Ski School Quotes

Just clip the red one," Cyrus told her. "They're all red," Erica informed him. "They are?" Cyrus asked. "Curse those Soviets! Everything always has to be red with them.

my dormitory had been waiting to have its septic system replaced since before the Berlin Wall fell.

I Won’t Fly Today Too much to do, despite the snow, which made all local schools close their doors. What a winter! Usually, I love watching the white stuff fall. But after a month with only short respites, I keep hoping for a critical blue sky. Instead, amazing waves of silvery clouds sweep over the crest of the Sierra, open their obese bellies, and release foot upon foot of crisp new powder. The ski resorts would be happy, except the roads are so hard to travel that people are staying home. So it kind of boggles the mind that three guys are laying carpet in the living room. Just goes to show the power of money. In less than an hour, the stain Conner left on the hardwood will be a ghost.

I’m

My stomach was well past doing backflips. Now it did a triple axel roundoff with a twist.

Acknowledgements! My thanks to Hollywood When you showed me John Rambo Stitching up his arm with no anaesthetic And giving them “a war they won’t believe” I knew then my calling, the job for me Thanks also to the recruitment adverts For showing me soldiers whizzing around on skis And for sending sergeants to our school To tell us of the laughs, the great food, the pay The camaraderie I am, dear taxpayer, forever in your debt You paid for my all-inclusive pilgrimage One year basking in the Garden of Eden (I haven’t quite left yet) Thanks to Mum and thanks to Dad Fuck it, Thanks to every parent Flushing with pride for their brave young lads Buying young siblings toy guns and toy tanks Waiting at the airport Waving their flags

How could it be winter without snow?I appreciated every season, but winter was my favorite.I loved when it was time to pull out my thick sweaters.I loved the smell of a wood fire.I loved skiing and snow boarding and sledding, when i could find the time-although time was in a short supply when school was in session.I even enjoyed the cold, wintry weather, it was great for snuggling.

and were now coming down a wide intermediate run called

So he’s gonna want to get out of Dodge as fast as he can.” Sure enough, the caravan was racing down the

NORAD,

me. I need your help.

Half her luggage was ammunition. Who brings grenades on a ski vacation?

principal’s office. A piece of paper was taped to it. It said PIRNCIPAL.

blown

not drag my left ski. Mike’s advice was spot-on. I moved much more naturally.

The principal wasn’t using his normal office because I’d blown it up by firing a mortar round into it. (It was an accident.)

You’re just going to leave me here?” I shout after her. “I’m not leaving you here, Emma. You’re keeping yourself here.” She leaves me with those crazy words, and then she’s gone. I am paralyzed on the beach in my school clothes. I can’t help but feel that I’m in huge trouble. But why should I? She was babysitting me, not the other way around, right? It’s not like I can chase her down and follow her. Her fins have already gone a distance I can’t cover with my puny human legs. Besides, these are my favorite jeans; the salt water would be unforgiving. Except…There is that shiny new jet ski sitting there. I could close the distance between us, put my foot in the water, and find her. She would sense me, come back to see why I was in the water. Wouldn’t she? Of course she would. Then I could talk her into staying here, not leaving me alone to drive myself crazy. I could manipulate her into feeling sorry for me. Unless she’s the complete sociopath I think she is.

To my surprise, the toilet began to play music. It was probably supposed to be comforting, some sort of melody to soothe you while you pooped, but the whole idea of a musical toilet just weirded me out.

It was only in the mid-1970s, after Ted Bundy started abducting and killing middle-class white college girls at schools, shopping malls, ski chalets, national parks and public beaches, that the media suddenly began paying close attention.

The U.S. government has dozens of extremely critical facilities there: the headquarters for North American Aerospace Defense, Strategic Missile Command, the Air Force Academy. . . .” “The Central Food and Seed Reserve,” Alexander suggested helpfully.

I wince. From the Bank of Floorboards I withdraw my assets and redeposit the wedge of banknotes in my passport bag. This I secure inside my ski jacket, contemplating that, while the wealthy are no more likely to be born stupid than the poor, a wealthy upbringing compounds stupidity while a hardscrabble childhood dilutes it, if only for Darwinian reasons. This is why the elite need a prophylactic barrier of shitty state schools, to prevent clever kids from working-class post codes ousting them from the Enclave of Privilege.

There was little room left on the bank alongside the stream, occasionally forcing us onto rocks that poked through the water. My heels were starting to blister in my ski boots. And to make matters worse, Warren insisted on singing “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall.

As a kid, snow served the useful purpose of closing schools. As an adult—it shuts down any activity a decent, suntanned person over the age of thirty-five enjoys. I don’t do snow forts, snowballs, snow angels, snowmen, snowmobiles, or snowshoes. I don’t like to walk in it, drive in it, ski on it, or sled on it. Other than that, snow is just ducky.

I have always noticed in high school yearbooks the similarity of all the graduate write-ups—how, after only a few pages, the identities of all the unsullied young faces blur, how one person melts into another and another: Susan likes to eat at Wendy’s; Donald was on the basketball team; Norman is vain about his varsity sweater; Gillian broke her arm on Spring Retreat; Brian is a car nut; Sue wants to live in Hawaii; Don wants to make a million and be a ski bum; Noreen wants to live in Europe; Gordon wants to be a radio deejay in Australia. At what point in our lives do we stop blurring? When do we become crisp individuals? What must we do in order to end these fuzzy identities—to clarify just who it is we really are?

I took a step inside to get a better look and realized the man was actually Christ, the way he appeared in Sunday-school classrooms: milky complexion, starched blue dressing gown, a beard trimmed as painstakingly as a bonsai tree. He was doing what he was always doing: cupping blinding light in his hands like he was trying to warm up after a long day of downhill skiing.

