Any Way You Slice It (11 page)

“I can't.” I pick up my pencil and chew on the end. “It's more than that. I can't let Warren …”

“Can't let Warren what?” she says.

“Let's just say I don't have a choice.”

“You've always got a choice,” she mutters under her breath, but she knows I won't change my mind, so she changes the topic. “Warren is a cretin. Don't ever be alone with him, and make sure you don't drink anything he gives you.” She looks at me sideways. “I've heard stories.”

I close my eyes and put my head down on the desk again. “That fills me with confidence.”

“Text me if you get into any trouble,” Lori says. “I'll be there as fast as I can.
”

“You guys did great out there; you're really starting to come together!” The assistant coach shrugs as he looks at Coach Walsh. “What? No one fell today.”

We're sitting in the locker room after our fourth loss since I started with the team. A few of the guys have already taken off their shirts, so I'm looking at the floor trying incredibly hard not to make eye contact. Jake is sitting as far away from me as possible. He hasn't talked to me all day. Good thing I'm not talking to him either. It makes things very convenient.

I hate these post-practice pep talks; I just want to strip down and shower. And so does everyone else, but now that there's a girl on their team, they've got to wait until I head to my own locker room.

“Before we hit the showers, I've got some bad news, team.” Coach pales like he's seen a ghost.

“I should have told you this yesterday, but I didn't want to affect today's game.” A few of the guys chuckle. Losing was losing, even if it was only one point instead of nine. Coach takes a huge breath. “Tim Fallen called me last night.” We all look blankly at him. “You know, Tim. Tim's House of Pizza?” Light dawns as we all look at the sponsor's name silkscreened across the front of our jerseys.

“He's pulling his sponsorship.” Coach glances at me, which is weird.

A couple guys cheer.

“Does that mean we don't have to pretend to like his pizza anymore?” someone yells from the back.

“You don't understand.” Coach closes his eyes and sighs. “This game costs money.”

“I bet he didn't like it that the Pizza Princess is on the team now,” says Johnson. “I knew it was a bad idea.”

Wait, Tim pulling the sponsorship is my fault?

“Thompson practically lets us practice here for free, but …” Coach glares at Johnson in the back of the room. “Unless we have a sponsor, the league won't let us compete.” He pauses. “And I don't think any of you have a couple hundred extra bucks lying around every week to pitch in for the buses to away games.” Coach falls onto the nearest bench. I've never seen him sit down in the locker room. “If anyone knows of a local business that might be able to sponsor us, now would be the time to share that information.”

The room goes quiet for a few minutes as the news sinks like a rock in our midst. No sponsor and we can't compete. No sponsor and we can't even practice because we can't afford the ice time. Jimmy Flores, who never says anything, opens his mouth. “What about Penelope's family? We all love their pizza.” He looks shyly at me and smiles.

Suddenly the room is buzzing with excitement. “Great idea, Flores,” a few of the guys yell. They're all chanting my name. My heart pounds. I think I might hyperventilate.

Carter hoots and pats me on the back, almost knocking me off the bench. “Slice would look much better on the jerseys than Tim's House of Pizza—it's shorter, too.”

“Okay, let's not put Penelope on the spot.” Coach stands up. “Hit the showers.” He gestures to the wall behind him and the guys start to move.

Jake salutes as he passes me heading to the shower. At least it's contact. It's not the same as an energetic hug, but I'll take it. I've thought all afternoon about how to tell him what really happened with Warren, but it all sounds stupid in my head. And it would mean coming clean to him about lying to my parents, which I'm not ready to do yet.

I stand up and slink toward the door. Everything is going wrong and it's my fault and I don't have any idea how to fix it.

For a minute I think Coach understands the expression on my face and interprets without asking that there's no way I can help.

No such luck.

As I leave the locker room, he follows me into the hallway. I hope he's on his way to the office, and not about to ask me about my parents' possible sponsorship. I just want to be alone. I'm going to have to quit, because there's no way I can ask my parents to sponsor us. If I'm not on the team, they might consider a request from the Coach, Dad's former teammate.

