Breaking the Ice, page 3
Ever since that day, Bea has refused to do anything for her birthday with people other than me and her family. Every year, her parents ask about planning a party, and she’s adamant in her refusal.
Until this year, apparently.
“My parents have been talking about it for a while, and they were going to make it a big deal. I convinced them that something small was a better first step. And that, unlike last time, I wouldn’t hide for the entire party.”
“I’m proud of you, Bea,” I say, and the words are true. But I wish things were different, that this party was something we were doing together. I know I should be grateful that she’s even talking to me after what I did, but if this had been a year ago, I’d be the one helping her organize it. Not the one trying to figure out whether or not she’s inviting me or just letting me know that she’s gotten over her childhood fear.
The end-of-lunch warning bell sounds, and I stare down at my tray. Suddenly, I’m not so hungry, but I also know that I’ll be grumpy later if I don’t get some food in me.
“I should go,” I say, this time more quietly. “I need to scarf down some food before—”
“Right.” I don’t need to look up to know that she’s biting her lip and wiggling her nose. It’s a classic Bea move when she doesn’t know what to say.
“It’ll be fun,” I force out. “And you deserve to have a good birthday celebration.”
“I want you to come,” she blurts out.
My body tenses. “You don’t need—”
“I want you to be there.”
“Oh.” I want to believe it’s possible for Bea and me to go back to the way things used to be. Or at least, something like it. Except, I don’t believe it. Not after what I did.
“It’s Friday night. At my house. Probably around seven?”
“Okay. Is, um, your brother going to be . . .”
Because that’s one of the major problems. Bea might have said a million times that she doesn’t blame me for the accident, but her older brother, Brian? He full-on holds me responsible and doesn’t want me anywhere near his sister.
Sigh.
“Brian is going out with some of his friends to the movies, so he won’t even be there.”
I nod. There’s no question that the biggest things I lost after the accident were Bea’s friendship and hockey. But losing Brian comes in a close third.
“Okay, I’ll be there.” Because I have to force the words out, they sound scratchy and hollow. “Is there anything I can do to help? Like maybe bring hot chocolate?”
“You’d do that?” Bea squeals. “That would be amazing!” She does tiny jumps up and down, and I try not to laugh. “Friday night?”
“Friday night,” I repeat.
Maybe, just maybe, things will be okay.
By the end of the day, I feel like I’ve been at school for a year. I don’t care what my brothers say about high school or college classes, seventh grade is hard, and I’m wiped out. I only have a ten-minute walk to get home and figure out how to convince Mom that I’m sick so I can just crawl into bed and completely veg out. It’s been a while since I reread Half Magic, and I could really use some daydreaming about how I would use a magic coin that only gave you half your wish so you had to wish for everything twice as much.
So how would I go back to fix what happened in the hockey game two months ago? I’d need to wish to go back twice as far and—
“Hey there.”
I don’t think I actually jump into the air, but my heart sure feels like someone gave it a giant jolt. Luckily, I’m not carrying a container of hot cocoa this time.
I turn to face Jason D’Andre. There’s a split second when I notice he looks as worn down as I feel. His face is drawn, and his shoulders appear rounded beneath the weight of his backpack.
But then, almost before I have time to really understand what I’m seeing, he’s back to being the Jason D’Andre I saw at the Skatium on Saturday. His back straightens, and he gives me one of his signature bright smiles. The one I’ve seen on TV at the end of his routine, or when he’s answering questions from a reporter.
“Hey, Jason,” I say, trying to play it cool. “How was your first day at school?”
“It was actually great,” he says, his voice animated. “I was a little worried about meeting so many new people, but everyone was super nice, and the teachers were really welcoming. Couldn’t have asked for a better day!”
I parse through his words. There’s too much pep and too many things like great and super nice and really welcoming to sound right. But maybe that’s just who he is, and I’m imagining a whole other Jason D’Andre in there.
There’s a silence that feels a bit too long. “I’m glad,” I finally say. I debate whether to apologize for running away this morning, but I can’t remember if I was going to pretend it never happened or that it wasn’t me or . . .
“Are you headed to the Skatium?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I don’t need to be there for a few hours, so I’m going home. You?”
“Also headed home. Or rather, to the new house.”
“Where’s your house?” I ask, hoping it’s not too personal a question.
He squints for a half second, like he’s trying to remember. “Timber Ridge?”
I can’t help but smile. “Me too. What street?”
“Forrester. Right by Hamlin.”
“Ha!” I laugh. “I’m on Ridgeway and Hamlin.”
This time the smile he gives me is real. “That’s like one street over, right?”
“You’ve got it.”
He falls into step beside me. “Can I walk with you?”
“Of course!”
For the first few minutes, we can barely talk as we maneuver through the crowds surrounding Summit Middle School. Because all the kids in our area attend Summit, there’s always half a dozen buses idling out front at the end of the day. I show Jason the best route to take to avoid breathing in exhaust fumes, but those short sentences are about all we can handle until we hit Maple. And then, almost suddenly, there’s barely anyone around us.