Run. Eat. Drink. Eat more. Don't throw up. Instead, take a piss. Then take a crap. Wipe your butt. Make a phone call. Open a door. Rid your bik. Ride in a car. Ride in a subway. Talk. Talk to people. Read. Read maps. Make maps. Make art. Talk about your art. Sell your art. Take a test. Get into a school. Celebrate. HAve a party. Write a thank-you note to someone. Hug your mom. Kiss your dad. Kiss your little sister. Make out with Noelle. Make out with her more. Touch her. HOld her hand. Take her out somewhere. Meet her friends. Run down a street with her. Take her on a picnic. Eat with her. See a movie with her. See a move with Aaron. Heck, see a movie with Nia, once you're cool with her. Get cool with more people.. Drink coffee in little coffee-drinking places. Tell people your story. Volunteer. Go back to Six North. Walk in as a volunteer and say hi to everyone who waited on you as a patient. Help people. Help people like Bobby. Get people books and music that they want when they're in there. Help people like Muqtada. Show them how to draw. Draw more. Try drawing a landscape. Try drawing a person. Try drawing a naked person. Try drawing Noelle naked. Travel. Fly. Swim. Meet. Love. Dance. Win. Smile. Laugh. Hold. Walk. Skip. Okay, it's gay, whatever, skip. Ski. Sled. Play basketball. Jog. Run. Run. Run. Run home. Run home and enjoy. Enjoy. Take these verbs and enjoy them. They're yours, Craig. You deserved them because you chose them. You could have left the all behind but you chose to stay here. So now live for real, Craig. Live. Live. Live. Live. Live.

John says to Peter, “Remember that one time I had you, and I was hiding behind your dad’s car before school, but it was your dad that came out, not you? And I scared him, and he and I both screamed?” “Then we had to quit altogether when Trevor came to my mom’s store in his ski mask,” Peter guffaws. Everyone laughs, except for me. I’m still smarting from Genevieve’s “killer instinct” dig. Trevor’s laughing so hard he can barely speak. “She almost called the cops!” he manages to sputter.

Each February/March the entire country takes a "ski week". The schools shut down, parents take off work, dogs go to the in-laws, and Finland's middle and upper classes go on holiday. But not all at once. They can't have the entire country gandala-ing up to Lapland at one time (AVALANCHES!). So the country takes turns. The best region goes first: Southern Finland. Then the second best: Central Finland. Then the reindeer herders and forest people take a week off from unemployment and go last: Northern Finland.

the streets. So now everyone is afraid of it. Petr GINZ Today it’s clear to everyone who is a Jew and who’s an Aryan, because you’ll know Jews near and far by their black and yellow star. And Jews who are so demarcated must live according to the rules dictated: Always, after eight o’clock, be at home and click the lock; work only labouring with pick or hoe, and do not listen to the radio. You’re not allowed to own a mutt; barbers can’t give your hair a cut; a female Jew who once was rich can’t have a dog, even a bitch, she cannot send her kids to school must shop from three to five since that’s the rule. She can’t have bracelets, garlic, wine, or go to the theatre, out to dine; she can’t have cars or a gramophone, fur coats or skis or a telephone; she can’t eat onions, pork, or cheese, have instruments, or matrices; she cannot own a clarinet or keep a canary for a pet, rent bicycles or barometers, have woollen socks or warm sweaters. And especially the outcast Jew must give up all habits he knew: he can’t buy clothes, can’t buy a shoe, since dressing well is not his due; he can’t have poultry, shaving soap, or jam or anything to smoke; can’t get a license, buy some gin, read magazines, a news bulletin, buy sweets or a machine to sew; to fields or shops he cannot go even to buy a single pair of winter woollen underwear, or a sardine or a ripe pear. And if this list is not complete there’s more, so you should be discreet; don’t buy a thing; accept defeat. Walk everywhere you want to go in rain or sleet or hail or snow. Don’t leave your house, don’t push a pram, don’t take a bus or train or tram; you’re not allowed on a fast train; don’t hail a taxi, or complain; no matter how thirsty you are you must not enter any bar; the riverbank is not for you, or a museum or park or zoo or swimming pool or stadium or post office or department store, or church, casino, or cathedral or any public urinal. And you be careful not to use main streets, and keep off avenues! And if you want to breathe some air go to God’s garden and walk there among the graves in the cemetery because no park to you is free. And if you are a clever Jew you’ll close off bank accounts and you will give up other habits too like meeting Aryans you knew. He used to be allowed a swag, suitcase, rucksack, or carpetbag. Now he has lost even those rights but every Jew lowers his sights and follows all the rules he’s got and doesn’t care one little jot.

It will be long before everyone is wiped out. People live in war time, they always have. There was terror down through history - and the men who saw the Spanish Armada sail over the rim of the world, who saw the Black death wipe out half of Europe, those men were frightened, terrified. But though they lived and died in fear, I am here; we have built again. And so I will belong to a dark age, and historians will say "We have few documents to show how the common people lived at this time. Records lead us to believe that a majority were killed. But there were glorious men." And school children will sigh and learn the names of Truman and Senator McCarthy. Oh, it is hard for me to reconcile myself to this. But maybe this is why I am a girl - - - so I can live more safely than the boys I have known and envied, so I can bear children, and instill in them the biting eating desire to learn and love life which I will never quite fulfill, because there isn't time, because there isn't time at all, but instead the quick desperate fear, the ticking clock, and the snow which comes too suddenly upon the summer. Sure, I'm dramatic and sloppily semi-cynical and semi-sentimental. But in leisure years I could grow and choose my way. Now I am living on the edge. We all are on the brink, and it takes a lot of nerve, a lot of energy, to teeter on the edge, looking over, looking down into the windy blackness and not being quite able to make out, through the yellow, stinking mist, just what lies below in the slime, in the oozing, vomit-streaked slime; and so I could go on, into my thoughts, writing much, trying to find the core, the meaning for myself. Perhaps that would help, to synthesize my ideas into a philosophy for me, now, at the age of eighteen, but the clock ticks, ah yes, "At my back I hear, time's winged chariot hovering near." And I have too much conscience, too much habit to sit and stare at snow, thick now, and evenly white and muffling on the ground. God, I scream for time to let go, to write, to think. But no. I have to exercise my memory in little feats just so I can stay in this damn wonderful place which I love and hate with all my heart. And so the snow slows and swirls, and melts along the edges. The first snow isn't good for much. It makes a few people write poetry, a few wonder if the Christmas shopping is done, a few make reservations at the skiing lodge. It's a sentimental prelude to the real thing. It's picturesque & quaint.

