The Middle

The air becomes thinner as they go up higher, and even though she’s filling her lungs, she’s not getting enough oxygen. Grey spots threaten her consciousness, and she’s about to sway, but shakes her head. Left foot left foot left foot right. Ridiculous Dr. Seuss phrases flash through her mind.

“Tough luck being the only girl huh” Mr. A comes up next to her and smiles, the sun halo-ing his head as she blinks up at him. He’s the campus jock, often seen chirpy, awake, and freshly showered after his morning jog heading to breakfast at 7 AM. She’s usually stumbling out from the computer lab after an all-nighter at that time.

“I’m just glad they’re not witnessing my humiliation right now” she manages between gasps, and they both laugh. She’s a good foot shorter than them all, and as they curse in the knee deep snow she has to pull her leg out of the thigh deep white powder one leg at a time, slowing them all down.

“We’re all secretly glad we’re getting breaks while you catch up to us you slowpoke” offers someone in front of her chivalrously, breath hitching as they all struggle uphill.

“Plus you smell nicer than these guys!” Someone else calls out from the back of the line. There’s a rumble of male snickers.

The faculty member chaperoning the college expedition casually strolls to the side, unzips, and takes a piss into the snow, making her realize he’s not much older than them.

“I’m horrified how easy men have it when camping. I had to strip off three layers to go to the bathroom earlier this morning, nearly got frostbite” she whispers so only Mr. A can hear, making him snort.

Someone calls for a break, and the line halts. They’re all feeling the burn now. People are bent over, hands on knees, sweat dripping. Skinny college computer science majors, smokers, gamers, frequent hash users, unable to deal with extended winter break adventure in the Pakistani mountains.

Someone passes a bottle down the line, and everyone takes a swig, oblivious to germs and backwash. She desperately rolls the orange flavor on her tongue, trying to absorb the essential salts.

“Look behind you, you can see the five red dots of our campsite.” Mr. A ducks down close to her, completely unaffected by exertion, and she feels a little breathless again, which has nothing to do with the altitude. The mountains have given him a he-man type aura, his day old fuzz ridiculously attractive.

“It’s about to get steep” the guide says from the front of the line. Mr. A hands her his ice pick, the view behind him opening up to astounding white mountains.

She stumbles, face planting in the snow. She manages to turn, still lying flat on the ground panting up while classmates step around her. She glares at the sky, trying to catch her breath but not quite succeeding because of the thin air.

He joins her on the snow, “It’ll be easier to breathe if you stand up” he offers kindly. He watches her flop around slipping trying to get up, and hauls her up with one easy tug. “You haven’t done this before have you?” He states the obvious.

“Born and bred at sea level” she loses some of her breathlessness now that she’s upright. Somehow she manages to start walking again.

“Yeet! The final point!” someone whoops from around the corner. Fresh enthusiasm ripples through the group, and she hears the clicks of untied carabiners and ice picks falling as bodies collapse in relief up ahead.

She grits her teeth and staggers forward, sweating yet freezing, shamelessly gripping Mr. A for support, and goes onward.