She’s sent me a message, and my fingers hit the wrong key when I try to read it. At last, I bring it up.
Caro: OmigodOmigodOmigod.
Jolia: What? What?
Caro: Mom said YES!!!!!
Before I can ask to what, another message arrives.
Caro: I can go to the winter carnival!!!!!
The news stuns me. She can go? I can’t believe it or get my fingers to peck out a reply.
Caro: Do you want to go?
Just five words. That’s all. But I can read the apology in them. We’re friends again. It’s the perfect ending to my perfectly average wonderful day. I type in the only thing I can and hit send.
Jolia: Of course.
Chapter 10
All week at lunch, Caro and I talk about the winter carnival. I bring in a scarf I’ve knitted on the sly. It’s a dark pink paired with moss green, in fun fur, of course, since it’s for Caro. It doesn’t look like a little kid’s scarf, even with the pink, and the color makes her olive skin glow. She surprises me with a knitted headband, the first thing she’s knitted on her own without any help.
“It’s awesome,” I say.
“It’s not that good.”
“It is. I’m totally wearing it on Friday.” I won’t have to wear a hat then. Caro’s curls look great peeking out from beneath a cap. My hair? Not so much. Normally, I wouldn’t care—except if Sam’s there. Well, I hate to say it, but then I’ll care a lot.
I’m so preoccupied by all this that I almost forget to be nervous when it’s my turn to give my persuasive speech in Mr. Henderson’s class. Almost. I push back the feeling of the donkey teeth by sticking a pencil in my mouth à la Tory a few minutes before it’s my turn to speak. It’s like a bridle, and since my teeth have a very horse-like quality to them—at least in my mind—I figure why not rein them in.
My speech is all about why you should read classic literature. My reasons range from understanding song lyrics to getting the jokes on The Simpsons. Mr. Henderson actually laughs. My scores resemble the ones from the tournament. All threes out of fives. I am perfectly average, once again, and perfectly happy to be so until Mr. Henderson taps my desk to get my attention.
“I think, Ms. Cuppernull,” he says, “that you’re capable of doing better.”
It’s almost like he and Sam are conspiring against me. All I do is nod.
Friday can’t come soon enough, at least not for Caro. I’m excited, too, but I’ve been to the winter carnival before. Of course, now, I won’t be the tagalong little sister, and we’re going to have the best time. I think this right up until Mrs. Sulvana drops us off at the entrance to the snow sculpture display and we walk inside to her cries of, “Eleven thirty, no later!”
I study our class sculpture, a huge version of our school mascot—the falcon. In the dark, it looks menacing and not at all like five year olds went crazy with gallons of paint. The air feels crisp against my eyes and bites my cheeks. But it’s not so cold that Mom insisted I wear a hat instead of the headband Caro made me. The soft yarn warms my ears and with enough skating, I won’t be cold at all. And if we end up frozen, there’s always the bonfire. Of course, I’ve forgotten the true forecast right up until Caro squeals.
It’s cloudy with a one hundred percent chance of Jeremy.
He whirls her around, her boots nearly taking me out at the knees. She’s breathless and woozy and grabs onto my coat to steady herself.
“What should we do first?” she asks.
“I thought we came here to skate,” Jeremy says.
Caro claps her hands together, then gives me puppy-dog eyes. “Do you mind?”
I hate being ditched every single time we go out with Jeremy. At the same time, I know this means a lot to her. So I smile, shake my head, and wave them off. But part of me wishes I’d said, yes, I mind. I mind a lot. I want to get hot chocolate. I want to inhale its warmth combined with that from the fire—all smoke and chocolate, cold and heat. I want to skate without it having to be a snowball or couples skate. I want do something that doesn’t revolve around Jeremy and what he wants.
But of course, I’ll never say that. I worry that it makes me, I don’t know what, too possessive? Too self-centered? I sigh, wondering what to do when a voice sounds behind me.
“Does she do that all the time?”
I whirl to find Tory standing behind me.
“Do what?” I ask.
