Page 25 of Snowballed

“That’s so rude,” Helen says.

“Is that how you talk to him at home?” Rocky asks.

“Yup,” I reply in my best Noah monosyllabic way. I’m not going to explain a relationship I don’t even understand.

8

Noah

On Sunday, I head out with Derek Meyers and Paul Wagner to look at used cars. One SUV is oddly cheap. The owner tells us that’s because it’s leaking oil and needs a new head gasket. He might as well be speaking Martian, but luckily Wags understands car talk. He looks under the hood while Meysy calls up a mechanic friend. After a bit of negotiating, I’m the owner of a 2006 Subaru Forester.

“We’ll take it to Jasper’s shop. He’ll have it ready for you sometime next week,” Meysy says.

“It’s the right car to get you through winter here,” Wags says.

“How bad is it going to be?” I wonder.

Meysy raises a hand over his head. “Last year, we had snowbanks up to here.”

As usual, I can’t tell if I’m being bullshitted or not. Scare the Californian is the team pastime. They keep bugging me about all my clothing layers, but after the heat of SoCal, I’m freezing.

Wags nods. “This thing’s got four-wheel drive. That’ll get you through. You ever driven in snow before?”

I shake my head.

He continues, “Black ice is the thing you gotta watch for. You think the road is bare, but you can’t get any traction. And remember, you gotta steer into a skid.”

Whatever that means. Maybe I’ll ride with Zoe when it snows a lot. I’m going to miss having a chauffeur. I won’t miss getting to school two hours early though.

Meysy comes over to the farm, both to return Zoe’s car and have dinner. Having seen what passes for dinner at the hockey house, I can’t blame him.

“Derek, you’re home.” Denise lights up at the sight of him. “Come on in. I’ve got coffee and donuts.”

Zoe is already out in the yard inspecting my new vehicle. I’m wearing a hoodie and a jacket, while she’s wearing cut-off shorts and a T-shirt. With rubber boots, of course, but that doesn’t hide her long, bare legs.

“I thought you’d choose something more sporty,” she says.

“Apparently Maseratis don’t handle well in two feet of snow.” I think sadly of my ’Vette back at home. My father’s probably returned it to the leasing company by now. He probably doesn’t want any reminders of me around.

“What chores are you doing now?” I ask. She has work gloves on and a basket of produce.

“Oh, just harvesting a few things before the first frost. I’ll put them up in the root cellar, and they’ll last all winter.”

“You have a root cellar?” I understand both words but not together.

“Of course. It’s really cool. Literally, like temperature cool. You want to take a look?”

“I don’t know. I’ve seen a lot of horror movies. Seems like an excuse to get the city boy in the basement and murder him.” I say as I follow her. Ordinarily, I’d rather join Meysy for donuts, but Zoe’s enthusiasm has me intrigued.

“If I want to murder you, I’ll make you do the milking alone. That’ll kill you.”

“Hey. I’m getting better,” I protest. “How about I milk alone tomorrow?”

I’m on my own next weekend, so I’ve been meaning to do a trial run while Zoe’s still here. Denise apparently has zero to do with the farm, so I’m not sure if she could even help me.

We go down a scary set of stairs into a murky darkness. Zoe pulls on a string and an overhead bulb goes on. We’re in a tiny room crammed with shelves and… food. There are bins of cabbages, apples, and potatoes. There are braids of garlic and onions. And there are mason jars glowing with amber, ruby, and jade contents.

“Holy shit,” I exclaim, because not only is this a lot of food, but it’s a lot of work. And I’ll bet that Zoe has done it all. “Wait, are you a prepper?”

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