“How can we be the only ones walking?” Jason asks once we’ve reached the other side of the road. It’s cold out, so his words are muffled behind a scarf that half covers his mouth.
“Most people who live in our area get picked up from school by their parents or nannies. And the ones who would walk usually take the C bus.”
“Do you usually get picked up?”
I shake my head, and my wool scarf scratches my lips. “My parents both work, and I can’t even imagine them paying someone to come get me at age twelve. Sometimes, my brother Henry can get me when he’s done with his day at high school, but that doesn’t happen too often. Mostly, I don’t ask because I like the walk.”
“I can see that. It’s peaceful.”
I nod. Part of me wonders why Jason doesn’t have parents picking him up, especially on the first day, but it’s kind of nice also to just pretend this is a regular day, not the last one before he realizes that the C bus, while it might take a half hour, will probably drop him off right in front of his house.
There’s a thin layer of snow beneath our boots, and I focus on the faint squeaks that are unique to boots on snow. I’ve had a good amount of experience walking home by myself, especially in the last two months, so I’ve become used to that being the dominant sound.
“So, how was your first day, really?” I ask him.
There’s a chuckle from beside me. “I had a feeling I wouldn’t get away with the answer I gave you.”
“You barely know me,” I remind him. And I ran away from you this morning, I don’t add.
“You just give off that vibe. Like you see through things.”
I bark out a laugh and then try to cover it up with a cough. “I wish I was more like that,” I find myself admitting.
“Maybe you are, and you just don’t know it yet.”
I’m trying to figure out how to respond, how to either call him on seeing something in me after knowing me for all of twenty minutes, or how to be that person.
But luckily, Jason remembers I’ve asked him a question. “School was fine. I haven’t been in a regular school since fourth grade, so I’m not used to the amount of noise of so many kids in the same place.”
“But you must be used to it from performing. I read that you used to have to work with your dad on social studies while the little kids had their skating lessons, so you associate ancient Greece with cold rinks.”
He scowls. “Don’t believe everything you read.”
Shoot. I could kick myself for that comment. I can’t believe I basically admitted that I’ve read articles about him. He probably thinks that’s why I’m being friendly to him.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice quiet. “Sometimes I don’t think before I talk.”
“No, I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have reacted like that. Can we just pretend this didn’t happen?”
We’re each facing forward, one step in front of the other, and while I should probably turn and face him, say something real, I’m a coward. No surprise there.
So instead, I stare at our two sets of boots, his a dark blue and mine a very dirty green. I really should ask Dad to take me to get new boots. “Sure.”
Except now we have to find something to talk about, because we still have about five blocks before we can part ways and have it still feel normal.
“So do you think you’re going to do the mentorship program that Mr. Robinson told us about?”
I would be fine with any topic except for that.
“Robertson.”
Jason sighs.
“Ugh, I’m bad at names.” He wipes his glove over his face. “I know this is going to sound really self-centered and awful, but I meet so many people, and I try really hard to remember their names but . . . I just blank. And it sucks because they know my name, and I feel like a jerk who doesn’t care enough to remember theirs.”
“Hey!” I grab his arm, halting us in place before I can even think it through. “You just moved here. I’ve lived here all my life. It’s hard to remember Robertson versus Robinson at the same time as you are learning all these other names. Give yourself a break.”
His eyes are wide and bright, irises so dark that the brown and the black blend together. It’s only then I realize that I’ve been gripping his arm for a few moments too long.
“Sorry,” I mutter, letting go. “I basically have an Olympic medal in beating myself up. But even I think your standards are too high.”
He closes his eyes, and I wonder if he’s about to tell me that I’m the most annoying person he’s ever met. But instead, he laughs. The sound starts off small, almost like a chuckle, but then it takes over his entire face. “Olympic medal, huh?”
“I’m an idiot.” We start walking again.
“You’re not. Thank you. I know you’re right. I just feel like people know all this stuff about me, and it feels ridiculous to complain about it because I’m so lucky to be doing well and to be able to compete. But I also really, really want to be just Jason.”
“You got it, Just Jason.”
He laughs. “I like you.”
My stomach flips. Jason D’Andre, who is really Just Jason, likes me! As a friend, of course.
It would be nice to have a new friend. Somebody who doesn’t know about the accident. Someone who doesn’t remember the scene Brian made in the hallway the next day, and the day after that. Who doesn’t remember Bea coming back to school with a giant bruise on her face, and—
“I think I’m going to do the mentorship thing,” Jason announces. “My dad talked to Mr. Robertson last night, and it sounds like it could be fun. And I kind of like the idea of helping other boys get excited about figure skating. Probably the same way you feel about getting girls excited about hockey.”
I stiffen but try to let my breath out slowly. What does he know about my relationship with hockey? Does this mean he knows about the accident?
But if he did, why would he be so nice to me? And why would he think I should even consider Mr. Robertson’s offer?
“You’re going to do it, too, right?” Jason asks.
