Snowbunny on Halloween

When I was sixteen, on Halloween, I egged Curtis Johnson’s house. Here’s why:

"AOL Snowbunny002"

My parents, both lawyers, hadn’t the conviction to convict

Mr. Curtis Johnson, my Nordic ski coach who didn’t

know how to ski.

I—and no one—knew why he took the coaching job.

Many days, he commented on my form: arms

higher, ankles closer together! Ski faster. He could not ski,

at all, but this advice was solid and true.

I once asked Mr. Johnson why—not why he coached,

but why ‘ankles closer together,’ and he glared. I would not be

forgiven.

I was a good skier, second best on the team, top

twenty in the state. I should have played

clueless.

I would not ride in Mr. Johnson’s car; I had my own

way back to school.

I had my hands, and they weren’t easily persuaded, and they already knew

how to ski. My hips, perhaps too far back—not quite under my chest—show I’m not

Olympic material. He had no idea.

He knew I wouldn’t ride and wouldn’t accept a good luck kiss.

Not forgiven.

I was fifteen.

Maybe by eighteen I’d have been a better

listener.

When the team voted me

captain for the following season

Mr. Johnson lied about the outcome. We’d known—he’d said we’d voted for

Courtney, unanimously.

A senior who’d counted the votes with Mr. Johnson

told me I’d won.

Mr. Johnson misused the word ‘unanimously.’ I was sure

it would be his demise.

My parents thought it was unfair—the captain thing—

but life’s not fair.

They hadn’t the time or ‘political nature’ to help.

Help.