“Maybe I could try it the other way,” I say. “With my skis straight.”

He stares at me, frowning, good mood apparently gone.

“I guess you want me to believe that this is your first time skiing,” he says.

I look into his frowning face, startled. Surely he didn’t expect me to crash on that little hill? I glance back at the other beginners. They resemble a flock of confused ducklings, just trying not to bump into each other. They don’t crash so much as flop over.

I should lie to Tucker now, tell him I’ve done this before. That’d be the low-profile thing to do. But I don’t want to lie to another Avery this week.

“Should I try it again?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I think you should try it again.”

This time he rides up behind me, and when I ski down, he’s right beside me. He makes me so nervous that I almost fall a couple of times, but I keep thinking about how humiliating it would be to crash and burn in front of Tucker, and manage to stay upright. When we get to the bottom he demands that we go again, this time skiing parallel style, which I like much better. It’s more graceful. It’s fun.

“I’ve been teaching this class for two years,” he says when we get to the bottom around the fifth time, “and this is the first time anyone has ever made it through the whole hour without falling down once.”

“I have good balance,” I explain. “I used to dance. Back in California. Ballet.”

He stares at me with narrowed eyes, like he can’t figure out why I’d want to lie about something like that, unless I’m trying to show off. Or maybe he’s stumped at the idea that some California yuppie could be good at something other than shopping.

“Well, that’s it,” he says abruptly. “End of lesson.”

He turns toward the lodge.

“What should I do now?” I call after him.

“Try a chairlift,” he says, and then he skis away.

For a while I stand outside the line for the beginner’s chairlift and watch people get on. They make it seem easy enough. It’s all about timing. I wish that Tucker hadn’t been such a jerk. It would be nice to get some instruction for this part.

I decide to go for it. I get in line. When I near the front, an employee punches a hole in my ticket.

“You alone?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Single!” he shouts toward the back of the line. “We have a single here!”

So embarrassing. I suddenly wish I had goggles.

“Okay,” says the ski lift guy, waving somebody forward. When the guy gestures at me I shuffle up to the line they’ve drawn in the snow, position my skis, look over my shoulder, and nervously watch the chair swing toward me. It hits the back of my legs hard. I sit, and the chair lifts me into the air. Then I’m rising quickly up the mountainside, swaying gently. I breathe a sigh of relief.

“That bad, huh?”

I turn to see who I’m sitting with. All my breath leaves me in a rush.

I’m riding the chairlift with Christian Prescott.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hey, Clara,” he replies.

He remembers my name. It was just a dream. Just a stupid, stupid dream.

“Nice day for the slopes, huh?” he says.

“Yeah.” My heart’s drumming a crazy rhythm in my ears. He seems perfectly at home on the chairlift. With his forest green ski jacket and black ski pants, a black hat with goggles pushed up onto his head, and some kind of fuzzy neck warmer, he looks like the poster boy for skiing. His eyes are gorgeous against the jacket, a deep emerald green. He’s so close I can feel the heat coming off him.

“Didn’t I see you at Pizza Hut the other day?” he asks.

He had to bring that up. Heat rushes to my face. He could be looking at my hair right now thinking Bozo, Bozo the clown. Why oh why didn’t I wear a stupid hat over my stupid hair?

“Yeah, maybe,” I stammer. “I mean, I was there, I—maybe you saw me. I guess you saw me, right? I mean, I saw you.”

“You should have come over and said hello.”

“I guess I should have.” I glance down at the ground rushing by beneath us, hoping for a topic of conversation. He’s wearing fancy black skis with a kind of curve to them, which seem a lot different than mine.

“You don’t snowboard?” I ask.

“I can board,” he says. “But I ski more. I’m on the race team. You want a Jolly Rancher?”

“What?”

He sticks his poles under his thigh and takes off his gloves. Then he unzips his jacket pocket, reaches in, and takes out a handful of hard candies.

“I always keep these in my pockets for skiing,” he says.

My mouth is suddenly incredibly dry. “Sure, I’ll have one.”

“Red hot or cherry?”

“Red hot,” I say.

He unwraps a candy and pops it in his mouth. Then he holds another out to me. I can’t even pick it up with my heavy glove.

“I’ll get it.” He unwraps the candy and leans toward me. I try to swipe my hair out of my face.

“Open up,” he says, holding up the candy.

I open my mouth. Very carefully, he lays the candy on my tongue. Our eyes meet for a moment. When I close my mouth, he leans back against the chair.

“Thanks,” I say around the candy. I cough. The candy is surprisingly hot. I wish I’d asked for cherry.

“You’re welcome.” He puts his gloves back on.

“So do you have to practice skiing every weekend if you’re on the race team?” I ask.

“I come up here on the weekends to ski for fun, mostly, and races, when they hold them here. During the week, I practice nights up at Snow King.”

“Wow, you can ski at night?”

He laughs.

“Sure. They have lights set up along the runs. I love it at night, actually. It’s not so crowded. It’s quiet. You can see the lights from town. It’s beautiful.”

“Sounds beautiful.”

Neither of us says anything for a while. He knocks his skis together gently, sending a shower of snow down onto the hill below us. It’s surreal, dangling in midair with him on the side of a mountain, seeing him up close, hearing his voice.

“Snow King’s that ski area right inside Jackson Hole?” I ask.

“Yeah. It has only five runs, but it’s a good hill to practice on. And when we race for the State Championships the kids from school can watch us from the parking lot.”

I’m about to say something about wanting to see him race, but that’s when I notice that the chair is approaching a little hut on the side of the mountain, and the skiers are getting off.

“Oh crap.”

“What?” asks Christian.

“I don’t know how to get off this thing.”

“You don’t—”

“This is my first day skiing,” I say, panic rising in my throat. The little hut is getting closer and closer. “What do I do?”

“Keep the tips of your skis up,” he says quickly. “We’ll come up onto the mound. When it flattens out, stand up and get over to the side. You have to do it pretty fast, to get out of the way of the people coming behind you.”

“Oh man. I don’t know if this was such a great idea.”

“Relax,” he says. “I’ll help you.”

The chair is seconds away from the little hut. Every muscle in my body feels tense.

“Put your poles on,” he instructs.

You can do this, I tell myself, sticking my fingers through the slots in the ski poles and gripping them tightly. You’re an angel-blood. Stronger, faster, smarter. Use it, for once.

“Tips up,” says Christian.

I lift my skis. We skim up a short embankment and then, just like he said, we slide onto level ground.

“Stand up!” orders Christian.

I struggle to my feet. The chair hits me in the calves, nudging me forward.

“Now push yourself over to the side,” he says, already skiing away to the left. I try to follow him, planting my poles in the snow and pushing with all my strength. Too late I realize that he meant for me to go to the right while he went left. He turns to check how I’m doing just as I shoot toward him, already off balance. My skis slip on top of his. I flail, and one of my arms catches his shoulder.