Icing on the Lake

by Catherine Clark

  Conor kept getting in his face? Really? I didn’t see how it would be up to Conor, considering he had to stay in the goal most of the game.

  I remembered one of Jones’s cardinal rules: Whenever you need to have an awkward conversation with a guy, have it outside. That way you won’t have a bad association with a particular place. I waited until we turned off Minnehaha Parkway, onto a smaller street, figuring I wouldn’t have to come back onto this block again.

  We’d been walking in silence for a few minutes when I stopped and gently pulled myself out of Sean’s arm. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “What?” He laughed. “A girlfriend?”

  “Do you?” I repeated.

  “No.” He shook his head. “What made you think that? Haven’t you and I been sort of, like, spending time together?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought. But the thing is…I saw you,” I said. “After the game, the fight. I came to find you, inside? And that girl had her arms around your waist and—”

  “No way. We were goofing around, that’s all. It didn’t mean anything.”

  “Well, stuff usually means something. That’s the thing.”

  “Huh?”

  “I know, that sounds vague, but it’s true. Whenever you see someone kind of checking out someone else? It means they’re interested. Period.”

  “Well, she might be interested, but I’m not,” Sean said.

  I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t convinced.

  “She came in to find me. She’s like—she comes to every game, she follows me around,” Sean explained.

  “So what are you saying? She’s a groupie?”

  “A what?”

  “A groupie,” I repeated. Sean didn’t seem to know the term, though.

  “She said she wanted to clean up the cut. I was wishing you’d come in and rescue me from her.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” he said.

  “Honestly.”

  “Yes.” He held up his hand, as if he were getting sworn in. “The truth and nothing but the truth.”

  “She was pretty, though,” I mused out loud.

  “So what? You’re prettier,” Sean said. He put his arms around my waist and pulled me close, hugging me. “You know, I had a really good time the other night. Sledding. I wish you hadn’t left, just when things were getting good.”

  Did he mean the kiss? Or the toboggan rides? Because when I left, he was hanging out with his friends, not me.

  But how could I hold that against him? I was the one who’d answered my cell phone while we were kissing. If anyone had been rude, it was me.

  “Me, too,” I said. “I’m sorry I took off. But Emma and Jones showed up, and I had to meet them.”

  “It’s okay. I understand.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But…do you understand why it looked kind of bad, when I saw you with…what was her name?” I asked.

  “Melissa. She…really, she’s not my girlfriend.”

  I looked into his eyes. He seemed completely honest. Not to mention completely hot.

  Sean pulled away and looked at me. “Hey, I’ve been thinking.”

  “What?” I was filled with anticipation.

  “You want to go to Buck Hill after all?” he said.

  That wasn’t exactly the sweet romantic thing I’d been waiting for him to say, but it wasn’t bad.

  “Sure! Anytime,” I said. But I got this picture of me with my skis crossed, butt up, face down, in the snow. Then, the next day, Gretchen and I sitting on the sofa, side by side, staring out the picture window, waiting for something interesting to happen, for someone to fall on their way past. Spring would come and we’d still be there, immobilized, and both on diets…

  “There’s this charity event on Presidents’ Day,” Sean continued. “Tons of high schools participate. It’s a mattress race.”

  I coughed. “Excuse me?”

  “Teams wear costumes and have themes and stuff. You slide down on a mattress, or on cardboard boxes, or on whatever you’ve made. We’ve all collected pledges at school. They give out awards for best costume, most money raised, all that.”

  “Isn’t your mattress…full already?” I asked, picturing Sean’s group of friends all piled on top of it.

  “We need a girl,” he said.

  I bet, I thought.

  “Our theme is Snow White and the Seven Hockey Players.”

  I couldn’t even begin to think about how dumb that sounded. But then, a mattress race already sounded pretty stupid, on its own. “You’re kidding.”

  “No.” He laughed. “But Snow White dropped out. She was dating Ian, but they broke up, so we’re, like…well, we’re sort of screwed. Please say yes.”

