Breaking the Ice Page 9

  “Hey, y’all,” he says in a Southern accent. “Ready to order?”

  “Split my pineapple and black olive?” Miyu asks me.

  I nod. “That’s my favorite.” I’ve never met anyone else who likes pineapple and black olive pizza.

  “Mine too.”

  “Can I have the Mega Meat pizza, with extra meat and thick crust?” Braedon hands his menu to the waiter.

  I stare at Braedon. Didn’t he just tell Addison he couldn’t eat pizza crust?

  “What’s going on?” Addison asks as the whole table—except me and her—cracks up. “I don’t get it.”

  “He’s not allergic to wheat,” Tom says.

  “Then why did you say you were?” she asks Braedon.

  “Because it was a good joke . . . and you seemed so concerned,” he says through laughter.

  I start to laugh too. Mainly because of the ticked-off look on Addison’s face.

  “It’s not funny,” she says. That just makes everyone laugh harder.

  Braedon catches my eye and smiles. I feel kind of funny myself. Not like funny ha-ha, but tummy butterflies funny. I rearrange my silverware on the red-and-white plastic tablecloth and don’t look at him again.

  Miyu pokes me with her elbow again. “Hey, I have to go to the bathroom. Come with me?”

  I follow her through the bright yellow door labeled LADIES and wait at the mirror, trying to push some stray hairs into place.

  “So, what’s going on between you and Braedon?” she asks me as she washes her hands.

  “What? Nothing! He’s my friend, I guess.” I decide to wash my hands too. Maybe that will stop them from shaking.

  “Seriously, Kaitlin. I saw the way he looked at you. And you’ve been spending a lot of time with him.”

  “Not really.” I scrub at my fingernails.

  “He’s a fun guy, but you should know he’s not serious about anything at all. Not skating, not school, not friends.”

  I remember what Braedon said the other day to that guy at the convenience store, about how he’d been kicked out of his school.

  “That stupid jump-off thing—remember how he barely cared when that girl got hurt? You could’ve been really hurt too. And before that, you told me you were late to stretching class because of him. I haven’t known you long, but you’ve never been late to anything skating-related.”

  “It wasn’t that big of a deal,” I say, although part of me is happy that Miyu cares enough to tell me what she thinks. It’s nice to have a friend like that, for a change.

  “Just be careful is all.”

  Back at the table, I sort of listen while the others talk. Addison tries to tell everyone about her new dress, but she’s cut off by Tom and Braedon flicking balled-up straw wrappers at each other. Braedon aims one at Addison, and it lands in her pizza. Braedon’s hair hides half his face, and I wonder if Miyu is right. Is he trouble? Does it even matter? After all, we’re just friends. It’s not as if he’s my boyfriend or anything.

  Like Mom would ever let me have a boyfriend.

  “. . . won’t be as bad as Regionals, though.” I tune in halfway through whatever it is Jessa’s saying.

  “What won’t be as bad as Regionals?” I ask.

  “The things people say at competitions,” Jessa says. “You know, ‘Fall Down’ and stuff like that. At one of the summer competitions, someone told me to retire already.” She picks at her pizza.

  “Really?”

  Jessa nods but doesn’t look up.

  “They catch us in the hallways or the locker rooms. Sometimes right by the ice as we’re waiting to go on,” Miyu says.

  I think back to Praterville and other competitions. I’ve never heard anyone say something so mean to another skater. Usually we’re all just too focused on ourselves to do anything except give one another nervous smiles, or maybe say, “Good job” when someone comes off the ice.

  “And don’t forget the stuff that randomly goes missing,” Tom adds. “A couple of years ago, Samantha’s skates dis­appeared. We found them just in time, hanging over one of the stall doors in the men’s bathroom.”

  “Someone took my warm-up sweater at Praterville,” Miyu says.

