Up to This Pointe (9 page)

Candle and lamp light warm the dining room, and Dad waves us—me walking slightly behind Owen so we're not coming in
together
—to a table beside the wall of windows, which, in the daylight, would afford an amazing view of the ocean. Tonight, the bamboo shades are drawn so it's cozy, nice just knowing the ocean is there, close enough to hear the waves crash.

“Oh my God!” Kate pulls me near to whisper so loud I'm sure the people in the kitchen and all the drunkies at the bar hear her. “
Owen!
Did you know he was coming? Why didn't you tell me?”

I shrug. “Talk to Luke; they're joined at the hip apparently.” I work my best feigned annoyance.

I sit beside Willa, across from Luke and Kate and Owen.

Okay. He looks like a young Bruce Lee. Jet Li? His arms are all lean and cut—holy crap, that sounds super racist. I'm not saying he's a martial arts guy; those are just the first famous Chinese actors coming to mind when I imagine being pressed to describe him to someone in a way they might know who I was talking about, to paint the most accurate picture of his really black hair and those eyes and how long is my inner monologue about this dude going to go on and have I said any of this out loud?

I take a long swig of water. Kate is smiling, leaning into a conversation with Owen, and Mom and Dad and Hannah raise their glasses to Kate's and my last
Nutcracker
with Simone and to the start of Willa's years of being angels and mice and soldiers and, maybe one day, Snow.

Willa reaches up to my shoulder and tucks my black bra strap back under my blouse.

I kiss the hair-spray-sticky top of her head.

Across the table, Owen smiles. At me.

My water is empty, and so I swallow Willa's entire glass, take her hand, and push back my chair.

“Let's go potty, babe.”

“I don't need to.”

“Really? You sure?”

She nods and dips a hunk of bread into a puddle of olive oil.

“Well. Okay. Be right back.”

“I'll go with you!” Kate jumps up and steers me by my elbow through the crowded dining room, down the stairs, and into the ladies' room.

“I'm having a stroke,” she says. “We've been talking nonstop. Did you
see
?”

“I'm on it.” I smile weakly. “Bridal shower's being planned as we speak.” I lock myself in a stall.

“He watched the show! He came and sat through an entire ballet recital, and he
liked
it—or at least says he did. He is a stunning specimen of manhood. I could
die.
”

I step out and join her at the sink, my stomach burning. Boys falling all over Kate is nothing new, but she's never been so giddy in return. She leans close to the mirror to rub gloss on her lips. “Do you think Luke will actually go through with moving out?”

“I'll believe it when I see it.”

“He better,” she sighs dreamily. “Because then we can go over to say hey to him, and oh gosh, look who just happens to be home, too….”

I'm grateful she's thinking about something besides her dumb dad. But this may be even worse. “Hey,” I say. “Addendum thirteen.”

She hugs me hard and brushes some glitter from my forehead.

Back at the table, the food has come. “Harp,” Willa whispers, “what is this?” She's got scallops on her plate, skewered on what look like lavender stalks in bloom. I hold one to my face and inhale. Yep.

“It's just a flower,” I say. “It's a thing now. People make lavender ice cream, lavender honey. I don't think you'll taste it; it's just for the smell. And to be pretty.”

She frowns. “It's like perfume soap. Fish and perfume aren't delicious.” I laugh, wrap my arms around her, and squeeze her tight.

“I got the scallops, too,” Owen tells Willa. He holds his lavender up and slides the scallops off, cuts the flower stems short with his knife, and hands the bouquet across the table to her. “You were a really beautiful angel.”

She smiles shyly at him and puts the flowers in her water glass, punch-drunk. “Thank you,” she demurs.

Oh, Willa—not you, too.

Kate starts back up with Owen, flirting hard like she's out to save her own life. She is stunning in that dress, and Willa and I watch the show until—“Here we are!” A line of servers swoop in to whisk away our empty dinner plates and put delicate chocolate sand castle cakes before each of us, even Luke—because they are flourless chocolate, dusted with crushed almond “sand.”

