THE FERAL STRUT

Chapter 23

Fresh powder. The parking area on the Pass was jammed, with everything from rusty VW bugs to decked-out Suburbans. Even so, Ginger's BMW stood out. A metallic gold 325i convertible, she'd gotten it as a graduation present, at the same time her father had acquired his Range Rover, of that same brazen hue.

As she and Gin got their boards out of the trunk, Mary could feel a great many eyes upon them, which made her nervous. It didn't help that Ginger was wearing a one-piece zip jumpsuit, screech pink with a white lightning bolt traversing the crotch. They started for the up-track on the north side, that went to Glory Bowl. There was a knot of boarders at the foot, arguing with some telemark skiers in wool surplus pants and greasy down vests.

She and Gin detoured around them, as a voice rang out: "Yo— what's up?"

"Sage," Ginger said. "Just ignore him." They pressed on, as the group shifted and reformed between them and the foot of the track.

A stocky guy in a duct-taped parka swaggered up to Ginger. "Hey! Killer outfit. Got time for a question?"

"Up yours, Tomato," Ginger snapped.

"It's D'Amato," he said. "Dee- apostrophe- ay- em—"

"Hey, you can spell your own name," Ginger said.

"Look, when is your dad going let boards on the Tram? That's all."

Several of the guys in the group nodded and muttered: Fascists, Ski Nazis, Village Vampires.

"How should I know? He won't let me take mine up."

"That's not what I heard."

"You had your question, Sage." She turned to Mary. "Let's go."

"I don't think so, chick." D'Amato locked arms with a couple friends, and blocked the trail. Ginger started around and they shuffled to the side, staying between her and the slope.

"This is National Forest," Mary said. "Public land."

"So is Rendezvous Mountain."

"True," said Mary.

"So how come we can't board there, Rozier?"

Ginger was furious. "If I ever see you where you don't have your creepy friends to protect you, you're dust!"

"Who-o-o-o. Threats. Like father like daughter."

"Okay, asshole. Let's go. Meet me at the Tram Station."

"What?"

"Come out to the Village and we'll ride the Tram together— with our boards."

"Yeah right. And get popped."

"You think I won't get us on? C'mon. Dare."

Ginger stormed back to the car and put her board in the trunk. "Let's go, chick."

"Sheesh, Ginger. I just wanna do some runs."

"Back me up, girlfriend. We're riding the Tram, with our boards. With as many of those dickless wonders as possible."

She shot out of the parking area, fishtailing, and onto the Pass road.

"Okay," Mary said, "on one condition. Slow down."

They parked in the Village lot and waited. A few minutes later a rust-speckled VW bus pulled up, with D'Amato and four guys. Behind them were five or six other cars, filled with boarders from the Pass. They gathered around Ginger.

"Cool," she said. "Here's the plan. I've got this—" She held up a plastic card, a Tram Pass, shiny gold. "Unlimited rides, unlimited guests."

"Unlimited pain, when we get busted," said D'Amato.

"Maybe. But I stopped and called the News. Here she comes."

A Jeep Cherokee pulled up, and a woman with a long black braid got out, in ski clothes, with a camera and a tape recorder in a shoulder bag.

"Tee here," she said.

"Hey, girl— thanks for coming," Ginger said. "We're getting on the Tram with our boards. You do the coverage."

"Naturally. Straight news, or the gossip column?"

"Whatever works."

"First, give me your names." She got out a notebook and made the rounds, scribbling a note after each name: red hat, yellow boots, blue hair, etc.

"Okay, I'm set," she said.

Ginger strode off towards the Tram Station, like an Irish Setter trailing a litter of mongrel pups. She led the way into the Season Pass line and waited her turn. A couple of guys in orange Ski Village parkas stood together, conferring, and one of them talked into his radio. Ginger held up her card and waved the crew through the gate.

"Hey, Miss Rozier. Sorry. No snowboards. It's the rule."

"I just changed it, Spanky."

"Uhh. Can you do that?"

"Dad's in Geneva. So I'm in command— right?"

He looked into the glass eye of the camera, as the girl journalist captured his panicky face. Zzzz-click. Zzzz-click.

"Uhhh— I dunno. Can I call Burkhart?"

"Sure— you call Burkhart. While we ride the Tram."

"Whatever." He threw up his hands, and they shuffled out to the waiting gondola.

"Hey, Freedom Fighters," Ginger yelled over the noise. "Boards in the racks. Everybody on best behavior. No filthy language. D'Amato?"

"Check—"

"No death-dealing farts."

He blushed while the others chortled, laughing and poking each other. Then they filed through the sliding door.

The tram attendant closed and latched it. The bell rang.

They were on their way. Up!