A woman from the McCall Area Snowmobile Club thanked Swann’s dad and reminded everyone of the rules. No sled-on-sled contact. All racers must check in at all race checkpoints for safety. All racers must wear helmets, an unnecessary rule since the cold alone made all riders sure to wear a full helmet. No alcohol could be consumed during the race. Pretty basic stuff. After that, racers were asked to mount up and start their sleds. Swann had a good position, about two sled lengths back behind Kelton, eyes on his red machine and maroon jacket. In a matter of seconds the race would begin.

  ON ONE OF THE SNOWMOBILING YOUTUBE VIDEOS KELTON had watched, the pro who was offering all the riding tips started with Rule 1: Don’t Forget to Breathe. Watching it, Kelton had thought it was the dumbest thing. He’d figured it was physically impossible to forget to breathe. Even an unconscious guy kept breathing.

  Yet now, in the seconds before the starting pistol signaled the beginning of the race, he understood. His muscles tense, he gripped his handlebars tight, ready to blip the throttle and pour on the speed. But he wouldn’t crank it full blast. Everybody else could shoot ahead into a big cluster, bumping into each other, hitting the brakes, trying to get clear. He’d let the crowd jump ahead, and then spot his way around.

  With his shortcut, he didn’t need to be in the lead. He was going to bypass a major portion of the racecourse. Straight through checkpoint one, up over the gold mine pass, and right down to checkpoint two ahead of everyone else. Then it would be a wide-open trail for him to speed along at a good pace, safe from anyone else’s interference. In a little more than an hour, he’d own the coolest snowmobile in America.

  The starting pistol fired, and he blipped the throttle, revving it up to get it going, but then hanging back for a moment while the rest of the herd surged into a giant knot of snowmobiles ahead of him.

  “Breathe!” he said quietly to himself inside his helmet. “On the left!” There was a space to shoot through if he really gunned it. Kelton sped up his sled, riding for all he was worth to squeeze through the tiny, single-snowmobile space on the left side. “Come on, come on, come on!” One guy on a blue snowmobile ahead of Kelton looked like he was steering for the outside too.

  “Don’t do it!” Kelton shouted, even though he knew nobody could hear him through his helmet and out here in the roar from all the snowmobiles. “Come on!” he called to his own sled. “You can do it!”

  With inches to spare, Kelton shot through the gap and glided into a great position in the center of the trail, just a few lengths behind the half-dozen sleds leading the race.

  Now he blazed ahead, risking a quick look at the pack behind him. His snowmobile raced down the well-groomed and packed trail, flying across the white, through a sort of tunnel formed by the tree branches overhead.

  It was happening! He was way out near the front, and with his super-time-saving shortcut still to come. The race was his. His sled was running great. He could feel its power, like it was hungry, tearing at the snow, its track biting solid and throwing the machine over the white faster and faster.

  Kelton rode like that, mostly on a straightaway, but taking a few small curves, careful to always hug the inside of them, to take as straight a path as possible. The speed was fantastic. Several times he laughed at the delight of it all. Everything flew by in a blur, like this whole amazing day was a dream, like he’d fallen asleep on that bench seat in the garage near his snowmobile last night and at any moment he could wake up from this. But then his snowmobile would shoot up over a little bump, flipping his stomach with that split second of weightlessness, like when a roller coaster whips up over a sharp hill, and he knew more than at any other time that he was awake, and more alive than he’d ever been before.

  He peered through the light mist that the lead snowmobiles kicked up in their wake. Seven, maybe eight machines ahead of him. And beyond them, barely visible, was it? Yes! Orange flags on tall poles on either side of the trail! Checkpoint one, coming up about a hundred, hundred fifty yards ahead. About a half mile after that was the turnoff trail for his shortcut.

  “Maybe just stay on the main course,” Kelton said inside his helmet. “You’re only in ninth place or something. Maybe just ride the whole thing and try to pass them.”

