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January 31, 2004

Posted by anoddphrase in Uncategorized.

this is from those skiing days… or quite possibly very soon after 😛


Daily Theme #7

Mr. Frankenbach

English 250

January 23, 2003


Colonel’s Hall



            The buzz and bustle of the lunch crowd swarmed behind me, like a bunch of busy bumblebees harvesting nectar.  The bright lights and loud noises of Colonel’s Hall, the sectioned off cafeteria in Hunter Mountain where the racers gathered, were grating my nerves.  Colonel’s Hall was.  Not that it didn’t usually, but today more than usual.  I sighed and slouched in the hard, neon-green plastic seat.  Cool sweat dried slowly by the hairline of my forehead, the only remaining evidence, other than my helmet hair, of my morning’s workout.  Up at seven A.M. sharp, on the slopes to gulp in the spicy fresh air, scented with snow by nine; plowing through powder, ice, moguls, and steep terrain in various intervals, usually a few simultaneously.  Then, a short break at noon for lunch and a thawing session.  My toes were still little blocks of ice, only the occasional shot of pain up through my feet to remind me that they were still there.  The soft whir of a zipper sounded to my left and I shifted my gaze onto the burly, grinning face of a dark-haired bear-like boy– teenager, really.

            My eyes narrowed slightly.  “Don’t even think about it, Will.”

“Aw, c’mon, Angie!” the boy drawled, smoothly slipping out a brightly wrapped candy bar from the squishy blue lunch bag that my mom had forced me to haul along with my million pound ski equipment bag.  “Just this one.”

“Uh uh.  That’s what you said five minutes ago.”  I held out a hand and wiggled the fingers.  “Now give it back.”

He smirked and tossed it to me, calling to my brother, David, sitting a few tables over, “Dave, your little sister’s a candy hog.”

“Hmph,” I snorted, fumbling for the piece of candy, barely managing to grasp a hold of it before it hit the floor, “now that’s a good way to get it back.”

“Not like you were going to give it back anyway,” he shot over his shoulder, as he strolled away, hands stuffed in his pockets.  I refrained from rolling my eyes as I flipped the top of the lunch bag open again, dropping the Snicker’s Bar back in.

“You should have just given it to him,” muttered my mother sleepily, dozing to my left with her head resting on the cool– probably extremely dirty –table.

I pursed my lips into a thin, white line.  “He already had two.”  My mother yawned and blinked blearily up at me. 

“Honey, he’s one of David’s friends.  You know, he doesn’t have very many.  You could at least try to be nice to them.”  I frowned noncommittally and glanced over at David.  Relaxed and winding down, looking as normal as possible with clunky, heavy ski boots and the limp, empty arms of his shiny spandex GS suit hanging down beside his swishing, black snow pants like a half-shed snake skin, his companions gathered beside him in the same kind of attire.  His face brightened with a genuine smile as one of his friends made a wisecrack of some sort and my scowl deepened.

“Well, why can’t he have any friends outside of skiing?  He’s so antisocial at school.”

My mother sighed and shut her eyes.  “You know David.  He’s shy with new people and he’s not used to public school-”

“And North Junior High is as public school as you can get,” I muttered, interrupting her.  “Why’d you send him to Tuxedo Park anyway?”  Her eyes opened and slid suspiciously over to focus completely on me.

“We offered it to you, too.”

“I never said you didn’t.  I just want to know why you sent him there.  He didn’t like it, you know.  He didn’t have any friends there either.”

Mom sighed again, moving to prop her chin up with her hands.  “David’s very picky about his friends, honey.  And he’s known the people here for-”

“For forever,” I grumbled, “way too long.”

Her mouth twisted in a lazy smirk.  “Yes, since way back since you were three in Mt. Peter.  This is the only sport that David’s really good at, so he’s more confident here than anywhere else.”  My lips curled in a practiced sneer.

“The only sport he’s really good at and he still stinks.”

“Angie.”  Her voice was far from amused and my face wiped innocently blank. 

“Well, he’s a genius with the violin.”

“But he hates it.”  Her dark eyes, the color and texture of vintage brandy, lingered regretfully on David’s laughing, lanky form.  I shrugged, following her gaze.

“I guess that’s life.  We hate what we’re gifted with.”

She cast a glance over at me.  “Like you and skiing.”

“Hey, I never said I hated skiing,” I protested, holding up a finger.  “I just strongly dislike the sport.  Useless thing really, using up all this energy just to get up a hill and then get back down again at high speeds for no real point.  Not to mention polluting the surrounding environment and ecosystem in order to make the snow to ski on.  Really,” I huffed, shaking my head.

My mother’s lips curved in a grin.  “Strongly dislike, huh?”

“There’s a fine line between strong dislike and hate, you know,” I informed her, patiently.  My stare slid back over to David and our eyes met.  His expression darkened in a glaring warning, only to switch smoothly back to his patented shy smile as one of his friends asked him a question.  How was it that the David I knew and the David they knew contrasted so much, I thought to myself as I stood and strode over to plop down in a chair across from him.




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