Any Way You Slice It (5 page)

“Seriously? I don't want to tell you.” She strums her fingers on the bed. “How 'bout them Bruins?”

“Give.”

“Okay.” She flicks the phone on and pouts at me one more time before she starts to read. “Your sense of adventure and love of French cuisine point to …” She looks up to gauge my reaction, but I'm keeping my face impassive. I already know what it's going to say. “The perfect career for you is … drum roll … pastry chef.”

“You have to be kidding me.” I burst into laughter and soon the whole chair is shaking. “Well, I guess pastry chef is better than pizza chef.”

Lori rolls forward on the bed in a fit of giggles. “I'm sorry,” she manages to squeak out between guffaws. “I honestly thought it was going to be international tour guide or something!”

“I can't believe even your phone thinks I should be a chef.” I throw the puck, but it misses her and bounces off the bed. “Are you sure my dad hasn't hacked your hard drive?”

She grabs the puck and inspects it like a specimen. “Please tell me you don't have visions of being a professional hockey player.”

I roll my eyes. “No. I'd just like to have a career that gives me enough spare time to do something besides work.”

She flicks the remote again.

“Stop,” I yell, catching a glimpse of a logo as she clicks past. “That's the show.
Local Flavor
.”

“You're kidding.” She hits the Back button and we stare, shell-shocked, at the screen.

The host is an überenergetic dude with bleached-blond hair and generic Celtic tattoos covering his biceps. He's jumping up and down in disbelief that the food at the host restaurant is so darn tasty, while the place itself is crap-diddly-tastic. Live-streaming comments run across the bottom from viewers. None of the comments mince words.

WTF is up with the dirty floor in the ladies' room? #EverHeardOfBleach

The waitress is such a B! I'd walk out if she served me! #ChewAndScrew

The patrons are A*holes. I'd kill myself if I lived in that town. #CityGirl

A few nice ones scroll past, clearly from people who are related to the owner or who are friends with the staff. But it seems like most of the comments are nasty just to be nasty. Or to make the writer feel witty. Or just plain mean.

I look at Lori, reading the comments with her mouth open. She looks up at me. “You'd better take down that sign over the toilet that reminds people to wiggle the handle when they flush.”

“We are so screwed.
”

On Monday morning, Jake sidles up next to me in the hallway.

The little hairs on the back of my neck bristle when he bumps my shoulder. I shake it off and pretend to be busy searching my locker for a notebook.

“Well? Are you coming this afternoon?” he says, leaning against the locker next to mine. I get a whiff of something woodsy and my knees suddenly feel like Jell-O.

I cannot tell him I hadn't slept all weekend; that I had only thought about him and hockey; the rush of air as I approached the puck, the pure exhilaration of hitting the top corner of the net. How his eyes lit up when I crushed the shot.

“Not sure yet.” I walk into homeroom without a backward glance, leaving him in the hallway.

“So … Jake Gomes,
hmmm
?” Caroline Chapman coos, strolling in behind me. “Cutting edge, Pen,” she whispers. “He's still got a smidge of that middle school 'tude, but he's filling out those jeans. You're not the only one looking.” She taps the small notebook protruding from her bag. “The list has been morphing since November. Who knows? Jake might actually be on the eligible list by prom.”

I don't care in the slightest what Caroline thinks. Or so I tell myself. But I'm sort of glad he's not still on the ABSOLUTELY NOT list.

At lunch, I practically fall face-first into my Tater Tots and realize I've dozed through all my morning classes. If any teacher assigned homework, I've got no clue.

Lori plunks down next to me, spilling her carefully arranged salad all over the table. “So, are you going to play or just watch?”

“I don't know.” I jab a fork into one of her escaped tomatoes. “It's all I can't think about, though. No one can find out. My dad will ground me for life for even thinking about it.”

“How on earth are you going to pull this off? You do remember we live in a small town.” She reaches over and grabs a fry off my tray.

