Breaking the Ice

by Gail Nall

  “Wanna place your bet?” Braedon replies. “At least I’ve only got one year till high school.”

  Just how many schools has Braedon been kicked out of? I tap him on the shoulder. “Hey, we’ve got to go. Class starts—”

  Braedon wraps an arm around my shoulders. I freeze. No guy has ever done that before. It’s uncomfortable and sweet at the same time. I can’t figure out if I want him to move his arm or leave it where it is.

  “Sorry. Forgot to introduce Kaitlin here. New girl at the rink.” He gestures at Will. “This is my friend from school.”

  “Hey,” Will says. “What’s up with you?”

  “Um . . . I skate. . . .”

  Will and Braedon crack up like I just told the best joke ever.

  “What’s so funny?”

  Braedon just smiles at me. He lets go of my shoulders and starts talking to Will about some other friends.

  I glance at the clock behind the checkout counter. Stretching class starts in four minutes. I didn’t time the trip to the store, but it had to be at least that long. I shift my weight from foot to foot, but Braedon doesn’t look ready to go anytime soon.

  “So, hey, I’m going to head back,” I finally say as I put my Coke on the nearest shelf.

  Braedon doesn’t hear me. He and Will keep talking.

  I look at the clock again. Eleven o’clock exactly. I can picture everyone lined up for class. And Mom wondering where in the world I am. I take a step toward the door, hoping to hint to Braedon that we have to go, now.

  “Just a sec, Kaitlin. Gotta pay for my Coke.” Braedon fishes some change from the pocket of the hoodie he’s carrying and hands it to the clerk.

  I push the door open, the little bell jingling through the store.

  “Catch you later, B,” Will says. They slap hands, and Braedon finally follows me.

  I sprint down the sidewalk, hoping to make up for lost time. The late-summer breeze hits me from behind, as if it’s pushing me along.

  “Wait up.” Braedon jogs a little to catch up, then takes a swig of his Coke. “What’s the hurry?”

  I slow to a fast walk. “We’re going to be late.”

  “To stretching class?” He laughs. “Who cares? It’s not actual ice time.”

  My mom cares, but I don’t say that to Braedon. It sounds so . . . babyish. Plus, I kind of want to go to stretching class. I was hoping it would help me get a higher spiral.

  As we turn to enter the parking lot of the rink, Braedon stops me.

  “Look, Kaitlin, I’m sorry. It’s important to you, isn’t it?”

  I shrug and wipe some sweat from my forehead.

  “I wasn’t really thinking. Next time, I promise not to get distracted. Forgive me?” He puts on a little pout.

  Next time. Is he saying we’ll do this again? As nervous as I am about walking into the rink and facing Mom, my insides go warm.

  “Forgiven,” I say. Since I can count my friends on one hand, I can’t really stand to lose any of them.

  I thrust open the door and take a deep breath.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I push the mashed potatoes across my plate and listen to Mom go on and on about how I acted irresponsibly. I didn’t put my skating career first, and I take my parents for granted. Which I don’t at all, but I know that Mom sees being even a little late to class differently.

  I try to swallow some potatoes. They stick in the back of my throat. I actually don’t even like mashed potatoes unless they have gravy, but Mom never makes gravy.

  “Don’t you agree?” Mom asks Dad.

  Dad’s busy chewing and makes some vague sound.

  Mom turns back to me. “I don’t understand why you didn’t simply ask. I’m not against you doing things with friends. But disappearing without saying anything is unacceptable. When you weren’t there at the start of class, I was worried sick. I didn’t know where you were. And you know better than that, Kaitlin.”

  Mom’s words gnaw at my core. I should’ve told her where I was going. “I’m really sorry I made you worry.”

  “I can’t believe I have to do this again so soon.” She holds her hand out for my phone.

  I slide it out of my pocket and give it to her. Big deal. I haven’t heard from Ellery in days. Miyu’s mom won’t let her have a phone. And Braedon . . . my face flushes a little. He doesn’t even have my number. I wonder if he wants it.

