Snow Burn
by
Joel Arnold
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Joel Arnold on Smashwords
Snow Burn
Copyright © 2010 by Joel Arnold
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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* * * * *
For Paige and Zachary
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Snow Burn
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Chapter 1
For the sake of argument, let’s say –
You’ve just escaped a sinking ship. There’s one more space available on your lifeboat. A child struggles nearby in the frigid water. As waves pound your boat and the wind howls around you in the darkness, you stretch out and grab the child’s hands, pulling him from the water. But as you lift that child from the wreckage into the safety of the boat, you catch a sudden glimpse of his future.
You see:
A life of crime. Lying. Pain. Stealing.
Pain.
Murder.
Pain. Pain. PAIN.
Now you have a choice.
What will you do?
Will you still save the child?
Or will you let his hand slip from yours and watch him drown in a cold, unforgiving sea?
Chapter 2
Let me tell you why Vince Nguyen isn’t just an ordinary jock. For one thing, he’s Cambodian. You don’t see many Cambodians playing football around here. Not a lot of Cambodians named Vince that I know of, either.
For another thing, he’s got…
Wait.
Take Castle High’s last football game of the season.
Vince played defensive end. He’s one of those guys who really gets into the game. He howls, hoots and grunts with the best of them, hurls himself at the opposing players as if he actually enjoys the bruises and the crunch of bones.
We played Seward that night, the school from the other side of town. Fans from both schools packed the bleachers, screaming, cheering, clapping, stomping their feet, teetering on the edge of their seats. We had the ball with two minutes to go. All we needed was a field goal to tie the game.
Jim McGraw, a guy with a jaw the size of a backhoe, kicked the ball. We held our breath as the ball sailed end over end toward the goal post. For a moment it looked like it might squeeze by like a pregnant woman in a turnstile, but the ball had other ideas. It veered to the right, missing the post by inches. The crowd either groaned or cheered, depending on which side of the stands they occupied.
Seward took possession.
I stood near the end zone with the rest of the Castle High marching band, gathering my sticks and snare drum, getting ready to play our cadence and march out of the stadium.
It was a chilly fall night. My fingers were stiff with cold, my knuckles dry and blue. I opened and closed my fingers around my sticks, trying to keep them limber and warm.
Seward’s center snapped the ball. The quarterback pump-faked and handed off to a running back. He ran five yards before a pile of our guys took him down. People in the stands gathered their blankets, half-full popcorn bags and soda cups, getting ready to leave.
Seward threw a short pass to a receiver. He sprinted for twelve yards. Another first down.
It looked grim.
The marching band lined up somberly in formation on the track that surrounded the field. We waited restlessly for the sound of the drum major’s whistle.
But Seward did a reckless thing. A stupid, reckless thing.
With sixty-five yards to go for a touchdown – they passed.
It was a long bomb down the center of the field. To the quarterback’s credit, it was a thing of beauty. Their wide receiver – the one who scored the first TD of the game – ran hard down the field, and you didn’t have to be good at geometry to see that the trajectory of the ball and the runner were about to meet perfectly only ten yards from the end zone.
An amazing pass. Exceptional.
But there was one problem.
Vince Nguyen.
He sprinted alongside the Seward wide receiver, matching him step for step, an almost perfect mirror image except for the color of their uniforms and the color of their skin.
At that moment, it seemed that one of two things could happen.
Either Vince would block the pass, or Seward’s receiver would make a beautiful catch and fly into the end zone from sheer inertia. Either way, we’d lose.
But –
At the last possible moment, Vince Nguyen leapt. He plucked the ball off the receiver’s fingertips, landed on the trampled grass and started running in the opposite direction.
The crowd went wild. Cups were flung, popcorn dumped on heads and expletives burst over the field like gunshots.
Vince ran past one stunned player after another. But Seward wasn’t going to let him run the field unchallenged. A few of them hastily regrouped and waited for him down field.
He ran like a freight train.
The marching band forgot all sense of decorum. We whooped and yelled and jumped and danced and threw expensive instruments in the air like confetti. Even our band director, Mrs. Norris, pumped her meaty fist in the air, the flap of loose skin hanging under her bicep waving like a flag on Independence Day.
He ran toward the end zone, his head down, the crazed smile visible beneath his face guard growing larger with each step.
It was then that I noticed Vince ran with a slight, almost imperceptible limp, as if one of his legs had locked up on him.
He kept coming. He dodged Seward’s center. He spun around Seward’s quarterback, nearly falling.
But he didn’t fall. He remained upright. In motion.
The bleachers shook. Shouting, crying, maniacal laughter rained down from the stands.
He kept coming.
A wild blur.
Twenty yards.
Ten.
There was one more threat between him and the goal.
Seward’s star running back, a big guy with an abundance of speed and muscle.
The running back dove at Vince. A perfect dive. Well aimed. Well timed. Textbook.
Except that he caught only one of Vince’s legs.
And that leg came off in his arms.
Vince spun and teetered, nearly falling, but he caught the trampled turf with his free hand and pushed himself upright.
There were cheers. Screams. Exclamations of horror and laughter.
