February

Anna—Twelve Years Old

I check myself over in the mirror before I head downstairs. Today, we’re going sledding, and Wes is coming with us.

He slept in John’s room, which bothered me. I’m his friend, too. I wanted to be his best friend, but I guess that title went to John because he’s the same age and a boy. Besides, why can’t I sleep in the same room as the boys? It’s certainly never a problem when we go on vacation, and I have to sleep in the same room as John. But Mom said it “isn’t appropriate.” I hate when she says that.

So, after we got home from the movie, I had to go back to my room.

My reflection stares back at me. My dark brown hair’s secured with a low ponytail to wear under my hat, and my thermal underwear makes my sweatshirt and snow pants bulky, but it keeps me warm when we go sledding. This isn’t exactly a flattering outfit, though my excitement for the day overpowers any self-consciousness I feel.

“Anna, you coming?” John shouts.

I run out of my room just in time to see Wes zipping up John’s old winter coat. He doesn’t meet my eyes as he fidgets with the jacket. I know it bothers him a bit to get John’s old things, but if my mom didn’t give them to him, she’d just donate them to someone else. Why not help him out instead of a stranger? I don’t want him to think we pity him though. It isn’t his fault he’s in this position.

“I’m so excited to beat you guys down the hill today,” I taunt.

“Yeah, right. You’re not going to beat me,” John huffs.

“You’ll probably beat me. I’m sure I’m not going to be very good at it,” Wes says.

“You’re going to pick it up just fine,” I reassure him.

“You guys ready?” my mom asks, putting her snow boots on.

“Yeah, I just need to find my gloves,” I tell her.

“Here, honey.” She hands me the gloves I couldn’t find a second ago. “Wesley, these are for you.” She hands him a pair of thick, waterproof gloves.

His cheeks turn pink. “Oh, Mrs. Bellamy, I can’t take those. You just gave me this jacket and the boots.”

“Nonsense. You need the gloves, too. Now, come on, I have a thermos full of hot chocolate to warm you guys up when you’re done.” My mom doesn’t give him a chance to object. She wraps a scarf around her neck, motioning for John to help her get the sleds into the back of the car.

Twenty minutes later, we’re at the top of the hill. Wes watches the other kids as they hop in their sleds and get pushed to soar down the hill. Some shout with glee, others plop over, and a few shriek as they fall out of the sled and get snow up their backs.

We have a two-person sled and a single-person sled.

“Want to go down together?” I ask Wes.

“Uh, sure,” he agrees, though he doesn’t seem very sure.

“Don’t worry, I’ll show you. You have to sit in the back, but put your legs out to the sides, and I’ll sit in the middle.” I guide him into position, showing him to hold on to the handles. “Will you push us down, John?”

I sit in between Wes’s legs and grab on to the handles.

“You ready?” John asks.

“Yes!” I shout, already giddy with the exhilaration of flying.

“Okay, one, two, three!” John shouts as he launches us.

Our sled goes fast, careening down the hill. I’m not much for screaming. Instead, I just hold on tight and laugh as my stomach seems to stay on top of the hill while we bolt down it. I hear Wes gasp behind me, his legs tightening on either side of me, as if to keep me safe and secure.

Stopping is always tricky. The landing has some bumpy ridges to slow the sleds down, but we end up hitting one sideways and topple over. Since I’m in between his legs when we flip, we land, all tangled up.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” he asks, worried.

I laugh and jump up. “I’m fine! Wasn’t it awesome?”

When he sees me smile, he relaxes, then starts to laugh. My eyes almost bulge out of my head. Though I’ve seen him smile a handful of times, I’ve never heard him laugh. He throws his head back, a rich laugh shaking his belly and shoulders, his face transforming into this gorgeous, carefree boy. His blue-gray eyes twinkle at me, his straight white teeth gleaming off the reflection of the snow, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen such a beautiful person in real life before. Or on TV, for that matter.

“Can we do that again?” he asks.

“Of course!”

He carries the sled, and we race back up the hill, finding John gliding down as we reach the top. We race down the hill again and again. Then, finally, we land in a heap, and I know my legs won’t carry me to the top anymore.

“Want to make some snow angels?” I ask him.

“Snow angels?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never made a snow angel before.”

His smile fades a bit, which makes me want to kick myself for my thoughtless words. Of course he hasn’t made a snow angel before. He’s never had the right snow clothes.

“It’s easy. Let’s go over here, so we don’t get trampled by anyone coming down the hill.” I lead him off to the side of the sledding hill where the snow isn’t packed down but still fluffy. “Watch me do it first.”

I stand in front of him, arms out to the sides, then let myself fall backward. I see him watching me with curious eyes as I move my arms and legs from side to side, moving the snow out from underneath my body. I get up and point to the imprint of an angel I made in the snow. “See it?”

“I do. That’s pretty cool.”

“Anna Banana, are you making snow angels again?” John snickers, making fun of me.

He’s been doing this lately, acting like he’s way too cool for me because he’s fourteen now. I hate his superior attitude.

“I told you not to call me that. And, yes, I love snow angels. What, are they not cool enough for you anymore? You made them with me last time,” I point out.

He shrugs. “Last time we came, I was only thirteen.” As if this explains everything.

“Well, I’ll never stop making snow angels, not even when I’m twenty-six.” What fun would that be?

John just laughs and bumps shoulders with Wesley, as if they’re both in on the same joke.

Hurt sours my stomach, and I fight to keep my feelings from showing on my face. I meet Wes’s eyes, daring him to take John’s side, knowing that, if he makes fun of me for this, it’ll hurt even worse than when John does.

“I think you look just like an angel,” he says quietly, his gaze locked on mine.

My heart squeezes at his admission, and I actually feel myself fall a little in love with Wesley Scott.