  “Kaitlin, is everything all right?” Mom’s voice is quieter than normal.

  I nod and try to make my mashed potatoes disappear under the chewed cob of corn.

  “You’ve just been acting so strangely. Not like yourself at all.”

  “I’m fine,” I say. She makes it sound like I have a disease or something.

  Mom sighs. “No computer except for schoolwork, no TV, and bed at nine o’clock. Got it?”

  “Yes,” I mumble.

  “You need to straighten up. Fallton is your last chance. Don’t throw it away. Your focus should be on this new program and what you need to do at Regionals. Nothing else. We’re paying too much money for you not to take this seriously.”

  I sneak a glance sideways at Dad. He winks at me. If he was the one at the rink with me every day, I doubt he’d get so worked up about a quick trip to the store and being a few minutes late to class.

  “How was the dance class?” Miyu asks on Monday morning as we lace up our skates.

  “The class was okay. I tried to work it into my program, but Greg kept going on about using the ‘feel’ of the tango but not the actual tango. I wish I knew what he meant.” I double-knot my right skate and do a quick glance around the lobby. “Oh, and Addison showed up.”

  “Seriously? I bet it was her mom’s idea. She probably couldn’t stand the thought of another skater having an advantage over her baby.”

  I giggle as I think of Mrs. Thomas snapping photos with her phone. But then I kind of feel a little bad for Addison too, even though it’s clear she hates me.

  “Anyway, I was going to tell you all about that on Saturday. Were you sick?” I ask. Miyu didn’t show up for the Saturday morning practice sessions.

  She shakes her head as she pulls guards onto her blades. “No, I had academic team tryouts. And I got in!”

  Oh, right. School starts this week for all the normal kids whose moms aren’t afraid that going to real classes will destroy their skating careers. “Congratulations,” I tell her. “I wish I could do something like that.”

  “Like what? Academic team?”

  “That. Or just going to school.” I tug the ankles of my tight skating pants down over the tops of my boots.

  “Have you told your parents you want to go to school?” Miyu asks.

  Clearly Miyu has not spent much time with my mother. I sneak a look to make sure she’s far enough away not to overhear. “No way. Mom would flip out. First, she’d say no. Then she’d launch into a lecture about how homeschooling is so much better for me and my skating. Then, somehow, that would lead to a talk about how she gave up her career for me. And about how Dad works so hard to pay for my skating. And—”

  Miyu holds up a hand. “Okay, okay! Your mom is crazy.”

  “So, now you see why I can’t talk to her about school. I just have to suck it up and deal with it.” I stand up, pull my favorite pair of black-and-purple-striped gloves from my bag, and sniff them. They smell like feet. I throw them back into the bag and shuffle through everything until I find a pair of pink ones I hardly ever wear.

  “But she’ll never know you want to go to school unless you say something.” Miyu pushes through the doors, and we join a few other skaters waiting for the Zamboni to finish the ice. “I think it’s better to mention it than to never say anything.”

  “Maybe.” Miyu doesn’t get it. Most things I think in my head, I can’t say to Mom.

  �
��What a waste of time,” a voice says from behind us. Addison, of course. “No serious skater goes to school full-time.”

  “What are you talking about? I’ll see you every day in English, science, and PE,” Miyu says.

  “Just till the end of the year. Then I’m homeschooling.”

  “Jessa went to school. She graduated this year,” I say, remembering a random fact I read in a skating magazine.

  “And Jessa completely lost it at Worlds, remember? Too much stress.” Addison looks as if she’s ready to go to Worlds herself in her brilliant black-and-white dress covered in crystals and her hair freshly dyed and pulled into a bun. “It’s my dress for Regionals,” she says when she catches me staring.

  “Oh. It’s pretty.” The Zamboni chugs toward the garage door. I wish it could do more than two miles an hour, just so I could get away from Addison.

