Chapter 7: Skylar

Shortly after I moved in with Jo Beth, she and I began this constant informal game of truth or dare. The only twist was we didn’t get to choose ”truth” or “dare” —we randomly assigned them to each other whenever inspiration struck. Jo Beth always won. But then one overcast February afternoon during my junior year of high school, we strapped our skis to our back and hiked up Tenderhook Ridge to ski off-slope. We were alone and a storm was approaching.

“Hey!” I cried. “Dare! You’re going to jump over that ravine.” I pointed up slope to a mess of craggy rocks and protruding branches.

“No thanks, Sky. I don’t have a death wish.”

“You’re not accepting the dare? You forfeit? I actually win a round?”

She laughed but looked down, adjusting her ski goggles. “You can’t just change the rules in the middle of the game.”

“How am I changing the rules?”

There was a sudden gust of wind and a spray of snow slapped us both across the face. I flinched, but not Jo Beth. “We said that dares need to be doable.” She pointed up the ravine. “That’s not doable, that’s suicide.”

For some reason I felt especially stubborn, but I wasn’t sure why. Maybe the moon was full, maybe my lunch wasn’t sitting well, or maybe I was tired of always giving in. “Fine, I’ll do it instead.” I used my pole to snap off the locks of my skis, hoisted them up over my shoulder, and began the climb.

“Come on, Skylar,” Jo Beth yelled. “Give it up.”

I looked back at her, at the silver-medal Olympic skier in her sleek black Bogner parka, which the manufacturers had sent for free. Strands of her long, light brown hair were wind-blown and stuck to her face, and her freckles blended in with her cheeks, which had grown rosy from the cold. Many people forgot that Jo Beth was not beautiful, I suppose because her magnetism propelled her into rock star territory. Meanwhile, I was the younger, un-extraordinary version of my sister and I worried that was all I’d ever achieve. I turned back around, determined to reach a good distance above the area I had challenged Jo Beth to jump. Down below, she shifted her weight and checked her watch as if she were standing at the bus stop.

“You’re insane!”

I could barely make out her words, even though the wind carried them to my ears rather than swallowing them whole.

“Mom and Dad better not blame me for your death.”

She was just trying to scare me. I knew I wasn’t about to die. Only one part of the landscape was very sharp; however, the scattered patches of crusty snow did add to its treachery. But I figured I could zigzag around the blotches of dirt and branches, which would give me enough velocity to hit the decline and fly over the bed of rocks, landing safely onto a plateau of snow at the bottom.

I closed my eyes, said a silent prayer, and took off.

It was like the out-of-body experiences I’d only ever read about. I could literally see myself skiing over this impossible slope, yet I was also the puppet master, controlling my movements from up above. My blood pounded in my ears and I discovered a powerful rhythm as I deftly maneuvered myself through the narrow, snowy path, avoiding the pitfalls, gaining speed, and flying over the rocky ravine that my sister had labeled a death wish. When I landed I returned to myself, laughing and whooping with victory. “Yes!” Then, in a sing-song voice I chanted, “I can do something you can’t do!”

Jo Beth’s mouth turned down and her chest caved, just slightly, before she jutted out her chin. Anyone else would have missed the moment, but to me, Jo Beth broadcast her annoyance as clearly as if she’d yelled it.

“Fine,” she muttered, and made a big show of snapping off her skis and trudging up the mountain, to the exact spot where I had taken off moments ago.

The wind had picked up and snow was simultaneously blowing and falling. By the time Jo Beth reached her destination, the visibility was so bad I could barely make out her turquoise snowflake hat. Razor-edged foreboding jabbed my stomach. Why hadn’t it occurred to me how much Jo Beth had on the line? She’d secured her spot on the ski team for the upcoming Olympics and was supposed to leave next week.

“Don’t do it, Jo Beth,” I yelled. “You won’t be able to see like I could.”

Either she couldn’t hear me or she pretended not to. Jo Beth crouched down into her aerodynamic position and then she became a streak of black and turquoise. She went fast but I felt I was watching her in slow motion, sure of the impending catastrophe yet powerless to stop it. When the tip of her ski hit a patch of dirt she fell forward, her limbs twisting and flailing like they were reaching for something solid, not just grasping at air. She landed face down in a patch of rocks, with her left leg jutting at an unnatural angle.

It took us forever to get to bottom of the mountain. I had to support Jo Beth’s weight as we traipsed gingerly down, abandoning our skis in the hope that they’d still be there when I managed to return. The storm had reduced things to near-white-out conditions. My face, fingers and toes were numb with cold and my limbs ached with fatigue. But my discomfort was nothing compared to Jo Beth’s pain. By the time we’d made it home it was early evening, and much later still when we returned from Urgent Care. Jo Beth hoisted herself out of the car, hopping on one foot over patches of ice to retrieve her crutches from the back seat.

