Page 34 of Just Like the Brontë Sisters

Part of me wanted to say yes. But I couldn’t lose my virginity to Gavin; I’d only be proving him right when he realized how inexperienced and ignorant I was. I had to sleep with someone else first, before I slept with him.

“No, you should go.”

“But it’s snowing.” Gavin pointed towards the window. I looked in the direction of his finger and saw that he was right. Big, powdery flakes were falling, like the earth had some serious dandruff.

“Wow! That’s going to make great powder. I can’t wait for skiing tomorrow!”

Gavin placed his fingers underneath my chin and lightly pushed my face toward him, so I was looking him in the eye. “Please, Sky? Let me stay.”

He was shirtless, as was I. I couldn’t imagine going out in the cold but I could imagine us crawling into bed, clinging to each other, creating our own brand of heat. I let him kiss me and then his hands were doing crazy nice things and I was about to say yes, please stay, when he stuck his tongue in my ear. Had Edward-the-vampire ever stuck his tongue in Bella’s ear? I thought not. In fact, I doubted that in all the cheesy romance novels with covers that featured a shirtless man with a killer six-pack, that ever once had the hero shoved his tongue into his lady-love’s ear.

I mean, in what world is that sexy?

I wriggled away, grabbed my shirt, covered myself, and stood. “Gavin, I have a busy day tomorrow, so I think I’ll go to bed. If you don’t want to drive home in the snow, you can sleep in my old bedroom.”

His disheartened sigh was straight out of The Old Man and the Sea, but to be fair, Gavin had been shot down by me a million times already. “Sure.”

Now, this morning, as I stood in my kitchen, watching him make coffee, seeing him comfortable in nothing but boxer shorts and a t-shirt, I realized that unlike Jo Beth with Mitch, I could be confident that with Gavin there would never be any surprises.

Yet, life without surprises was like a story without suspense.

“I have to get going,” I said, completely evading his comment about last night, sure that he wouldn’t press things. “Can you let yourself out?”

He nodded. “Sure. See you later?”

“Maybe.”

Later at ski practice I raced down the mountain, flying around and over the moguls that I’d come to love, while in my mind anticipating the competition coming up this weekend. Our coach, Billy, thought I had a good chance of winning in several categories.

When I got to the bottom of the run he was there, stopwatch in hand. “Excellent, Skylar! That was your best time yet.”

I removed my goggles and steadied my breathing. After finishing a run, it always took me a moment to return to earth. “Really? When I snagged an edge at the beginning of the course I worried that I’d slowed myself down.”

“Nope.” Billy showed me my time on his stopwatch. He was right. Not bad.

Then Billy and I competed for the broadest grin. “Have you thought about the Olympic trials?” he asked.

I stared at him, confused. “I’m not my sister.”

“But you’re an amazing skier in your own right. I think you have a fair shot at the team.” Billy patted me on my shoulder, which had the effect of brushing snow off my parka. “Think about it,” he said. “If you decide you’re interested, we can talk more.”

I did think about it. I thought about the Olympics all day, making Gavin, Jo Beth, and every other concern of mine melt like snow underneath a strong winter sun. But I could feel the puddles in my brain, dripping down and icing over, and nothing functioned right because there was too much going on. And to top things off, I had Literary Club that evening.

Literary Club met twice a month. Every two weeks we read a classic novel and then we’d each try to write something with a similar tone. This week’s pick was Catcher in the Rye. Since I was determined to finish my novel, my writing exercises always became a chapter in the continuing story of Mary, the governess and secret serial killer who had a nasty habit of murdering the lord of each manor right after she fell in love with him. Thanks to the influence of Literary Club, each increment was written in a different style. One week, Mary sounded like George Elliot, the next week, she resembled Kurt Vonnegut. My heroine wasn’t just a sociopath; she was also entirely schizophrenic.

And that evening, when it was my turn to read my chapter, I was as scattered as Salinger’s Franny Glass in the midst of her existential meltdown. I suppose that was appropriate as I read my Catcher in the Rye knock-off, clearing my throat, trying to keep both my voice and hands from shaking.

“Yesterday at breakfast, Mrs. Hampstead served oatmeal, and it was the lumpiest, most tasteless glop I’d ever eaten. Ten times worse than what I was served as a child at the orphanage. It reminded me of Sunday mornings, knowing I would be made to sit in a hard-wooden pew for hours, underdressed in my thin coat, shivering beneath the drafty air and the reverend’s watchful eye. I could barely stomach the glop, and then you came down. You sat, smiling and amiable as hell. You lapped up the oatmeal and praised Mrs. Hampstead on her cooking, and all the while you refused to meet my sad gaze. Could you sense the danger? Did you understand that I am the black widow?

It took you only a moment to finish breakfast, and then you disappeared behind those insincere walls and we were once more separated.

You drive me mad. I am so depressed I might literally go crazy. I hate goddam Chamberlin and every insincere molecule that comprises it. But most of all, I hate this urge to kill whatever or whoever it is that I love.

Because sure as sin, you’re next.

I lowered my pages and waited for people to respond. There was a collective pause, and then Anna, the most outspoken member of our group, chimed in. “It’s like J.D Salinger hijacked a Brontë novel.”

I half smiled. “Is that good or bad? Because I was just trying to fit with the style.”