Breaking the Ice Read online

  “Are you too chicken to be a chicken?” Swishy Hair flaps an elbow wing against my shoulder.

  No one’s watching, so what does it matter? Even Mom’s busy chatting with the other parents. And this is all about musical interpretation, right?

  “Okay,” I finally say.

  “Let’s go, then.” He bobs his head and struts around the group, elbows flapping. I tuck up my hands and follow him.

  We weave between Addison and a short brown-haired girl. Addison eyes me, her eyebrows raised as she swings her arms from side to side. I bite my lip, and my arms droop a little.

  Swishy Hair looks back. “Really, Double Axel, is that all you’ve got?”

  I wish I could feel as free as he does. Everyone looks ­stupid—moving their arms all over and stomping around our little corner of the lobby.

  Just go for it, Kaitlin, I order myself. No one cares. I take a deep breath and flap my arms harder. I lift my knees, mimicking the cute guy.

  We tromp around the group. It really isn’t so bad. In fact, it’s kind of fun.

  “Fly, chicken, fly!” he calls back to me.

  I flap my arms harder and slide between two girls pretending to be trees. My right elbow collides with something hard.

  “Ow!” someone yells behind me.

  I drop my arms and spin around. Addison’s standing right there, clutching her nose.

  Chapter Nine

  “What’s your problem?” Addison squeals in a nasal voice.

  “Oh my God, I’m sorry! Are you okay?” I reach toward her, but she backs away from me.

  “Girls, what’s going on?” Karilee floats toward us. “Addison, are you all right?”

  Addison winces. “The new girl broke my nose.”

  “I—I didn’t mean to.” Did I really hit her hard enough to break her nose?

  “Let me see.” Karilee pulls Addison’s hand away from her face.

  “I’ll bleed all over the place!”

  “Honey, there’s no blood.” Karilee gently touches Addison’s nose. “I don’t think anything’s broken. It’ll just be sore for a while.”

  “What happened? Addison?” Addison’s mother pushes aside the crowd that’s gathered around us.

  “She got bumped in the nose. She’ll be okay with some ice,” Karilee says.

  Addison’s mom peers into her daughter’s face. “I don’t know. We’re going to the urgent care center.”

  “Kaitlin did it,” Addison says with a breaking voice. She points at me.

  “I’m really sorry.” I want to shrink back into the other skaters.

  “It was an accident,” Karilee says.

  Addison’s mom glares at me. “You need to be more careful.”

  I can’t help but think of this morning, when Addison nearly plowed me over while I was in my program. But I don’t say anything. I just swallow hard.

  Karilee claps. “I think we’re finished for today. Everyone get ready for the session. And remember to take what you’ve learned here and apply it to your programs.”

  Skaters disperse across the lobby as Addison’s mom pulls her toward the hallway and the door. Swishy Hair winks at me like nothing awful just happened. He sits on a nearby chair and puts on his skates.

  Miyu grabs my arm. “Watch out for Braedon. He’s nothing but trouble.”

  “Who’s Braedon?” I ask Miyu as I follow her to the chairs.

  She frowns at me. “That guy you were following around and being stupid with.”

  So that’s his name. Braedon Walker. “But he seems really nice.”

  “Charming,” she corrects me. “But a total—”

  “Kaitlin, what happened?” Mom jumps in before Miyu can finish her sentence. “Here, put your skates on and tell me.”

  “I just bumped into someone. It’s no big deal,” I say as I shove my right foot into my skate. The last thing I need is Mom freaking out about Addison and her mom’s reaction. I’m glad Miyu left her skates on the other side of the lobby, although somehow I know she wouldn’t give away the truth.

  “But I saw Addison and Mrs. Thomas leave, and they didn’t look happy.”

  “They’re just going to get ice and then she’ll be back.” I concentrate on lacing my boot tightly so I don’t have to look at Mom.

  “They could’ve gotten ice here at the snack bar.”

