the possibility of now (excerpt)

8/20/2019 The Possibility of Now (Excerpt)

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Copyright © 2016 by Kim Culbertson

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents areeither the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and anyresemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events,or locales is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Culbertson, Kim A., author. The possibility of now / Kim Culbertson. — First edition. pages cm Summary: After years of overachieving at her elite school, Mara James has acomplete meltdown during her calculus exam and, embarrassed by the incidentand the viral video evidence, goes to live with her ski bum father in Squaw Valley,where she hopes to find a place to figure out where her life is headed, and maybeeven finally understand her father. ISBN 978-0-545-73146-1

1. Life change events—Juvenile fiction. 2. Fathers and daughters — Juvenile fiction. 3. Squaw Valley (Calif.) —Juvenile fiction. [1. Self-perception —Fiction. 2. Perfectionism (Personality trait) — Fiction. 3. Fathers anddaughters — Fiction. 4. Squaw Valley (Calif.) — Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.C8945Po 2016 813.6 — dc23 [Fic] 2015016518

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 16 17 18 19 20

Printed in the U.S.A. 23First edition, February 2016

Book design by Yaffa Jaskoll


3/12

1

One

I make lists to survive. I’m not alone in this. You can’t Google any-thing without getting hit in the face with a list. Once, I searched for

“Why do people make lists?” Besides giving me 127 reasons why we

love lists, I stumbled onto even more lists: 11 New Uses for a Paper

Clip, 15 Regrettable Marriage Proposals, 23 Places to See Before

You Die.

When did we start doing that? Maybe on a wall way back in adark cave, a shaggy-headed caveman scratched: Kill mammoth, make

fire, stand upright.

As humans, we must just crave them. And after what happened

to me, I need my lists now more than ever.

“What are you thinking about?” Mom’s eyes flick to me, then

back to the road in front of us.“Nothing.” I shift in my seat, staring out the car window at the

beige California scenery along the I-5. Every fifty miles or so, Mom

finds a new way to ask if I want her to turn around, go home, forget this

whole thing. Each time, watching the landscape outside slip farther

from the bleached earth tones we left behind in San Diego, I tell her

a version of I want to do this, keep driving, I have a plan.

Scratch that. I have a list. And I love lists. It’s just not like any

list I’ve made before.


4/12

2

We’re heading north, tracing the 5, until eventually we will

reach the highways that connect us to a dense stretch of Tahoe

National Forest and, soon after, to Squaw Valley.

To Trick McHale, my biological father.

That’s how Mom always refers to him. Trick McHale, your bio-

logical father . I got an A in AP bio freshman year. She doesn’t have to

remind me of the genetics. Besides, that’s not how I think of him.

Mostly, I don’t think about him at all. To me, Trick McHale is

another list: nine birthday cards (three with twenty-dollar bills),

five phone calls, and one visit to the San Diego Zoo when I was seven.

Which is why, when I blurted out five days ago that I wanted to go

live with him for a while, just to take a break, to put my bad day

(Mom’s words) behind me, Mom’s surprise was second only to my

own. I don’t blame her. It was random. Especially for me. It hadn’t

been on any list of mine anywhere. But here I am. Heading north.What’s more shocking than the asking is that Mom said yes.

That’s how bad it is.

Only it’s really not that bad. It’s Not. That. Bad. The day after

my bad day, I made a list and taped it to the back of my bedroom

door. My Get a Grip List.

No one has died.

No one has cancer.

No one has dropped me in the middle of a war-torn

country.

I have not been sold into child slavery.

I have not joined a cult where I only eat wheatgrass and

limes.

I have not lost a limb.


5/12

3

Only it feels a little like I have. Lost a limb.

“If I turn around at this exit, we could be back home by dinner.”

Mom peers into the rearview mirror before changing lanes, passing

a dusty white minivan. A little boy in the backseat watches us glide

by, pressing his small hand flat against the glass.

“Maybe I’ll feel like eating in Squaw Valley.” I adjust the red

half-inch binder resting on my lap. I like to put my long-term-goal

lists into binders, real ones I can hold and not just electronic ones.

I’m old school that way. I have a system. Yesterday, I printed out a

cover for it, reading THE NOW LIST against the backdrop of a Hawaiian

sunset. Nothing says live in the now like a sunset, right? I squint at

it, bubbles of doubt forming in my gut.

The semi trucks on the 5 stack up like toy trains, and Mom

pushes the Lexus past a line of them. We pick up speed as

Mom adds, “Or we could just turn around. I really think it’s start-ing to blow over.”

If by “blowing over” she means “still going viral.” The YouTube

video had 616,487 views the last time I checked it.

I clear my throat and try for a bright voice. “No, I’m good. I

think this will be great!” I sound like a Disney princess on her third

helium balloon.Mom notices and frowns sideways at me. “Yeah, you sound great.”

