Элисон Скотч - The Theory of Opposites

“It’s six-thirty,” Vanessa says, shaking my shoulders. “Get up. Come on, we have to go.”

“It’s six-thirty!” I mumble. “Who needs to be anywhere?”

“We’re due on the mountain.” I can hear her shuffling into her sneakers.

My stomach coils, and I pull my knees into my chest. I’ve had a near-paralyzing hatred of snow-capped peaks since childhood — ever since my parents took us on a day hike in the Alps when I was eight, and I wandered off and lost my way and couldn’t read my map because it was in French. I cried for three hours on the path because I was convinced that my dad would leave me there “because this is what the universe dictated.” Finally, a kind German couple wearing lederhosen walked me down and reunited me with my parents under the gondola. I was safe, and I had been found, true. But at eight, you don’t forget that feeling of abandonment, that disorientation and the worry that your parents might not be out there searching for you anyway. That you might be the only one who was frantic. Even today, tucked under the duvet in my haven of a hotel room overlooking the Puget Sound, I can feel the panic weighing in my chest, the confusion, the total sense of loss that my eight-year-old self felt.

“Come on.” Vanessa throws a pillow at my head. “My first dare for you: crack the code in the Master Universe Way.”

“I don’t really see how me climbing a mountain has anything to do with the MUW.”

“Please don’t call it MUW,” she replies. “A) That sounds like some sort of noise a French cow would make. And b) you will. You will see exactly how climbing mountains has to do with the Master Universe Way.” She retreats to the bathroom, the latch clicking.

I debate disobeying her and refusing to relinquish the comfort of the Egyptian cotton sheets, but there’s no point in arguing with Vanessa. There never was, and to be honest, her hard lines and assuredness were a bit of a relief for someone like me, all grey, all middle ground, all soft edges.

As if she can discern my thoughts, she bellows from the bathroom:

“Listen, Willa! We have a contract with Random House and the Dare You! team, and I have a plan. This is my job, and frankly, you could use the distraction, not to mention the free therapy that this project is providing, so get your ass in gear.”

She’s not wrong, so I do.

The rush hour traffic is grueling. For a city so intent on clean living, you’d think more people would walk the walk (figuratively) and carpool. A few really determined bikers whiz by, all spandex and neon and wind, but mostly it’s just a crush of cars, everyone staring down at their phones, texting or tweeting or emailing, as we crawl forward.

“I really don’t want to do this,” I grumble as we accelerate through the sloth and turn south on the bend in the highway.

“What would you rather be doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s the entire point,” she answers, and then we both fall silent as Mount Rainier unfolds in front of us, its majesty demanding silence, its expansiveness — the crystal blue sky, the white-capped peak, the wisp of clouds floating atop — demanding respect. For a moment, we just absorb and acknowledge its beauty, accepting the fact that this world is pretty damn magical, that its magnificence can still surprise us. It’s easy to forget that. Especially when you’ve had a few weeks like mine.

“I still don’t get what climbing a mountain has to do with proving my dad wrong,” I say about thirty minutes later when the radio signals have faltered and we only have AM news to keep us company. “I hate hiking. I’ve told you that a thousand times. I hate mountains too. They’re cold, and they are not meant to be scaled. Do you know how many people die every year mountain climbing?”

“Do you?”

“Well, no. But that’s not the point.”

“The Master Universe Way is, as your dad calls it, ‘God’s Plan.’ Has it ever occurred to you that the fear that was planted in you at eight — the fear of mountains — is a fear of much more than that? That it’s a metaphor? And that you’ve allowed this fear to become, well, your own Master Universe Way for your life?”

“Whoa.” I flex both hands in the air. “That’s too much for this hour. I was only eight. It was just a mountain.”

We pull alongside a minivan with the bumper sticker MOMS FOR MARIJUANA.

“And yet you’ve never gone back up one.” She clicks down the blinker to shift lanes. “And I’m not a shrink, but I think that this could be a pretty good metaphor.”

“So you think I’m unconsciously blaming my entire life on my eight-year-old self?”

Rather than answer, she accelerates, changes lanes, and gives marijuana mom the finger as we fly by.

It’s nearly ten when we finally pull into the state park. There are trailers and caravans in the parking lot, hikers and families and more than a few leftover hippies who look very much in need of a shower. They’re all consulting their maps, packing up their GORP. One particularly beleaguered mom is wiping down her son’s face with a Wet-Nap while he tries to shimmy away and yells, “Gross! Stop! Disgusting!”

Vanessa eases the car to a halt, and I snap off my seat belt. She refused to stop along the way, insisting that we be here by ten to get in the full hike. My brow and palms are already sweaty with nerves, my stomach is flip-flopping with disgust. Why did I let her talk me into this? Who cares if I undo my Master Universe Way/Plan? The MUW is a stupid fucking premise to begin with! Who doesn’t know that? If I didn’t have to pee so badly, I’d never leave the car.

But nature calls. “I have to find a bathroom. Back in five.”

I slam the door and run, and if Vanessa answers, I don’t hear her. I find a fairly horrifying bathroom just left of the ranger’s station. It has no soap, a shred of toilet paper, and a foggy mirror, in which I make out an exhausted, disheveled version of my face. I can’t believe I look like this. Have I always looked like this? Why hasn’t Vanessa said something? I dare you to use better moisturizer!

I pull my hair back into a braid but mostly decide to forgo vanity because we’re just hiking, and it’s not as if I’ll run into Shawn. Or anything. I dare myself not to care, which, if I really considered it, wasn’t too much of a dare because I’m not sure how much I cared in the first place. My ragged face in the mirror serves as exhibit A.

And exhibit A is exactly why my heart stops — literally stops — when I stumble out of the bathroom and I see him standing by the car, talking to Vanessa as if nothing has happened, nothing has changed.

Not Shawn, of course. He’s too busy listening to indie bands with Erica Stoppard and breaking bread with the Zuckerbergs.

No, it’s Theodore.

He was supposed to be in New Orleans! I never would have agreed to Seattle if he hadn’t been in New Orleans!

He turns and sees me, and my instinct is to run. But the adrenaline is too much in my legs, too much for my brain, so instead, I am stuck, paralyzed, too shell-shocked to do anything. He waves, and I must wave back. Because then Vanessa shouts:

“See? This is what I mean. The theory of opposites! Reorganizing the Master Universe Way! You couldn’t do it, so I did.”

Finally, I start breathing again. And then my brain starts working again. And next, naturally, the first thing I do is flee. Straight up the hill, straight past the ranger’s station, straight by a family with four kids who are in better shape than I am. I can hear Vanessa yelling:

“Wait! Stop!”

And then one of the kids from the family in my wake starts yelling over and over again: “Wait! Stop!”