After school, Tom meets me at my locker. We leave school and get into my blue Jeep. I drive us to the Mountain Equipment Co-op where he works, down by the Canadian Tire on Brooksbank off Cotton Road. His boss said we could try out some new ski gear and write it up in the catalogue and on the website, so the plan is to grab the goggles, jackets, boots and bindings and head up one of the local mountains just to do a few runs on our boards. Well, I’ll use my board. Tom can use my sister Steph’s. She doesn’t mind.
“I dunno,” Tom says as we pull into the parking lot. “I should probably just go home and study tonight.”
“Dude, you’re the one who set this up.”
“I failed my Econ assignment. I have to make up for it on the test.”
“You? Fail?”
“Asian fail,” he corrects, laughing. “I got a B.”
“Come on, Worm. One run isn’t going to kill you. We’ll be back by six, latest.”
Tom hates when I call him Worm, the way everyone else does, but it’s my secret weapon. He’ll go along with anything when I do it.
“Easy for you to say.” Tom raises his hand and squeezes his thumb and forefinger together like he’s about to crush an insect. “I’m this close to losing my scholarship, and if that happens, my chances of getting an entrance scholarship to a good university are over.”
“Quit being a drama queen,” I tell him. “There’re only five months of high school left. What could possibly go wrong?”
“You’re right, you’re right.” He undoes his seatbelt and hops out of the Jeep. “Let’s go for a killer run.”
We go into the store. Tom’s boss sets us up with supplier samples and tells us what he expects us to notice about the gear and comment on in our reports. Then off we go.
Cypress, Grouse and Seymour are impressive mountains if you’re from the prairies, but I grew up skiing and boarding at Whistler, so for me, these so-called mountains are really just foothills. But whatever. I turn up Lillooet Road to Seymour. It’s definitely cool that Tom’s boss wants us to write reviews and maybe even model the stuff for the website. It almost makes me want to get a job just so I can do cool stuff like this, but I hate having to show up places on time.
We whoosh down the slopes a few times, and then pack it in for the night.
“Pretty good jacket,” I comment. “Warm. Lightweight. Good for backcountry.”
“Not bad,” Tom agrees. “But I wouldn’t pay retail for it.”
“You wouldn’t pay retail for anything.”
By the time we get back to the store, I’ve decided to get a couple of the jackets in different colours. I need a new one for the ski trip coming up anyway, and I go up to Whistler at least a dozen times every winter, and there is nothing worse than being wet on the slopes.
Before checking out, I pick up some new thermal socks, a wool sweater and some better-fitting ski pants. I grab the jacket Tom was wearing — it’s obvious he likes it — and slap my platinum card on the counter.
In the car, Tom says, “Dude, you just spent a couple grand in there. You should have at least let me get you my staff discount.”
“Pfft,” I say. “Whatevs, man.”
He rolls his eyes. “I can get my own jacket, you know. I’m not that much of a peasant. Besides, I have a job.”
“Don’t worry about it. You worry way too much, you know.”
“I’ve got stuff on my mind.”
“Oh, yeah? Like what?”
“Like where I should go next year. I’m thinking Simon Fraser because they’ll probably cough up.”
“Everyone’s going to Trinity College. Come to Toronto.”
“But the SFU scholarship covers everything. The Trinity one is more of an honorarium type thing.”
“So? I’ll get my dad to pay for it. BFD.”
“I can’t let your dad pay my tuition.”
“Sure you can. Why not? It’s a drop in the bucket.”
“Because if I’m going to be powerful like him, I have to make it on my own.”
I look over at him. “You’re shooting yourself in the foot doing things the hard way, you know.”
“You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?”
“All I know is Trinity’s going to be awesome. Girls, parties, clubs, all that jazz.”
“The stuff I can’t afford to distract myself with if I want to have a hope in hell of graduating.”
“I’m telling you, you think too much.”
I pull into his driveway. His grandma is on the lopsided front porch choosing potatoes from a large Tupperware tub. She waves. I grab Tom’s jacket from one of the bags on the backseat and stick it on his lap. He doesn’t want to take it and tries not to, but I force it on him. It’s like my dad says, if you shove something at someone long enough, they take it. Especially if it’s something they want.
“One day I’ll be rich and powerful like your dad, and I’ll get you back. You’ll see.”
Tom says the funniest things. I guess that’s why they let a few regular people come to Montrose. It’s entertaining.
“Look, whatever happens you can always come and crash on my floor next year,” I say, punching his arm. “You’ve got that good sleeping bag you like to brag about. Bring that and live in my residence for free.”
“Whatevs, man.” He rolls his eyes and hops out.