You know everybody hooks up on the ski trip, right? It’s like a school-sanctioned booty call.” “What?” “That’s where I lost my V freshman year.” “I thought you lost it in the woods near your house.” “Oh yeah. Whatever, the point is, I had sex on the ski trip.” “There are chaperones,” I say worriedly. “How can people just have sex with chaperones around?” “Chaperones go to sleep early because they’re old,” Chris says. “People just sneak out. Plus there’s a hot tub. Did you know that there’s a hot tub?” “No…Peter never mentioned that.” Well, that’s that, I just won’t pack a bathing suit. It’s not like they can make you go in a hot tub if you don’t want to. “The year I went, people were skinny-dipping.” My eyes bug out. Skinny-dipping! “People were nude?” “Well, the girls took their tops off. Just be prepared.” Chris chews on her fingernail. “Last year I heard Mr. Dunham got in the hot tub with students and it was weird.” “This sounds like the Wild West,” I mutter. “More like Girls Gone Wild.

How did the name misfit even come about?" Sam asked. "It's so... dumb." Willo laughed. "Well, it's really not," she said. "We used to call them all sorts of slang terms: kooks, greasers, killjoys, chumps, and we had to keep changing the name as times changed. We used nerds for a long time, and then we started calling them dweebs." Willo hesitated. "And then a group of kids wasn't so nice to your mom." "I had braces," Deana said. "I had pimples. I had a perm. You do the math." She smiled briefly, but Sam could tell the pain was still there. Deana continued: "And I worked here most of the time so I really didn't get a chance to do a lot with friends after school. It was hard." This time, Willo reached out to rub her daughter's leg. "Your mom was pretty down one Christmas," she said. "All of the kids were going on a ski trip to a resort in Boyne City, but she had to stay here and work during the holiday rush. She was moping around one night, lying on the couch and watching TV..." "... stuffing holiday cookies in my mouth," Deana added. "... and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer came on. She was about to change the channel, but I made her sit back down and watch it with me. Remember the part about the Island of Misfit Toys?" Sam nodded. Willo continued. "All of those toys that were tossed away and didn't have a home because they were different: the Charlie-in-the-Box, the spotted elephant, the train with square wheels, the cowboy who rides an ostrich..." "... the swimming bird," Sam added with a laugh. "And I told your mom that all of those toys were magical and perfect because they were different," Willo said. "What made them different is what made them unique." Sam looked at her mom, who gave her a timid smile. "I walked in early the next morning to open the pie pantry, and your mom was already in there making donuts," Willo said. "She had a big plate of donuts that didn't turn out perfectly and she looked up at me and said, very quietly, 'I want to start calling them misfits.' When I asked her why, she said, 'They're as good as all the others, even if they look a bit different.' We haven't changed the name since.

Throughout high school, Ben strove to be as colorless as his room. He chose to blend in with the crowd, a popular white-bread crewneck group, with parents who summered in Nantucket and owned ski houses near mountains in Vermont. One Saturday night after returning from a movie with the happy-go-lucky girl he’d been seeing on and off, he told Harvey and me, in the family room reading newspapers, that he was going to come out in college. Neither of us was astonished, or even surprised. It was a relief to both of us. We had wondered for a long time. When we took Ben to college in Middletown, we watched the gay and lesbian groups chalk messages on the sidewalks at the top of the hill: Say hi to a bi. Give us a year and you’ll be queer. Have you told a parent you’re gay today? Ben was smiling. Ben and Harvey moved the station wagon out of a load zone, and I waited on a creaking swing in front of a building with the school flag, the American flag, and the state flag waving on top. Peace washed over me as though I had taken a pill for it. I wanted chalk. I had something important to say on the sidewalk: Have you told your son you’re happy for him today?

As she’s scrolling through her feed, a picture from the ski trip pops up. Haven’s in the Charlottesville Youth Orchestra, so she knows people from a lot of different schools, including mine. I can’t help but sigh a little when I see it--a picture of a bunch of us on the bus the last morning. Peter has his arm around me, he’s whispering something in my ear. I wish I remembered what. All surprised, Haven looks up and says, “Oh, hey, that’s you, Lara Jean. What’s this from?” “The school ski trip.” “Is that your boyfriend?” Haven asks me, and I can tell she’s impressed and trying not to show it. I wish I could say yes. But-- Kitty scampers over to us and looks over our shoulders. “Yes, and he’s the hottest guy you’ve ever seen in your life, Haven.” She says it like a challenge. Margot, who was scrolling on her phone, looks up and giggles. “Well, that’s not exactly true,” I hedge. I mean, he’s the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in my life, but I don’t know what kind of people Haven goes to school with. “No, Kitty’s right, he’s hot,” Haven admits. “Like, how did you get him? No offense. I just thought you were the non-dating type.” I frown. The non-dating type? What kind of type is that? A little mushroom who sits at home in a semidark room growing moss?

The first movie star I met was Norma Shearer. I was eight years old at the time and going to school with Irving Thalberg Jr. His father, the longtime production chief at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, devoted a large part of his creative life to making Norma a star, and he succeeded splendidly. Unfortunately, Thalberg had died suddenly in 1936, and his wife's career had begun to slowly deflate. Just like kids everywhere else, Hollywood kids had playdates at each other's houses, and one day I went to the Thalberg house in Santa Monica, where Irving Sr. had died eighteen months before. Norma was in bed, where, I was given to understand, she spent quite a bit of time so that on those occasions when she worked or went out in public she would look as rested as possible. She was making Marie Antoinette at the time, and to see her in the flesh was overwhelming. She very kindly autographed a picture for me, which I still have: "To Cadet Wagner, with my very best wishes. Norma Shearer." Years later I would be with her and Martin Arrouge, her second husband, at Sun Valley. No matter who the nominal hostess was, Norma was always the queen, and no matter what time the party was to begin, Norma was always late, because she would sit for hours—hours!—to do her makeup, then make the grand entrance. She was always and forever the star. She had to be that way, really, because she became a star by force of will—hers and Thalberg's. Better-looking on the screen than in life, Norma Shearer was certainly not a beauty on the level of Paulette Goddard, who didn't need makeup, didn't need anything. Paulette could simply toss her hair and walk out the front door, and strong men grew weak in the knees. Norma found the perfect husband in Martin. He was a lovely man, a really fine athlete—Martin was a superb skier—and totally devoted to her. In the circles they moved in, there were always backbiting comments when a woman married a younger man—" the stud ski instructor," that sort of thing. But Martin, who was twelve years younger than Norma and was indeed a ski instructor, never acknowledged any of that and was a thorough gentleman all his life. He had a superficial facial resemblance to Irving Thalberg, but Thalberg had a rheumatic heart and was a thin, nonathletic kind of man—intellectually vital, but physically weak. Martin was just the opposite—strong and virile, with a high energy level. Coming after years of being married to Thalberg and having to worry about his health, Martin must have been a delicious change for Norma.