“Ohhhh…,” Willa breathes, the disappointment of the fancy scallops forgotten with the first bite of dense, heavy cake.

“I will go to my grave trying to replicate this,” Dad murmurs, eyes closed.

“Harp,” Mom says, leaning forward around Hannah and Willa. “Just try it. It won't kill you. Seriously, this is the best thing in the world.”

Smells so good. But I can't screw it up this close to the end—no, the
beginning
—the start of our lives, the entire point of our existence so carefully crafted every day of every year for so long.

It is nearly here.

I see Owen watch this exchange with interest.

“I'll have it later,” I tell her. “I'll take it home, I swear.”

And I do. In the kitchen that night, I wrap it in foil with a note reading,
HARPER'S! DO NOT EAT!

Tonight's snow is the best I've ever danced. I felt it. Fourteen years and I'm ready.
We're
ready.
No thinking about Owen or Owen with Kate or Owen at all
until the safety of January, when, SF Ballet contract in hand, I'm going to eat this entire sand castle of chocolate, all of it, because it will be my reward.

“See you after auditions, little chocolate minx!” I whisper.

The sun is going down this afternoon, April 25. It will stay dark until late August, and tonight there is a party. A dance to celebrate or say farewell to the sun or something. This is not the Midwinter Formal, but Charlotte says it is nuts and mostly everyone drinks themselves into oblivion. The condom bowls are being refilled daily.

“Be there for sunset. It's gone at one-forty-three; do
not
be late. Both of you. Promise?”

It's only ten in the morning, but we're taking the rest of the day off. Charlotte's pinning her curls up off her face and pulling her shoes back on. “Stupid feet keep swelling,” she says. “The heaters are on too high. Sunset! I'll see you out on The Ice, right? Viv?”

Vivian shrugs but nods as she lugs a box of beakers to a cabinet.

“Harper? Sunset?”

“Yes,” I say, “of course.” I smile in the half daze I've been in the last few weeks. I think the heaters
are
on too high. “Charlotte.”

“Mm-hmm?”

“When do planes start going to the pole? Can they go before Winter Over is…over?” I laugh quietly to myself. Vivian sighs.

Charlotte strides to me, holds my face in her hands, and looks into my eyes. “You're eating, yes?”

I nod.

“Staying warm? Taking vitamin D?”

“Yep.” She studies me.

“I don't know.” She frowns. “If you're not more with it on Monday, I'm sending you to the infirmary.”

“What?”
I whine. “Why?”

She shakes her head. “I promised your mom. You've got to be careful.
Never look a Winter Overer in the eye
—you know why people say that?”

I shrug.

“She's got it,” Vivian pipes up from across the lab.

“Not necessarily,” Charlotte says.

“Oh my God, what? I've
got
something?”

“T3,” Vivian says flatly.

“What the hell is
that
?”

“You don't want to know,” Charlotte says. “Just stay hydrated. Get some exercise…and you've got to socialize. I'm not kidding. You
have
to.”

“I
am
!” I wail. “I go outside all the time with Aiden. What is T3?”

It is true; I walk outside with him in the afternoon. Sometimes.

“Take a class, get in the Ping-Pong tournament—there are a million ways to have fun here.” She turns to Vivian. “I know it's hard when everyone's drunk and stoned all the time, but the three of you—Vivian, have you even met Aiden? Why aren't you all hanging out together?”

“I'm fine, thanks,” Vivian says.

Charlotte is not convinced. “I'll see you both on The Ice, and then we'll eat a few gallons of chocolate, okay?” She hugs the top of my head with her hand. “Okay?”

I smile up at her. “Yes.”

“Good! Viv, you're done. Stop working, please…and make sure the lights are out, will you? I'm going to shower and change into clothes that make me look female. I'm sick of walking around here looking like an Antarctica five.”

