I Froze
“Jaxon Vega, huh?” Flint asks as the cold slaps me in the face for the second time today.
“Don’t start,” I say, giving him the side eye.
“I’m not,” he answers, holding both hands up in mock surrender. “I swear.” He’s silent for a minute or so as the three of us concentrate on trudging through the snow toward everyone else. And can I just say that I’m pretty sure Macy undersold the crowd when she said fifty people. Even in the weird civil twilight that surrounds us on all sides, it looks more like a hundred, maybe even the whole damn school—minus Jaxon and his friends, of course.
On the plus side, at least they’re all wearing hats and scarves and coats…which I’m taking to mean that not everyone in this place is an actual alien. Thankfully.
“I just didn’t know ‘screwed-up and obnoxious’ was your type, that’s all.”
I shoot him a glare. “I thought you weren’t starting.” “I’m not. I’m just looking out for you. Jaxon is—” “Not screwed up.”
He laughs. “I notice you didn’t even try to say he wasn’t obnoxious, though, did you? And no offense, Grace, but you’re new here. You have no idea just how fucked-up he
is.”
“And you do?”
“Yeah. And so does Macy. Right, Mace?”
Macy doesn’t answer, just keeps walking and pretends like she doesn’t hear him. I’m beginning to wish I could do the same.
“All right, all right, I get it.” Flint shakes his head. “I won’t say anything else against the Chosen One. Except tell you to be careful.”
“We’re friends, Flint.”
“Yeah, well, take it from someone who knows. Jaxon doesn’t have friends.”
I want to ask him what he means by that, considering Jaxon’s got the Order, and they seem pretty damn close to me, but we’ve reached the first row of trees, where the others are gathered. Plus, I’m the one who just said I didn’t want to talk about Jaxon. If I start asking questions, that gives Flint carte blanche to say whatever he wants, and that doesn’t seem fair, since Jaxon isn’t around to defend himself.
Flint walks into the middle of the group like he owns the place. Then again, judging from the way the others respond to him, maybe he does. It’s not that they all come to attention, necessarily. It’s just obvious that they all really want him to notice them…and they all really want to hear what he has to say.
I can’t help wondering what that kind of popularity is like. I don’t want it—would probably melt under the pressure of it in less than twenty-four hours. But I do wonder what it feels like. And how Flint feels about it.
I don’t have long to dwell on my thoughts, though, because Flint gets started giving a quick rundown of the rules—starting with one that sounds an awful lot like there are no rules, except it’s followed by the one that says if you get hit by five snowballs, you’re out—and then disperses the crowd. As the five-minute countdown starts, he grabs Macy’s and my hands and starts running with us toward a large thicket of evergreen and aspen trees several hundred yards away.
“We’ve got two minutes to find a good spot,” he says. “Another two and a half to get things together. Then it’s open season.”
“But if everyone finds a spot, who will we have to throw sno—”
“They won’t,” Flint and Macy interrupt me at the exact same time.
“Don’t worry,” Flint tells me as we finally reach the trees. “There will be plenty of people to wage war on.”
Wage war? I can barely breathe. It’s a combination of the high altitude and cold air, I know, but I can’t help feeling self-conscious about the way I’m huffing and puffing. Especially since he and Macy both sound like they just finished a leisurely garden stroll.
“So what do we do now?” I ask, even though it’s fairly obvious, considering Flint is already scooping up snow and making it into balls.
“Build up our arsenal.” He gives me a wicked grin. “Just because I think Jaxon is a jackass doesn’t mean the guy doesn’t know strategy.”
We spend the next couple of minutes making as many
snowballs as we possibly can. I half expect Macy and Flint to outpace me here, too, but it turns out all those years of making pastries and patting dough into balls with my mother paid off, because I am an excellent snowball maker. Totally kick-ass. And I’m twice as fast as they are.
“Coming up on five minutes,” Macy says, her phone ringing with a fifteen-second warning.