And Vince, with one leg left, hopped into the end-zone for a touchdown.
The smile on Vince’s face almost split his helmet in two.
The running back held the prosthetic leg, turning it over and over in his hands.
People in the stands quickly realized that Vince hadn’t been torn limb from limb – there was no spurting blood, no raw muscle poking out from his uniform.
Vince laughed and rolled on the ground, hugging the ball. His teammates crowded around him and lifted the one-legged wonder high into the air.
The Seward running back jogged Vince’s prosthetic leg back to him and shook his hand, a dazed look on his face.
Vince held the leg high in the air like a trophy.
The crowd – from both sides of the stadium – roared.
And that was how Vince Nguyen became part of school legend.
That was when I realized he wasn’t just an ordinary jock.
But something happened later that year, something that made Vince more than a legend.
At least to me.
Chapter 3
I got to know Vince shortly after the big football game, when he heard me practicing on the band room’s drum set after school.
See, when I drum I lose track of the world around me. Time stands still. Everything outside drums ceases to exist. I didn’t notice Vince until he grabbed a ringing crash cymbal, muffling the vibrations and startling the hell out of me.
“I know you,” he said. “You live two blocks down from me.”
I glanced around the room, getting my bearings. It was just the two of us. “Oh,” I said.
“You have your own set?”
“Yeah.” It was an old Yamaha set I inherited from my brother when he went off to college. I’d been teaching myself how to play, listening to great drummers like Buddy Rich, Neal Pert and Keith Moon, trying to imitate their styles.
“I play guitar,” Vince said. “We should jam sometime.”
My b.s. detector was on heightened alert. Was this a joke? Was there a herd of jocks standing just outside the door, laughing it up while the star of the team screwed with the band geek. I tried to read his eyes.
He frowned, waiting.
“Okay,” I sighed. “I guess.”
He nodded. “Cool.”
I remained leery.
But the next weekend, Vince Nguyen, star of the Castle High football team, lugged his Gibson guitar and Peavey amp over to my house. As soon as he stomped on his distortion pedal and played that first bone-jarring chord, I knew he wasn’t joking around.
We had a blast.
We played for over three hours. My little sister watched us with her hands over her ears and a big smile on her face. We played until my dad came down into the basement wincing.
“Hate to break it up, boys,” he said, “but that’s all your mother and I can take today without checking into the funny farm.”
My ears rang joyfully for the rest of the day.
Turns out we shared the same taste in movies, too. I turned him on to Alfred Hitchcock, and he introduced me to the blood-soaked subtleties of classic drama like Friday the 13th and Halloween.
When we passed each other in the halls at school, he’d say, “Hey, brainiac,” and I’d answer, “Hey, ya dumb jock.”
At first, his other friends thought I was being a smart ass. You could almost see the testosterone pulsing through their brains, their simian necks and shoulders tensing, readying to dish out a severe pummeling.
But Vince said, “Cool it, guys. He’s joking. Besides, we are a bunch of dumb jocks. Be proud of it.”
They were cool after that. Some even gave me a nod in the halls when I passed by.
Guess we all make snap judgments about people. Sometimes you’re right. Sometimes you’re wrong.
Vince and I shared a social studies class, but we had assigned seats on opposite sides of the room. One day, our social studies teacher, Mr. Sweeny, walked slowly up and down the aisles, his hands clasped behind his back. He stopped at the row of windows overlooking the student parking lot. He stared out at the empty blue sky and asked, “If you had the chance to go back in time and kill Adolph Hitler when he was a child, knowing that in doing so, you’d potentially save millions of lives, would you do it?” He turned around to face us. “Would you murder a child?”
There was an almost universal “Well, duh!” as students nodded and said “Of course.”
Everyone except Vince.
His hand shot into the air.
“Mr. Nguyen,” Sweeny said. “You’re shaking your head.”
“I couldn’t murder a child,” Vince said.
“Not Adolph Hitler? Knowing the atrocities he’d commit?”
Vince shook his head. “Nope.”
Mr. Sweeny paused, and then asked, “What about Pol Pot?”
The hint of a smile ran across Vince’s lips. He stared at his desk and shook his head. “No,” he said. “Because as children, they’re innocent.” He looked up at Mr. Sweeny. “And I couldn’t kill someone who’s innocent.”
Mr. Sweeny smiled. “But Vince, we’ve all heard how your mother and father escaped Cambodia. How they watched their brothers and sisters die under Pol Pot’s regime. You wouldn’t want a chance to change all that?”
Vince said, “Pol Pot wasn’t born a monster. He was born like you and me. Like everyone here. It was the world that changed him. The world turned him into a monster.”
“But knowing that he would become a monster,” Mr. Sweeny insisted.
“No,” Vince said.
“But – ”
“No,” Vince said. “The only way to overcome evil is through acts of goodness. Not through revenge.”
Mr. Sweeny raised an eyebrow. “Much easier said than done.”
Vince shrugged. “That’s no excuse.”
Sweeny looked at him a moment without saying anything.
The bell rang.
Even after the bell stopped, even after its echoes died quietly in the hallways, there was a moment when no one moved, no one spoke. And then all at once the spell broke. The entire class rose from their seats and headed out the door.