It’s not like I wasn’t busy. I was an officer in good standing of my kids’ PTA. I owned a car that put my comfort ahead of the health and future of the planet. I had an IRA and a 401(k) and I went on vacations and swam with dolphins and taught my kids to ski. I contributed to the school’s annual fund. I flossed twice a day; I saw a dentist twice a year. I got Pap smears and had my moles checked. I read books about oppressed minorities with my book club. I did physical therapy for an old knee injury, forgoing the other things I’d like to do to ensure I didn’t end up with a repeat injury. I made breakfast. I went on endless moms’ nights out, where I put on tight jeans and trendy blouses and high heels like it mattered and went to the restaurant that was right next to the restaurant we went to with our families. (There were no dads’ nights out for my husband, because the supposition was that the men got to live life all the time, whereas we were caged animals who were sometimes allowed to prowl our local town bar and drink the blood of the free people.) I took polls on whether the Y or the JCC had better swimming lessons. I signed up for soccer leagues in time for the season cutoff, which was months before you’d even think of enrolling a child in soccer, and then organized their attendant carpools. I planned playdates and barbecues and pediatric dental checkups and adult dental checkups and plain old internists and plain old pediatricians and hair salon treatments and educational testing and cleats-buying and art class attendance and pediatric ophthalmologist and adult ophthalmologist and now, suddenly, mammograms. I made lunch. I made dinner. I made breakfast. I made lunch. I made dinner. I made breakfast. I made lunch. I made dinner.

Tim Tigner began his career in Soviet Counterintelligence with the US Army Special Forces, the Green Berets. That was back in the Cold War days when, “We learned Russian so you didn't have to,” something he did at the Presidio of Monterey alongside Recon Marines and Navy SEALs. With the fall of the Berlin Wall, Tim switched from espionage to arbitrage. Armed with a Wharton MBA rather than a Colt M16, he moved to Moscow in the midst of Perestroika. There, he led prominent multinational medical companies, worked with cosmonauts on the MIR Space Station (from Earth, alas), chaired the Association of International Pharmaceutical Manufacturers, and helped write Russia’s first law on healthcare. Moving to Brussels during the formation of the EU, Tim ran Europe, Middle East, and Africa for a Johnson & Johnson company and traveled like a character in a Robert Ludlum novel. He eventually landed in Silicon Valley, where he launched new medical technologies as a startup CEO. In his free time, Tim has climbed the peaks of Mount Olympus, hang glided from the cliffs of Rio de Janeiro, and ballooned over Belgium. He earned scuba certification in Turkey, learned to ski in Slovenia, and ran the Serengeti with a Maasai warrior. He acted on stage in Portugal, taught negotiations in Germany, and chaired a healthcare conference in Holland. Tim studied psychology in France, radiology in England, and philosophy in Greece. He has enjoyed ballet at the Bolshoi, the opera on Lake Como, and the symphony in Vienna. He’s been a marathoner, paratrooper, triathlete, and yogi.  Intent on combining his creativity with his experience, Tim began writing thrillers in 1996 from an apartment overlooking Moscow’s Gorky Park. Decades later, his passion for creative writing continues to grow every day. His home office now overlooks a vineyard in Northern California, where he lives with his wife Elena and their two daughters. Tim grew up in the Midwest, and graduated from Hanover College with a BA in Philosophy and Mathematics. After military service and work as a financial analyst and foreign-exchange trader, he earned an MBA in Finance and an MA in International Studies from the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton and Lauder Schools.  Thank you for taking the time to read about the author. Tim is most grateful for his loyal fans, and loves to correspond with readers like you. You are welcome to reach him directly at tim@timtigner.com.

Eldorado has created rock structures for resorts and ski areas, colleges/universities, recreation centers, fitness centers, K-12 schools playgrounds and parks, gyms, private homes and corporate facilities. Eldorado is also responsible for creating the world’s largest man-made outdoor and indoor climbing structures.

Berry and three other old Etonians, James Bolton, Alex Lyle and Christian De Lotbiniere, were the brains behind “Ski Bob” travel. This was a company, named after their Eton housemaster Bob Baird, which had been formed when they discovered that they were too young legally to book holidays themselves. So these young entrepreneurs started their own company and within the twenty-strong group, which mainly compromised old Etonians, the greatest accolade was to be called “Bob.” Diana was soon Bob, Bob, Bobbing along. “You’re skating on thin ice,” she yelled in her Miss Piggy voice as she skied dangerously close behind members of the group. She joined in the pillow fights, charades, and satirical singsongs. Diana was teased mercilessly about a framed photograph of Prince Charles, taken at his Investiture in 1969, which hung in her school dormitory. Not guilty, she said. It was a gift to the school. When she stayed in the Berry chalet she slept on the living-room sofa. Not that she got much sleep. Medical student, James Colthurst, liked to regale the slumbering throng with unwelcome early morning renditions of Martin Luther King’s famous “I had a dream” speech or his equally unamusing Mussolini impersonation.

now your pillow.