“Move, move, move,” Flint calls out, even as he shoos me behind the closest tree.
Just in time, too, because as soon as Macy’s phone screeches out the five-minute mark, all hell breaks loose.
People drop from the trees all around us, snowballs flying fast and furious in every direction. Others run by at breakneck speeds, lobbing them kamikaze-style at anyone within range.
One snowball whizzes right past my ear, and I breathe a sigh of relief until another one slams into my side—even with the tree, and Flint, for cover.
“That’s one,” I hiss, jerking to the right to avoid another snowball flying straight at me. It hits Flint in the shoulder instead, and he mutters a low curse.
“Are we going to hide back here all day?” Macy demands from where she’s crouched at the base of a nearby tree. “Or are we going to get in this thing?”
“By all means,” Flint says, gesturing for her to go first.
She rolls her eyes at him, but it takes her only a few seconds to scoop snow into a couple of giant snowballs. Then she’s letting her snowballs fly with a giant war whoop that practically shakes the snow off the nearby branches, before running toward our arsenal to reload.
I follow her into the fray, a snowball clutched in my gloved hands as I wait for a perfect opportunity to use it.
The opportunity presents itself when one of the large guys from Flint’s group comes barreling toward me, snowballs hidden in the bottom of the jacket he’s turned into a carrying pouch. He sends them flying at me, one after another, but I manage to dodge them all. Then I throw my snowball as hard as I can, straight at him. It hits him in his very surprised face.
We’ve built up about a hundred snowballs in our arsenal, and we use them all as more and more people pour through the forest, looking for a place to hide as they catch their breath and try to make a few extra snowballs of their own.
I’m a little surprised at how close-knit the groups are—and how alliances transcend snowball teams and seem to revert back to the factions I noticed at the party yesterday. Even though members of Flint’s clique are divided into duos and trios, they all seem to come together and watch one another’s backs when someone from one of the other factions—whether it’s the slender group dressed in bright jewel tones or the more muscular group that Marc and Quinn are currently fighting with—threatens one of them.
I also notice that one group is missing—Jaxon’s. Not just
the Order, which is definitely not here, but the whole black- clothed designer faction that presided over the party with such obvious disdain. Guess Jaxon was right when he said Flint didn’t want him here. Part of me wants to try to figure out what is up with that, but right now I’m too busy dodging snowball volleys to do more than give it a passing thought.
It’s total guerrilla warfare out here—fast and brutal and
winner takes all. It’s also the most fun I’ve had since my parents died, and probably even longer than that.
We exhaust our supply of snowballs pretty quickly, and then we’re just like everyone else, running through the trees, trying to find cover as we fling snow at whoever’s within reach.
I laugh like a hyena the whole time. Macy and Flint look bemused at first, but soon they’re laughing with me— especially when one or the other of us gets hit.
It’s after an ambush that leads to Macy getting her fourth hit and Flint and me getting our third ones that we decide to get serious. We find the biggest two trees we can to hide behind, and we drop to our knees, packing snowballs as quickly as possible. After we’ve got about thirty made, Flint yanks off his hat and scarf and starts piling them inside.
“What are you doing?” I demand. “You’re going to freeze to death out here.”
“I’m fine,” he tells me as he turns his scarf into a kind of carrying pack. “This is our chance to win.”
“How?” I ask. There’s chaos all around us, and though the others haven’t found our hiding spot yet, it’s only a matter of time—probably a minute or two—before they do. And while we’ve got ammunition, there’s also a lot fewer of us than there is of them.
“By climbing the trees,” Macy tells me.
Before I can express my utter incredulity at the thought of climbing one of the gigantic, leafless aspens—the lowest branches are more than fifteen feet off the ground—she runs straight at the trunk of the closest tree, then jumps and kicks out hard enough to send herself soaring up several
feet at an angle, arms extended, to grab the branch of a neighboring tree. She hangs there for a few seconds, swinging back and forth to gain momentum, then thrusts herself up and onto a nearby branch.