I waited for Vince, but he walked by me without seeming to notice I was there. I watched Mr. Sweeny sit down behind his desk, lean back in his chair and rub his eyes as if they were full of sand.
Chapter 4
Look, this isn’t really about football or tricky ethics questions.
This is really about the January weekend Vince’s parents went to Las Vegas for the weekend, leaving Vince alone at his house.
Of course when parents are gone, plans get made, and the first thing we planned was a caffeine soaked slasher fest.
Meaning –
– we’d stay up all night Friday and Saturday drinking Mountain Dew and Coke and watching movies like My Bloody Valentine and Prom Night.
Of course, my mom and dad didn’t need to know that Vince’s parents were gone, because they’d never go for that. They’d insist Vince stay at our house. Then our caffeine soaked slasher-fest would be a bust. For one thing, we couldn’t watch those movies because they scared my sister. Plus, my folks didn’t want me hopped up on caffeine after seven o’clock.
Plus, Vince had his own fifty-inch flat screen plasma TV with surround sound speakers mounted on the walls of his bedroom. He even had two incredibly comfortable recliners with cup holders. It was almost better than going to a movie theater.
“How’d you afford all this stuff?” I’d asked him the first time he showed it to me.
He winked. “By giving my special Cambodian rubdowns to my mom’s old lady friends.”
“That’s sick!”
Vince flicked me hard on the shoulder with his middle finger. “What’s sick is the way you look at my mom.”
“Ouch!” I said, rubbing the spot he’d flicked me. “What’s sick is the way you look at your mom.”
We both cracked up.
Then Vince shrugged. “I earned it mowing lawns.”
“Would’ve been easier giving your special Cambodian rubdowns.”
“Speak for yourself.”
So anyway, I asked if I could sleep over at Vince’s that weekend, only lying a little about how Mr. and Mrs. Nguyen thought it’d be really nice if I stayed for the weekend. You know – so they could teach me about the Cambodian culture and all that. Luckily, my dad was too deep into the newspaper to give it much thought, so everything was cool.
I called Vince to tell him it was a go.
“Stay put,” he said. “I’ll come pick you up. Bring warm clothes.”
Even though Vince lived only a few blocks away, he always drove to my house just because he could. I was seventeen, but I still didn’t have my license. I had my permit, but I nearly drove my family off a cliff into the Mississippi River the year before. If it wasn’t for my mom grabbing the wheel and jerking it hard to the right, and my sister screaming, and my dad screaming even louder, we’d all be somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico by now, making another round through some fish’s digestive tract. I guess you could say the whole incident turned me off of the fast track to vehicular independence.
I shoved a sweatshirt, thick socks and long underwear into my duffel bag in case we decided to go tubing down the hill in Vince’s backyard. Last week, after it snowed half a foot, we built a ramp at the bottom, and had a blast flying wildly through the air and landing on the fresh, crisp snow. I put on my winter coat and ski mask, gloves and boots, and waited outside on the front step.
Snow floated lazily from the sky, adding a fresh loose layer to the packed-down snow that covered most of the town. Icicles hung from trees and eaves and car bumpers. Our next-door neighbors, the Byrons, had yellow patches all over their front yard thanks to the Chihuahua they let dash outside to relieve itself. He raced out now, shaking like a sack full of wasps as it squatted down to pee. Poor thing. I wondered how far I could throw him.
Vince soon arrived in his parents’ green mini-van. It slid to a stop on top of our boulevard.
I lugged my stuff down to the van. “Nice driving,” I said.
He revved the engine. “Least I got a license.”
“Just hope my folks aren’t watching.” I hopped in and jerked the door shut.
The wheels spun, flinging snow into the air as he rocked the van off the boulevard. He looked at me with his eyebrows raised.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said, easing onto the road. He took his hands off the wheel and said, “Take over.”
“What? No way.”
“Come on, take the wheel.”
“Put your hands back!”
“How are you going to learn how to drive without proper training?” He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Take the wheel.”
We hit a clump of hard-packed snow and veered toward a parked car.
“Damn it!” I grabbed the wheel, and turned it quickly toward me, straightening us out. “Put your hands back on the wheel.”
He uncrossed his arms and took back the wheel. “You should learn from the best.”
“And who would that be?”
He smiled.
We passed his house.
“Did you forget where you live?” I asked.
That look reappeared on his face – the raised eyebrows, the creepy grin.
“What?” I asked. “What’s going on?”
He shrugged. “I asked myself why waste a perfectly good winter weekend watching cheesy movies when we can have a real adventure?”
“Okay, now you’re scaring me. What do you mean by a real adventure?”
“Remember when I told you I took a winter survival course with my dad last year?”
“Yeah?”
He looked at me like I was an idiot. “Like I said, it’s a perfectly good winter weekend, so why let it go to waste?”
I didn’t like where this was going. “What are you saying, exactly?”
“I’m saying, instead of a regular sleepover, we’re camping. Building an igloo. Living like Eskimos for a couple days.”
Now I looked at him like he was the idiot. “You’re joking, right?”
“Take a look in back,” he said.
