Cycler by Lauren McLaughlin Read Free Book Online Page A

the allure-killing scowl.) Tommy, bewildered now by this totally unprecedented breach of the common laws of aloof femininity, will glance behind him to make sure that I am not, in fact, beckoning someone else. Then, being a gentleman and not incurious as to my intentions, he’ll walk somewhat hesitantly toward me.
    When he is halfway there, we’ll unleash the Grand Twist.
    Ramie, all flustered, will run out of the cocoa shack, cell phone in hand, and plunk herself right between Tommy and me. “So sorry, darling,” she’ll say. Air kiss. Air kiss. “I wasn’t ignoring you. I was on the phone with the fashion editor from Paris
Vogue.
” (Ramie insisted on that part.)
    Now picture the tableau: Ramie and I united at last and Tommy Knutson feeling utterly foolish for thinking that I was so brazen a girl as to beckon him to me. But lest you think the plan ends here, there is one final turn of the screw.
    Ramie and I will walk away, leaving an embarrassed Tommy Knutson behind. Then Ramie, klutz that she is, will drop a ski glove and turn to retrieve it. What do I do? Oh, only unleash the alluring over-the-shoulder glance. Head downward, gaze upward to enlarge the eyes and evoke a sense of innocent vulnerability, I’ll look not
at
Tommy Knutson, but just past him. Poor Tommy, overcome now with a love he can barely comprehend for this being like no other, will simply collapse in the snow.
    That, ladies and gentlemen, is Operation Swoon.
    It takes the passive approach of Mom’s
Guide
book and sharpens it into a deadly weapon, all the while preserving the underlying principle of hunter and prey that makes femininity so powerful and mysterious a force.
    So Saturday morning rolls around. It’s ten-fifteen and Ramie and I have downed three cups of cocoa in the insufficiently heated cocoa shack while Daria waits in my Nissan for Tommy Knutson to make his promised arrival. I’m swanked out in Ramie’s pale pink ski suit with green figure-flattering stripes. My hair is blown perfectly straight and my makeup is light and natural. I’ve got lip gloss, blush and eyeliner stashed in the pockets of my coat for touch-ups. Ramie, sporting last year’s blue ski suit, stares longingly through the steamy little window at the dozen or so skiers going up the rope tow and down the slope.
    At 10:47, she turns from the window and says, “I just timed Sarah Mecklenburg. I swear, we can get up and down in under three minutes. That’s plenty of time to get into first positions.”
    From the hard wooden bench where I’ve sat anxiously for going on two hours, I remind Ramie that I do not ski.
    “It’s barely an incline, Jill,” she says. “Little kids make the run on their very first lesson.” She reaches into her tight back pocket and pulls out a wad of twenties.
    “What are you doing?” I say.
    She walks over to Norm, the ski rental and day pass guy, who sits in a little closet in front of an army of upright skis. “Two day passes, please,” she says.
    Norm glances up from his car magazine and looks at me questioningly.
    “I’m not skiing,” I tell him.
    “She’s just nervous,” Ramie says. “Two day passes, please.”
    Norm palms the twenty. “It’s your money,” he says. Then he hands Ramie two day passes.
    Ramie peels her day pass from its backing and sticks it to her jacket. “I can’t believe you’ve never even tried it, Jill. You should deeply come to Sugarloaf with us.”
    She tries to hand me the day pass, but I pivot away and face the smelly popcorn machine. “Why would I want to go to Sugarloaf, Ramie? Why would I want to spend
more
time outside?”
    “Because winter is so much more fun if you ski.”
    “Winter is for suckers.” I cross my arms over my chest.
    Undaunted, Ramie peels my day pass from its backing and slaps it over my left boob.
    “Ouch.”
    “There,” she says. “Now you have to ski.”
    “Gee, Rames, I guess you got me there. It’s not like I can just sit here and ignore the