“What do you think, Spaulding?” He's standing with his hands on his hips, trying to look casual, but I know Coach well enough now to know this is his nervous posture.

“Um. I don't think so. Dad's pretty busy with the television show. Is there a plan B?”

Please let there be a plan B.

“I've called in a few favors, and I haven't had any takers yet.” He crosses his arms, and looks down at his shoes. “No one's really interested in sponsoring a losing team.”

My hands start to sweat. “Do any of the other parents own businesses?”

“You know these guys, Penelope. None of these kids is from a family with any money. That's why they're here.” He pats me on the shoulder. “You know what? This isn't fair of me to put this on your shoulders. I'll call Adam myself.” He starts to walk away.

“Oh no, don't call him! He's busy.” Before I can stop the words from coming out of my mouth, I'm lying to the coach along with everyone else. “Don't worry. I don't even have to ask, I know he'll sponsor the team. My parents are so happy to see how much I'm enjoying the experience. How much money does sponsorship usually cost for the season? He'll want to know that.”

Coach looks like he's about to hug me. “Tim gave us three grand a year. It covers ice time, the jerseys, officials, and buses to away games.”

Losing the sponsorship was my fault. And it suddenly hits me that I
can
help. I swallow hard and make a decision, staring into his ecstatic face. “You got it, Coach. Tell the team, they've got their sponsor. I'll fix everything with my dad.”

Three thousand dollars. It's all the money in my emergency-if-my-dad-cuts-me-off fund. Four years of saving tips and it's gone in a heartbeat. And all I can think about is that I've dodged another bullet.

Then Coach does hug me. Which would be weird enough in my street clothes. In my sweaty gear, it's bordering on winning the prize for memories-I'm-mostly-likely-to-repress. I'm trying not to actually make physical contact, but it's too late. He pats my back. “Thank you, Penelope.” He might be crying, but I'm not sure. “The team is going to be thrilled.”

It feels so good to make him this happy.

“Just one thing, Coach. Dad doesn't really like the spotlight, you know, so if you could just not mention it when you see him?” He looks at me funny and I realize, considering the abundance of advertising Dad does, this doesn't really make sense but I press on. “It's sort of a superstitious thing. He doesn't like to be recognized for his philanthropy.” As soon as I say it that way, his face clears up.

“I understand. You got it.” I'm afraid he's going in for another hug, but he just sort of flaps his arms.

“And please ask the guys not to mention it either.”

“Sure thing. Thanks again.” And he walks back into the locker room, leaving me alone in the hallway. The cheers start before I get to the door of the women's locker room.

As I'm stripping off my equipment, I wonder if I've just traded my emergency money for a couple of weeks of hockey, or if I'm actually doing the right thing. It feels like the right thing. But my parents are still going to kill me when they find out. I don't know how much longer I'll be able to keep up the charade.

It's just that I don't think I can stop.

I've never felt more alive.

Weekends at Slice when the Bruins are televised are crazy busy. Dad subscribed to the New England Cable Sports channel just so he could advertise games on the big screen. Two of us need to be taking orders, and Dad needs to back up Jorge in the kitchen.

Tonight is doubly crazy because there's a rumor the Restaurant Network producers are going to stop by for a site visit. We're not exactly sure if we'll know who they are, so we're on edge every time someone who's not a regular walks through the door.

It's just a regular crazy Friday night to me. I've still never been to a Friday movie because Fridays are an all-hands-on-deck sort of night. The only exception are high school dances because all the kids are usually there; but when the dance lets out, I have to hoof it back behind the counter. I'm usually taking orders in whatever I've worn to the dance, covered by my apron.

“Did you eat dinner tonight?” Grams asks, as I change the cash register tape.

“Um. Not really hungry.”

“Penelope. You don't have one of those eating disorders, do you?” She puts her hand on my forehead, like I might have a fever. “I haven't seen you eat anything all week.” She's teasing, but she's got such a mock-stern look on her face, I have to smile. She knows me too well. I'm definitely not a girl who's going on the cottage cheese and lettuce diet any time soon.

