize for making him feel mal about his sexual orientation, which, after all, is a beautiful and natural thing. That’s Ramie for you. Nothing is too weird for her. Nothing is weird enough. But in the end, Jill listened to Mom, who told her over bonding cocoa one afternoon, “You know what they say, sweetheart. A bisexual man is a gay man in training.”

I hate to agree with the evil Snow Queen of Winterhead, but she’s probably right. I always thought there was something hinky about the guy. To be fair, I thought he was a player. I figured he’d lead Jill on, maybe convince her to help him cheat on his calculus final, then dump her right before the prom. Actually, I was rooting for that scenario. I’m not above pettiness. But seeing her all teary-eyed like that, I don’t know, it does something to me. Like
that’s
fair. My tears mean nothing to her. She doesn’t even know about them.

I wonder what it’s like to be into guys
and
girls. The thought of another dude touching my dirty bits makes me want to puke. Not that there’s anything wrong with being an ass bandit, mind you. We’re all very open-minded here in Winterhead, Massachusetts, the liberal bastion of the Northeast. Heck, we’re the state that first legalized gay marriage. Gays are swell. Bring ’em on. If I had a life outside of this room, I’m sure some of my best friends would be homos. If there are any homos in Winterhead.

Knutsack should have just lied. It’s not as if Jill had any suspicion that he occasionally dabbled in cock. Why choose full disclosure?

But enough about Jill and her self-created sob stories. I have stuff going on too. I have big, big plans for this phase.

I have decided to make contact.

The porn DVDs are all well and good, featuring, as they do, a splendid cast of naked brunettes. But they’re just a smoke screen. Don’t get me wrong; I’ve been watching them all day. I can recite the witty banter by heart.

But as night falls and my parents settle down in their separate beds on separate floors, I make final preparations for—are you ready?—Operation Window Invasion. Jill’s not the only one capable of elaborate plans with cutesy names.

And this time, I don’t dick around. First of all, I pick a better coat. Deep in the recesses of Jill’s closet is one of Dad’s castoff ski parkas. Second, I wear socks. All right, so they’re lime green girl socks; at least my ankles won’t freeze.

I tie the sheets together, anchor it to the chest, throw it out the window and shinny down. Then I do something I have never done before.

I run.

The night air is warmer than last time. The promise of spring is in the air. Taking huge gulps of the fresh, crisp air, I sprint all the way to the end of Trask Road and collapse in a crouch at the intersection with Main Street. Friggin’ Jill. Other than gym class, the girl gets no exercise. She has two legs, good health, the expansive freedom of the outside world and where does she spend her time? In her room and Ramie’s room. What a waste of a body.

When my head stops throbbing from exertion, I drag myself to my feet, cross silent, empty Main Street and start running again. The rush of cool night air in my face as the trees along Main Street blur by feels alien and powerful. My mouth hangs open to take in more air as my lungs expand and contract like a bellows. Before long, I can hear myself wheezing, but I don’t stop. My rubber soles smacking the pavement beat a steady rhythm, which I try to synchronize with my breath.

Looking down, I notice something disconcerting about the way my hands pump back and forth with my stride. My wrists are bent and my hands splay outward.

Holy crap, I run like a girl!

Lurching to a stop, I grab my knees and dry heave until my breathing returns to a normal, non-life-threatening rate. It’s bad enough having to share my body with a girl. Does she have to be such a wussy girl? Straightening up, I bounce around a few times like a boxer, squeeze my hands into tight fists and try to butch it up a bit. This body is mine tonight. I must evict all of Jill’s lame girlie habits.

Pounding the sidewalk like a he-man now, I cross Main Street, sprint all the way to Ramie’s driveway, and keel over onto my knees. Flipping onto my back, I glance up at the seashell “Boulieaux” sign. My head pounds. My chest heaves. Tiny fists punch me from the inside. How could Jill let herself get so out of shape? She used to play sports. Softball, swimming, hoops. As soon as the change happened, she turned into a daisy. Maybe the split caused it. Maybe when I woke up, she slotted all of her masculine traits into my week. How “deeply” unenlightened of her.

In the distance, a dog howls high and long. For a second, I’m tempted, out of a vague sense of camaraderie, to let out a big wolfen howl, but I don’t have the breath to summon one. As the air chills the sweat all over me, I pull myself up from the cold ground and drag my spaghetti legs to the maple tree and up the swing.

From my vantage point on the porch roof outside Ramie’s window, the world is a still and inviting place. Ramie sleeps soundly, face to the window, wild tangle of dark hair obscuring her eyes. I’m tempted to rap on her window, but tonight, patience is called for.

I pull a note and some tape from my pocket, stick it to her window and shinny back down the maple tree.

On Night Two, I return to Ramie’s house, hide out in the bushes at the foot of the driveway and spy. I can see that she’s removed the note, and believe me, I want to shinny up that maple tree and crash through her window.

But I’m not going off half-cocked tonight. Operation Window Invasion is a multistep process.

I get as comfortable as possible in those bushes and wait to see if any cops come out to investigate. I’m no dummy. I know they’re not going to park a big black and white cruiser in her driveway. I am way ahead of the curve.

You see, the note I left her last night read “Hi Ramie. Don’t be scared. I’ll be back at midnight tomorrow.”