  I shrug. “Maybe they decided to go home so Addison could take it easy.”

  “Her mother is a strange one,” Mom says. “She doesn’t seem to talk to any of the other parents. She just watches Addison all the time and writes in that notebook. Like a skating stage mom.”

  Like you, I think. But that’s something I definitely don’t say out loud. At least Mom doesn’t watch every move I make on the ice.

  “Come on, I think Greg’s waiting for you. Now, whatever the surprise is, just go along with it. We’re lucky he wants to coach you at all. You can’t lose this opportunity,” Mom says.

  I’d been breathing a little easier until Mom said that. Visions of an elephant costume dance in my head.

  Greg’s standing at the ice entrance, drinking a cup of coffee. I pull off my guards and wait for him to say something.

  All he says is, “Go warm up.”

  I drop my stuff on the boards and fly through my warm-up, crossing over one foot, barely holding the position, and then crossing over the other. I’ve spent all day worrying about this moment, but now that it’s here, I just want to get it over with. I skid to a stop in front of him, completely out of breath.

  “I’ve never seen anyone do Russian stroking that fast,” he says with a grin. “Not even Helmut Pryor.”

  “Who?”

  “The star of Skating Sensation when I first joined.”

  “Oh.” I’m only halfway paying attention. I glance at the bleachers behind Greg. There’s no sign of any horrible costume. At least I won’t have to prance around the rink like Giggles the Clown or something.

  “All right. Follow me.” Greg moves off toward the lobby.

  I throw on my guards and follow him, hurrying to keep up. What if he’s hidden the costume in the coaches’ room, or outside in his car? I cross my fingers.

  We bang through the doors. Mom spots us and raises her eyebrows. I shrug and follow Greg to the coaches’ room. He pushes the door open and begins rustling through a duffel bag on one of the benches. I peer in from the doorway, crossing my fingers so hard they start to tingle.

  Greg pulls a CD from the bag and pops it into Karilee’s boom box. He motions at me to come in. I hesitate for a second before sliding in to stand next to the door. ­Skaters weren’t allowed in the coaches’ room at my old rink. Everyone joked that the coaches had a big-screen TV and a chocolate fountain, and that’s why they didn’t want ­skaters ­coming in. There’s nothing like that here—just a big, mostly empty room with concrete-block walls and a few benches with peeling paint.

  Some kind of dramatic violin music streams from the speakers. Greg taps his fingers on the top of the boom box in time to the music. When it’s finished, another piece starts. This one sounds like an orchestra with an electric guitar. Almost like the guitarist from a rock band got lost and ended up in the middle of the woodwind section. That piece ends, and a third one with a lot of drums starts. I shift from foot to foot. Why are we hanging around listening to music?

  The third piece ends, and Greg looks at me. “Do you like any of those?”

  “Sure, I guess.”

  “Which one do you like best?”

  “Um . . .” This is the weirdest thing ever. I’m not sure why he cares which piece was my favorite.

  Greg pops the CD out of the boom box. “Which one speaks to you?”

  “The first one, I guess?” That one was kind of sassy and powerful. I liked it. In fact, I kind of want him to burn me a copy of it. It w
ould be perfect to add to my collection of workout music.

  “Great choice,” Greg replies. “A tango. It’s . . .” He snaps his fingers as he searches for the right word. “Diva music. So that’s your new program piece.”

  My heart falls into my stomach.

  “My new . . . what?” I squeak out.

  Chapter Ten

  “Program,” he repeats. “You need something that exudes personality. That connects with the audience. And that makes the judges sit up and take notice.”

  “Okay,” is all I can say. Inside, my brain is screaming. It’s too late to change my program. What was wrong with Swan Lake? It’s soft and pretty. Everything this music isn’t. Ellery could skate a tango. Addison could definitely do a tango. But me? Hildy always called my style light and ­balletic.

