Now the starting gate swung out and she launched, the crowd cheering. Studying her videos, Wylie had come to admire her unhurried starts, then how she built momentum into the body of her run, then closed with dramatic finishes. April now looked like she had just gotten out of bed and was easing her way into the day. After all, she had no clock and no opponents to beat down the hill. Why hurry? She put a little ragamuffin into it. But Wylie and everyone watching knew that she would need velocity — lots of it and soon — to get the big air she needed for her tricks.
She came off the start with a 50/50 on the downrail, held it long and casually, like a surfer having fun on a small but well-shaped wave. Wylie watched her with a smile. The crowd hooted and hollered as April, much larger than life, charged toward them on the big screen. She gapped to a board-slide switch out, then drove up the ramp with a sudden speed that seemed to be supplied from behind her, rocketlike. Then off the lip she flew, up and up into the blue sky, above the green treetops, the crowd oohing, Wylie agog. She twisted dervishly in midair, decomposing into a blur of board and body from which a favorable outcome seemed doubtful, then landed the cab-tail 270 in perfect balance, as if on springs. She scorched loudly across the trough and up the opposite flank, then launched back into the air for a switch back-side 540 multiple body roll that seemed a defiance of time and space, a thing too complex and rapid to be clearly seen. She landed with the lightness of a leaf. The crowd was wild, and Wylie held his breath.
Then she flew into authentic view from the grandstand. Wylie watched as her compact white-and-turquoise form banked frontward off the edge and back into the air. Such joy in it. The crowd hollered louder as April carved down toward them, her dazzling speed seemingly given to her again. She banked high twice and laid down another 540, so much closer to him now that Wylie could hear the sharp carve and grind of her board.
She landed with a loud crunch and shot up the next bank toward her final jump. Such wonderful speed now, even more than before, as if she’d been saving it. She sprang up over the blue edge paint and into the sky again — her biggest air so far — Wylie and the crowd sensing something new here, a raising of stakes. Higher and higher she rose. At the apex, she dropped her head and shoulders and the snowboard flashed upward, April tucking under it, board bottom to the sky, comets of ice falling, one hand on the rail for a long roll that accelerated to a blur of turquoise and white, woman and board, tangled and twisting. Then down she came. Wylie couldn’t tell what part of her would hit the ground first. The crowd had gone silent. Suddenly, April’s snowboard slashed into place beneath her and she landed hard. Her legs collapsed, springlike, and she wobbled slightly. Then she uncoiled into balance, raising her fists to the crowd and sending a wave of snow into the photogs. She carved to a stop in the middle of the out-run, beaming.
“I think I just saw, like, history,” said Belle.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
That evening, Wylie and April drove to Village Square for the Gargantua Mammoth Cup Runneth Over Party. It was already in full swing when they got there, and Wylie had to park across the street in the pay lot. He and April walked arm in arm, leaning into each other. They both wore their winners’ jackets, which had been hand-sewn by a local designer and underwritten by Vault Sports. The jacket bodies were Mammoth team blue, the sleeves white and red, respectively. Wylie wore a new blue shirt and his best jeans and black cowboy boots, recently polished. Under her winner’s jacket, April dared a black miniskirt and leggings, black boots, and touches of lapis set in silver.
“I’m so happy and full right now,” said April. “I want it to last forever.”
He looked at her and found it difficult to believe that he was about to walk into a party thrown partially in honor of himself and his date — easily the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He knew that in no real way did he deserve her; in fact, pointedly did not deserve her. But if this was the flip side of life not being fair, he would take it. “Maybe it will,” he said lamely.
“I had a long talk with Mom this afternoon. We’re good. I’m sending her home. I’m going to travel on my own and learn to take care of myself. She’ll still handle all the business arrangements. Logan’s going to work with Sandra Brannen in Jackson, so he’s covered. I’ll train hard for the X Games and the FIS circuit, and spend every free minute with this Welborn guy out of Mammoth.”
“He might like that.”
“I hope I don’t drive him crazy with all my habits.”
“I hear he’s just dumb in love with you.”
Wylie looked out at the square, teeming with lights and people. Village Square was Mammoth Lakes’ largest and most focused commercial development and one of its more recent. It looked like a Christmas card. The buildings were alpine-modern, the shops and restaurants upscale and expensive. Four-story condos lined the curving village walkways and a handsome Westin Hotel anchored one end of it. There were streetlamps and wooden benches and sculptures. A smooth, fast gondola whisked people up the mountain to Canyon Lodge. The square’s focal point was a tall, peaked clock tower, which had become a key civic symbol of the city.
Tonight, the village was at its best. Eaves and roofs shouldered the heavy snow, and icicles dropped shining beads into the light of storefront windows. The snow had been blown off the plaza floor, and there were three bars and a dozen food stands spouting fragrantly competitive clouds of steam into the cold, clear air.
Walking up the steps to the plaza, Wylie was startled to see Cynthia Carson standing in the snow under a tall red fir, pointing a small camera at them. She was very close but scarcely visible in her winter-bark camo jacket and matching knit cap and gloves. The camera clicked twice, then dangled on a strap on her wrist. She held a pen in her camera hand and a small notepad in the other, her thumb marking her place. Her blue eyes looked backlit. “You won.”
“Thank you.”
“How did it feel?”
“Good.”
She wrote deliberately, then looked up at April. “My name is Cynthia Carson.”
“Yes, I know who you are,” said April.
“Sky believes that your contact on the X Course went past incidental,” Cynthia said.
“I thought he would,” said Wylie.
“And what do you believe?”
“Neither of us gave one inch. The referee saw no infraction. It’s part of ski cross.”
Cynthia wrote again — carefully and slowly — then nodded, as if she’d anticipated Wylie’s words. “Sky feels that he must follow through on his warning to you.”
“I wish he wouldn’t.”
“I understand his position.”
“I’ll bet you do. But I’m not going to apologize to him for things I didn’t do.”
“His broken right arm has been set. He and his fiancée are up in Reno tonight. He feels humiliated.”
“He ran a good race. I hope he lets us all be, Mrs. Carson.”
“Don’t escalate.”
“I’m going to the party now.”
“A pleasure to meet you, April. I never liked board slopestyle until today. I don’t understand how you do it, but it’s courageous and very beautiful.”