“Does she always ditch you for Spinner?”
I shrug. “Her mom ...” I break off, not wanting to rat out Caro. “I mean, it’s complicated.”
“It’s complicated is a Facebook status.” Tory’s gaze goes to where Caro and Jeremy have vanished through the doors of the warming hut. “That’s just mean.”
I don’t know this side of Tory. Why does she care about Caro? Why is she here, talking to me? Then, words stream from my mouth. I speak on instinct, and I don’t even know what I’m going to say until I say it.
“Want to get some hot chocolate or something?”
She stares at me so long, I wonder if my instincts are totally off. I haven’t felt the donkey teeth all day, but now I do. I’m certain Tory sees them. When a slow smile spreads across her face, I feel my own mouth go back to normal. Then, I smile too.
“Sure,” she says.
At the stand, Tory gets an apple cider. I go for the hot chocolate, and since the guy working the booth knows Derek from swim team, he smothers the top with whipped cream.
“I guess it’s good to know people,” Tory says.
“You know people.”
The silence that follows makes me wonder how true that is. I glance around, searching for the one person who is almost always at Tory’s side.
“He’s skating already,” she says, as if she knows I’m looking for Ryan. “He’s showing off, getting warmed up for the snowball skate.”
“Do you skate?”
She shrugs.
“Kind of like me on speech team?”
Tory sputters, spitting a mouthful of cider onto the snow. Then she laughs so hard, I’m afraid she might choke.
“I’m …” but she’s laughing too hard to finish.
“Better? Worse? About the same?”
“Let’s just say Ryan skates a whole lot better than I do.”
We head for the warming hut and the rental skates, which are actually free. I haven’t been on skates since last year’s winter carnival. For the first few times around the rink, I’m as shaky as Tory, who’s all arms-outstretched, with the choppy strides of a toddler.
But my legs soon remember what to do, and then I’m skating circles around Tory, not to show off, but so we can still skate together.
“Go,” she tells me. “Just say ‘hey’ each time you lap me.”
“I just want to go fast for a bit. I’ll be back.”
She gives me a whatever sort of look and goes back to tottering across the ice.
I skate fast enough that cold stings my eyes. Icy air fills my lungs, but it makes me feel alive, that I might be able to do anything. I weave between skaters, keeping an eye out for Sam. Everyone is so bundled up, sometimes I don’t recognize someone I know until I’ve nearly shot past them.
“Hey!” somebody calls. That somebody is Ryan. He grabs my hands and spins me in a circle.
“You can skate!” he shouts.
“Sort of.”
“Better than Tory.”
“Be nice,” I say.
“Why? She never is.”
I’m not so sure how true that is, either. I let my fingers go slack in my mittens. They slip from my hands and Ryan goes stumbling backward. Then he cuts circles around me in a game of keep away.
“Give them back,” I say. “My hands are freezing.”
Finally, he does. “See you for the snowball skate?” he says.
“Maybe.”
He tears off, chasing down two bundled forms that resemble Kaitlin and Savannah. I’m on my own again, wondering why I don’t go skating more ofte
n. Well, I almost wonder. I know the reason. When I was ten, I begged Mom and Dad for ice skates for Christmas. For the first few days of winter break, I skated until my legs went all noodlely, and I grew blisters on my blisters.
The second week, I slung my skates over my shoulder, tromped through the snow, and found the ice covered with rink rats. That day, I skated along the edges, but I didn’t stay long. Then I pleaded with Derek to come with me. Sometimes he did, and sometimes he didn’t.
And now? I can’t believe I let someone like a rink rat keep me from something I loved. The thought slows my stride, so I’m merely coasting when, over the loudspeaker, the DJ’s voice blasts across the ice.
“Okay, everyone, time for the snowball skate. Girls on the end by the warming hut, boys on the other. Find a partner and snowball!”
I’m not sure if I want to stick around for the snowball skate. Across the rink, I see Caro and Jeremy glide into the center, one of the first couples to do so. I know they won’t be switching, either, when the DJ calls snowball again.