We reached a section where the canyon walls closed in until it was almost claustrophobic. There was little room left on the bank alongside the stream, occasionally forcing us onto rocks that poked through the water. My heels were starting to blister in my ski boots. And to make matters worse,

Oh, please.” Erica sighed. “You couldn’t stop a car if your foot was on the brake.

eggs and curried chicken salad and double fudge brownies. That was all she was good at: eating. In the summer the Castles, the Alistairs, and the Randolphs all went to the beach together. When they were younger, they would play flashlight tag, light a bonfire, and sing Beatles songs, with Mr. Randolph playing the guitar and Penny’s voice floating above everyone else’s. But at some point Demeter had stopped feeling comfortable in a bathing suit. She wore shorts and oversized T-shirts to the beach, and she wouldn’t go in the water, wouldn’t walk with Penny to look for shells, wouldn’t throw the Frisbee with Hobby and Jake. The other three kids always tried to include Demeter, which was more humiliating, somehow, than if they’d just ignored her. They were earnest in their pursuit of her attention, but Demeter suspected this was their parents’ doing. Mr. Randolph might have offered Jake a twenty-dollar bribe to be nice to Demeter because Al Castle was an old friend. Hobby and Penny were nice to her because they felt sorry for her. Or maybe Hobby and Penny and Jake all had a bet going about who would be the one to break through Demeter’s Teflon shield. She was a game to them. In the fall there were football parties at the Alistairs’ house, during which the adults and Hobby and Jake watched the Patriots, Penny listened to music on her headphones, and Demeter dug into Zoe Alistair’s white chicken chili and topped it with a double spoonful of sour cream. In the winter there were weekends at Stowe. Al and Lynne Castle owned a condo near the mountain, and Demeter had learned to ski as a child. According to her parents, she used to careen down the black-diamond trails without a moment’s hesitation. But by the time they went to Vermont with the Alistairs and the Randolphs, Demeter refused to get on skis at all. She sat in the lodge and drank hot chocolate until the rest of the gang came clomping in after their runs, rosy-cheeked and winded. And then the ski weekends, at least, had stopped happening, because Hobby had basketball and Penny and Jake were in the school musical, which meant rehearsals night and day. Demeter thought back to all those springs, summers, falls, and winters with Hobby and Penny and Jake, and she wondered how her parents could have put her through such exquisite torture. Hobby and Penny and Jake were all exceptional children, while Demeter was seventy pounds overweight, which sank her self-esteem, which led to her getting mediocre grades when she was smart enough for A’s and killed her chances of landing the part of Rizzo in Grease, even though she was a gifted actress. Hobby was in a coma. Her mother was on the phone. She kept

by searching for an outstanding feature, you’re accomplishing the second important step—you’re forcing yourself to look at, be interested in, concentrate on, that face! What you select could be anything: hair or hairline; forehead (narrow, wide, or high); eyebrows (straight, arched, bushy); eyes (narrow, wide-spaced, close-set); nose (large, small, pug, ski); nostrils (flaring, pinched); high cheekbones; cheeks (full or sunken); lips (straight, arched, full, thin); chin (cleft, receding, jutting); lines, pimples, warts, dimples—anything.

by searching for an outstanding feature, you’re accomplishing the second important step—you’re forcing yourself to look at, be interested in, concentrate on, that face! What you select could be anything: hair or hairline; forehead (narrow, wide, or high); eyebrows (straight, arched, bushy); eyes (narrow, wide-spaced, close-set); nose (large, small, pug, ski); nostrils (flaring, pinched); high cheekbones; cheeks (full or sunken); lips (straight, arched, full, thin); chin (cleft, receding, jutting); lines, pimples, warts, dimples—anything. First impressions are usually lasting impressions, and what is outstanding on someone’s face now will, most likely, seem outstanding when you see that face again. That’s important; but more important is the fact that you’ve really looked at that face. You’re etching that face into your memory by just trying to apply the system.

For the name Barclay, you could use bar clay or bark lay; for Smolenski, a small lens (camera) skiing; for Caruthers, a car with udders; for Krakowitz, cracker wits; for Frankesni, frank (hot dog) has knee; for Esposito, expose a toe; for Dalrymple, doll rumple; for Kolodny, colored knee; for Androfkavitz, Ann drop car witch; for Giordano, jawed on O; for Virostek, virile stick; and so on.

School trip, Mother. Skiing in Austria.

The tips of his skis caught on both sides of the doorframe, stopping Warren so abruptly that he clotheslined himself and collapsed to the ground.

One moment I was upright and life was good, and the next I was tumbling downhill toward a cliff and life was about to end very quickly.

The Ski Haüs had been built back when Vail was founded in 1969 and the owners hadn’t sunk another penny into it since.

I mean, you beat me here, even though you were carrying Erica. And you had to get down off the hotel first.” “I had my grappling hook at the hotel,” Cyrus explained. “I dropped down the far side while you were taking your skates off. And then I beat you here because, well”—he flexed an arm, displaying his bulging muscles—“I’m in much better shape than you are.” I sighed. “I’ve been hearing that a lot lately.

She pointed to a pair leaning against the counter next to hers. They were slightly shorter than I was, chipped and scarred from the abuse of a few hundred previous renters, and they were a disturbing fluorescent green. “Do you have anything less bright?” I asked the girl behind the counter. “You’re lucky we have anything left in your size, period,” she told me. “Besides, you want bright skis as a beginner. It makes them easier to find again after you wipe out.” “You mean if he wipes out,” Zoe corrected. “No. I mean when,” the ski girl said.

Try it again,” Erica growled. Although she didn’t actually add “you idiots,” the tone of her voice indicated it was there. “Only this time, do it one at a time, and don’t stare. Act like you’re looking somewhere else.

We’d better get over there,” Erica said. “Lessons start at oh-nine-hundred hours. We will all approach the target separately. And remember, none of us are supposed to know each other. So don’t act too familiar and blow our cover.” “Know what else might blow our cover?” Chip asked. “Saying things like ‘oh-nine-hundred hours.’ The only people who talk like that are spies and the guys in charge of launching rockets. Normal people say ‘nine o’clock.

Sure you can,” Chip said dismissively. I was about to tell Chip to back off—I’d seen Erica in character before, and she was staggeringly good at it—but before I could, Warren walked out of the rental shop. Or at least, he tried to walk out of it. The problem was, he was carrying his skis sideways across the front of his body, the way one might carry firewood, which didn’t work very well when trying to go through a doorway. The tips of his skis caught on both sides of the doorframe, stopping Warren so abruptly that he clotheslined himself and collapsed to the ground.

I’d been allowed to stick with my own first name so that I wouldn’t forget it. And I’d been given the name “Coolman” because, well, it had the word “cool” in it, which a million dollars’ worth of CIA research said made me sound cooler.