  But even as he said it, he knew that was crap. The leaders were probably Richies on the fastest sleds out there. Hard to tell with the gear and helmets, but he was pretty sure that was Bryden Simmons on his charged Polaris up there. Thing was, this race, like all of life, wasn’t an example of fairness. No. The shortcut was his only chance to even things out. It meant for a slightly tougher run through deeper powder, but he could do it. He patted his snowmobile. “You ready for this?” Suddenly he was through the first checkpoint and watching intensely for his secret turn.

  “Come on. Where are you?” Kelton said to himself. The turnoff was easy to see on the map. But maps aren’t real life. No rock outcroppings on a map. On a map, the trees didn’t block one’s view like they did in real life. His shortcut wasn’t part of the county’s well-maintained trail system. It might be quite overgrown, hard to spot. And there were lots of side trails off the main route. How could he know which was his shortcut? On the map, his pass wound up between the Big and Little McCall peaks, but it was hard to see the mountains down in the woods. Maybe he should have checked the distance on the map, tried to measure how far he’d gone beyond the checkpoint.

  Kelton kept glancing to his right, trying to spot the high valley between the two peaks, looking for a clearing or even a trace of the road. Finally, the woods thinned out a little as the trail ran slightly closer to a distant creek. Was this it? Coming up on his right?

  “It has to be.” He knew he’d eventually have to risk trying one of these side trails, hoping it was the right one. If he was wrong, he’d lose the race. There would be no second chance. He could try one of the offshoots, hoping it was his shortcut, and maybe win the race. Or he could chicken out, not try, and lose the race for sure.

  He was tired of being the outcast, the last picked, the unseen, forgotten one. Just this once, he would finally do something right, finally get something besides the worst of everything, finally . . . win! He cranked his snowmobile hard to the right, leaning in that direction to center himself as he skidded around a tight turn, and an instant later he was flying ahead through much looser powder. He squeezed the throttle to give the sled the extra power it needed, and it bucked ahead over the uneven snow. Other snowmobiles had taken this path a while back, because compared to the snow on either side, the trail was kind of packed down, but this route hadn’t been used since the most recent heavy snowfalls.

  There was just one way to know if he’d taken the right path. A long time ago, train tracks ran up the pass to the gold mine, with a railroad bridge over a stream. The tracks and bridge were long gone, but if he was running their former path right now, there should be a little rise before the creek. These days people called it Stone Cold Gap, Kelton guessed because any snowmobiler crazy enough to try to jump over the creek had to have stone-cold nerves. He slowed down as his rough trail rose up a little slope, and he hit the brakes hard, skidding to a halt, his heart leaping for a moment as he worried he was about to spill forward into the freezing stream below.

  Kelton took off his helmet for just a moment, the icy sting of the winter air a welcome change from the tense heat inside. “Stone Cold Gap.” He smiled. He’d found the right trail after all. Now he’d turn around, go back to give himself a running start, and then, if his courage held, he’d gun it full speed for the most intense snowmobile jump of his life.

  CHAPTER 5

  SWANN HAD SEEN SNOWTASTROPHE III A BUNCH OF times, including special private premiere screenings in New York and London. She’d always been impressed by the racing snowmobile battle scenes high in the snowcapped mountains. In the movie, her dad, his stunt double, and the special effects team made high-speed snowmobile racing look easy. It was not easy. She wasn’t sure what she was doing wrong, but snowmobiles shot past her right and left one after another, while she just tried to keep an eye on Kelton Fielding. A lot of these snowmobiles looked alike, and so did their riders. She was lucky Kelton was dressed a little more shabby than most of the other riders.

  Kelton turned a corner to the right, and for a moment Swann panicked. “Oh come on!” she shouted as a snowmobile zipped past her on the right. How was she supposed to get over there? Another two sleds were approaching from behind on her right side. If she didn’t turn now, she’d never make it.

  Swann screamed as she cranked her handlebars, whipping onto the side trail, losing speed as she bumped along a much rougher path. Sled after sled sped by on the main trail behind her. She kept going, struggling a little to keep moving through the deeper, fluffier snow. Kelton was well ahead of her now, around a bend in this first part of the shortcut. Swann laughed and hit the throttle to speed up. Her father would freak out when he saw her slide across that finish line. He’d be like, “Congratulations!” Then she’d take her helmet off and smile at him. His jaw would drop. She’d be a lot harder to ignore then.