“Oh, Grams.” I hit the button on the register that advances the paper. “It's just been a hard week, and I haven't been hungry.”

“Boy trouble.” She nods her head, knowingly. I remember when I first met your grandfather. I didn't eat for a solid month.”

My shoulders slump and my eyes fill with tears before I can stop. I haven't talked to Jake since the thing with Warren. One of us needs to apologize. But neither of us is very good at it. Pretty much sums up our entire last four years.

She lowers her voice. “Did you win this afternoon?”

I choke when I realize what she's asking. My eyes water again, and she hands me a paper towel and thumps my back. When I can finally breathe again, I don't know what to say. “How long have you known.”

“You're a terrible liar, sweetie,” she whispers. “I just followed you and Lori one day to the rink. I watched a whole practice session.” She pulls me into a hug. “I don't believe in keeping secrets, but this one is yours. Promise me you'll tell them soon.”

As I sniffle into her cardigan, I'm afraid I'm going to lose it. All I can say is, “Okay.”

Grams never ceases to amaze. She winks at me as she heads into the main dining room to meet and greet.

Mom and Steve are scurrying behind the bar and Jules is waiting tables. No date tonight, apparently. She's serving with her platform heels, just in case. I have no idea how she wears those things without falling flat on her face.

“Well, I don't know how you manage to stay upright on ice skates,” she always says when I remark on her shoes. “So we're even.”

“Even if they come tonight, they won't have the cameras,” I tell her. “It's just a site visit.”

“When they pick me to be the star of the show, don't say I didn't warn you,” Jules says. She twirls and almost loses her balance. “It's going to change our lives.”

I roll my eyes. Let her dream. When the team storms through the door like a cyclone just after seven o'clock, I cringe. All twelve of them stream in, looking like they've got something up their sleeves. The wave of sweat thinly veiled with practically every aftershave product known to man permeates the space and I look up from taking an order from Mrs. Ng and her little girl. I'm so distracted I don't hear the order.

“I said, I want the Hawaiian pizza, Penelope,” the girl lisps at me, through her braces.

“Ok, Mai, I got it. I'll have Jorge put extra pineapple on it for you,” I say, hoping to appease her. Her mother always gives me an extra egg roll when I sneak away from Slice to Ng's Asian market next door, so I try to reciprocate when I have the chance.

Jake's waiting in line behind Mr. Donelan, who owns the appliance store. He's fidgeting with a package in his hands, but I can't tell what it is.

I try to focus on Mr. D. “The usual, Penelope.” He hands me a twenty.

“Of course. Large cheese with just a smattering of pepperoni.” I smile.

“Don't forget the red pepper flakes,” he says, as he turns to sit and wait for his order.

“Right.” I make a note on the pad and then hand the order across the back counter to Jorge.

Jake's smile extends to his ears and his dimples are deep as craters, as he slides the package across the counter. “Don't open this here,” he whispers. “I know your dad doesn't want to make a big deal out of it. But we couldn't wait for you to see it.” He winks, and glancing around as if to make sure no one's looking, he opens his jean jacket to expose the shirt he's wearing. “Think of it as a peace offering.”

It's the new team jersey; the words “Slice Pizza” emblazoned across the front. My heart stops beating for a second. I look behind me to make sure Dad's not watching. “Why the hell did you put that on the shirts?” I hiss. “You can't let them see that.”

“What?” He looks like I've just popped his birthday balloon. He closes his jacket, the smile fading. He gestures to the back door. “Can I talk to you outside?”

I look at Jules, who's got three people in front of her register. “I'll be back in two minutes.”

“Where are you going?” she asks, smiling at the customer, but not keeping the annoyed sound out of her voice. “It's a game night; this is just the beginning of the crowd. And the TV people could be here any minute!”

“Don't worry; I'll take your break instead. Just give me two minutes.”