I turned and looked in the back of the van. For some reason I’d missed the cooler and the cross-country skies, the Coleman lantern, and the two sub-zero sleeping bags.
“No,” I said. “I can’t do this. My parents would not go for this.”
“That’s why we’re not telling them.”
“But what if something happens to us?”
“Like what? It’s the Nerstrand Woods, not Antarctica.”
The Nerstrand Woods was a state park thirty miles north and west of us. “It’s closed in the winter.”
“State parks never close. They just can’t afford to have anyone work there in the winter. So we don’t even have to pay to get in.”
He looked at me as if he’d just told me I’d won the lottery.
“Come on. Turn around,” I said. Sleeping out in the cold in an igloo held as much appeal as eating a handful of toenails. “What about my dad?” I said, trying to think of something – anything – to get him to stop this nonsense. “You know he’ll call. He always does.”
Vince’s grin grew wider. He sunk his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a cell-phone. “You call him first,” he said, waving it like a doggy treat.
“Your dad left it behind?”
“He always leaves it behind.”
I sighed. No more beating around the bush. “I don’t want to sleep out in the cold. I don’t enjoy sleeping out in the cold.” I shrugged. “I’d rather French kiss a blowfish.”
Vince glanced at me and shook his head, as if dealing with a petulant child. “Tommy, Tommy, Tommy,” he said. “If you’d ever camped in the winter, and spoke from actual experience, I’d cut you some slack. But since I know for a fact that your folks are a couple pussies who think canoeing on Rainbow Lake is too dangerous, I know you’ve never camped outside of a Holiday Inn. So don’t tell me you don’t enjoy it when you’ve never even tried it.”
I sucked cold air in through my teeth. Vince had this way about him that at some point, you just knew there was no way you were going to win with him. We had come to that point. Still, I made one last attempt.
“Vince,” I said, although it sounded much more like a whine than I intended it to.
“Tommy,” he answered, throwing the whiny voice back at me. “Come on. Trust me on this. I know what I’m doing. Dad and I learned how to make an igloo as cozy as the skin under your grandma’s tits.”
“Not funny.”
“Besides, if you really are miserable and cold and don’t like it, we can always pack up our stuff, hop in the van, and come back home to watch Nightmare on Friday the 13th Street or whatever. Okay?”
I knew any more reasoning with him was pointless, so I leaned back in my seat and watched the snow-covered farmland pass by.
“We’ll have fun,” Vince said, that dumb-ass grin spreading across his face like the plague. “Trust me.”
Chapter 5
The truth is, I should’ve seen this coming. If not camping in an igloo, then something. Last time Vince’s parents were gone and I stayed over, we each drank a pot of coffee and wandered around the neighborhood at two in the morning, tossing lit firecrackers through the sewer grates, into mailboxes and downspouts. Unfortunately, we weren’t as crafty as we thought we were. Three separate neighbors saw us, recognized us and called the police. Our parents were woken when the cops returned us home, but where Vince’s mom and dad thought it was just a “boy thing,” my parents were sure I was headed down a path that would lead to the state penitentiary by the time I was eighteen. My folks just didn’t seem to get that there was more to life than school, work, television and a good pot roast.
We drove on a snow-packed two-lane road past farmhouses and restless cows. Vince looked huge propped up in the driver’s seat.
“How did you get to be so big?” I asked, still in a pissy mood from the change of plans.
“Big?”
“Yeah. I mean, your mom and dad – no offense, but if you ate them for breakfast, you’d probably still have room left over for Lucky Charms.”
“You’re saying they’re small?”
I shrugged.
“You’re insulting my parents?”
“No. I’m just saying – ”
“You’re saying my mom slept with the milkman? The mailman?”
“No. It’s just that – ”
“Come on, pull your foot out of your mouth.”
“It’s just that you’re big, and they’re both so small. That’s all. Just an observation.”
“Okay, Einstein, tell me this. You’ve got a decent looking dad, a really hot mom – ”
“I can see where this is going…”
“ – so why is it you’re so ugly?”
“You think my mom is hot? You’re making me sick.”
“If you’re going to be sick, do it outside so I can whack off – you know, thinking about your mom and all.”
“Ugh!” I laughed, nearly choking on my Juicy Fruit. That’s one of the things I liked about Vince – he’d say anything for a laugh.
The snow fell in big lazy flakes. Farmland turned to forest. The smell of pine seeped in through the vents. I took a deep breath of it. “This is pretty cool out here,” I admitted.
“You’re welcome.”
“I’m still going to get in big-time trouble with my folks.”
Vince shrugged. “There are worse things that could happen.”
The passing trees thickened, their trunks dark amidst the snow-filled land, their branches weaving together, forming an impenetrable green wall.
There are worse things that could happen.
We’d soon find out how true Vince’s words were.
Chapter 6
Vince drove slowly past a small brown hut that marked the entry point to Nerstrand Woods. As Vince suspected, the place was deserted. I grabbed a map from an open Plexiglas case as we drove by.
“I love this cold,” Vince said. “I don’t know how I would’ve made it if I’d been born in Cambodia. I’d be sweating all the time.”