  “Doesn’t some other girl at school want to do it?” I asked.

  “Maybe. But who cares? I want you to do it,” he said. “And hey, if it sucks, we could just do this.” He kissed me, pulling me toward him. Then suddenly he was pushing my hair back behind my ear and saying, “Okay, got to go. Call me tomorrow—we’ll hang out.”

  I was in kind of a daze as I watched him jog down the street toward his house.

  As I walked into the house, I thought: I should have invited him to the cabin just then. I’d missed a totally perfect opportunity. What was my problem?

  I was so happy that I didn’t even mind being sent to buy groceries by Gretchen as soon as I got home and told her everything was okay. She was smart enough not to say “I told you so,” which helped.

  I didn’t see Conor when I walked into Zublansky’s, so I figured he wasn’t there. I grabbed a basket and walked around quickly to collect the stuff we needed for dinner. As I stepped up to Lane 8 to check out, suddenly Conor appeared.

  “I’ve got it,” he volunteered, walking over to the line where I was standing. “Paper or plastic?” he asked me.

  “Plastic,” I said.

  “How’s it going?” He tried to sound casual, but his voice sounded a little forced to me. He could have avoided this—and me, I thought. Considering the way we’d left things earlier in the day, that’s what I would have done. So why was he jumping over to my line to help me?

  I noticed he had a bruise near his eye, like Sean. “Ouch. Your face doesn’t look too good either,” I said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “No! I mean, your face is fine, your face is great. Just a little beat up.”

  “It’s nothing. It doesn’t hurt. Superficial scrape is all. What’s for dinner tonight?” Conor asked as he started to pack the groceries.

  “Chicken.”

  “Yeah. I kind of figured.” He dropped the package of chicken into a plastic bag and it landed with a loud thump.

  “Easy. Don’t break the chicken,” I said.

  “I think it’s been broken already,” he said dryly. “So, just chicken. Baked? Fried?”

  “Chicken with onions, mushrooms, peppers and tomatoes,” I said.

  “No kidding,” he commented as he bagged each item in the same order I listed it. He stopped when he got to the tomatoes, and shook the plastic bag so that three of them rolled out. He started to juggle them, saying “I’m all about the tomatoes.”

  The cashier and I looked at him, and then at each other, and exchanged irritated, he-is-so-annoying-and-we-have-no-patience-for-this glances.

  When he dropped one tomato, he swore, then quickly let the other two fall right into a waiting plastic bag. “So, Italian night or what?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what we’re having, actually. It’s Gretchen’s list, but I’m guessing it’s some kind of Italian dish. If you must know.”

  “Oh, I had to know. I’m very nosy when it comes to my customers’ meal planning.”

  “You are?” I laughed.

  “No, not usually. People buy stuff that you don’t even want to think about putting together for a meal.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Like…prunes and ground beef,”
he said. “Lots and lots of both.” He made a face.

  “Conor,” the cashier, an older woman, said in a weary, warning tone. “More bagging, less commentizing.”

  “Commentizing?” Conor dropped a loaf of Italian bread and a package of thin spaghetti into a new plastic bag. “Mary, you are making up new words every day.”

  “I have to do something to amuse myself,” she said. “You sure don’t help.”

  “Help? Did you say help?” Conor cleared his throat. “Yes? Okay. I’d be glad to help you, Miss,” he said in a loud voice.

  “Miss?” I repeated as I followed him out the automatic doors, past a bunch of giveaway newspapers in wire displays and a collection of carts and baskets. “Since when am I a Miss?”

  “What do you want to be? Ma’am?” He quickly wheeled the metal cart toward the door.

  “How about just…how about you let me carry my own bags?” I said.

  “We have a rule here. Two bags’ worth, and you get me,” he said.

  “Remind me to shop lightly next time, then,” I said. “Anyway, what’s in that bag? One thing?”