The corner of Hamlin and Forrester is now in view, which means we’re moments away from going our separate ways. If I can just distract him for another minute, maybe I won’t need to answer.
“Harper?”
I have to say something.
“I work a lot of hours at the Sweet Shack,” I say, focusing my eyes on the stop sign at the corner. That’s the stop sign I ran my bike into when I was nine, the last time I rode a bike. Every time I pass that sign, I remember that I never want to get back on a bike again.
Come to think of it, it’s really not that different from my skates.
“Didn’t Mr. Robertson say it would be okay with the guy who owns the stand?”
Darn Jason for having such a good memory.
“I think it might be fun,” he adds hopefully.
I know that Mr. Robertson is doing the whole mentorship thing not so much for fun, but as a way to build business for the Skatium. As obvious as it is to my family that hockey is a fabulous sport, that isn’t the case with everyone. Especially when it comes to girls and hockey. For some reason, it really freaks some people out that a girl would actually choose to skate like the wind, trying to avoid smacking into another player who is trying to steal a small round piece of black rubber. Okay, when I think of it that way, hockey in general seems kind of odd. But on the ice? It’s the best sport in the world.
Or it used to be.
Thankfully, Jason and I have to go our separate ways before I need to give him a firm answer. And as for Mr. Robertson, maybe there’s some way I can avoid him at the Skatium tonight.
* * *
I make my way to the Sweet Shack and open the side door with the key attached to my backpack. The Pickmans never used to lock the door, but a few times we came in to find all the chocolate was gone, and now we’re forced to lock the shack up when it’s not open. It’s ridiculous that someone would break into the shack to steal the chocolate. I mean, it’s delicious, but still. It’s just not right.
It takes a few tries, but I finally hip-check the door open and dump my bag on the floor.
The good thing about Monday nights is that the hockey team is rarely at the Skatium then. I try my hardest to set my schedule around their schedule.
And actually, it’s not so bad hanging out on figure-skating nights. I’m kind of a sucker for watching the little kids spend weeks auditioning for Nutcracker on Ice, all that drama shoved into tutus and sequins.
Dad took us to see Nutcracker on Ice in New York over winter break one year. Heath and Hunter were in high school, I was probably six or seven, and Henry was in middle school. I remember Dad made us dress up, which felt weird because we were still sitting in an ice rink. How fancy did we need to be?
I can’t say I didn’t like the show, because that would be a lie. The costumes and the giant Christmas tree were cool, as was the way they could tell a story without even talking.
But it wasn’t anything as exciting as a hockey game. It probably didn’t help that we kept asking Dad if we could go to a hockey game afterward.
I shake my head to make the memory go away. Time to distract myself with chocolaty goodness. Luckily, today’s the day I’d planned to see if I could make a Mexican hot chocolate that would be worthy of the Sweet Shack. It’s a pretty high bar, so I try not to add new items to the menu until I’m sure that they’re competitive with the other flavors. And luckily, Mr. Pickman has no issue if I experiment with new flavors . . . as long as they’re good.
I brew up the spicy hot cocoa and taste the first batch. It’s all about understanding the relationship between sweet and spice in this drink, and how to make sure that the cayenne pepper has a strong presence but doesn’t overpower the drink.
I’ve just filled a bunch of small paper cups with my new version to bring out to the parents to taste-test when I hear a screech from just beyond the Sweet Shack. I look over, and I see Mr. Robertson talking to Bronte and her dad.
Bronte looks crestfallen. She’s usually pretty mature, but she must have been the one who let out that shriek. I can even see that her lip is quivering.
I slip off my apron. It’s none of my business, except . . .
I make my way closer to the three of them to hear what’s happening.
“I’m really sorry,” Mr. Robertson says.
“If I can’t do hockey, I’m not doing any of it,” Bronte says, and stomps her foot. “I’d rather never come back to the Skatium if I have to do figure skating or speed skating. I want to be a hockey player.”
I can’t help myself. I walk right over and squat down to Bronte’s level as her eyes begin to fill with tears. “What’s going on?” I ask.
Bronte doesn’t meet my eyes. Her frizzy black hair is a mess from being stuffed under her helmet, but she still looks totally adorable. “Mr. Robertson says there aren’t enough mentors for me to do the mentoring thing in girls’ hockey. Can’t they find just one more person to be in charge of me?”
Shoot. Shoot. Shoot.
I stand up and face Mr. Robertson with a wide smile. “I’m assuming you asked Olivia Watters? Kora Linden? Amalya Anders?”
Mr. Robertson returns the smile, and his is as fake as mine. “I did. Olivia and Kora are both away with their families for another week, and Amalya is grounded. And before you ask, Joss and Freddie are also unable to mentor.”
Wow. I didn’t even think of Joss and Freddie, but that’s a good call. There’s a long pause as I try desperately to think of other possibilities.
Except there’s no one.
“What about you, Harper?” Bronte asks. “You used to be on the hockey team.”
All eyes turn to me, and if it wasn’t for the fact that I know my brothers would never have paid an eight-year-old to guilt me, I’d believe they were behind the entire showdown.