We drove further, passing the designated campsites.
“Now where are we going?” I asked.
Vince shook his head. “You didn’t think we were going to camp there, did you? That’s for pussies. What fun is it to camp next to a parked car? And an iron grill? And look – outhouses. Bet it smells up the place at night.”
I sighed. “If everything’s frozen, it wouldn’t smell.”
“That’s not the point,” Vince said. “The point is, if we’re going to camp, then let’s camp. The sites here are only one step away from staying at a resort.”
We stopped in the middle of the one-lane road briefly while Vince looked over the map. “Here we go,” he said. He looked up. “Keep your eyes peeled for a trail sign that says Little Crow Falls. Shouldn’t be much further.”
I soon spotted the sign. Vince pulled the mini-van into a small turn-out next to the trail-head. “Are you up for this?” he asked.
I gave him an are you freakin’ kidding me look, but he didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he opened up the back of the van, and started yanking out gear and setting it in the snow. “Are you gonna help or just stand there?”
I reluctantly pulled a backpack out of the van.
“See? I took care of everything.” Vince smiled. “I even packed your crap for you.”
I rolled my eyes. “So are we going to set up here?”
He laughed. “Didn’t you notice the skis?”
“No.”
“You’ve skied before, right?”
“I don’t know if I’d call it skiing.”
A few weeks earlier during winter break, a foot of snow buried the town. Vince appeared at my door on skis. He had his dad’s pair strapped to his back. We skied around my block a few times. It took a little getting used to, but I ended up having fun.
This, however, was different.
“You want us to carry all this stuff on skis?”
“Give the man a cigar!”
“How about giving me a ride home?”
“Do you know what you need?” Vince asked.
“A hand job from Cathy Hader?”
“Hey!” He threw a chunk of snow at me. “No, what you need is some self-confidence.”
“Okay, pops.”
“Seriously. You’re always a glass-half-empty kind of guy.”
“That’s why the chicks dig me,” I joked.
“You always think the worst is going to happen, but it never does.” He stepped onto his skis, clamping them onto his boots. “You spend too much energy worrying.”
I placed my foot on a ski and it slid away. “That way, I’m never disappointed.”
“That’s no way to live, man.”
“Okay, dude,” I said.
“Even when you’re being a twit, you’re still a good guy.”
I wrestled my skis on and tested them before Vince loaded a pack onto my back.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve got the heavy one.”
Chapter 7
At first I thought I’d never make it more than a hundred yards. The backpack seemed to press me into the snow with each glide-step I took. The weight felt weird on my back, the padded straps awkward on my shoulders. But I soon got used to the feel of it all and got into a rhythm moving my legs.
Push. Glide. Push. Glide.
“See?” Vince said. “Piece of cake.”
The cold air felt good. Fresh. The small thermometer attached to Vince’s zipper read fifteen degrees, and there was only a slight breeze. Vince broke trail, and I followed about ten feet behind in his tracks.
Push. Glide.
“How far are you planning on going?” I asked.
“To the end of the trail,” Vince said.
“How far is that?”
Vince laughed. “The less you know, the better.”
Push. Glide. Push.
“You do realize you’re in better shape than me,” I said.
“Don’t worry. It wouldn’t be much fun if you keeled over and I had to drag your ass the rest of the way. It’s only another mile or so.”
“That all?” I panted as sarcastically as I could.
It was pretty amazing to watch Vince ski, knowing he had an artificial leg. Especially realizing that he was actually holding back so that I could keep up with him. He’d once shown me his leg after an afternoon of jamming in my basement. He sat down on the couch and peeled up the denim cuff of his jeans.
“It’s a transtibial prothesis,” he said. “That means it’s for the fortunate gimps like me who only got their leg taken off below the knee. Makes things a lot easier; there’s a lot less pain and agony to go through when you still have your knee.”
The limb was covered with silicon that closely matched the color of his skin. He pulled the denim up further until I could see his real skin. He twisted the limb and pulled it off. I couldn’t help but stare for a moment at the nub where his leg had been severed.
“Kind of wild, ain’t it?” he said, grinning. He handed me the prosthesis. “See that top part where it attaches to my leg? That’s the liner. It needs to fit just right so it doesn’t hurt. Every once in a while if I twist in a certain way, it hurts like hell, but most of the time I hardly know it’s there.”
I held the limb up, examining it.
“See that part there?” he said, pointing to the ankle. “There’s a G.P.S. and odometer in there, in case anyone needs to track me down, and the shin opens up into a cell phone and digital camera.”
I looked up at him, my jaw hanging open. “You’re kidding me.”
He waited a moment before cracking into a big smile. “You believed me for half a second, though, didn’t you?”
“G.P.S. and camera my ass.”
“Give me back my leg.”
“I’m going to tell Cathy Hader you’ve been taking pictures up her dress with this thing.”
“The hell you will.”
“The hell I won’t.”
“Give me my leg.”
I waved it in front of him. “Where do you want it?”
He reached out and grabbed it, yanking it from my hands. “Don’t tempt me, Tommy. Don’t tempt me.” Chuckling, he lightly conked me on the head with it.
Push. Glide. Push.