  Conor laughed and strode out the automated exit doors ahead of me. “I wanted some air, okay? It gets boring in there.” He turned to the left as we headed across the parking lot, just as I turned right.

  The cart smashed into my shin, then its wheels rolled right over my foot. “Hey! Watch it!” I cried. I jumped back out of the way, and Conor stopped in the middle of the lane to apologize.

  “Look out!” I said, pushing Conor as a car came toward him, and he grabbed the cart to catch his balance.

  The car veered around Conor—and instead sprayed me with slush as it went past.

  “You are a seriously dangerous person. You know that?” Conor commented as he wheeled his way out of the driving lane.

  “Hey. I’m the one who just got her foot run over. Not to mention drenched.” I looked at the bottom of my jeans, which were now soaked with water and slush.

  “Like it hurt. There’s nothing in this basket,” Conor said as we started to move toward the minivan again.

  “Then why are you carrying it out for me?” I asked.

  “I told you! I wanted some air. Do you know how boring it gets, arranging things in geometric shapes in bags?” he asked.

  I laughed. “Well, enjoy the fresh air. By all means.” I lifted the back of the minivan and he put the grocery bags inside, even though I could have done it myself with no problem. I hoped he wasn’t expecting a tip.

  “Well, thanks,” I said, closing the hatch.

  “No problem. Sorry about your foot,” Conor said.

  It was hard to take him seriously when he was standing there in an apron. “You should take some time off or something,” I said. “You work too much.”

  “Oh, yeah? This, coming from someone whose idea of work is collecting text messages?” he scoffed.

  How could one person be so nice, and so rude, at the same time? “Okay, well, bye,” I said. “Have a great night.”

  Well, at least I didn’t have to worry about what had happened that morning. Things with Sean were fixed, and fine. Things with Conor were back to normal: in other words, strange.

  Chapter 12

  “Excuse me,” I said as I climbed into the small, red pickup truck. “But what are you doing here?”

  Shouldn’t you be at work? I wanted to say. A double latte goes unmade right now because of you.

  “Ask him.” Conor didn’t look thrilled as I scooted over across the bench seat to sit next to him. Sean climbed in after me and slammed the door closed.

  “Don’t slam it,” Conor said, aggravated. He looked like he needed a few more cups of coffee or something. I remembered Paula saying that he wasn’t a morning person.

  “I didn’t slam it,” Sean protested. “I closed it.”

  I sat there between the two of them: Conor was behind the wheel, my left leg was jammed against the shift-stick, and Sean was as close as he could be to my right leg. The mattress for the charity event was tied to the roof, on the truck topper.

  “He insisted on driving when Ian couldn’t get the car like he thought,” Sean explained.

  “I didn’t want to drive,” Conor said. “You made me.”

  “No, you just didn’t want me to drive your truck,” Sean replied.

  “Exactly.”

  “So. Nice weather today,” I said, trying to interrupt before they turned this into a full-scale, all-day argument. “Sunny, not too cold…”

  “Believe me, there are things I’d rather be doing,” Conor mumbled.

  “No doubt,” Sean said. “Like harassing someone else?”

  We pulled out of the neighborhood and started heading down Interstate Highway 35. If we took this highway north, we’d end up back at my hometown. Which maybe wasn’t such a bad idea, with things going so strangely this morning. But we were going south.

  I was completely confused by the Benson Boys.

  First, one of them basically starts dating me and we kiss. But then I see him with another girl. He says it’s nothing, but I’m worried. And we kiss some more.

  Second, the other one acts like he thinks I’m stupid. Then all of a sudden he starts following me everywhere. Then he almost sort of kisses me.

  And now here I was, smushed between the two of them, with a mattress bouncing on the rooftop, being buffeted by the wind as we reached sixty miles an hour.

  Conor accidentally put his hand on my leg as he reached to push the stick shift into overdrive. “Oh, sorry,” he said, turning to me with a bashful smile.

  “Sorry,” Sean muttered. “You’re not sorry. Well, you are, but not that way.” Then he snuggled closer to me, and put his hand on my other leg.