“Antarctica five?”

“An Antarctica ten is a Mainland five. Men are pigs. See you at sunset. Do not be late. Do. Not.” And she's out the door.

Vivian sits on her lab stool for a moment, her hand absently on a microscope.

“Hey, Vivian.”

She looks up.

“What's T3?”

Vivian shakes her head, puts her earbuds back in, locks the microscope away, and hefts her backpack onto her shoulder.

“What are you listening to?”

She pushes the door open. “Lock up, will you?”

“Hey!” I call. “Are you going? The sunset?”

But she's gone.

I would never have gone to the rookery if I'd known it was going to cause this ridiculous Sharks and Jets rumble—no, not a rumble; it's just cold indifference. I wish Charlotte would tell her to knock it off.

I wish I still had Kate.

I turn out the lights and run to a take a shower, pull on my warmest layers, and lie down on top of the blankets to take a mini power nap before the sun does its thing. I'm drifting in the kitten bed…until a knock wakes me.

“Hellew…,” the Irish cadence sings. “Harper Scott?”

I heave myself up. “It's open!”

His smile peers around the door. “Perfect! You're dressed. Let's go!”

“It's not for hours. I'm sleeping!”

“Oh, but the show beforehand is
not
to be missed. Come along.” Aiden sits on my chair and waits while I pull my socks and boots over my shower-warm feet. He looks around my empty room.

“Nice holiday lights.”

“Thanks. Someone left them.”

“Radio working well?”

“I'm your biggest fan.”

He picks up the books on my desk. “Using the library? Good!”

I nod. The library
is
awesome. Worn-out ski-lodge carpeting, shabby sofa. Lots of coffee table books about the explorers and, of course, a million science texts. Dog-eared fiction paperbacks people bring from the mainland and leave behind.

“Kübler-Ross.
Tao Te Ching.
Light reading for the darkest, coldest, most isolated place on the planet.”

I shrug.

“Don't you like lady books? I always see they've got plenty of those.”

“Lady books?”

“The ones about ladies going shopping and eating sweets when their fella drops them.”

“Uh…am I the first female human you've met? Where are you getting your lady info?”

“Hey, nothing wrong with lady books! They're better than the…What is this?” He picks up the top of the stack.
“On Grief and Grieving.”
What in the world are you grieving?”

“Let's go.”

“You've got everything on? It's nearly twenty below.”

“Got it.”

He sits and looks me over. “How're you feeling?”

“You know what? I'm feeling T-three-licious. Let's
go
!”

At the door, he hesitates. Looks real cagey. “If I show you something, will you not say anything to anyone about it?”

“Not if you're committing a felony.”

He opens his red parka, not an easy feat once it's on and zipped.

“Ohhh!” I squeal.

“Shhhh! See, that's what I'm talking about! Shut up or I'll get in trouble!”

“Whose is it?”

“My guy,” he whispers. “The ‘supervisor' who doesn't even know my name. I'll put it right back, but today's supposed to be perfect. We're not missing this chance. This is the smallest telescope with any power I could fit under here. Let's go.”

At the stairs, I stop us once more. “Hey,” I say. “Come with me.” We troop up to the third floor, and I knock on a door I'm pretty sure is the correct one.

“Vivian,” I call.

“Do we have to?” Aiden whispers.

“She would love this,” I hiss back. “She's still so mad for the Great Penguin Betrayal, I need to make her not hate me!” I knock again. “Vivian!”

Maybe this is the wrong room. I press my ear to the door. A man's deep voice is speaking. Modulated, conversational. Maybe she's got a TV in there. “Vivian?”

The voice stops. “What?”

“It's Harper. And Aiden!”

Pause.

“What do you want?”

“Well,” I call, “we're going to watch the sunset. Come with us?”

“It's not for another two hours.”

“Yeah,” I say, hopeful. “But Aiden's got”—he nudges me hard with his shoulder—“a thing for later, a surprise that's going to be amazing. Please?”