  “Seriously?” I’ve heard stories about things going missing, but never actually had it happen to me or anyone from ­Ridgeline. Well, one time Ellery lost a hair ribbon and insisted someone had stolen it, but I’m sure she just dropped it in the parking lot or something. “This stuff really happens?”

  Everyone stares at me like I’m crazy.

  “It only happens to us,” Jessa finally says. “They single us out.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Do you have to ask?” Tom says. “We skate for Fall Down. Why else?”

  “You guys take this all way too seriously,” Braedon says through a mouthful of pizza. “Once, someone stole my skate laces. So I went through everyone’s stuff in the locker room, took something from each of their bags, and lined it all up on one of the vendors’ tables out in the lobby.”

  Addison laughs way too loudly at this. I guess she’s forgiven Braedon for pretending to be allergic to wheat.

  “But not everyone stole your laces. How does that make sense?” Miyu asks.

  Braedon shrugs. “It doesn’t. But it was really funny. And no one ever took anything from me again.”

  After we pay for the pizza and start toward the movie theater, Jessa walks with me. “Just make sure you lock everything away in Chicago,” she says. “It probably won’t be as bad as Regionals, but why take a chance? And wear earbuds while you wait to go on the ice. That way you can’t hear what anyone else says.”

  I nod, but inside I feel a little sick. It can’t be that bad. If it was, I would’ve heard about it, right?

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mom’s still going on and on about Chicago while I’m lacing up my skates Monday morning.

  “Of course you’ll be ready,” she says after I tell her I’m not sure if three weeks is long enough to have a new program down. “Greg knows what he’s doing.”

  “But I just feel weird with the music,” I say as I loop the extra lace around my boot hooks. I’m wondering if I should’ve chosen not to do the new program. Maybe I could’ve proved him wrong by skating to Swan Lake and winning Regionals.

  “What do you mean, weird?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel very ‘me.’”

  “That doesn’t even make sense. You don’t have to be you. You’re performing. You can be anyone or anything.”

  “I guess.” In a way, I know Mom is right. Even though I get to do a lot of fun things in the new program, the tango music and all the new flirty moves just make me feel . . . uncomfortable. Add that to all the stuff everyone told me about what might happen at the competition, and I can’t help but feel nervous already.

  But it’s too late to change my mind now. I promised Greg I’d do the best I can. Plus, he is my coach. He knows what he’s doing. I’ll push through it and pretend I love it. I can do the big stuff in the program, after all. I just need to figure out exactly what it is Greg’s looking for to make it perfect.

  “I still don’t have a dress.” I stand and do a few knee bends to make sure my laces are tight, but not too tight.

  “I talked to Greg about that. He said Samantha has one we can use.” Mom thrusts my finally washed striped gloves into my hands. “It’s time. Go, go, go.”

  I yank on the gloves, grab all my stuff, and join the ranks of yawning skaters clomping their way to the ice.

  “So . . . did your dad talk to your mom about school yet? She said yes, right?” Miyu tosses her blade guards onto the boards and hops from the rubber mats to the ice. She turns around and puts her hands on her hips. “Tell me!”

  “I don’t think he’s talked to her. He has to wait for the ri
ght moment. And right now she’s too caught up in the ­Chicago competition.” I follow Miyu onto the ice to scrape down the bumps. “By the way, is all that stuff really true?”

  “You mean what happens to us at competitions? You bet. I couldn’t believe it either until it happened to me.”

  I want to ask Miyu more about it, but Greg calls me over for my lesson.

  “Change of plans,” he says.

  I cross my gloved fingers and hope that means we’re going back to my old program.

  “Svetlana had a cancellation this morning, so you’re going to get an ice dance lesson with her.” He looks over my shoulder. “And here she comes.”

  I want to scream and yell and beat my fists on the ice. How does Greg expect me to think about ice dance when I have a competition with a brand-new program next weekend?

  “Katya? Lesson,” a Russian-accented voice calls from halfway across the rink. She’s waiting near the ice entrance. And I guess I’m Katya.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” Greg says before he skates off.