The whole thing takes about ten seconds.
“Did she just do parkour against that tree?” I ask Flint before turning to Macy. “Did you just parkour that tree?”
“I did,” she says with a laugh, then reaches down to catch the hat full of snowballs Flint sends flying her way.
“That’s freaking awesome. But if you guys expect me to be able to do that, I think we’re all going to be disappointed.”
“Don’t worry, Grace,” Flint tells me as he thrusts his snowball-packed scarf into my arms. “Just hold on to these for me, will you?”
“Of course. What are you going to—?” I let out a screech as he grabs onto me and throws me over his shoulder.
“Quiet down or you’re going to give away our hiding place,” he tells me as he starts climbing the tree like some Alaskan version of Spider-Man, hands and feet practically sticking to the tree’s bark as he carries me up the gigantic trunk. “And don’t drop the snowballs.”
“You should have thought of that before you decided to hang me upside down,” I snark at him. But I tighten my grip on the scarf.
I don’t know how he’s doing it, and I wouldn’t believe it if I wasn’t witnessing—or should I say experiencing—it for myself. But thirty seconds later, I’m straddling a tree branch, snowballs in hand, as I wait to ambush the first people who come by.
Flint’s on a branch several feet above mine. It’s high enough off the ground to make me whimper just looking up at him, but he’s standing there with a huge grin on his face, like balancing on a snow-packed tree branch is the easiest thing in the world.
Which, to be clear, it definitely is not. And I know that because I’m sitting on one and I still feel like I could slip off at any second.
“Someone’s coming!” Macy hisses from one tree over.
I glance down at the ground and realize she’s right— Quinn, Marc, and two other guys are heading our way. They’re moving stealthily instead of quickly, almost like they know we’re here. And maybe they do—it’s not like I was exactly quiet while Flint hauled me up this tree.
Either way, it doesn’t matter, because all we need is for them to get a few steps closer and—
Bam. Flint sends a snowball soaring straight into the leader’s chest. Macy follows up with a one-two shot to the guy in the back. Which leaves Marc and Quinn. Which I’m definitely not going to complain about. I send a volley of snowballs straight at them, one after another. I hit Marc twice and Quinn at least four times, which—if their curse- laden complaints are anything to go by—knocks them completely out of the game. Something I’m also not going to complain about.
Flint is all but crowing in triumph as he dispatches a
second group that made the mistake of coming this way, and Macy takes care of a couple of loners trying to sneak in from behind us. I restock from the thick snow on the branches and wait for whoever comes next.
Turns out it’s a couple of girls dressed in teal and navy outerwear, who look like they’re having about as much fun as I do at the dentist.
I think about pulling my punches—no reason to make them even more miserable—but I figure it’s only putting off the inevitable. The faster I knock them out of the game, the faster they can head back to the castle. And the faster we can win this thing.
I reach for my last three snowballs and am just waiting for them to come within range when a powerful wind comes up and knocks me off balance. I make a grab for the tree trunk and manage to hold on while the wind shakes the whole tree.
Flint curses and makes a grab for the trunk, too. Then calls to me, “Hold on, Grace! I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Just stay there,” I call back. “I’m fine.”
Then I turn to look for Macy, worried my cousin might be in worse shape than I am. But just as I turn my head to look behind me, another gust of wind hits the tree, hard. It’s an eerie sound, and as the trunk starts to sway under the wind’s assault, I get more nervous. Especially when another gust comes through and hits me hard enough to threaten my grip on the tree.
Above me, Flint curses again, and Macy yells, “Hold on, Grace! Flint, go get her!”
“Wait!” I shout back to be heard over the wind. “Don’t!”
But then Macy screams, and I spin around, terrified that I’m about to see her falling to her death. At that moment, the strongest gust of wind yet hits, and I lose my grip on the tree entirely.
I scramble to find something—anything—to hold on to, but the wind is too fierce. The branch beneath me cracks ominously.
And then, I’m falling.