“You’re doing great,” Vince called back to me over his shoulder.
“If I don’t make it, you’re not getting my drum set.”
“If you don’t make it, I’ll bury you under a snow drift and pretend I never knew you.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“No problem, Kemo Sabe.”
Push. Glide…
For a while, we skied in silence, listening to the soft sound of snow falling from thick pine trees. Every once in a while, a branch snapped, or a squirrel cussed us out.
Push…
Something started ringing.
I stopped mid-glide. “What’s that?” I asked, my heart racing.
Vince looked around, and then stopped. He took off a glove and reached into his pocket.
The cell phone.
He looked at the caller ID. “It’s your folks,” he said.
“Oh, great.”
“We just won’t answer it,” Vince said.
“No. We have to answer it.”
“You can call them back later.”
“Answer it,” I said.
He pushed a button and said, “Hello? This is Vince. Yeah, he’s here.”
I tried to force my breathing back to normal, then signaled Vince to hand me the phone.
“Hello?” I said.
My dad’s voice came through loud and clear. “What’s going on?” he asked.
I looked at Vince. “We’re watching a movie.”
“You sound like you’re out of breath.”
“I was in the bathroom…ran up the stairs.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Let me speak to Mr. Nguyen.”
I looked at Vince. “Just a second.” I held the phone tight against my jacket, and whispered to Vince, “He wants to talk to your dad.”
Vince whispered back, “Tell him he’s not here.”
I spoke into the phone. “He’s not here right now.”
“What do you mean, he’s not there? What about Mrs. Nguyen?”
My mind grasped for an answer. “They’re at the grocery store. They’re getting us popcorn and pop and stuff.”
Dad breathed heavily through the phone. “Okay. Can you have them call me right when they get home?”
I wanted to drop face-first into the snow. “Okay.”
Dad sighed. “You know I don’t want you over there when his parents are gone.”
“They had to go to the grocery store,” I said again.
“Don’t drink too much pop. You need to get to sleep at a decent hour.”
I nodded eagerly at the phone, as if Dad could see me. “I know.”
“Don’t forget to have Mr. Nguyen call me.”
I winced. “Okay. I won’t.”
I turned off the phone and tossed it back to Vince. “Great,” I said. “What do I do now?”
“Nothing. We ski. Tomorrow tell him you forgot to call back.”
“He’ll call again in a couple hours.”
“We’ll deal with it then.” He pocketed the phone and glided forward. “You worry too much,” he said. “Let’s just hope you don’t have to drag me out of here. I’m guessing you really would leave me buried in a snow bank.”
Big sticky flakes landed in my eyelashes, melted and dripped in my eye and down my cheek like big tears. White birch trees stood nearly invisible against the snow, the black and brown knots on their trunks like the spots of a Dalmatian. Everything was quiet except for the shhhh shhhh of our skis and the snick snick snick of our poles in the snow. I imagined I was in a giant snow globe, the kind you shake up, the fake snow glittering over a tiny winter diorama.
The kind where your tiny dad waits in a tiny house ready to expose your huge lie.
I took a deep breath. The scent of pine filled my lungs.
Push.
Glide.
Push.
Shit.
But maybe Vince was right. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, after all.
Chapter 8
“What do you think of Cathy Hader?” Vince asked.
I’d fallen about twenty feet behind, and barely heard him. “I think you’ve got the hots for her,” I said.
Vince stopped and looked back at me over his shoulder. I soon caught up, but had to stop and lean against a tree to catch my breath. “She’s a cheerleader,” I said. “And she’s smart. Beautiful. She even says hi to me in the hall. What’s not to like about her?”
“Do you think she’d go out with me?” Vince’s light brown skin turned a shade darker.
“Huh,” I said. “I didn’t know you could blush.”
“Seriously. Do you think – ” He paused.
“Why not? You’re a jock. It’s the rule. Cheerleaders and jocks – peanut butter and jelly.”
He looked at me like I’d just farted. He shook his head. “But I mean – ”
“What, you’re leg?”
His eyes narrowed. “What about my leg? I was talking about the fact that I’m Cambodian.”
“Oh. That.”
Vince grew agitated. “You think my leg’s a problem, too?”
“No.”
“You think I’m a cripple?”
“No!”
“A gimp?”
I finally realized he was joking. “No.” I laughed.
Vince chuckled. “But seriously, I mean – you think I should ask her out?”
“She seems nice enough,” I said. “For a cheerleader, anyway. And despite you being a football star, you’re a pretty nice guy, too. Besides, what’s the worst that can happen? Aside from completely humiliating you in front of all your friends?”
“Thanks.”
“If she does that, just yank off your leg and take a swing at her.”
“Nice.”
“But seriously. Go for it. Ask out the beautiful, gorgeous, girl-of-my-dreams cheerleader.”
“I will.”
“Seriously.”
“I am serious. I will.”
“If you don’t,” I said, “then I will.”
“Right.”
“I’m serious,” I said.
“I bet you are.”
“Seriously.”
“Okay.”
“You doubt me?”
“Doubt is such a strong word,” Vince said. “But it won’t be an issue, cause I’m asking her out first thing when we get back.” Vince turned around and pushed off, shooting ahead.