  I cross the ice to where Svetlana is standing in the world’s fluffiest fur coat, hands stuffed into the pockets—the same coat she wore my first day at Fallton. I stare at it. Is it real? And isn’t she dying of heat? I mean, it is August, even if we are in an ice rink. All the skaters are wearing short-sleeved shirts, and even the coaches are just in light jackets.

  But Svetlana doesn’t look like she’s even broken a sweat. As I come to a stop in front of her, my heart starts to pound. She looks a billion times stricter than Greg or Hildy. Her eyes are outlined in sharp black pencil, and the lines on her face look as if they’ve been there forever. Like she’s never been young.

  “First, we stroke.” She makes a waving motion at me, so I take off.

  I push around the rink, careful to keep my back straight and my knees bent, my arms relaxed and out to the sides, and my head up.

  Svetlana follows me. “Point toes, Katya!”

  I point my toes.

  “Extend, extend!”

  I extend.

  “No, no! Must point toes while extend.”

  I point my toes while extending my leg.

  “No extend to side in dance. Must extend back.”

  I extend straight backward.

  “No! Stop.” Svetlana pushes on my shoulders to make me bend my knees even more. Then she grabs my right leg and pulls it back so far, I can feel it in my hip. “Now point toes.”

  I point and feel a cramp in my calf.

  “Yes. Do like this.” She waves me off again.

  I stroke and stroke and stroke, with Svetlana yelling critiques and stopping me and twisting my body into positions only contortionists can manage without pain.

  “Hmm,” she says.

  That doesn’t sound like a compliment.

  “You have problems with tango, no?” she asks.

  “Um. I guess.”

  “We work on . . .” She waves her hand in front of her face. “Face movement. You know, happy, sad, scared.” Then she wiggles her finger. “But not tango, no? Tango is here.” She points at my eyes. “You give eyes, you take back.”

  I have no idea what that means. All I can picture is holding out a pair of eyeballs to the audience. Which really seems kind of yucky.

  “Is . . . how you say . . . flirting? With boy. Then no—no flirt. Flirt, no flirt.”

  I’ve never flirted. I don’t even know how. “Okay,” I say.

  “Go on. Give best eyes to bleachers.”

  I look at the bleachers. “I—”

  “No excuse. Make believe cute boy is there. You flirt.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “Eyes. No eyebrows.”

  I widen my eyes.

  “Hmm.”

  Now I know that’s not a compliment.

  “You need real boy.” Svetlana looks around the rink. “Bretton!”

  It takes me a moment to realize she’s calling for Braedon. A squeaking noise comes out of the back of my throat. Braedon slides to a stop in front of us.

  “What’s up?” he asks.

  “Katya must make the flirting. You stand here for her.”

  Braedon bites his lip. I can tell he’s trying not to laugh. “Okay. Have at it, Kaitlin.”

  I feel so hot I could melt the ice. In fact, I wish I could melt into the ice.

  “Make believe he is cute boy,” Svetlana says.

  “Hey,” Braedon says, but Svetlana just bops him lightly on the back of the head.

  I don’t really have to make believe. I twist my hands together.

  Braedon smirks.

  “Now, Katya. You tell judges exactly how you think,” Svetlana says. “Why you cannot do this?”

  And why does everyone think I’m the person I was at ­Praterville? That was ten seconds of a huge mistake. “I just . . . I can’t.”

  Svetlana narrows her eyes. “You think you are shy girl. But you are not. Make flirt eyes at Bretton. You will not die.”

  Actually, I might die. This is torture. Complete and total torture. I just have to get it over with. That’s all. Then Braedon will go back to practice and my lesson will be normal again. I hope.

  I drag my eyes up from my hands and lock them with Braedon’s bright blue ones. I feel myself smile, and my whole body gets even warmer.

  “Good!” Svetlana yells in my ear. “Now, Katya, turn away. Make believe you do not care.”