“Let me help you,” I said.

“You’ve helped enough already, Sky.”

And that was the last thing she said to me for two days. Jo Beth had torn a ligament in her knee and her face was bruised and scratched. She would be unable to do her photo-shoot for Rossignol, but more importantly, there was no way she’d win or even compete for the Olympic gold now. And she blamed me for everything.

“Hey,” I said on the second morning of her stony silence. I’d brought up her breakfast of protein shake and pomegranate, which I’d made for her. “Should we drive into Denver today? Maybe there’s a movie worth seeing. I could check the listings.” No response; nothing even registered on her face. “Look, Jo Beth, I’m sorry. Really. Please talk to me.”

I stood there, knowing I should get ready for school, knowing it was good that she hadn’t responded, knowing that an unexcused absence could keep me from getting into my dream school, Cornell.

“Come on. Look at me, please. I really am sorry.”

That word, sorry, always passed too easily from my lips, like a nagging, non-productive cough. Conversely, Jo Beth didn’t know how to say ‘sorry’ at all, but up until then she would at least accept my apologies with grace. Her eyes would turn from steely gray to silver, sparkling as the light bounced off them, her smile warming her face. Not this time. I’d lost her unconditional support and approval, and the ground beneath me felt uneven as I searched, desperately, for a way to get it back. I shouldn’t have bothered. Jo Beth had to be the one to determine the timing of things, and she decided to beckon me later that evening.

“Skylar,” she belted, and I instantly abandoned my trek to the kitchen. I found her in bed, her knee elevated on a stack of pillows. But when I saw what she held, I tasted something sour. Jo Beth was reading my poetry journal.

I’d started keeping it after reading The Bell Jar. It was an outlet for all my rite-of-passage teenage cynicisms: a place to record my philosophical low points as I wrestled with adolescent angst. Even I knew that my writing was ridiculous, self-indulgent ramblings, but isn’t that the point of poetry journals? Nobody but me was ever supposed to read it.

“How did you get that?” I stuttered.

Jo Beth shrugged. “I’m not an invalid and I have crutches. You were out all day, I was bored, so I snooped in your closet.” She said this without apology, daring me to make a stink.

“Oh. That’s okay. I mean, it’s private, but I’m not mad. Can I have it back now?” I reached out, but she slid the journal underneath the pillows that propped up her injured knee. I didn’t dare upset it.

“Calm down, Sky. You have nothing to worry about. You’re really pretty good at poetry.” She smirked and there was a trace of laughter in her voice, just like there was a trace of arsenic in the poppy seed bagel I’d eaten for breakfast that morning. “But they’re all written for Neal Morgan. What’s that about?”

My cheeks burned. I’d told no one about my crush on Neal. He was a year older than me, a senior with a girlfriend, and completely out of my league.

“They’re just stupid poems. Forget them, okay?”

It was like she hadn’t heard me. She pulled my journal back out, leafed through it, cleared her throat, and began her recitation in a pretentious British accent.

“For Neal. #23.

In the twilight song of wraithlike aching,

Owls hoot their isolation while the beautiful find peace.

Meanwhile fog descends, shrouding me in a brooding mist, a lurking trepidation.

Your inky black hair beckons me. Your sturdy shoulders long to sag into my willing arms.

Our crimson lips will meet, parting faintly but with strength

To the taste of life.

Now on a night of pooled vivacity

I hunger for you.”

She laughed and raised an eyebrow. “Not bad, but maybe stop reading so much Brontë. And your thesaurus is going to break down from overuse.”

I forced a laugh. “Yeah. I’m sure you’re right.”

Jo Beth closed my journal and opened her mouth as if to continue. She noticed my non-existent poker face, which surely betrayed my distress, and something must have clicked inside her locomotive of a brain because her lips relaxed into a gentle smile. “Don’t start crying. I thought you’d think it was funny.”

“Well, I don’t.” I reached out my hand. “Can I have my journal back?”

“I’m not done reading it.”

“Come on, Jo Beth.”

Jo Beth examined her fingernails. The manicure she’d had last week was beginning to chip and she picked at the pale pink polish on her left thumb. “You should tell him how you feel. I don’t think Neal has any idea that you’re so into him. It took me by surprise and I know you like I know the back of my hand.”

“And you know the back of your hand so well?”

She stretched out her fingers and gazed. “Maybe not as well as I thought.”

“Jo Beth, I’m serious. Give me back my journal. Now.”

I’d never used such a firm tone with her, but she just grinned like I’d made a joke she’d heard a million times before.

“Sit down.” Jo Beth patted the side of the bed. “Sit down and talk to me. How long have you been pining for Neal? Tell me why you’re so into him.”