I started to say “It’s nice to meet you,” but I barely got through the first syllable before Blond Mullet stepped between Jessica and me and pointed a finger the size of a kielbasa at my face. “I told you to go,” he warned. “If you don’t, I will rip your arms off.” I might have backed off right then and abandoned the mission—after all, I liked having my arms attached to my body—

Sorry,” I said. “It’s just that . . . well, you speak English like someone who’s actually from Nebraska. Actually, probably better than most people from Nebraska.

Yeah,” I agreed, taking the opportunity to look around as well. My fellow spies had all come along by now, blending in with the other kids and doing their best to look normal—except for Warren, who had clonked several other people in the head with his skis.

Warren managed to bonk three more innocent bystanders in the head while starting out.

And I’m excited to get out there and finally ski,” Jessica went on. “This is going to be more fun than a bucket of weasels!” “Bucket of weasels?” I repeated. Jessica frowned. “Oh, shoot. I got that wrong, didn’t I? I always have trouble with your idioms. They’re so strange.” Understanding came to me. “You meant ‘more fun than a barrel of monkeys.’ ” “Yes! That’s it!” Jessica agreed brightly. “See what I mean? Honestly, would a barrel of monkeys be that much fun?” “More fun than a bucket of weasels,” I pointed out. “No way. Have you ever been around monkeys? They smell and they throw poo at you.” “Are you two talking about monkeys?” Erica asked, slipping in between us. “I loooove monkeys! They’re so cute! Especially lemur-monkeys!

Selfie time!” she announced. Jessica and I obediently looked at the camera. “No photos,” growled Dane. Erica turned to Jessica, a perplexed look on her face. “Who’s this guy? Your dad?

Erica pretended not to sense this. “What kind of business is he in?” “He’s in the ‘none of your’ business,” Jessica said curtly. Erica screwed up her face in confusion, then faked a flash of understanding and burst into laughter. “None of your business! You’re funny, Jessica! Really funny!

Sasha!” yelled Woodchuck. “Just fall down! That’ll stop you!” I’m sure Erica heard him, but falling down simply wasn’t her style.

Beside me, Jessica was laughing so hard, she could barely breathe. So were many of my fellow spies. Even Dane—who had seemed genetically incapable of even smiling—seemed to find the whole thing funny. But then, I couldn’t blame any of them; I was having trouble keeping a straight face myself.

Erica didn’t say anything in response. She just gave Cyrus a stare so cold it seemed to lower the temperature around us. Right at this moment, Alexander Hale returned. He barged through the door, whistling happily, and completely failed to pick up on the tension in the room. “Great news!” he cried, holding up a grocery bag. “I got everything we need to make s’mores!” Cyrus squinted at him crankily. “Now, where the heck do you expect to do that?” “The fireplace in the lobby,” Alexander suggested. “The fire in the lobby’s a fake,” Cyrus informed him. “Boy, your observation skills stink on ice.” “That’s right,” Erica told Cyrus tartly. “Everyone in this family’s a lousy spy except you. And no matter how hard we try, we’ll apparently never be good enough.” With that, she stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind her. A cheap framed ski poster fell off the wall and busted on the floor. Cyrus rolled his eyes and muttered, “Teenagers.” Alexander glared at him, still smarting from his insult. “See if I ever buy you campfire treats again,” he said, and then stormed out himself. Somehow, with them gone, there was even more tension in the room. Cyrus was prickly on his best days, but now he seemed ready to blow. I edged toward the door, desperate to get out of there, hoping he might simply ignore me and let me go. He didn’t. His angry gaze now fell on me. “I should probably be going too,” I said as cheerfully as I could. “I’ve got a big day tomorrow with the mission and all, so I want to turn in early and get a good night’s sleep. . . .” “Do you have the hots for Jessica Shang?” Cyrus asked accusingly. “No!” I lied, selling it as hard as I could. “I don’t even think she’s that attractive. In fact, to be totally honest, she’s kind of ugly. I actually feel sorry for her. . . .” Cyrus didn’t buy this for a moment.

As I passed the lobby, though, I could hear Alexander speaking to the guy who ran the motel. “I understand the fire’s electric, but it still generates heat, right? I promise not to get any melted marshmallow on it. And I’m happy to share.

At normal schools, kids quizzed each other before their exams to make sure they were prepared. We were prepping for our mission the exact same way, only instead of algebra or Shakespeare, we were reviewing the finer points of espionage. And the penalty for failure wasn’t an F. It was death. After which, we would also get an F, posthumously.

How do those boots feel?” he asked me. “Way too tight,” I replied. “Like they’re two sizes too small.” “Perfect,” the guy said. “That’s exactly how you want them to feel.” “Really?” I asked skeptically. “They’re pretty painful.” “It takes a little getting used to,” the guy told me. “You want them nice and snug, though.” Before I could protest any more, there was a clatter as Warren knocked over a dozen sets of rental skis across the room. “Nuts,” said the rental guy, and ran off. “Snug?” I muttered, trying to wiggle my toes inside my boots. “When I fail to get Jessica Shang to give me the info, maybe we can just use some ski boots and torture it out of her.

She totally liked you. Like, liked you liked you. She invited you to go to Disney World with her, for Pete’s sake! You don’t invite someone to go to Disney World with you unless you’re really into them.” “Not necessarily,” I said. “I’d go to Disney World with you. But that doesn’t mean I’m into you.” Zoe stopped smiling, like I’d said something wrong. “C’mon,” she said coldly. “Let’s go get our skis.” Then she clomped away in her ski boots.

Running in ski boots was even more difficult than I expected. In addition to being exceptionally tight, the boots were also heavy and oddly balanced. I got exactly one step, then pitched forward and landed on top of two small children, knocking them flat. Just my luck, it turned out to be the same family I’d wiped out on the ice rink the day before. “You again!” the father snarled, while his kids started crying. Several other adults glared at me accusingly. Behind them all, I caught a glimpse of Chip and Jawa, laughing hysterically. “No hablo inglés,” I said to the father. Then I hurried off before he could pound me, doing my best not to crush any other preschoolers. I found Zoe at the ski counter, trying to act like she didn’t know me in front of everyone else. I wasn’t sure if this was because she was angry at me—or embarrassed to be seen with me after I’d just made a scene. “That was smooth,” she said under her breath.