  “What’s your dress look like? Oh, wait, you just got a new program. Guess you don’t even have a dress yet,” Addison says. “You better hurry, because you won’t get one custom-made in time.”

  “I’m sure Greg’s thought of that,” Miyu says.

  I realize Addison’s right. There’s no way my soft-pink Swan Lake dress will work for this crazy tango program. There are less than six weeks until Regionals. I know because I’m marking the days off on a calendar at home. Every big black X gets me one day closer to the competition that will decide the rest of my season. I’d be lucky to order a dress and even have it show up on time, never mind get it fitted and test it out on the ice. What am I going to wear?

  The dress is the first thing on my mind when I find Greg for my lesson.

  He waves a hand. “No problem. I’m sure we can find one for you. One of the ice dancers should have a tango dress, and we can get someone to shorten it to free skate length. Now, let’s run through the program.” He snaps his fingers at the ice monitor.

  A used dress. Great. Another reason for Addison to laugh at me.

  I stop in the middle of the ice and wait for the music to start. Braedon glides by and waves. I grin at him and wonder if he got grounded too. Somehow I doubt it.

  The tango music begins, and I go through the motions of the program. When it stops, I’m completely out of breath, but I did everything right.

  “That’s a start,” Greg says. “Now we have to make it a tango.”

  By the end of the lesson, my whole program is full of arm movements and facial expressions and even more little things to do between the jumps and spins. I run through it over and over again until I have everything committed to memory.

  Remembering it all isn’t too bad. But actually doing every little wrist flick and head tilt while still landing the jumps . . . that’s the part I’m not completely sure I can do.

  When I reach the lobby after the session, Mom’s staring at something intently on her phone.

  “Look at this.” She holds out the phone. “I recorded your new program so you can watch it at home.”

  I glance at the screen. There I am, stumbling after Greg as he twists and turns and calls out, “Double flip here” and “Then stop and flirty pose.” Except for the jumps and the spins, I look like a total beginner. How in the world am I ever going to get this program down before October? Maybe it’s good Mom taped it. I can study it over and over. There’s no way I’m going to Regionals with a messy program, even if it is to music that’s so not me.

  “Thanks, Mom! That’ll really help.”

  She beams at me. She and Greg think I can do it. I wish I felt the same way.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ever since Miyu and I talked about going to school earlier in the week, it’s been weighing on me like a pair of skates around my neck. Obviously, there’s no way I can ask Mom about it.

  But I can always talk to Dad.

  I make it through my tango class. At least this time I got to partner with the bored-looking guy instead of Addison. We worked on these little twisty steps called ochos, which were actually a lot of fun, and I think I can work them into my program. Although working dance moves into my program didn’t go so well last time. But what’s the point of me taking this class if at least some of it doesn’t get into my ­skating?

  After dinner, Mom heads upstairs to lie down. I follow Dad into the family room. He sits on the couch, picks up the remote, and turns on a sports channel where some big, thick-necked guys are discussing Michigan football’s upcoming season.

  I sit on the couch, cross-legged, so I’m facing him. I swallow and make myself say it. “I . . . want to talk to you about something.”

  Dad gets that look on his face like I’m about to ask him about my period. He turns down the TV volume. “What is it, Pumpkin?”

  What if he says no? Or worse, what if he thinks I need to bring it up with Mom? I try to remember what Miyu said. If I don’t tell them, they’ll never know. I fix my eyes on Dad’s shiny bald spot. Why doesn’t he just shave the ring of brown hair around it? It’s like he can’t bear to let that last little bit of hair go.

  “Kaitlin?”

  Still looking at the bald spot, I let out my breath and just let it spill. None of my words sound very persuasive, and I’m sure he’s going to say no. I finish and force my eyes to meet his soft brown ones. One of my hands is stuffed behind the couch cushion. I find a penny and rub it between my fingers for good luck. Then I drop it and cross my fingers instead.

