Free Until It Hurts to Stop by Jennifer R. Hubbard

Crystal Mountain descriptions, immersing myself in tales of broken legs, wild animals, and loose rocks hurtling down slopes. For all the hazards lurking there, I’d still rather take my chances on the trail than in the school halls. I
    text Nick: reading about how dangerous this mountain is . you have a strange idea of fun .
He answers: so you want to back out ?
    I remember how it felt to stand on top of Eagle after fighting the rain and my own doubts, after pushing myself higher than I’d ever gone before. I remember the hug Nick and I shared at the top. And most of all, the energy that surged through me. The way I felt that I belonged there.
    I answer Nick: no .
that ’ s what i thought .
    In Monday’s French class, the teacher tells us to pair up for a conversation exercise. Vanessa Webb swings her chair over to my desk, even though she usually works with the girl on her other side. “ Bonjour , Marguerite,” she says.
    “ Bonjour. ” I don’t know why she’s chosen me today, but I’m not going to question it. At least I don’t have to go through those anxious moments while everyone else couples up, wondering who will be left over.
    Our assignment is to have an extremely artificial conversation about how we celebrate holidays. The book suggests that we say things like, “And your family, does it travel to the beach in the summer? There are many fine beaches.”
    Vanessa and I trade a few dull, clunky observations about summer vacations. I’m wishing I knew the word for “fireworks,” instead of calling them “fire in the sky,” when she slips off topic. Still in French, she asks me, “Nick Cleary is your friend, right?”
    “ Oui ,” I answer, startled, but relieved to stop straining for small talk about the Fourth of July.
She switches to English. “I thought so. I saw you two sitting together at lunch.” She hesitates, running a sculpted fingernail along the spine of her French book. “Just friends?”
That question makes me swallow, sends alarm signals all the way out to my fingertips. Good question, Vanessa. But I simply say, “That’s right.”
She smiles. “Well, I’m having a party Friday night. The two of you should come. I live on the corner of Ridgway and Main. Do you know where that is?”
“Yes.” I’ve seen her house; it dominates that corner, with its white columns and vast sweep of lawn. “But I don’t know if we can make it. We’re getting up early on Saturday to hike.”
“You don’t have to stay late. Just come for a little while. Any time after eight, all right?”
“Maybe.”
“On the Fourth of July we have a picnic with much good food,” she says in French, and her shift back into the assignment makes me blink.
I want to focus completely on the Saturday hike. I need to gather myself for Crystal Mountain, not only because it’s a tough hike, but because it will be my first full day alone with Nick since we kissed. It will be the real test of whether we can be friends—still friends, just friends. I’d rather not have this party to worry about, blocking the entrance to my weekend like a spiked metal gate.
And what does Vanessa want with Nick, anyway?
Well, I can guess that.
Vanessa and Nick. I can’t fit them together, even in my imagination. I don’t think they know each other that well. What could cool, polished Vanessa, with her immaculate clothes, see in Nick the hiker, Nick the basketball player? What could he see in her?
But maybe I’m reading too much into this. Maybe she just wants a big crowd at her party, so she’s asking as many people as possible. (After all, she’s inviting me. )
I don’t know. I can’t figure out people at all.
    After school, Nick and Luis get their basketball fix by playing an informal game with their teammates, because, apparently, that’s the only way they will all survive until the season starts in a couple of months. I decide to wait for them so I can get a ride, rather than face the unknown dangers of the bus.
    I lie