Holly in Love by Caroline B. Cooney Page B

friends and asked them where they bought drugs. Everybody said, “I don’t buy,” and “I don’t associate with people who do,” which was probably correct, but they would have said that to Dad no matter what the truth was. Everyone kind of stumbled around hoping not to be asked any more questions.
    There was a bad moment when I thought Dad would say a blessing over the picnic basket and the thermoses, but the moment passed without a prayer (except mine to stop him!). My leg was strapped onto the snowmobile to prevent it from falling during the ride and getting tangled in the moving parts (a rather hideous thought), and thanks to Kate’s maneuvering and Stein’s basic lack of interest, I was settled behind Stein.
    Actually it was easiest that way. I didn’t have to pretend enthusiasm or utter little sentences of pleasure, because Stein is a doer, not a waster of time on meaningless chat. He just grinned, and we took off.
    The engine made an appalling amount of noise. It was the sort of grinding, screaming mechanical racket that is totally offensive when you hear it in the distance, and yet when you’re making it, and it’s your noise, the racket is kind of comforting.
    Deafening, though.
    Others had used the path before us, and often. It was worn to a smooth road of ice. We’ll all be killed, I thought, as Stein took the curves at speeds that would qualify us for an Olympic bobsledding team. I wondered if Jamie would come to my funeral.
    We covered the eight miles to the waterfalls in mere seconds, or so it seemed. I hadn’t even noticed Swann’s Wood go by because I’d been too busy clinging to the grip. Stein and I arrived first. Either the others had less horsepower or they were more sane.
    Stein stopped the engine and for a moment we just sat there, gazing at the waterfalls.
    From between the scattering of evergreens came rays of winter sun, turning the ice to fire and the snow to stars. The waterfalls had frozen as they fell, in great gleaming icicles and enormous rounded nobs and tiny delicate plumes of ice sugar spray. Windblown snow and frost decorated the firs like patches of old lace. Every cluster of pine needles was thick with hardened snow in tight cruel balls, so that the pines looked decorated for Christmas by the icy hand of winter.
    Near the skis of the snowmobile was a young fir no more than eighteen inches high. A filigree of ice clung to its tiny branches like a cathedral window star.
    The sun reflected so blindingly I got tears in my eyes and had to blink to see.
    Thank you, God! I thought unexpectedly. Thank you for so much that’s beautiful. For the ice and the sun and the blue of the sky!
    I’ll be darned, I thought. There are still little pockets of religion in me. Who would have guessed?
    Immediately, having made friends with God by complimenting Him on his terrific frost patterns, I began wondering what it would be like to talk to God about boys. “God, I think the mating pattern you allowed to evolve here is altogether too difficult. I want you to intervene in my life. Miracles will not be necessary. I want only a softening of the path.”
    I giggled softly, and Stein said, “Nice, huh?”
    “Yes. Thanks for bringing me.”
    “Any time,” said Stein, and he sounded very serious. As if I could phone during the next blizzard at three A.M. and Stein would gladly go out again to admire Nature’s best with me.
    I ached to be able to jump up. Circle the little pond. See how the frozen falls looked from behind the stand of birches. Look down into those animal prints immortalized in the crusted snow and guess who visited the pond.
    The other snowmobiles roared. No, don’t come! I thought. Leave me here to think about the little fir trees.
    Three snowmobiles tore into the clearing. Stein yanked off his seatbelt and helmet and began unfastening me. Gary yelled a warning and slid to a precipitous halt inches away from us, Kate squealing with delight and Lydia yelling not to destroy the