“I've got it all figured out.” I give her my best hangdog look and cross my fingers behind my back. “You're going to help me.”

Lori looks at me like she just found out Jorge's been adding anchovies to her favorite vegan pizza. “No way.” She shakes her head. “I said I'd drive you to watch practice this afternoon. I never said I'd help you sneak around behind your parents' backs.”

“Right. Okay.” I nod. “No problem. I'll figure it out.”

But she's going to help me. She has to. It's the only way I'm going to be able to pull it off.

I push my mittens against the Plexiglas wall and try to look like a casual spectator. I don't want Jake to know I'm here yet. I told him I
might
stop by.

Lori looks like the Michelin Man standing next to me in her white down ski jacket. She scans the ice. “What are we looking at?”

I bite my tongue rather than say something I'll regret. I'm grateful to her for agreeing to get me here. It cost me ten bucks, but it was totally worth it.

“I don't get it. Lots of people play sports,” she says. “It's not like you're sneaking around doing drugs.”

The thing is … it would be like sneaking around doing drugs to my dad. But it's amazing the power of a little white lie. It's not a huge lie. I
do
have a paper due next week. I'm just already finished. No need to be at the library all afternoon. But my parents don't have to know the truth.

“You don't understand.” My voice comes out shriller than I intend. “They are way too distracted by this Restaurant Network thing. Dad spent all weekend in meetings, on the phone, and locked in his office when he was home researching the benefits. He really thinks it's going to ramp up our business. But I'm not sure he's actually watched the show.”

This morning, Grams left the house before the bus picked me up to load up on cleaning supplies. I'm pretty sure she's as worried about this thing as I am. She and I watched
Local
Flavor
on demand for three straight hours on Sunday night, and we agree. There's no way we're coming out unscathed.

All I want to do is forget it's happening.

The stands are starting to fill up and the place gets a little noisier. “I could show up to work naked and I don't think he'd notice. I promise I'll tell them after I play a bit. There's no reason to upset them until I'm sure.” I lean forward until my nose practically touches the glass. I'm dying to see Jake decked out in full gear.

The guys stream out of the hallway from the locker room, and they each touch a spot of faded paint on the doorjamb as they step onto the ice. Must be some sort of superstition. I guess they need luck even for practice.

Lori leans forward next to me. “Ooh, look,” she says, pointing. “Boys on ice skates.” She grins at me.

All of them are dressed head to toe in padding, jerseys, gloves, and helmets. Upon closer inspection, most of their jerseys are tattered and faded. A few of the names on the jerseys look like they've been replaced. I can clearly see that one kid's shirt used to say “MacDonald,” but those letters have been removed and “Flores” has been stitched over it.

The boys are a jumbled mess, all doing their own thing to warm up. As I watch, two of them collide and go down hard on the ice.

Lori cringes. “Ouch. Uncoordinated boys on ice skates.”

There's a flutter in my stomach when I remember the element of danger. Or it could be the guilt of missing the whole cleaning/bleach thing with Grams. But, there's something about seeing the team in person rather than watching the highlights of a professional game on the news or clips on YouTube.

The guys start by skating in a line around the edge. Lori and I back up and sit in the first row of the stands. I pull my hood over my head, hoping Jake won't notice us right away. They're all on the ice now. I'm taking note of every detail about their strides, how they shift their sticks as they skate, even how they stop. I ignore the fact that several of them crash into each other or the wall when they
don't
stop. I imagine myself in the line, gutting it out while wearing twenty pounds of equipment.

It's easy to spot Jake. Something about the way he moves fluidly down the line. Or it could be the fact that “Gomes” is spelled out across his back. I elbow Lori and point. Of course that's the instant he looks up and catches me pointing. He gestures to the coach and then he's speeding toward us. My heart's beating like I'm the one skating, and for a second I'm afraid he's going to crash.

