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they’ll do a follow-up cover story on ski instructors and their kids—and get you into some lederhosen.”
    â€œDoes that mean I’d have to learn German?”
    She laughs, squeezing my hand tightly. “Come on, you’d look cute in the shorts. Maybe they could even get a shot with one of those mountain goats. Oh, wait: I forgot your fear of farm animals.”
    Now she’s crossed a line. Annabelle claims to not be ticklish, but I know better. I get her right in the soft part of her belly, and she doubles over, shrieking with laughter.
    â€œEnough! Enough!” she wails, each word punctuated with giggles.
    â€œWhat was that you said?” I asked, tickling harder.
    â€œThat you are…brave and manly…even in the face of life-threatening pigs,” she chokes out, shrieking.
    A few years ago, we went with Grandma Hillary to a farm stand about an hour away. We wandered around while Grandma Hillary shopped for produce, and we ended up finding this massive pigpen. Annabelle dared me to run in and touch the pig trough. It didn’t seem like that big a deal because all the pigs were hanging out in the mud sleeping. But I guess they thought I was going to feed them, because I was mobbed. Those things can hustle when they want to. And they are big. Annabelle will never let me forget how fast I got out of there.
    â€œI didn’t hear you,” I say, ticking harder.
    â€œYou are…fearless and masculine…in the face of great danger!” she shouts. “Arghhh! Stop it !”
    I let go of her and she leans against me, giggling one last time and sighing. “Masculine and very fast.”
    She links her arm with mine and her skin feels soft, once again making it hard to think. “So did you survive the end of ski season?” she asks, actual sympathy in her voice. Not that it’s the kind of tragedy that deserves a telethon or anything, but it sucks to be the only person in my town who hates skiing. Especially since my parents are the biggest ski advocates out there.
    I shrug. “It’s over, so that’s good.”
    â€œI don’t know who thought going down a mountain on two planks was worth anyone’s time,” she says. “It seems like cheating. Real athletes run.”
    â€œTell that to Coach. He acted like I was violating some Law of the Universe when I refused to go on the ski weekend he set up for the team. He said he did it because of me.”
    â€œWhat does he know?” she asks indignantly. “What if you got injured and couldn’t play this season? You’re going after a baseball scholarship and getting interest from team scouts. Like you’d risk all of that for some stupid male-bonding-down-a-mountain trip? Just because your parents are instructors? What a moron.”
    I swear: if I were dying of bubonic plague with boils all over me, Annabelle could make me feel better about it.
    â€œI bet that guy is a Capricorn,” she adds.
    Oh, no…
    But she doesn’t seem to notice as I stiffen next to her. “They can be the type to only see their own agenda.”
    Please, no…
    â€œYeah, well, that’s Coach,” I say weakly, fighting to get things back on track. “It’s his way or the highway.”
    She nods knowingly. “Yup. A total Capricorn. But you’re a Scorpio, so you can handle him.”
    I detach my arm from hers and put a few inches between us as she starts going into traits of a Capricorn.
    â€œThe fact that you’re stubborn works for you here,” she concludes, looking at me with a completely serious smile, as if I’m supposed to be grateful for the “facts” she’s spewing. As if something so insane jibes with everything else about her: her humor, her intelligence, her…everything.
    I say nothing and just keep walking.
    â€œI know, you’re thinking that you’ll butt heads,” she adds.
    I look her in the eye.