She was wide-eyed and guileless. Maybe she really cared. Maybe she actually wanted to know about my stupid, hopeless crush. And after days of the silent treatment, of blaming myself for her having to drop out of the Olympics, her interest in me felt like putting frozen toes in hot water: painful at first, but ultimately soothing. So, I sat and we talked.

I told her that Neal and I had been lab partners and we'd shared some inside jokes, that he’d noticed when I’d gotten my hair cut, and how he’d confided in me about a fight he was having with his girlfriend. Jo Beth was an intent, non-judgmental listener, and at the end of the night, when she asked to hold on to my poetry journal, I said okay. My sister wanted access to my innermost thoughts and I was happy to give her the key.

I fell asleep next to her in her bed. In the morning, after my shower, I went to my room to get dressed and found my poetry journal on top of my computer. Oh good, I thought. She returned it without my asking. I was running late so I hurried to school without checking my phone. But it didn’t take me long to figure things out. The snickers and the pointing were my first clue. I stood at my locker, trying to convince myself I was paranoid, that the laughter and whispers were at someone else’s expense. Then Neal approached. His face was grey and he clenched his jaw.

Like someone had died. Like he wanted to kill me.

“What were you thinking?” His voice seemed purposefully loud, inviting the whole school to overhear.

Instantly I realized I was cornered. My heart flung itself against my ribcage, desperate for escape. “I don’t know what you mean…”

“There is NOTHING between us, okay? Stay away from me, freak!”

He stormed off to people’s applause and high fives. I slammed my locker door shut, made a beeline for the bathroom, locked myself in a stall, and whipped out my phone. One look at Facebook confirmed my worst fears.

Jo Beth had posted three of my most passionate poems about Neal on his wall, using my account.

Two girls entered the bathroom, laughing. “I can’t believe it,” one said.

“I know, right?” said the other. “It’s so ridiculous.”

I flushed the toilet and exited the stall in a rush, before they could name me as the subject of their conversation. They did not give me a second glance as I washed my hands and left the bathroom, but I was sure they were laughing at me.

EVERYONE was laughing at me.

I made it through the day by keeping my head down and saying nothing. The moment the afternoon bell rang I raced home, a million thoughts racing through my head. But they were all variations on the same theme: what I was going to say to Jo Beth. I found her on the living room couch watching TV. I stormed past her and the Pottery Barn apothecary table where she rested her feet. Then I flicked off the huge flat-screen television mounted to the brick wall.

“Excuse you,” she said. “I was watching that.”

I spun around so I was both facing her and standing over her. “Do you hate me or something? Why would you hurt me like that?”

Jo Beth twisted her mouth into a neutral position before answering. She blinked a couple of times, but otherwise, her face stayed passive. “You’re talking about the poems?”

“Of course I’m talking about the poems! The whole school saw them. Neal yelled at me and called me a freak! It was like…” my voice cracked. “It was the most humiliating thing that has ever happened to me and it happened because of you. Why did you do it?”

She sat up straight, flinging her shoulders back, but avoiding my eyes. “It was a truth. I called truth.”

“Truth only works if I’m the one saying it. You can’t say it for me.”

She shrugged. “Well, this time I did. I changed the rules, just like you did last week.”

“That’s completely different.”

Jo Beth raised her voice. “I thought he should know how you felt about him. If you don’t let him know, then you’re giving him all the power.”

“You’re lying!” I shouted. I took a step forward, menacingly close to where she sat. “You blame me for the accident. You’re pissed that I got down that slope and you didn’t. You’re worried that I might be as good a skier as you, so you wanted to hurt me. That makes you vindictive, petty, and the most unlikable person in the world!”

It wasn’t that I was yelling at her for the first time ever; no, I mentioned the possibility that my skiing skills might compare to hers. Such an unforgivable statement was like puking up hot coal. My throat burned, but my stomach felt a hell of a lot better. Jo Beth didn’t lash out like I thought she would. Instead she retreated into herself, becoming smaller as her body sagged into the couch. Her voice was quiet, almost inaudible. “You’ll never be as good as me, Sky. You’re not strong enough for my kind of success.” She kept her eyes down, using her right index finger to trace a polka dot on her flannel pajama pants. “If that makes me the most unlikable person ever, I don’t care.” She forced a tiny laugh. “I mean, I’m not more unlikable than Hitler, or Stalin.”

“They’re both dead.”

“Are you saying I’m the most unlikable person alive?”

“I’m saying that right now, I wish you were dead too.”

Jo Beth’s mouth dropped open and she met my eyes. Her own eyes widened as she waited for me to take it back, to apologize. I ought to have. Because it was my own death I’d been wishing for all day, not hers. Yet for once I could not utter the word sorry.

“You’ll regret this,” she said softly.

I already did.