In a way, Mrs. Sulvana is right about the whole snowball/couples skate. It’s a total ramp up for prom. Last year, Derek wanted to ask a girl, but she spent the entire time skating with one of his (not-so-nice) friends. And then this (not-so-nice) friend dumped her the week before prom. Derek offered to go with her, but she was so upset, she turned him down.
“Snowball!” the DJ calls.
Except for the couple-couples, everyone splits off. I’m heading for the bank and the warming hut when Ryan swoops by.
“Hey, you promised!”
Actually, I didn’t, but take his hand anyway. He pulls me onto the ice and we zoom around the other couples.
“What’s the deal with Caro and Spinner?” he asks.
I peek over my shoulder. Yes, they are still skating together. I shake my head.
“He’s kind of a tool,” Ryan adds.
I press my lips together, vowing I will not diss my best friend’s boyfriend. But it’s really, really hard, especially when he nudges me and says, “You think it too.”
I say nothing, but I make a face that has Ryan bursting out laughing.
“So, hey, what do you think?” he says. “Couples skate. Kaitlin or Savannah?”
“They’re not my type.”
“Ha, ha. Seriously. Does either one like me?”
They both like him. That’s the problem. I don’t know what to say to this. Is one a better sport? Does one like him more than the other? I scan the rink. Kaitlin is skating with Ben, who is acting all goofy. I don’t see Savannah.
Before I can give Ryan an answer, the DJ calls, “Snowball!”
He doesn’t even bother to skate me to the girls’ side. He just lets go of my hand. “See ya!”
I coast, but not for long. Someone grabs my hand. I jump, part startled, part hopeful. I turn, hoping for Sam. But it’s only Ben.
“I asked Tory to skate,” he says, “but it looked like she was about to clobber me.”
“She doesn’t skate very well.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
Maybe not, but I suspect it matters to Tory. I’m still skating with Ben when the DJ announces it’s time for the couples’ skate.
“Okay, find that special someone and skate the last song of the night with them.”
Ben and I are inching to a stop when Ryan careens past. He does a classic hockey stop in front of Kaitlin and Savannah, kicking up lots of ice flakes. He holds out a hand. From where I’m standing, I can’t tell if it’s for Kaitlin or Savannah. But when Kaitlin skates off with him, it’s clear someone’s made a choice.
Savannah’s mouth is slack. She pushes a mittened hand across one cheek, then the other.
“Oh, man,” Ben says. He turns to me. “Do you mind if I go do a little rescuing?”
“Go. That would be nice.”
“I’m not just being nice.” He grins at me and skates off.
Now I really am alone in couple world. I heave a sigh, feeling foolish for wishing on Sam all night. Maybe he couldn’t get a ride, or his plans changed. I’ll see him tomorrow—unless he’s sick.
Or not.
What I notice first is the knit cap and a dark fringe of bangs. His legs are wobbly. He really can’t skate, and I will have to prop him up. But because this is Sam, and he’s making his shaky way toward me, I won’t mind at all.
But behind Sam, towering over the skaters, hands on hips, headscarf firmly in place is Caro’s mom. I don’t think she’s seen Caro, not yet. Mrs. Sulvana jerks her head, this way and that, the way you do when you can’t find who you’re looking for.
And if Mrs. Sulvana does find Caro? My insides match the ice my skates glide over. I can’t let this happen. I dart a glance toward Sam who could really use my help. I can’t let him down. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.
What can I do?
Sam is a mere foot away when I spin. It’s a show off sort of move—the only one I can really do. The momentum whirls me into him. He staggers backward and lands right on his butt. I bolt past him without a word, without offering him my hand, with barely a look. But I see the disbelief in his eyes.
The hurt. The humiliation. I hear someone laugh, and it’s a cold sound. My cheeks heat in response. I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to Sam. But it’s too late now. I crash into Jeremy and Caro, gripping them both by their jackets. All three of us stagger then right ourselves.
“What the hell?” Jeremy says.
“Your mom,” I say to Caro.