He stops short and skids sideways on his skates, sending snow flying. Lori and I both flinch, forgetting the glass wall in front of us. He pulls off his helmet and shakes his head, beads of sweat raining everywhere. His cheeks are rosy and there's a glow around him. Like an aura. He smiles that big smile. “You came!” he shouts. “Ready to suit up?”

I don't even have to look at her to know that Lori rolls her eyes. I'm not at all sure I want to suit up, but I'm here and I'm not chickening out. For once no one expects me at the restaurant. There's no reason to say no.

I stand up tentatively and look toward the locker room.

“Meet me down by the door,” Jake yells, speeding back toward the coach.

Lori follows me with a shrug. “You totally need a chaperone, girl. I don't trust this dude, and your parents are totally going to blame me for letting you do this. You realize I'm kissing free pizza good-bye?”

I snort. “'Cause that's the only reason you're friends with me?”

“You didn't think it was to bask in your royal glow, did you?” She punches my arm. “Though I do like your cinnamon sugar pizza.”

I smack her.

We walk almost halfway around the rink to the archway where Jake is waiting. “There were some extra pads in the equipment room. We left it all in the women's locker room for you.” He points down the hall. “Last door on the right. Shout if you need any help.”

Lori snickers, but I think he's serious. I remember that old box of my dad's gear; there's a lot of stuff. I pull her arm and drag her down the long hallway toward the locker room. There are only a few people milling around: a couple of rink employees, a few parents in the stands watching their kids practice. It's more crowded during open skate. The building feels different when it's half empty like this, almost ominous.

I push open the door to the locker room. There's a vague smell of baby powder and an undercurrent of bleach. I hadn't really considered the whole changing-and-showering thing when I thought about taking the coach and Jake up on their offer to play on the team. I look at the gear laid out on the bench.

“You have got to be kidding me.” I pick up something plastic, and look at Lori. “Shin guard?”

She giggles uncontrollably as she picks up something that looks like a cross between a thong and a Speedo. “I think this is to protect your junk.”

I have the good sense to duck as she flings it at my face. “No way I'm wearing that.” I reach under the bench and pick up the jockstrap between my forefinger and my thumb and lay it across the counter next to the sink. Why on earth would they leave me someone's secondhand jockstrap?

Maybe this wasn't such a great idea.

Lori's still laughing, but she's already on her phone, Googling “how to put on hockey equipment." This is why I love her. She grumbles about it, but she's right there next to me when it counts. She's totally going to help me pull this off.

“Hey, here's a link to a quiz on how much you know about hockey,” she says.

I peer over her shoulder. “Just play the video. Let's not make this more embarrassing than it needs to be.”

She elbows me in the ribs, but continues to scroll through video options before we find one that looks good.

We struggle with the equipment for twenty minutes. Long socks first. Combination kneepads and shin pads next. Enormous shorts that go over both. Lori's holding the chest protector shoulder pads and she lifts them over my head and helps me strap on the elbow pads. She glances at the instructional video one more time. “You just need the jersey.”

“Oh, is that all?” I say, trying to smooth down the wrinkled … pants?

What the hell am I doing?

There's a knock on the door. “You okay in there?” I hear Jake's muffled voice. “We've only got thirty more minutes of ice time.”

Lori walks toward the door and I shuffle behind her, not able to take a complete step in my getup. “
Voila!
” she says, pulling the door open for the big reveal.

“You look great.” He glances up and down. “Looks like a perfect fit.” He tosses a shirt at me.

My reflexes are slow, so it bounces off my chest and lands on the floor. But I'm still staring at Jake. He can't possibly think I look great in this getup. I'm a giant doofus. I can't lean over and pick it up, so Lori (rolling her eyes as she does) grabs it and pulls it over my head. I feel like a toddler being dressed for school in the morning.

The words “Tim's House of Pizza” are printed across the front. The sponsor. I'd forgotten.

“Oh no.” I look at Lori, panic taking over. “Now Dad's really going to kill me. I'm advertising for the competition.”

“C'mon,” Jake says with a chuckle, grabbing my hand, “We need you on the ice.
”