It snowed again. Late March, like the year Jonas had had his accident.
Brennan tried not to think about Jonas as the white flakes fell thickly past her window. She tried not to think about how she’d tried to write but still couldn’t. She tried not to think about the messages from her followers: When will there be a new chapter? I can’t wait anymore!
Ambreen was outside. She, Jen, and some of the guys down the hall were sledding down the big hill on campus with makeshift sleds that were really the lids of plastic storage bins.
Brennan lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling. Empty. I am empty. I can’t even feel anything anymore. She didn’t hurt, didn’t cry—she just lay there and didn’t do anything, because she couldn’t bring herself to.
Suddenly, the door to their room slammed open and Ambreen came in, clumps of snow falling off her boots and out of the hood of her coat.
“Get up!” she yelled, startling Brennan.
“Why?” Brennan asked, incredulous. She lay back and looked at the ceiling again.
Ambreen grabbed her arm with wet, cold gloves. “You’re going outside. We’re going outside. You’re going to slide down the hill, and you’re going to scream a lot, and when you’re done, you’ll feel a little bit better.”
“I don’t want to.” Brennan turned and stubbornly faced the wall.
“Do it or I’ll put snow down your back.”
Ambreen dragged Brennan down from her bunk and tossed clothes at her—sweatpants (two pairs to layer), sweater (and a T-shirt for underneath it), two pairs of socks, and rain boots (“Rubber keeps the wet out better than anything,” Ambreen insisted).
Outside, dusk was starting to fall. Brennan felt heavy and clumsy in her layers as they trundled down the slick path out back of Prairie. It took longer than usual to get past Woodland Hall and onto the edge of the main part of campus, where the big hill towered above them. The thing was a nightmare to get up when it wasn’t snowing—sweating, and puffing, and standing on your bike pedals to get more leverage—but getting up it when it was slick was almost comical.
When they reached the top, Brennan refused to go. “You go,” she told Calvin when he offered her his container lid. “I’m okay.” They were all running around like children, tossing snowballs and laughing and shrieking. Calvin went down the hill.
Ambreen came up behind Brennan with another lid. “Get going,” she demanded.
“Stop being bossy, Ambreen,” Brennan snapped.
“That’s what you need right now,” Ambreen snapped back. She threw the lid on the ground. “Now sit down.”
Brennan obediently maneuvered herself onto the lid, holding on to the sides tightly. She was suddenly nervous. The hill was tall, and this was a plastic lid. There wasn’t much keeping her from falling off, and she pictured herself losing a tooth or breaking an arm.
“Ready?” sang Ambreen.
“No,” whispered Brennan.
“Go!” Ambreen gave Brennan a shove, and then she was sliding, slowly at first, and then picking up speed. The snow stung her face as she rode into it, frozen flakes hitting her cheeks.
And then she went from feeling nothing to feeling everything at once, and she was dizzy, and screaming, and before she knew it, at the bottom of the hill.
She trudged up, and went down three more times. Her glasses were smeared with melting snow, her cheeks and nose were numb, and she was on her way down again.
At the bottom, she tumbled off the sled, rolled a few times, and stopped, facing the sky, letting the snow hit her face.
She was crying now, and her nose was running, and she was laughing. She imagined that she must look like a crazy person. Ambreen ran over to her. “Brennan! Are you okay?”
Brennan had to take her glasses off to see, they were so blurred with wetness.
“What’s wrong?” Ambreen asked, concerned.
Brennan laughed, insanely. “Nothing. Everything. It’s all wrong, and all right! I feel—” She sobbed. “I feel alive, and normal, and warm—and everything. And—” She sobbed. “Awful—all at the same time.”
“It’s going to be okay!” shouted Ambreen, taking her by the shoulders. “You will be okay. It’s going to be okay!”
Then she hugged Brennan, and Brennan felt like a tiny piece of her was fixed.