  Not to mention that I’m pretty sure the judges have already taken notice of me. And not in a good way.

  “A tango.” I say the words like they’re some foreign language.

  “That was your favorite, right?”

  I nod. It was . . . just not for my program.

  “Then let’s start choreographing it. With enough hard work, it should be polished and ready to go for Regionals.”

  “Wait,” I say as Greg leaves the coaches’ room. “I . . .” Mom’s words echo through my head. I can’t mess up this opportunity. It’s the only one I have. “Um . . . never mind.”

  Numb, I follow Greg back to the ice. He hands the CD to the ice monitor.

  Maybe it won’t be so bad. Once he sees how much tango doesn’t suit me, he’ll change his mind and go back to Swan Lake. Or he’ll just give up on me.

  Wait. What if he does give up? Then where will I skate? We’ll have to move across the country to find a new coach. Or I’ll have to quit and kiss my Olympic dream good-bye. I’ll have to take up hockey or softball or some sport where they’ll accept my loud mouth and lack of tango ability.

  “Let’s tango!” Greg says as he hops onto the ice.

  “Okay.” I try to say it with enthusiasm.

  Strains of the dramatic music fill the rink. I trail after Greg as he walks through the program. “We’ll keep all of the same jumps and spins as your old program but move them around to fit this music,” he calls over his shoulder as he demonstrates where everything will go. “Now this will be the footwork sequence. We’ll fill it in later with something flirty. Then stroke, stroke, layback spin combination with your arms like this.” Greg puts his hands on his hips.

  I follow him without saying anything.

  “Then some fun little steps here.” Greg flies through a series of turns and hops diagonally across the ice. “And we need something before you do the first combination jump. What do you think?”

  What do I what?

  “Is there something you’d like to do before the jumps?” He skids to a stop and waits for an answer.

  This is so not at all what I’m used to. Hildy always had my programs choreographed before she showed them to me, usually with the help of a professional choreographer. If something didn’t work, she’d change it, but she definitely never asked me what I wanted to do.

  “Come on, Kaitlin. There’s got to be something you’d love to have in this program,” Greg says.

  “A spread eagle,” I say right away. I love gliding along on a deep edge with my feet turned out, heel to heel.

  He smiles. “Perfect. It fits the music. And it’ll make doing the jumps right after a lot harder, which will give you a better score—if you can do it.”

  “I can do it.” Hildy never put a spread eagle in any of my programs, and I’m not about to let Greg change his mind now that he’s agreed to it.

  “Now, what about after this double lutz–double loop combo? You need to start another spin right on this change in the music, but we have a few seconds to fill right before that.”

  And he does that for the rest of the program. I get to add in all the moves I love—a Biellmann spiral, where I grab my foot from behind and pull it up over my head, a split jump, and all kinds of other things I never got to do in a program before.

  It’s actually kind of fun, until I remember that I’m supposed to do this program perfectly in less than two months at Regionals.

  “Last jump is double axel. Then finish with a kicky little stag jump and a show stop.” He does the show stop, turning his right foot out and placing it in front of his left foot so the blade skids to a halt.

  I’m out of breath even though I haven’t even been doing anything. My hardest jump, at the very end of the program, when I have no energy left and my legs feel like mush?

  “It’s not an easy program,” Greg says. “It’s challenging, but I know you can do it. Let’s show those judges you deserve a second chance.”

  I nod. But inside, I’m completely freaking out.

  We spend the rest of the lesson nailing down the program in pieces. By the end, I have it memorized, even though I don’t know whether I can actually do the whole thing. And do it with what Greg calls “personality.”

  When the lesson is finally over, Greg talks to Mom about my program. I cross my fingers and hope she’ll insist on Swan Lake. And what Mom wants, she always gets. Maybe Greg will let me add a spread eagle to it.

  “A tango! How daring. I love it,” she says when Greg tells her. “And you think it’ll be ready by Regionals?”