  She couldn’t ignore the snowmobile ahead, rushing back toward her. She scrambled to squeeze the little brake handle in front of her left hand, but her glove caught for a moment. She screamed as the sled ahead of her flew up too close. The trail was too narrow for either of them to dodge the other. Finally she squeezed her brake handle with all her strength. Both snowmobiles came to a halt only two lengths apart.

  Kelton’s helmet was off a moment later. He did not look happy. “Who are—”

  Swann slipped off her helmet and smiled.

  “What are you doing here?” Kelton shouted. “Go back! You’re off the trail!”

  “Come on, Kelton,” Swann said in her friendliest voice. “We’re science partners. And you weren’t going to tell me about your shortcut?” She was surprised at his instant transformation from openmouthed shock and disbelief to the tight jaw and gritted teeth of anger. Or was it hurt?

  “I found this route. I thought of it. I’ve worked—” He shoved a gloved fist into his other gloved palm. “For months for this. Just because your rich daddy—”

  “You can keep the prize snowmobile and the money when I win,” Swann said. She thought it best to interrupt him before he said something he couldn’t take back. Not that she wouldn’t forgive him. She tried not to be vengeful like some of the girls at her old school. But if Kelton had continued on the tired old “rich girl” complaint and then said he’d never allow her to take the shortcut, the two of them would be stuck in an impasse that would be difficult to escape. “I’m in this for fun. You can keep the prizes.”

  “Won’t matter, because I’m the one who will win this race,” Kelton snapped.

  “Then you better get going, or you’ll lose your advantage,” Swann pointed out. “You can either sit here trying to convince me not to take the shortcut, which is useless because I’m going no matter what you say. Or you can get moving before all the other racers already pass checkpoint two.”

  Kelton pressed his lips together and blew a frustrated huff out through his nose, which steamed in the cold like the angry snorting of a bull. “Up ahead is Stone Cold Gap. It’s stupid-dangerous. If you’re not going absolutely full throttle when you hit the jump, you won’t make it. You’ll crash. You should go back.”

  He held his helmet up above his head, pausing for a moment before slipping it on. “But I don’t care what you do. For real.” Kelton shoved on his helmet and hit the throttle in quick short bursts while he cranked his machine around to head back toward his shortcut.

  SWANN WATCHED AS HE PUT ON REAL SPEED, STANDING up off his seat with his knees bent a little. Faster and faster he went, kicking up a white cloud around and behind him that hid the bottom of his snowmobile and almost made him look like he was flying above the snow.

  But then, in the distance, Kelton’s sled popped up a little hill, and he really was flying, a lighter stream of snow trailing in his wake like a contrail behind a jet plane. Had he made the landing? Was he OK? She couldn’t see.

  She didn’t know many in McCall very well. She’d promised herself she’d learn more about people, trying to keep an open mind, at least until she had a better sense of the way things really were. It wasn’t easy. First impressions were tough to beat, and this Kelton Fielding guy didn’t seem like much of a winner. At least that’s how all the other kids acted. Hard to say if the crowd was right or wrong. They treated her pretty weird too. But whether or not Kelton was weird, Swann certainly didn’t want him hurt or, worse, dead, right here on the snowmobile trail.

  A moment later, in the distance, up the slope on the far side of the stream, Kelton’s snowmobile slid to a halt. Was he stopping for her, waiting to see whether or not she made the jump? So much for not caring what she did. It wasn’t too late. She could turn around and go back right now. If she gave up on this shortcut, she’d never win, but she could still have fun driving the race.

  But then what would be the point of renting the snowmobile and everything? And it was more than a matter of money. The rental hadn’t been that expensive, after all. It all came down to five years ago, when she was seven and wanted to learn to play cello. Mom had explained carefully and endlessly that their family was blessed so that buying a cello and paying for lessons wasn’t much of a problem. Many families didn’t have that luxury. But, Mom had explained, money didn’t buy success. That only came through hard work. Both she and Swann’s father had to work very hard to succeed in a tough business. “And above all,” Mom had said, “we must never give up.”

