Page 74 of The Mountain
“What makes an instructor good?” Grandpa asks, changing direction so quickly, it has me shaking my head. “Is it the certificate? Their skill level? Is that all?”
I open my mouth to say: “Yes, obviously,” but then I think of Liam. Of those first couple days of training. He’d seemed bored, annoyed almost, at having to teach us all. I remember how Matty had stared after him in confused panic after one lesson, when Liam had quickly explained how to do some basic demo, then boarded off, leaving Matty with no idea of what to do.
But I knew what Liam wanted, and I knew how to explain it, so I’d fallen to my knees in the snow in front of Matty, and taken hisbig snowboard boots in my gloved hands, and showed him what to do.
“No,” I whisper reluctantly. “No, it’s not.”
Grandpa hums in satisfaction. “So you might not have the certificate, but all those other things, I bet you’ve got them, Lily. I’ll bet you Stephanie could see it. By the sound of it, she’s been around long enough to be capable of spotting talent, of telling who to shoulder tap and who to let fall behind. Maybe she saw something in you that reminded her of her—and sure, that’s bias, but sometimes it’s smart too. It’s basic pattern recognition. It’s understanding that if something has worked before, it might just work again.” Grandpa chuckles. “Besides, you’re my granddaughter. Of course you’d be brilliant at whatever you put your mind to.”
My throat tightens, a choked laugh bursting out, loud in the darkness. “Grandpa…”
“I’m serious, Lily. Don’t sell yourself short. Anyone can train and get a certificate, but those other things, those things you can’t put down on paper or itemize in a spreadsheet—at the end of the day, those are what really count.”
My smile falters.
Grandpa might be right, but if I had a proper instructor’s certificate, I could find a job in the off-season. I could go to New Zealand or Australia or some other place to teach, like so many others following endless winters like migratory birds in reverse.
I could stay with the guys. Could make what we have into something real, something that will last for more than a season.
“I’d like to get a real certificate, though,” I rasp, fingers tightening on my phone. “The New Zealand one is really well recognized…” I trail off, heart racing.
For all the countless hours I’ve spent talking to Tessa about training and the off-season, for all my hours researching online, it’s the first time I’ve allowed myself to admit it. To say that’s what I want.
Now that the words are out, I can see it. Can imagine the six of us together in some idyllic mountain town in New Zealand, a postcard-perfect backdrop sparkling behind us, snow crunching beneath our feet.
And I want it. I want it so fucking bad it hurts.
“Of course you do,” Grandpa agrees easily. “That sounds sensible to me. I’m guessing there’s some course you need to do—have you signed up for it?”
I swallow, blinking rapidly.He doesn’t know, I realize with sinking disappointment.He really doesn’t know that my parents have completely cut me off.
“I… I can’t afford it.” The words are barely a whisper. I shiver, wishing I’d grabbed a blanket from the room to wrap around my shoulders. Or maybe one of the guys’ shirts to wear. “I might be able to save up for it though…”
I trail off, the impossibility of it looming above me like an unclimbable mountain. Because it’s not just the cost of the training or even the test. I’d have to pay for flights to New Zealand, for accommodation and food and everything else.
There’s a long, tense silence on the other end of the phone, and even the rhythmictap, tap, tappingof Grandpa’s pen goes eerily still.
“You can’t afford it.”
I clench my jaw, willing it not to wobble, blinking hard to hold back the tears that seem determined to fall now that the path has been forged.
“Lily?” Grandpa’s voice is soft, but heavy with warning.
“Mom and Dad cut me off,” I rasp, pressing one hand to my chest, like I can somehow hold myself together.
But it’s not the money that has me feeling like I might crack in two. It’s those unanswered text messages. The silence echoing loudly when my calls go to voicemail. The wondering if my parents ever loved me at all.
“They won’t talk to me,” I clarify. “And I’m on my own financially now. Which is fine. I’m an adult.”
I square my shoulders, feeling a flicker of pride as I look around the living room with fresh eyes. At the wall of beer cans lit up by the plastic Christmas tree, at the beige and green paneled cabinets in the kitchen, and the clean but worn pots and pans glimmering in the drying rack.
We might not have much, the six of us, but it’s ours. We’ve worked hard for this, for our little sanctuary in the snow.
“That’s unacceptable,” Grandpa snaps, then mutters out a string of unintelligible words that sound very much like they might be curses. He clears his throat. “You know, when your father was eighteen, he told me he wanted to be a photographer. I paid for an entire year’s worth of his university fees before he droppedout, then spent a year completely unemployed, living in my house. I got him a job on one of the tourist boats I owned at the time. All he had to do was smile and pour people drinks, that’s it. And you know what he did? He disappeared for a week and didn’t show up to work, then acted surprised when I fired him.”
Grandpa scoffs. “He can act like he’s God’s gift to the earth in front of his friends at church or whatever, but Iknowhim. That man destroyed three of my Jaguars—all classics, by the way—burned down my house and didn’t offer me a dime.”
My jaw drops, eyes widening in shock as I press a hand to my mouth to stifle an almost giddy-sounding laugh. How had I never heard all this before?