I took a deep breath and slid one ski forward, then the other, wondering when the hell we’d ever get to wherever it was we were going.
Chapter 9
Finally, finally, finally, Vince said, “This looks like a good spot.”
Finally.
With relief, I slid the pack off my back and leaned against a bare birch, shaking off my skis.
“Don’t get too comfy,” Vince said. “We still have work to do.”
There were two empty rectangular plastic containers tied to the outside of Vince’s backpack. He untied them and tossed me one. “These are for the walls,” he said. “Fill it up, pack it down, and you’ve got an instant brick.” With the toe of his boot, he drew a large circle in the snow. “Here’s where the wall will be. Line up the bricks on it. We’ll stack ‘em up a few layers high, then we need to start curving inward.” He erased part of the large circle with his boot. “Here’s the entrance.”
He seemed confident about what he was doing, but I wasn’t ready to get all happy about it until we were safe inside, sitting around a small fire. He better have matches, I thought.
We got to work, making snow bricks and arranging them in a circle. We added another layer, and another.
By our fourth layer, it started to snow again. Vince stepped over the wall into the middle of the growing shelter. “Let’s get a move-on,” Vince said, pulling back his coat sleeve to look at his watch. “It’s starting to get dark.”
“Great.” I scooped more snow into the container and packed it down. Vince scooped up snow from the igloo’s floor. As I stacked the bricks of snow, Vince smoothed the inside walls, easing the bricks into place and filling in the gaps.
The temperature dropped. The wind whistled through the trees. The snowflakes lost their charm. Instead of being fat and lazy, they’d become tiny pellets that stung my cheeks. I leaned forward, hoping they’d land on my hat, but they hit my nose and forehead and snuck down the collar of my coat, biting my throat and neck like icy mosquitoes. I pulled my ski mask down over my face, but my nose, neck and eyes were still exposed.
“I don’t suppose you checked out a weather forecast before embarking on this great adventure of ours?” I grimaced as snow crept between my gloves and sleeves, stinging my wrists. The walls were now up to Vince’s chin.
“They said it was supposed to be calm through the weekend with a light chance of snow.”
“Has there ever been a weather forecast that came even close to being right?” I asked, my voice muffled through the material of the ski mask.
Vince looked up at the sky. “Don’t worry about it. Once we get this thing done, it could be the storm of the century and it wouldn’t make a bit of difference to us.”
“You’re pretty confident about your igloo building skills, aren’t ya?”
Vince slid a newly formed block of snow onto the growing wall. “If we always did things your way, we’d be sitting in bed with teddy bears and sucking our thumbs.”
“Are you saying you didn’t bring teddy bears?”
Vince scooped up a handful of snow and flung it at me. “Here’s your teddy bear. And here.” He flung more snow at me.
“Okay, okay.” I held up my hands in surrender. “Let’s get this eighth wonder of the world done before morning.”
We eased the last brick onto the top by the time the sun’s dim light left the sky. It had been easier than I thought.
“A thing of beauty, ain’t it?” Vince said from inside, his voice quiet through the snowy walls.
He cut a hole about the size of a cantaloupe out near the top for ventilation. He kicked his way out of the bottom and we worked on the entrance in the dark, with only a couple flashlights to see by.
“I’ll finish here,” Vince said. “You start gathering firewood. Get a variety of stuff.”
“How’re we going to light it?” I asked. “Won’t it be all wet?”
Vince winked at me. “I know an old Indian trick.”
I gathered wood in one arm while holding a flashlight in my other hand, dropping the wood near the growing entrance.
“Does it need to be so long?” I asked, nodding at the entrance.
“That’s how it’s supposed to be,” Vince said. “It keeps the inside nice and warm.” With a grunt, he stood up, admiring the frozen architecture. “Perfect.”
I had to admit, it looked pretty cool. “You’re sure we won’t freeze in there?” I asked.
“Trust me,” he said.
We hauled in our packs and wood through the long tunnel-like entrance. Inside, the igloo was barely large enough to stand up in, the ventilation hole just above eye level.
“What do you think?” Vince asked.
I nodded. “Gotta say, we did a pretty decent job.”
Vince’s eyes brightened. “We forgot to sign it.”
“Sign it? With what?”
“Follow me.”
We crawled outside into the cold air. The wind had picked up. I followed Vince to the back of the igloo. He took off his gloves and unzipped his pants.
“Unless you have really good bladder control, I recommend cursive.” He proceeded to whiz on the back of the igloo, spelling out his name in crude yellow letters.
“Nice,” I said. I followed suit, barely having enough left in me to cross the T in Tommy.
“Excellent job, my friend,” Vince said. We stood admiring our work, grinning like idiots.
I shivered. “Why don’t you show me that old Indian trick you were telling me about,” I said.
Chapter 10
I never realized the indigenous people of America carried lighter fluid with them. After a brief struggle with the childproof cap and a few squirts from the can Vince pulled from his backpack, all it took was the toss of a lit match, and our fire blazed bright and hot.
A thought suddenly crossed my mind. “Won’t this melt the snow?”
