Once I return to the chalet, I successfully manage to avoid Deluca for the remainder of the day.
Chelsea is curious when she finds me cooped up in her wardrobe, drawing in my sketchbook, but she says nothing. I give her a slight smile, mouthing, “Stomach ache,” and she nods. If there’s one thing that I love about Chelsea, it’s that she knows when not to ask questions.
However, by breakfast the next day she is worried.
“Annie,” she pleads, after I tell her once again that I am not hungry, “you’ve got to eat something. Please. It’s not healthy. You haven’t had a meal since lunchtime yesterday.”
I am slouching on the day bed by the window in Chelsea’s room, reading The Catcher in the Rye while she paints her nails. Outside, a blizzard is roaring. Perfect. No skiing for Annie and Deluca today.
“I had a milkshake. Does that count?”
“No. It really doesn’t,” she affirms, laying a second coat of gloss onto her already perfectly-manicured nails. “You aren’t trying to loose weight or anything are you?”
I look up at her. “No, no! Of course not Chels.”
“Okay, great. Because like, if you are - skipping meals is not the way to do it. Believe me. It’s unhealthy.” She pauses to smile at me. “Plus, you really don’t need to. Your body is amazing Annie.”
I disagree with her, thinking of my slight muffin top, but choose to not mention it. “Uh, thanks,” I return with a smile, never quite knowing how to respond to compliments.
We sit there in silence for another half an hour until one of the staff come and call us to the dining room. Resentfully, I walk downstairs, keeping my head down in case I happen to cross paths with Deluca.
Thankfully, he is not waiting at the table when we arrive. There are only six places laid at the table, and as I take my seat I cross my fingers in the hope that it will only be Chelsea’s parents and two younger brothers dining with us.
The twins arrive next in a racket. They run into the dining room like planes, making alarmingly loud zooming noises. I laugh as Chelsea covers her face with her hand, embarrassed.
They plonk into their seats, William across from me and Marco opposite Chelsea. Will shoots me a grin, winking a bright blue eye. I return it, laughing again, and watch him pompously fold his napkin across his lap.
“How are you, Annabell-a?” Marco asks, pronouncing my name in a makeshift Italian accent.
“Grande,” I return, using perhaps one of the only Italian words I know. William pokes his his tongue out at Marco and makes kissing noises.
“And how is London these days?” continues Marco. “Cold?”
“Quite,” I say, imitating a posh accent, “but not exactly as cold as here.”
Marco seems overjoyed at my posh-imitation, and requests phrases for me to say.
YOU ARE READING
Kiss Me In The Snow
Novela JuvenilWhen seventeen year old Annabelle Hart goes on a three week holiday to the ski slopes of Italy with her best friend Chelsea, she was not expecting that her life would completely change. When Chelsea unexpectedly breaks her arm on the slopes, Annie i...