Now, I know Ramie. Odds are she has not called the cops. Odds are she read the note, opened the window, maybe even went out on her own to investigate, then thought about calling the cops and decided against it. Why? Ramie, “worshipper of chaos” that she is, can usually be relied on to choose the more reckless of any two options. But if she did call the cops, they’re probably sitting in her living room waiting for midnight to roll around. When it does, which is, oh, right about now, surely one of them will come out to investigate.

No one does. I hunker down in those bushes for what feels like hours, waiting for evidence of law enforcement. Then, when I’ve had enough and can no longer resist the temptation to climb the tree and invade that window, I pull myself out of the bushes and run home.

Patience, people. The good part is coming.

On Night Three, I assume the bush position to scan for the increasingly unlikely evidence of law enforcement when, lo and behold, I see something taped to the outside of Ramie’s window. Now, I’m not stupid. This could be a trap. But it could also be a reply from Ramie. With maximum stealth, I do the Kick-the-Can lawn crawl from the bushes to the maple tree and start climbing. I shinny to the edge of the branch, then stop and listen. Nothing. Absolute silence. I climb onto the porch roof, then tiptoe to Ramie’s window and take down the piece of paper.

It’s blank.

I brace for catastrophe. A cop is going to rappel from a black helicopter, aiming his rifle at me, at which point I will leap from the porch, twist my ankle, and limp into the arms of a SWAT team, who, after stuffing me into an unmarked van, will deliver me to a top-secret research facility for invasive and humiliating experiments, resulting in the full exposure of my darkest secrets in the pages of the
Boston Globe
under the headline “Cycling Hermaphrodite Stalker Foiled by Curiosity, Bad Planning.”

Thankfully, none of that happens.

Instead, a light comes on behind me. Turning around, blank paper in hand, I spot someone standing by the maple tree pointing a flashlight up at me.

“Climb down,” she says. “And don’t make any sudden moves or . . . anything.”

“Ramie?” I say.

“Shut up,” she says. “Climb down. And don’t try anything. I’m armed.”

The blinding light casts her in silhouette, but I can just make out an arm held out to the side.

“Mace,” she says. “And I’m not afraid to use it.”

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I’m not here to hurt you. I just—” “Shhh,” she says.

I grab the branch and shinny back to the trunk, spotlit the whole way. When I get to the lowest branch, I hang for a few seconds, swinging back and forth.

She shines the light right in my face.

I squeeze my eyes closed and jump to the ground. The impact sends a jolt through my spine, but I stuff the reaction so she can see how tough I am. Then, recalling that, at this point, she doesn’t know my intentions, I hold my hands out, palms front.

“I’m unarmed,” I say. “I’m totally harmless.”

“Who are you?” she says.

“Can you, maybe, turn that thing off?” I say. “It’s kind of blinding me.”

“No,” she says. “Who are you?”

At that point, I realize I have planned for the invasion but not for actual contact. Shielding my eyes from the flashlight’s glare, I decide to dodge the question. “You didn’t call the cops,” I say. “Thanks.”

“I can take care of myself,” she says. “What do you want?”

All I want is to see her face, but the light is too bright and shining in the wrong direction. Looking at the ground, I can almost make out her feet. She’s wearing black boots and dark pants. When my eyes stop stinging from the light, I realize she’s moving the beam down my body. She’s checking me out. Cool.

“Why do you keep coming to my window?” she says. “Why don’t you just call me like a normal person?”

“I’m not a normal person, Ramie.”

“Deeply,” she says. “And how do you know my name?”

“Is it supposed to be a secret?” I take a tiny step toward her, shielding my face from the light with my hand.

“Stop,” she says.

I take another small step. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Stop!” she says.

I obey.

Ramie lowers the flashlight a bit, but I still can’t make out her face. “What do you want?” she says again.

I sigh deeply. “I want you to let me in that window.”

She laughs sharply.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m pretty sure you will, eventually.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Are you kidding?” I say. “A strange but weirdly familiar guy hovering outside your window? That’s like Ramie porn. Stuff like this never happens in Winterhead. Not even to you.”

“How do you know me?” she says. “And that is so not true. I am deeply not letting you in that window.”

“We’ll see.” I turn and walk away. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“I can still call the cops,” she says.

It’s true. But if I know Ramie (and I think I do), she won’t.

Night Four. Last night before Jilltime.

After jogging to Ramie’s driveway, I stop and catch my breath while staring at her window, which glows a warm, inviting yellow. Then I head to the maple tree, pull myself up the swing and shinny out onto the branch.

Ramie’s dark form appears at her window.

I scrabble to the porch roof, then pad over to her and kneel before her window. Her face warped in the old glass, she jerks it open just a crack.

“How do you know the cops aren’t here?” she says.

I slip the fingers of my right hand through the crack into the warm air of her bedroom, and she pushes the window down.

“Ow!” I pull my hand free and examine the indentation she’s made.

Ramie closes the window all the way now, but she doesn’t close the curtains and she doesn’t move away.

I put my hand on the window where her face appears. “Let me in,” I say.

Ramie shrugs and gestures that she can’t hear me.

I don’t raise my voice an iota. “Ramie, you know you’re going to open this window.”

Ramie’s luscious mouth forms the word “what?” then “I can’t hear you.”

I don’t raise my voice. In fact, I lower it. Bringing my forehead to the cold glass, I whisper, “Ramie. Ramie.”

She steps forward and turns her ear to the window.

“That’s my girl,” I whisper. “Now just another step.”