The man's voice starts back up.

“All righty!” Aiden chirps. “We're off, then!” And he's halfway down the hall.

I knock once more. “Vivian?”

Nothing.

Aiden stands at the stairs. “Scott,” he calls. “She's fine.”

Why is this making me so sad? I give up and join Aiden in the stairwell.

“Are we going to get arrested for this?”

“Probably,” he says brightly.

At the main door Ben's rearing to go with preloaded snark. “Little early, aren't we, children?”

“Have a good one!” Aiden smiles and holds the door wide for me. “Kill him with kindness,” he murmurs as we step out into the icy wind. “Or just kill him, eventually. I hate that guy.”

Even through the now familiar cold-induced head pain, I laugh. It's so nice to hear my inner thoughts spoken out loud—and with an Irish accent. “I kind of hate him, too,” I admit. “But I feel bad for him.”

“What for?”

“He wants to go to the pole. Charlotte says he never will.”

Aiden sends his green eyes skyward. “If he truly wanted it, he'd have gone by now. I hate people wailing and lolling about, ‘I can't do this, that's too hard.' My gran always says, ‘Just shut your yap and do it, for God's sake!' Get a better attitude, make some friends, and get on a damn helicopter. He got himself
here,
didn't he? That's the hardest part, and the rest, pardon my saying so, is not too effing tough. This way.”

He takes my mittened hand and pulls me toward the fire station.

“Where to?”

“Trust me?”

I let my hand stay in his. But not without thinking of Owen.

“Yes,” I say. “So far.”

We sign out, pick up radios, and follow the flags along the familiar path to the Ob Hill hike, past everyone else gathering on the flat expanse of ice near the main buildings, the sun very nearly set.

“Should we be doing this?”

“Trust me.” He smiles inside his hood.

At the start of the trail, he moves in front of me. We stay on the flat road, and now I know where we're going. Charlotte is right. The early-evening sky couldn't be more perfect, just about twenty below zero, only a few pale clouds around the lowering sun. It will be beautiful. I've not been out in such dark yet—too cold—but I understand this is special. And the hike—uphill walking—keeps us warm.

Happily, I see that other people are also heading up the hill, red parkas dotting the path to the top, but we take a detour, back to the base of the mountain, where there's only snow, and quiet, and us.

A ten-minute walk, and we're standing in Scott's Hut, shelter for his first trip here, sailing his ship,
Discovery
—not to get to the pole, but to explore The Ice. This was the trip Shackleton was on and got scurvy, and all the dogs died—but Scott gathered a ton of information about the penguins and seals and the ice. They stayed in this hut for a while, before losing
Discovery
to the crushing ice, and they all had to be rescued.

Not unlike Shackleton's Hut at the rookery, it is made of wood and perfectly preserved, though not so full of personal objects. There are tables, mostly, and crates and boxes labeled
DISCOVERY EXPEDITION
. Hundred-year-old dog biscuits.

“You're a
Scott,
” Aiden says in the quiet of the hut. “That is so amazing.”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “We'll see.”

I close my eyes and breathe, try to feel my lineage, feel Scott's courage, his refusal to give in, moving through my veins.

Rose-colored beams of the sun's sinking rays come straight through the windows and spill in rows on the wood floors.

“What is it you're grieving?” he asks again.

I touch the thick glass window with my mitten. Outside, the reflected light off the snow is blinding even in these very last moments.

What the hell.

“You know what?” I admit. “I am mourning the loss of the love of my life.”

“You're
seventeen
! That is insane.”

“It's true.”

“That's why you're here?”

I shrug.

“Scott. Honestly.”

“I am completely lost.”

He shakes his head.

In the last sunlight, we climb Observation Hill once more, with about fifty other McMurdo people. Citizens of The Ice. Our red parkas are moving dots winding around the face of the mountain until we stand together at the windy summit, near the cross for Scott and his crew.