“What?” She jerks around, and in that moment, looks oddly like her own mother. “Crap.”
I push her toward the warming hut. “Go take off your skates. I’ll tell her you went for hot chocolate. By the time she gets back, she won’t know the difference.”
“God, you’re the best.”
She skates off. I swivel, hoping my body is enough to block Mrs. Sulvana’s view. When Caro clears the snow bank, I hold out my hand to Jeremy. His face scrunches like I’m offering him frozen roadkill.
I don’t drop my hand.
“What?” he says.
“This is couples' skate. We need to skate. It’s what couples do.”
Again with the face.
“Do you want to keep seeing Caro?” I ask. “If not, just stand there.”
He takes my hand.
When we skate past Mrs. Sulvana, she gives us a look to melt all the ice.
“Jolia! Jolia!” she calls out. “Have you seen Caro?”
“She was cold,” I say. “She went to get some hot chocolate.”
“It is late,” she says. “We need to leave.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She nods once, but the look she sends Jeremy should melt not just the ice, but his skates as well.
“I will see you at the car.” With that, she marches off toward the drink booth.
The ride home is icy, both inside the car and out. Tiny snowflakes batter the windshield and the thump of the wipers matches my heartbeat.
“So, this boy,” Mrs. Sulvana says. “He’s some sort of friend of yours?”
Even with the dark, I see Caro’s expression go carefully blank. She looks so impossibly innocent that I’m surprised Mrs. Sulvana doesn’t assume she’s guilty.
“He’s my friend, Mrs. Sulvana,” I say before Caro has a chance to speak. I want to say I know him from speech team, but that’s something Mrs. Sulvana can check—she’s very involved as a parent volunteer at Fremont High. “Derek knows his older brother from swim team.” Technically, that could be true.
Mrs. Sulvana gives me a curt nod. Caro sinks into the car seat. She reaches across the space and gives my hand a quick squeeze.
At Saturday’s speech tournament, I stagger through the halls. It’s Fremont’s turn to host, and we’re all here early to help set up. The entire team is suffering from some sort of snow and ice hangover. Even Ben is quiet, and Ryan hasn’t flirted once all morning.
As for me, my legs ache, like I really wa
s skating with Jeremy all night. My head feels stuffed with cotton balls. Mom even took my temperature before we left the house this morning. But I don’t think there’s a cure for what I have. I’m not even sure I have anything, just this strange sensation that feels both hollow and heavy. It feels like I’ve betrayed everyone—Sam, Tory, even Caro. I should feel happy Caro didn’t get into trouble; it was a close call. Instead, I feel like I’m coming off a crying jag, or about to head into one.
All morning long, I’ve checked my cell phone. Now, I pull it out and stare at Sam’s number, wondering if I should text him or wait until I see him here. While I’m sorting trophies—at least one of which I’m sure he’ll carry home—I decide that this is something you can only explain in person.
Fifteen minutes before the first round, my cell phone buzzes, shaking my skirt pocket. I check it, and my heart starts buzzing as well.
Sam: 42
The biology room seems like an odd choice for practice. I pocket my phone, grab my script, and try not to look like I’m rushing anywhere. I don’t want anyone to notice, especially Tory. Glancing back looks guilty, so I slip from the team room without even a peek over my shoulder.
But I race down the hall and up the stairs, just in case someone followed me. On the landing, I wait, listening, while trying to hush my heart and my breathing. For a full minute, I remain still. When I hear nothing, I start off down the hall.
The door to room 42 is shut, but creaks open when I push on it. Sam is at the back of the room. His hands are folded on the top of his desk, and he’s wearing the bland expression of a teacher-judge. Cold light spills from the windows. The space feels strange, too empty, like it’s missing Ms. Morgan’s nonstop chatter about all things scientific.
“Let’s start with F-13,” he says, in a perfectly bland teacher-judge kind of way.
But I don’t want to pretend this is a tournament round. Not after last night. I want to explain. I want him to understand.
The Fine Art of Keeping Quiet Page 10