Even though the slope was gentle, she was picking up speed, quickly closing the gap on the rest of the gang. It was at this point when Erica discovered that, while she knew how to start skiing, she didn’t actually know how to stop. And now she was heading right for everyone else. They all leapt out of the way as Erica barreled toward them. Except Warren, whose reflexes weren’t quite up to snuff. Erica clipped him as she shot past, knocking him into a snowdrift.

To make things even better, Erica hadn’t improved much at all during the next few hours of ski school, while the rest of us had. (The rest of us who weren’t faking being beginners, at least.) I had actually turned out to be pretty good at skiing—“a natural,” according to Woodchuck—but everyone else was getting better as well. Even Warren had made progress. He had obviously lied when he’d boasted that he wasn’t so bad at it the night before, but then, he wasn’t terrible, either. Meanwhile, skiing was like Erica’s Kryptonite. She couldn’t seem to do anything right. When she was supposed to turn, she’d go straight. When she was supposed to go straight, she’d turn. And she’d been falling constantly: on the slopes, on the magic carpet, even while merely standing still. According to my calculations, she’d actually spent more time on her butt that morning than on her feet.

Only, keeping girls interested in me wasn’t exactly my strong suit. After all, I’d been trying to get closer to Erica for nearly a year and she’d just tripped me on purpose.

Mike seemed to notice Dane for the first time, despite the fact that the man was taking up half the gondola. “Who are you?” he asked, nice and friendly. “Jessica’s brother?” Mike certainly knew this wasn’t true. For starters, Dane was such a freak of nature, he and Jessica barely looked like they were the same species.

Chip Schacter, Jawaharlal O’Shea, and Warren Reeves. Chip, being two years older, was the biggest, toughest, and sneakiest of us. Jawa was the smartest and the best athlete. Warren wasn’t really a very good spy at all. I’d invited him along only because Zoe said that if I didn’t, we’d never hear the end of it. (He was pretty talented at camouflage, though. It came naturally to him. He was wearing a white outfit that blended in with the snow so well, we’d already lost him twice in the motel parking lot.)

I call one bed!” Chip exclaimed the moment we entered our room. “You can’t do that,” Warren pointed out. “There’s only two beds. We have to share them.” “Fine.” Chip sighed. “I’ll share with you. You can have it during the day and I’ll use it at night.” “Deal,” Warren said. It wasn’t until they’d shaken hands on it that he realized what he’d just agreed to. “Hey! Wait a minute. . . .” “Too late. You shook on it.” Chip flopped onto the bed, staking his claim to it. “Handshakes aren’t legally binding!” Warren protested. “Tell him, Jawa!” “Technically they are,” Jawa said,

I was pleased not to have to share with Chip or Warren. Chip was so big, he would have taken up the whole bed, and Warren smelled like old cheese. (Zoe claimed this was because he never did his laundry, but I suspected he had some sort of personal hygiene problem.)

The previous summer I’d thought that the mountains of West Virginia were impressive (although I’d been a bit too busy running for my life to fully appreciate them).

Jawa set his suitcase on the bed and unzipped it, revealing a neatly arranged selection of ski clothes. Jawa was exceptionally well organized; he had separate, clearly labeled plastic bags for socks, gloves, sweaters, and thermal underwear. Chip, on the other hand, appeared to have wadded all of his clothes into a ball and then crammed it into a duffel bag that was two sizes too small. Two of the seams had split en route, forcing Chip to repair them with duct tape.

Yeah,” Chip echoed. “You wouldn’t believe how jealous everyone else back at school was when I told them I was going.” I turned to him, aghast. “You weren’t supposed to tell anyone. This mission is top secret!” “Relax,” Chip told me. “They already knew. It’s a school for spies. Nothing stays a secret there for long.

He rolled off the bed and unzipped his overstuffed duffel bag. Clothes erupted from it with such force that a pair of boxer shorts sailed across the room and nailed Warren in the face. Warren screamed in horror, stumbled backward over his own suitcase, and collapsed on the floor. “It’s not really supposed to be a vacation,” I warned them. “Erica says our lives could be at risk.” Chip laughed and shrugged this off. “Erica always thinks her life is at risk. Remember last year when she got all worked up about us having a mole in the school?” “Um . . . there was a mole,” I reminded him. “And our lives really were in danger. I almost got killed. Twice.” “Oh, yeah,” Chip recalled. “That’s right. Hey, I wonder if anyone will try to kill us this time.” “I hope so!” Jawa said excitedly. “That’d be amazing!” “Assuming they’re unsuccessful,” Warren pointed out. Chip pegged him in the face with another pair of boxers. “Well, duh. No one wants a successful attempt made on their life, you nitwit.” “What if it happened on the slopes?” Jawa asked, his excitement ratcheting up a few notches. “And we got to have an honest-to-goodness ski chase? How fantastic would that be?” “It’d be the best,” Chip agreed. “Warren, stop playing with my underwear, you pervert.” He snatched the boxers Warren had just removed from his head and tossed them into a drawer, along with a handful of random socks and gloves.

If anyone tries to kill me on the slopes, I’m going to be a sitting duck.” I sighed. “Ptarmigan,” Warren corrected. “What?” I asked. “There’s no ducks in the mountains,” Warren explained. “Whereas a ptarmigan is a bird found in cold climates like the northern tundra. So you wouldn’t be a sitting duck. You’d be a sitting ptarmigan.” “Shut up, Warren,” Chip threatened. “Or the next time I throw a pair of boxers at you, they’ll be the ones I’ve been wearing for the last sixteen hours.” Warren cringed in fear and stumbled over his suitcase once again.

Chip gave me a punch in the arm that was supposed to be supportive and playful but was actually strong enough to knock me into the wall. “Oops,” he said. “Sorry about that.

I’ll be right back,” I said. “Where are you going?” Chip questioned. “To see Erica?” “Why would I be going to see Erica?” I asked. “Because you’re madly in love with her,” Chip replied. Yet another piece of top-secret information that everyone at spy school knew anyhow. Although this wasn’t really a testament to any great spy skills on Chip’s part; practically every guy at spy school had a crush on Erica. “I’m not seeing Erica. I lost my glove.” “Ah, the old ‘pretending to lose your glove so you can go see Erica’ trick,” Jawa teased. “Can’t fool us with that one.

