Page 4 of Snowballed

My parents bought the Tempe duplex as an investment and a way to solve our housing issues. Adam and I lived together on one side of a duplex last year, while Chi and two friends lived in the other. However, if Adam makes it to the NHL and doesn’t need to live in Arizona, nobody will be complaining about the extra work.

“I don’t think it’ll be hard to rent out,” I say.

My dad slams his hand down on the table, and a potted orchid jumps.

“I won’t let you mess up your life like this!”

“Gary,” my mother cautions him.

“I’m an adult now,” I remind him although I feel about twelve years old. It’s usually Chi and Adam who mess up and get the angry lectures—never me.

“You’re spoiled,” my dad declares. “You shrug off the townhouse like it’s no big deal. Everything’s come too easy to you.”

I shake my head. That’s not true. I was more than happy to find my own housing, but my parents were the ones who insisted their kids have “safe, comfortable” places to live.

My father crosses his arms. He’s going to deliver a verbal blow, and I brace myself.

“Okay, hot shot. If you’re so determined to strike your own path, do it. But you’re cut off. No more allowance, no car, no credit cards. We’ll see how far you get on your own.”

2

Zoe

“Welcome to the Burlington Tourism Office. Can I help you find something?”

“Yeah. Where do the hot single guys hang out?”

After summer jobs in tourism since I was fifteen, I can predict the questions that people will ask. Harried parents with young children want family-friendly restaurants or the nearest playgrounds. Well-dressed urban couples want the best farm-to-fork restaurants or farmer-direct markets. Weekend warriors want a map of the Long Trail or the paddle-board rental shops.

But I’ve never heard this question before.

“Uhhh,” I stammer.

Two women in their late twenties glare at me, practically tapping their feet.

“We asked you because you’re the youngest one here,” one of them hisses.

Marsha, who is working with me today, watches us. She is in her fifties and has been happily married for at least thirty of those years.

Unfortunately for these ladies, I am the last person on the planet to help them find guys. I am 21 years old, and I’ve had only one serious boyfriend. He lived next door to me, so it’s not like I worked hard to find him.

But I pride myself on my knowledge of Vermont. “Well, if you like university athletes, then the area around the Field House would be the best place to go.” I’m a hockey player, and that’s where I spend a lot of time.

“It’s still August,” the taller one points out to me.

“Um. The Church Street Marketplace? Everyone goes there, it’s got restaurants, local shops, farmer’s markets.”

“We’ve scoped that out already.” Now they’re scowling at me.

Marsha comes over and slaps our dining guide onto the counter in front of me. “This bar, this bar, and this bar.” She circles names with a pen. “But they won’t get busy until dinnertime. Before that, I suggest that you head down to the waterfront on Lake Champlain. Lots of cute guys jogging or paddle-boarding. And the sailors will start heading back in the late afternoon.”

Finally the two women smile. “Thank you very much,” they tell Marsha.

I watch them leave. “How come you know these things and I don’t?”

Marsha shakes her head. “Well Zoe, I hate to use the word ‘clueless’ to describe such a nice person, but you’re not gifted when it comes to the opposite sex. When’s the last time you even went on a date?”

“It’s been a while,” I admit.

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