I try to dial it down. “Seriously, think of this like my semester

abroad, only I’m going for a quarter and it’s Tahoe instead of Italy or

South America. Like an exchange student. But without having to

change money or wonder why they don’t put ice in my drink.”

Her frown lines deepen, telling me she feels this trip is nothing

like an exchange program. She’s already told me what she thinks

this is.


6/12

4

Running away.

I still don’t know what happened. Not really. I mean, I know

what happened; I’ve seen the video footage. But I still don’t

know how it happened. One minute, my calculus teacher, Mr.

Henly, was telling us to use a number two pencil, and the next min-

ute I was shredding the test and sobbing, “It doesn’t matter, none

of this matters, it doesn’t matter,” over and over until Mr. Henly

called someone from the office to come get me.

“I swear, this is going to be great,” I say again, my voice thin,

watching the blank middle of California spool away behind me. “I

made a list.”

Mom purses her lips and stares at the road before us.

A few hours later, as we trade Southern for Northern, replacing

palms for pines, Mom asks again, “Are you sure you don’t want me

to turn around?”I wish she’d stop asking. “We’re basically there.” I clench my

binder in sweaty hands and try to breathe in the quiet scenery.

She pulls onto Highway 89 toward Squaw Valley, passing camp-

grounds on our left, dark tops of picnic tables peeking through the

snow, the campground sign draped in plastic. It’s hard to believe we

left San Diego this morning and now we’re here. Where Trick lives.We stopped only once, to grab some sandwiches and more coffee,

so we made good time. Mom loves to make good time when we’re

driving, so I don’t tell her I have to pee. We’re close and I can’t stand

to watch her check all her clocks any more than she already has.

Mom always seems to have backup timepieces. On her wrist. On

her phone. The car dashboard. She checks and double-checks their

synchronicity. It seems to both calm her down and rev her up.

“I’m not sure what Trick’s living situation will be like.” Mom


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5

peers at the snowy road ahead. “I’m just giving you a heads-up. He,

well, lives differently than we do.” She says it as if he lives in a tent

in the middle of a field. Looking around, this seems suddenly like an

actual possibility.

My only memory of Trick McHale in person is the day he took

me to the San Diego Zoo. Mom had given us passes and money for

lunch and told me she’d wait in the parking lot in case I needed her.

Inside the zoo, Trick wandered around with me, sipping at a beer

he’d smuggled in by tucking it into his sock. What I remember most

about that day is the way he laughed a deep rumble at my horrified

reaction to the naked mole rats. “It says they aren’t completely naked,”

he said, studying the sign where it explained that they had over a hun-

dred hairs that helped them find their way around. “But they seem butt

naked to me.” I lost it then, one of those little-girl belly laughs I still

sometimes get with my best friend, Josie, and he looked so surprisedand pleased. I didn’t stop laughing until we reached the Arctic fox.

Almost a decade has passed and I haven’t seen him again, the

time between birthday cards and calls elongating. Mom has never

told me I couldn’t see Trick. It wasn’t like that. There was never any

animosity — only absence. All those years, she’d rarely mentioned

him, and he’d never made an effort, so I hadn’t, either. I was busy. Ihad Mom and my stepdad, Will, and my little twin brothers, Seth

and Liam, and a busy school life. Our one trip to the zoo felt like a

dream, but once, a few years ago, I found a children’s book called

Naked Mole Rat Gets Dressed and sent it to Trick because it made me

think about that laugh and the way it had surprised him.

I don’t know if he ever got it.

“You doing okay over there?” Mom glances at me. She’s been

asking me that a lot lately.


8/12

6

I fiddle with the heating vent, letting warm air wash over me.

“Yeah, thanks.”

After my bad day, I barricaded myself in the house for the entire

holiday break. Mom and Will spoke in overly bright voices. Josie

came with pizza and movies and tried to coax me to the mall, but

I wouldn’t go. A Christmas tree went up and down. I stared at

the sea of wrapping paper and plastic toy packages Seth and Liam

had left in their wake. Mostly, I tried not to think about the num-

bers of views my excruciatingly public meltdown was now racking

up online.

Miss Perfect’s Epic Meltdown.

When I watched it, just once, I barely recognized the girl with

the ash- blond ponytail, wearing the pale blue O’Neill hoodie Will

had bought me on a windy day in Hawaii last April. But it was

my face, pinched like a peach pit, ripping my test and all thoseother tests into paper rain. All those bits of test confetti filtering

through the shocked air of the classroom while, outside the tall

windows, the palm trees bent against the blue Windex sky of San

Diego. I never want to watch it again.

But I told myself it was Not. That. Bad.

Each day, I added things to my Get a Grip List.

I have not spiraled into drug addiction.

I have not been kidnapped.

I have not lost the love of my life to a terrible disease.