Hank Schacter, Chip’s seventeen-year-old brother, emerged from around the side of the motel, smirking, two more snowballs at the ready. Hank was a meathead and a jerk. I never would have willingly invited him on a mission, but as my resident adviser at spy school, he’d been brought along as a chaperone. Somehow, he’d scored his own space—albeit an extremely cramped one that barely had room for a twin bed. “We’re on a CIA mission, Ripley,” he scolded. “You can’t drop your guard like that. We can’t have anyone making dumb mistakes.” “Like announcing that we’re on a CIA mission in a public space?” I asked. Hank tried to think of a response, failed, and then threw another snowball at me.

Crowded,” I said. Zoe and Erica had lucked out; as the only two girls on the trip, they got a whole room and separate beds to themselves. “How’s yours?” “Great!” Zoe chirped, and then lowered her voice to even below a whisper. “Although it’s kind of freaky being with Erica. Half her luggage was ammunition. Who brings grenades on a ski vacation?” “I can hear you,” Erica said, even though she was still fifteen feet away. Zoe grimaced, alarmed that she’d been overheard.

It’s a top-secret CIA mission.” “Why does everyone keep saying that out loud?” I asked. “Because the only people close enough to hear me are also on the mission,” Erica explained. “I’ve already cased the area. All the other residents of this fleabag motel are out skiing, housekeeping has gone home for the day, and the guy running the desk has the stereo in the lobby jacked up so loud playing Christmas music he can barely hear anything over the jingle bells. So the only humans around are either fellow spies or shams.” “Shams?” I asked. “Hello!” Alexander Hale cried, exiting his room. “Case in point,” Erica told me, indicating her father.

Erica and Alexander had the most dysfunctional family relationship I’d ever encountered. And I came from a family where my cousins had gotten into three different fistfights at our Christmas party.

Hardly,” Erica replied, before Zoe or I could. “This place is a dump.” Alexander’s good cheer faltered. When he smiled again, he looked far more apologetic. “Ah, yes. Well, there’s been quite a bit of belt-tightening at the Agency lately. We have to keep an eye on the budget for missions now. Not like the good old days. Once, when I was on a mission in Gstaad, I rented the executive suite of the Hotel Beauxville for six weeks. . . .” “And he wonders why the CIA doesn’t have any money anymore,” Erica muttered. “But this place isn’t so bad,” Alexander said spiritedly. “Sure, it’s a little cramped. And it’s cold. And it’s unlikely that the sheets have been washed in the last few weeks. And there’s barely any water pressure in the showers. And . . .” Alexander frowned. “What was my point again?” “This place isn’t so bad,” I reminded him.

Like you?” a voice asked. Hank spun around, startled, to find Erica fifteen feet away, standing next to a large pile of snowballs. Meanwhile, Hank had thrown his last one at me and was unarmed. Instantly, his demeanor changed from cocky to weaselly. “Hold on, Erica,” he pleaded. “I was just trying to teach Ben a lesson. . . .” “So now I’ll teach you one,” Erica said. “Don’t be a jerk, or this will happen.” With that, she unleashed a fusillade of snowballs, moving so fast Hank might as well have been shot with a snowball machine gun. Hank ran, but Erica predicted his every move, pegging him repeatedly, until he finally escaped into the safety of the lobby. “Nice work, roomie!” Zoe cheered, emerging from a motel room. Zoe tended to be unnaturally cheerful most of the time, but being on her first mission—and at a ski resort—had made her almost manic with glee. She’d been smiling constantly since the moment we’d met at the airport that morning. “You sure showed him!” Erica regarded Zoe curiously, thrown by her enthusiasm. “Yes,” she said finally, “I did.

Why, I can remember one mission in Siberia, when I was subjected to simply the worst ordeal known to man. I was on the run from the Russians with Agent Johnny Cliff. We were off in the most hostile wilderness you can imagine, miles from civilization, with no food, no shelter, and half the KGB on our tail. But while the experience was miserable, it brought Johnny and I together in a way like no other. We were as close as brothers after that. Closer, maybe.” “Didn’t you take all the responsibility for the success on that mission?” Erica asked. “After which Johnny never talked to you again?” Alexander smiled weakly. “Er, well . . . all brothers have their differences.

P.S. There’s a restaurant in XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX called Hänsel ünd Grëtel that has excellent fondue. Check it out while you’re there. Destroy this document immediately after reading.

And the key to making friends with someone is actually being, well . . . friendly. You have a lot of wonderful qualities, but being nice to other people isn’t one of them.” “Other people are usually idiots,” Erica muttered. “See what I mean?” Cyrus asked. “That attitude is exactly what I’m talking about. Now, when it comes to espionage, I know you have tremendous talents, while Ben here doesn’t have many at all. . . .” “Hey!” I said.

and the ability to stay clean forever and never have to bathe.” “Why would the government be interested in having people stop bathing?” “Water conservation. Plus, it’d be awesome to never have to shower again. So win-win for everyone.

There were plenty of other, far less outdated ways to deliver urgent messages to the classrooms at spy school, but the principal didn’t know how to use any of them. In fact, he wasn’t very good at using the PA system, either. There were a few seconds of fumbling noises, followed by the principal muttering, “I can never remember which switch works this stupid thing. This darn system’s a bigger pain in my rear than my hemorrhoids.” Then he asked, “Hello? Hello? Is this thing on? Can you hear me?

Er . . . no. And so you know, spiders don’t shoot webs from their wrists anyhow. If someone really shot webs like a spider, they’d do it from their butt.

(The academy had stopped using real swords a few years earlier, after a student had been literally disarmed in class.) I did my best to defend myself, but it was only twenty seconds before I was sprawled on the floor with Professor Simon standing over me, sword raised, ready to shish kabob my spleen. Which was all the more embarrassing, as it happened in front of the entire class. ASP took place in a large lecture hall. My fellow classmates were seated in tiers around me, watching me get my butt kicked by a woman four times my age.

had been summoned to the principal four other times, and it had always been bad news: Previously, the principal had sent me to solitary confinement, placed me on probation, informed me that my summer vacation plans were cancelled in favor of mandatory wilderness training—and expelled me from school.

When I’d been learning how to assemble Legos, she’d been learning how to assemble semiautomatic machine guns. Blindfolded.