  What? No! No, no, no, no, no.

  Mom and Greg keep talking around me.

  “If Kaitlin works at it,” Greg says. “She’s an extremely talented skater, but the judges will never see that unless she really engages them. She needs to come out of her shell.”

  I bite my lip to keep all the nos from falling out. I’m standing right here, and he’s talking about me like I’m invisible.

  “I’m thinking we’ll have to add some ice dance lessons too. We’re going to turn you into a skater the judges can’t possibly look away from.” Greg squeezes my shoulder as he heads back to the ice.

  They won’t be able to look away from me because I’ll be the only girl who can’t get through her program. This is what I get for joining the Fall Down Club.

  I have to say something. I can’t let my dream die without a fight.

  I look from Mom to Greg, who’s almost to the rink doors. I have a better chance with him than with her. “I just have to ask Greg something,” I say to Mom before I run after Greg.

  “Wait!” I stumble over my blade guards into the doors.

  “Kaitlin? You okay?” Greg grabs my arm, and I manage not to fall in an ungraceful heap on the floor.

  “Sorry, I’m fine. I just . . .” How am I going to say this without completely offending him? “I’m not sure about the new music. I mean, it’s really fun and intense and I like it, but I don’t know if it’s me. I don’t know if I can skate it the way you think I can.”

  I cross my fingers behind my back and hope he doesn’t dump me the way Hildy did. He smiles just a little as we step out of the way to let Svetlana and the crazy ice dance team move through the doors. Smiling can’t be bad, right? Maybe he agrees with me.

  “Do you trust me?” he asks.

  “Um . . . yes.” At least, that sounds like a question I should say yes to. I barely even know him, but I don’t think he’d want to sabotage my skating career. He wouldn’t be much of a coach if he did that.

  “Then trust me on this. You need fiery music. And believe me, you can skate it—but only if you let yourself.”

  “But that’s it. I don’t think I can. My style is softer, lighter. Not . . . fiery.”

  “Then who was that girl who told the judges exactly how she felt at Praterville?”

  “That was an accident,” I say.

  “Knocking all the medals off the table was an accident. You speaking your mind wasn’t. You’ve got a bold, fiery side that’s just dying to come o
ut.”

  For the nine hundredth time, I wish I could take back what happened at that competition.

  Greg crosses his arms. “Okay. So here’s the deal, and I’m not being mean. I’m being honest. If you want to be a champion, go to Nationals, maybe even the Olympics one day, you need to embrace that person you don’t think you are. Or, you can do the same old thing, get the same old scores, and be happy with being mediocre. I’ll coach you either way, but it’s your decision.”

  I blink at him. “You mean I won’t get to Nationals with Swan Lake?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “But Hildy—”

  “Is Hildy your coach?”

  I swallow and shake my head.

  “I know this sounds odd, but I think that by giving you such low components marks in your last competition, the judges were trying to push you. They can see you have the jumps and the spins. They know you have the makings of a champion, but you need to improve on the artistic side.”

  He’s right—that doesn’t make a lot of sense. But I get what he’s really trying to say. It’s tango or nothing. “Okay. I’ll try it.”

  “You’ll have to do more than try.” Greg zips up his Skating Sensation jacket and moves toward the doors.

  I imagine myself on the podium at Regionals. If a tango will get me there, I’ll do it. Even if it means pretending to be someone I’m not. “I’ll tango better than anyone. I promise.”

  Greg nods at me and disappears into the rink.

  Now if only I can keep my promise.

  Chapter Eleven

  Pizza Supreme is packed on Thursday night. Mom only springs for pizza on special occasions, like me getting a crazy-­hard new program. She claims it has too much sodium and saturated fat, and always makes Dad and me add a salad. Like the lettuce is going to zero out all the bad stuff from the pizza.

  We’re waiting for a table when I see them. Ellery and a bunch of kids I don’t recognize are crammed into a booth along the side wall.