Only I kind of had. If the love of my life was being valedic-

torian and the disease had hashtags like #checkoutthisfreak and

#whatadramaqueen and #ihatethisgirl.


9/12

7

Still, I thought I could go back to Ranfield Academy. After all,

my parents and Ranfield and countless movies and bumper stickers

had raised me to rebound. All those years in tennis and soccer and

the early years of swim team, the mottoes had been clear: Shake it

off. Get up. Get back out there. It’s a mental game.

It definitely is.

Because in the grocery store five days ago, my first trip out of

the house, the small hairs prickled on the back of my neck as people

whispered behind their hands in the milk aisle and the produce sec-

tion and near the bakery.

“The girl who freaked out.”

“That valedictorian girl from the video.”

“What a psycho.”

Finally, I told Mom I’d just wait in the car. When she’d depos-

ited the groceries in the back and slipped in beside me, I blurted, “Iwant to go live with Trick in Tahoe for a while.”

Mom told me that you can’t care what other people think.

Josie told me people are jerks; don’t worry about them.

Will told me humans have the attention span of gnats; let it go.

Great advice. I’m just not sure how to actually do any of that.

Not care. Not worry. Let it go. Am I missing a certain gene?Through the window, I see the Truckee River tumble into view

on our left side, glittery in the pale sunlight. Everything in this

landscape is sharp — white, blue, gray, silver. Even the green is

deep and charcoaled. It will be like studying abroad — a foreign

country where the only whispering sounds will be the snow falling

through the pines.

Mom slows at a light and turns right at a large sign reading

SQUAW VALLEY USA, INTERNATIONAL MOUNTAIN RESORT. “Squaw Valley


10/12

8

hosted the 1960 Winter Olympics,” she tells me, gliding along

Squaw Valley Road. We wind back into the valley, passing a turn-

off for the Resort at Squaw Creek. As we curve to the left, a

snow meadow comes into view, and beyond it, a wall of winter

mountains.

“Wow,” I breathe, taking in the snowy peaks.

“Yeah, I know. It’s gorgeous.” Mom pulls the car into a parking

lot near a massive cluster of brown alpine-style buildings. “The

Village,” she tells me, her voice holding a trace of the distaste that

appears the few times I’ve asked her about why she left Squaw Valley

when I was barely three. “We’re here.” She shuts off the engine,

hesitating, her fingers plucking the keys swiftly from the ignition.

As she studies the resort in front of her, I can almost see the flashes

of memories move across her features. She goes quiet, whatever it

was that took her away from here crawling back out from under allthe snow.

“Mom?” She must be freaking out. Mom also makes lists, keeps

color-coded files of necessary forms, and has a master Google calen-

dar for me and for the twins with different-colored fonts for each of

us. Purple. Blue. Green.

My bad day in the middle of junior year wasn’t anywhere on herlists.

“Right, sorry.” She jingles her keys slightly and then, without

warning, reaches across and grabs my hand. “You can say hello, just

stay for a night and clear your head, and get in this car with me

tomorrow and drive home. You know that, right?”

A vulture of doubt circles me. “I know.”

I also know she doesn’t want me to do this. She’s thinking

now is not the time to change directions and she’s probably right. I


11/12

9

realize that if I get out of this car and walk to meet Trick, I will take

myself off the path we’ve planned, the one that would have me show

up at school today with my head held high, not worried about every-

one’s whispering, the one where I do shake it off and get back on

track and win a scholarship to the right sort of college. One of the

schools on Mom’s ever-evolving list.

On this right path, I pity the person who posted that video of

me because they are mean and petty and small. I write a college

essay about how I hit a rough patch but righted myself and stayed

steady and faced my fears and it made me stronger. Maybe I start a

support group for kids like me, victims of cyber shaming. Those

future admissions committees would nod understandingly and

applaud me for getting back up, dusting myself off, and making the

best of a bad situation.

Mara James. Accepted. Future secured. Take that, high school.That sounds a lot like what old Mara would do.

Problem is, I can’t seem to bring myself to hold up my chin,

start that support group, write that essay. I don’t feel pity or strength

or resolve. I feel broken and small and confused.

“I’m ready,” I lie.

Mom slips on a periwinkle knit beanie, the purplish- blue dark-ening her eyes. Or maybe it’s disappointment that darkens them.

“Okay, then.” She sighs. “Let’s go see how Neverland’s holding up.”


12/12

10

The Now List

1. Learn to ski: green runs, blue runs, black runs??

2. Internet cleanse (no social media, no news, Skype okay!)

3. Meditation — at least 10 minutes a day!!

4. Sleep until 8 on a school day

5. Essential oils to relax — lavender, chamomile, orange

6. Simplify & downsize!!

7. Kiss a cute snowboarder!! (Josie’s suggestion)

8. Breathe! (obviously)

9. Be brave (from Will)

10. Read for fun? (see attached suggested book lists)

the possibility of now (excerpt)

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