  I wondered how far away this Buck Hill place was, and whether we’d all survive the journey intact.

  When we reached the ski area, we had to park at the outskirts of the lot because we were a little on the late side. Conor and Sean hoisted the mattress off the truck and carried it on their heads over to the staging area, near the rope tow.

  A local radio station was sponsoring the event, along with several other businesses. They had tables set up and were selling T-shirts to raise money. Music was blasting from speakers on top of a black van. There must have been a few hundred kids milling around, some in costumes and some as spectators, and lots of parents, too.

  When we went up to the table to register, I wandered up and down the line, checking out the other organizations there.

  “Are you going to sign up for the loppet?” Conor asked as he and Sean came up behind me.

  “No. What’s a loppet?” I said.

  “A ski race,” Conor said. “It’s Norwegian. This one’s in Mora and it’s called the Vasaloppet—it’s 30K.”

  “Oh. Well, then I don’t think so,” I said. “I’ve never really done much cross-country skiing before. I tried telemarketing once—”

  “Telemarketing?” Conor burst out laughing. “Did you say ‘telemarketing’?”

  “What,” I said.

  “I think you mean telemarking,” he said.

  I grinned. “Oh yeah. That sounds better.”

  And everyone at the table started laughing at me, and both Sean and Conor were laughing, too. The one time they agreed on something, and it had to come at my expense.

  “Yeah, that’s the worst kind of skiing,” Conor said. “You have to hold the phone to your ear while you’re going downhill. There’s the do-not-call list, and then there’s the do-not-fall list,” Conor added.

  “Very funny,” I said. But I couldn’t stop myself from smiling, because it actually was.

  “I’m going to go find the guys—we’re meeting over by the locker room. I’ll be right back with your costume,” Sean said. “Ian’s bringing it.”

  After he jogged off, Conor and I stood there for a minute, looking around at all the other contestants—if that’s what you would call them. “Don’t you need to find your team?” I asked him.
<
br />   “Oh, no. I’m not doing this,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Are you serious? I’m just here to laugh at everyone else.”

  “Why? Is there going to be a lot to laugh about?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I think so,” Conor said. “For example? Here come the seven idiots.”

  Sean and his friends were walking toward us. Their costumes were simple, no-brainers: They wore hockey team jerseys, over jeans. Some of them wore ball caps. A few of them carried hockey sticks.

  “Hey,” a few of them greeted Conor, and me. As they all gathered around me, all I can say is that one or more of their shirts definitely hadn’t been washed since the last game. Which I guess made it an authentic costume.

  “Which one’s Dopey? That you?” Conor asked Sean.

  “Ha ha,” Sean muttered. “Look, Conor, you’ve got to help us out.”

  “Wait a second. I only count six hockey players,” I said.

  “Exactly. That’s why you’ve gotta do it with us, Conor,” Sean said. He held out a jersey. “Tommy’s sick. You have to fill in for him.”

  Conor stared at the jersey. “You want me to wear the sick guy’s jersey?”

  “It’s not Tommy’s, it’s one of mine,” Ian said. “I brought an extra after he called to say he couldn’t make it.”

  “Go change,” Sean said.

  “Wait. Who said I was doing this?” Conor said as he caught the jersey Ian tossed to him.

  Then Sean held out a sparkling tiara to me. “Here’s your crown.”

  “Snow White wore a crown? Really?” I asked. I put it on top of my head and mashed it down so that it would stay there. “Okay, that was easy. I’m ready!”

  “And…here’s your outfit.” Ian handed me a black garment bag.

  “Oh.” I peeked at the dress inside. I nearly dropped it. The costume looked like it might fit someone half my height. I held it up against me. “You cannot be serious. This is going to be way too short on me!”

  “Hey, maybe we’ll score more points with the judges.” Sean winked at me, and his friends laughed.

  I don’t want to score more points with the judges, I thought. I really only want to score points with you.