  “This is something you really want, isn’t it?” he says. “To go back to school?”

  I look him right in the eyes and nod. “More than anything. Sometimes . . . never mind.”

  “Sometimes what?”

  “It sounds silly, because I go to the rink every day, and I have you and Mom. But I guess I get a little lonely sometimes.” I sound really pathetic, but it feels kind of good to finally let the truth out.

  Dad tilts his head. “I thought you might be.” He pauses. “I doubt your mother will go for it.”

  “I know. She’ll think I won’t have enough time to practice.” My fingers uncross. I should’ve known this wouldn’t help. I stand up and move toward the hall.

  “I’ll talk to her,” he says just as I’m about to leave the room. “I can’t promise it’ll work, but I’ll say something.”

  I race back to the couch and throw myself at him in a hug. He makes a noise like a balloon that’s been pricked, and I laugh.

  I run up the stairs two at a time. I can’t wait to tell Miyu.

  “I knew it would work!” Miyu says at the rink on Saturday morning.

  “It probably won’t. But at least I said something, and now Dad knows how I feel.” I sip some water and keep an eye out for Greg.

  “But if he’s all for it, you have a chance. Be optimistic, Kaitlin.” Miyu bumps me with her elbow, and water dribbles down my chin.

  I wipe it off with my pink-gloved hand and see Greg motioning at me for my lesson. “Gotta go,” I say.

  “Wait! A bunch of us are going out tonight. Food, maybe a movie. Want to come?”

  Yes! I want to shout. I picture Ellery and all her friends from school, laughing and having a good time at the pizza place. Only with me instead of Ellery. “Sure,” I say like it’s no big deal. “I’m ungrounded as of yesterday. Let me ask my mom.”

  Greg’s full-force into tangoing this morning. I show him the ochos, which he actually likes and works into the very beginning of the program. I run through the whole thing—with ochos, which are maybe even more fun to do on ice. ­Braedon winks at me as I finish the footwork at the far end of the rink, and I almost trip over my toe picks. I barely squeak out the double axel at the end, but at least I land it. I stop and pose as the last note echoes through the rink.

  “You’ve got the elements down,” Greg says as I gulp water. He has his gloves off and is slapping them against his hand. “Good work on the double axel at the end. I know that’s not easy.
And those new steps at the beginning look great.”

  I eye him over the top of my water bottle. There’s something he’s not saying. Some “but.”

  “But . . . ,” I provide for him.

  “There’s still no spark. No connection to the music. Not yet.”

  I groan inside my head. How am I supposed to connect with music that’s so . . . flirty?

  “And that’s what we’re going to work on today. Because you’re competing at the Chicago Invitational over Labor Day weekend.”

  My water bottle slips from my grasp. I grab it from the ice and set it on the boards. “I’m competing . . . what?”

  “Everyone here goes. You’ll have company,” Greg says, as if this is what I’m worried about. “I already talked to your mom about it. She thinks it’s a good idea.”

  “But that’s next weekend!”

  “Then we’d better get this program polished to star quality before then.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  After my lesson, I work extra, super hard. There’s no way I’m going to Chicago and looking like I just got my program. Which I did, of course, but I don’t want to look like it.

  I finish the gazillionth run-through of my footwork sequence and analyze the tracing of the bracket turn I just did.

  “Kaitlin?”

  I run my blade over the line I made on the ice. It’s flat and straight, instead of curved like it should be. I’ll have to work on that.

  “Hello? You’ve been doing that footwork over and over. What’s going on?” Miyu holds out my water bottle.

  “Thanks.” I grab the water and drink like I’ve never had water before. It’s funny how water can taste like the best thing ever when you’re really thirsty. “I’m competing in Chicago.”

  “Me too! I’m glad you’re going.”

  I shrug and squint at the lines on the ice again, trying to figure out how to fix my brackets.

  “You don’t want to go,” she says.