I Owe You One by Natalie Hyde Page A

guess if the Fates had wanted you to get into trouble with your mother, they would have sent her to walk your dog instead of giving me the idea of getting some fresh air. Come along, Wesley. You can dry off at my house.”
    So that’s how I came to be sitting in Mrs. Minton’s living room, covered in two afghans, my feet stuffed into huge furry moose slippers, sipping steaming hot chocolate while she threw most of my clothes in her dryer. Some things I left on even though they were wet.
    I had never been in Mrs. Minton’s house before, and it was nothing like I expected. No flowered couches, cats or cabinets full of teacups. Instead, every available inch of space—the walls, the fireplace mantel, all the tables—was covered with photographs. These weren’t your average family pictures of smiling babies and graduations though. In one picture a group of women in yellow crash helmets stood on a rocky shore, holding up their paddles in front of enormous rapids. Other photos showed a parachutist’s feet hitting the ground, a young woman hugging a koala, smiling men in red parkas on a snowy mountain. There was an old brownish photo of a downhill skier with no helmet. She was caught mid-flight, bright-eyed, her curly hair streaming out behind her. Mrs. Minton’s house was full of people having adventures.
    I tried to picture Mrs. Minton having an adventure. I couldn’t.
    â€œAre these people your family?” I asked.
    Mrs. Minton smiled. “They are.” She set a plate of shortbread down in front of me and pointed to the pictures. “This is my nephew Bill parachuting in France. And that’s my granddaughter Rachel with the koala in Australia. She’s on the national ski team now, you know. She has her first big race as a team member this July in Chile.”
    â€œIn the summer?”
    â€œIt will be winter in the southern hemisphere, Wesley.”
    â€œOh.” My eyes shot back to the picture of the skier with the curly hair. Mrs. Minton followed my eyes.
    â€œYou’d never guess that only thirteen seconds after this picture was taken, I would take a spill and blow out my knee, would you?”
    â€œThat’s you ?” I tried really hard to believe that the daring, wild woman in the picture was old Mrs. Minton.
    She laughed. “I wasn’t born this old, you know. And once I get my hip replacement, I might just strap on a pair of skis for old times’ sake.”
    I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.
    â€œDid you win any races?” I asked.
    â€œI had my moments, but I was never as good as Rachel. Her mother had her skiing before she could walk.” Mrs. Minton laughed a little as she passed me a picture of a tiny girl on two stubby skis. She was stuffed into a snowsuit so puffy that she looked like a pink marshmallow with legs. I smiled as I handed the picture back and pointed to another one on the mantel.
    â€œWho are those men on the mountain?” I asked.
    â€œThat’s my father and three of his friends at Base Camp One on Mount Everest.”
    Mount Everest! I would have jumped up to take a closer look, but I was pinned down by the afghans. Why couldn’t I have been rescued by a mountaineer with cool equipment?
    â€œI think I’d better get going before my mom wonders what happened to me,” I said.
    Mrs. Minton nodded. “Let me grab your things. They should be pretty dry now.”
    She came back with my clothes, and I shuffled to the bathroom to change.
    Dressed again, I hurried to the front door.
    â€œUm, thanks,” I said, looking at the floor, one hand on the doorknob. “For saving my life and all that.”
    She paused before asking, “What made you risk your life for a ballcap anyway? Don’t you kids have dozens of those things?”
    â€œMy dad gave it to me,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
    There was a long silence as my words hung in the air. “I was