Vince patted me on the back. “Not a chance. In fact, what little snow does melt inside here will refreeze and make the walls even stronger.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
The cell phone rang.
My heart flipped.
Vince glanced at the caller ID. “It’s for you,” he said.
“You answer it. Tell him I’m taking a crap.”
“Won’t he want to talk to my dad?”
“Just answer it,” I said.
Vince held it to his ear. “Hello? Hi, Mr. Connell. I’m doing great. Tommy’s taking a crap.”
I scowled.
He shrugged. “My dad? He’s busy right now. Taking a shower. Mom’s out right now. Yes. Okay. I’ll have one of them call you as soon as possible.” Vince turned the phone off and tossed it on the packed-down snow. “Persistent, ain’t he?”
“You weren’t supposed to actually say ‘Tommy’s taking a crap.’”
“That’s what you told me to say.”
“I didn’t mean in those exact words.”
“Well, whatever. Fact is, we’re here – out in the woods in the middle of winter, and what do you know? We’re snug as two bugs in a rug. And guess what?”
There was that stupid grin again. “What?”
He rummaged in his backpack and pulled out a bottle. He held it up for me to see.
“No,” I said. “You dumb-ass. No way.”
It was a bottle half-full of brandy, one snatched straight from his parent’s liquor cabinet.
“Come on. Just a drink or two won’t hurt.”
“I’m already going to be in enough trouble as it is.”
“Don’t be such a puss.” Vince unscrewed the cap and took a swig. He gasped. “Tastes gross. Burns your throat.” He took another sip, then handed it to me. “Come on.”
With an endorsement like that, how could I say no? I decided to take a tiny sip, just so he’d stop bugging me about it.
“Ugghh!” It not only burned my throat, but my lips and tongue as well. I broke open a bag of chips to get the taste out of my mouth. “How can people drink that crap?”
Vince took the bottle back and took another swig. Again, a look of disgust crossed his face. But he took another swig. “If you keep drinking, it starts to taste better.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“More for me, then.” But he only took one more sip, and screwed the cap back on. I passed him the chips.
As he munched, he looked up at the hole in the roof. I looked up, too. Flakes fell through the hole, melting as they neared the small fire.
My face grew hot as I thought about my dad. A wave of dizziness passed over me, and my throat felt like it had a dead bug stuck deep inside of it. What should I do about my parents? They were expecting me to call, or at least Vince’s parents, who were completely out of the picture. Why did this happen whenever I was with Vince? It was always something – like I could never just completely sit back and enjoy myself.
Always something.
A strange thought occurred to me. What if I just called and fessed up? Tell Dad the truth? What’s the worst he could do?
Other than never let me get my driver’s license, and kick me out of the house, and give their entire inheritance to my sister, and…
Well, okay – they wouldn’t actually do any of those things. But they’d be disappointed. Very disappointed. And they knew how to pour on the guilt.
But if I didn’t call and fess up, things could turn out a lot worse.
Damn it, Vince!
The cell phone rang again.
Vince glanced at the phone. “It’s your dad again. Want me to tell him you’re still taking a crap?”
“Give me the phone,” I said. “I’m going to tell him the truth.”
Vince smirked. “No way.”
“Yeah. Come on. Give me the phone.”
“You’re really going to tell him you lied and went camping in the woods in the middle of winter with no adult supervision?”
“Yes. Now give me the phone.”
I still didn’t know if I’d go through with it. Maybe once I opened up the phone, I’d pretend I was still at Vince’s house and his parents were out for the moment, or busy.
But I didn’t get the chance.
Because Vince, in his infinite wisdom, tossed the ringing phone up into the air. His aim was perfect. The phone flew out the roof’s ventilation hole in a splendid arc. The sound of its ring was swallowed by the degrading weather outside.
I stared at Vince, my mouth hanging open. I wanted to knock that cheesy, stupid dumb-ass grin right off his face. “You idiot!” I shouted. “Why’d you do that?”
“I just solved your problem,” Vince said. “Now you can’t hear the phone, so there’s no need to answer it.”
Chapter 11
I reached into my great big bag of curse words and hurled them at Vince, one after the other.
“Settle down,” Vince said. “I did you a favor. Besides, if you told your folks the truth, then my folks would find out, too.”
“I thought you said they wouldn’t care!”
Vince shrugged. “Well, maybe they would.”
I slumped against the igloo wall. “Geez. Thanks a lot.”
“Mellow out, would you? The fact is, you’re out here, and you’re pretty much stuck here until we leave tomorrow, so why worry about it?”
“Because if Mom and Dad can’t get a hold of anyone on the phone, first thing they’ll do is check out your house. Then when they find out nobody’s home, they’ll call the cops. Then there’ll be search parties and I’ll be on the news, and you’re a damn idiot!” I blurted.
“If they don’t get a hold of anyone on the phone,” Vince said, “they’ll assume we’re watching a movie with the sound turned way up and no one can hear the phone. Okay? Or maybe they’ll think everyone turned in early for the night. Okay? That’s all that’s gonna happen.” Vince shook his head. “You think too much. You worry too much. Thank God you’ve got me to straighten you out.”