  That’s much easier to do. I look down the ice, into the corner where Miyu is meticulously practicing double lutzes. The muscles in my face even out, and I lift my chin just a little.

  “Is perfect! You do that in program for Gregor. You flirt, no flirt.” Svetlana turns to Braedon. “You go now.”

  “Anytime,” he says, punching me in the shoulder before he takes off.

  I’m pretty sure I’m making flirt eyes at his back.

  “So, I have a great idea,” Miyu says after the session. “Are you guys coming back from Chicago Saturday night?”

  “I think so. Why?” I’m totally out of breath from running my program for the zillionth time. I follow Miyu into the lobby as my heart rate finally starts to slow down.

  “Can you come over Sunday night? It’s Labor Day on Monday, so there’s no school or skating. I’ll invite a couple of friends from school and we can have a sleepover.”

  “Really?”

  Miyu gives me a funny look. “Yeah. I’m sure my mom won’t mind. She’s used to having people over whenever. Ask your mom and let me know.”

  I practically skip in my skates over to Mom, where I sit down and wipe off my blades with an old towel. “So, um, Miyu asked if I could come over for a sleepover next Sunday. You know, since we’ll be done with the competition. And there’s no skating the next day.”

  “Miyu? Oh, right! The girl with the awful program music.”

  “Mom! Shh.” My face goes warm, and I look around to see if anyone heard.

  “Are you sure you won’t be too tired from competing?”

  “I can sleep in on Sunday morning. Please?” I cross my fingers under the towel, which is dripping with melted ice.

  “Sure, that’s fine. She seems nice enough. I knew you’d find new friends here in no time.”

  I’m smiling like a crazy person. I’d never even been to Ellery’s house. This will be my first sleepover since . . . forever! Sunday is going to be the best night ever. I just have to get through the competition first.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The competition is in full swing at the rink in Chicago on Friday. Skaters run back and forth, some in warm-up clothes, others in full makeup and shimmering dresses. The vendors’ booths fill the lobby from end to end, selling everything from boots and blades to stuffed animals. The muffled announcer’s voice creeps in through the closed arena doors.
Camera flashes light up the corner where the placement podium has been assembled. Right now, three tiny girls—all in pink dresses—are standing on places one, two, and three, grinning and holding up their medals to show their parents. And there’s a table full of medals. I’m not going anywhere near that.

  I’ve been to the Chicago Invitational twice before, so it’s nothing new to me, but I feel different this time. I can’t figure out why exactly. I’m standing in the middle of all of this, waiting for Mom and Dad to park the car. That’s normal. I’m dragging my skate bag behind me as usual, and I have my competition dress draped over my shoulder in its plastic dry cleaner’s bag. Totally normal.

  A tall girl passes by with her shorter friend, and then I know what’s different.

  The shorter girl grabs her friend’s arm and rolls up on her tiptoes to whisper in the other girl’s ear. They both look right at me. Then they giggle and rush off.

  I tug on my bright blue Fallton Club jacket. It seems to scream out its name, not at all like my old, subtle Ridgeline jacket. You can’t help but notice it. And whisper about it, I guess.

  But I’m just starting to wonder whether the girls were whispering about my new club or whether they recognized me from my Praterville outburst when Mom comes barreling through the mass of skaters and parents and coaches. Dad trails behind her, carrying the smaller bag that holds all my hair stuff and makeup.

  “Why are you just standing here? Where’s the sign-in? Where’s the locker room? How much time do we have before your practice? Are they running on time? Where’s Greg?” The questions pour out of Mom’s mouth, but she doesn’t seem to be looking for any answers from me. She spots the sign-in table and heads that way. Dad and I take our time following her.

  “How are you holding up, kiddo?” he asks.

  I roll my skate bag back and forth across the rubber-­matted floor. “Okay, I guess. Nervous.”

  “That’s expected. Just remember that all you can do is the best you can do.” Dad pats my shoulder.