  Mom hadn’t meant that about a crazy snowmobile jump or a shortcut in a silly small-town race. Swann revved the engine a little. She hadn’t forgotten her mom’s lesson, and despite wanting to quit a bunch of times, she still played cello. Swann might not be an expert snowmobile rider, but she was also determined to not be a fragile spoiled rich girl who gave up on everything the moment it became difficult.

  Without further thinking, and before she could chicken out, Swann slammed on her helmet and gunned her sled’s engine, racing ahead full throttle faster and faster toward the little hill that formed the jump over the gap. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she muttered to herself. What if Kelton’s snowmobile was just a better, faster machine? What if his run had messed up the snow somehow, making the jump impossible? What if she was doing this wrong? She really didn’t know anything about snowmobiles. A drop of sweat rolled down her cheek. She concentrated on driving the machine straight down the path Kelton had taken. This was stupid, stupid, stupid.

  The snowmobile sped along faster, faster, faster. The hill drew closer, closer, closer. Swann gripped the handlebars tightly, stood up like Kelton had done. The sled hit the hill. Swann screamed.

  She was so high. Flying. She was going to die. The opposite bank approached fast. She kept screaming.

  Her machine hit the ground, she flew forward, chest into the handlebars as she flopped back down on her seat. The sled jerked to the right. She cranked it left before she hit a tree, but overcompensated and almost rolled the thing. Finally she straightened out and hit the brake, sliding to a stop in the middle of the trail.

  A long-held breath burst out of her, fogging up her helmet visor, so that she flipped it up. “Yes!” She screamed again, happier this time. “Woo! That was awesome!”

  Kelton stood on his snowmobile about twenty yards away. He flashed her a thumbs-up before turning back around and speeding up the trail. Swann took a deep breath. She was still in the race.

  SUPERPOP MADE THE JUMP. YEAH, HE HATED SWANN FOR trying to steal his shortcut. But even if she was a spoiled rich girl, there was no denying she had a certain spark of coolness just for having the guts to try the jump. And she’d made it! Plus, even if he did hate her, he wasn’t a psycho who wanted her hurt or killed by coming up short on Stone Cold Gap.

  But that was it. She was alive. OK. Good. Fine. Kelton cranked the throttle, heard his sled’s motor rev higher, felt the speed and vibration though his body as he plowed ahead. She was crazy if she thought he would let her win. From now on, she was on her own. This would be the last he would see of her until after he was safely across the finish line.

  After a few minutes, he’d cleared the creek valley, and the trail began to rise up the pass between the two peaks. This wasn’t a maintained trail. The woods closed in on both sides, small supple branches slapping his arms, chest, and head like a hundred little whips, as though the mountain were trying to punish him, saying, Go back!

  “Never!” Kelton shouted to the mountain. “You won’t beat me.” The snow was deep and he started weaving side to side a little to help the machine’s track get a better bite and keep on pushing through. A thicker branch whapped his face, and not for the first time he was grateful for his helmet. He slapped his sled again. “Come on. You can do it.”

  Higher and higher up an increasingly steep slope Kelton and his snowmobile fought. After the trail cleared the thick tangle of shrubbery near the creek valley floor, the woods thinned out a little, but the snow was even deeper. Kelton risked a look back. Behind him, in the packed and broken trail he was forcing through the thick powder, SuperPop was having a much easier time.

  But in the distance behind her, approaching fast, was another snowmobile. “Come on, man!” Someone else either knew about his shortcut, was taking a chance following him, or was determined to bring him back to the main race route. Well, tough luck. Kelton wouldn’t allow either of those two to overtake him, and he darn sure wasn’t going back to the main trail and last place in the race.

  Kelton loved it, the roar, the high whine of his powerful snowmobile, the sound of his two pursuers back behind him. He ripped powder all the way up the first hill out of the valley. Too steep for a rail line, this must have been a horse-and-wagon road, or just a mule path. He would bet those old gold miners or whoever made the trail would have loved a machine like his.

 

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