Any Way You Slice It (8 page)

If Coach is putting all his faith in my ability, he's deluded. Or he's remembering my dad's glory days with a little too much rapture.

Jimmy nods, kicking the leg of the bench. “Well, for what it's worth, having fun is good. But it's nice to win, too. So I hear.”

On Thursday, a freshman I've never seen before high-fives me in front of my locker
. Two minutes later, a tall kid salutes me without saying a word.

Caroline Chapman stops loading her backpack and looks at me.

I ignore her and call out to Lori across the hall. “Did my dad air another one of those old commercials?” I'm racking my brain to figure out what I've done to get so much attention.

She stares at me from across the hall. “Duh. Pen. Hockey much? Rink Rats.”

I smack my palm against my forehead. I can't believe I didn't recognize the guys from the team without all their gear.

When Ethan Carter slaps me on the back and says, “Great practice yesterday,” Caroline can't keep her mouth shut any longer. He's a fashion crime on two feet, wearing a black corduroy jacket over an old concert T-shirt.

“What the hell have you been doing, Penelope?” This is Caroline's golden chance to butt her nose into my business.

We all turn and watch Carter walk into the bathroom. Caroline hits my arm. “Are you suddenly the mascot for Team Reject?”

“What are you talking about?” I'm oddly elated at the thought of the guys giving me respect. I'm just embarrassed I didn't recognize some of them. I don't know how to put it into words, but it feels good to be treated like part of the team. Yesterday was better than the first practice, almost like they'd accepted me—everyone except Johnson.

When Jimmy Flores nervously skitters by and sort of half waves before running down the hallway, Caroline's eyebrows are halfway up her forehead. If I don't meet her eyes, I can pretend she's not staring at me with a mixture of awe and revulsion.

A minute later, Jake Gomes strides toward us, his dimples on high beam. Yesterday, under all his hockey stuff, I couldn't see the wave in his hair or the way his eyes sort of sparkle.

He punches me on the shoulder. “I'm wicked glad you decided to play; the guys are stoked. It feels like we might have a chance of winning a few games this season. No one else has been able to hit the goal like that in a long time.”

“How long have you all been playing together?” asks Lori, walking over from her locker, sounding all mother hen. “What?” She scoffs at my horrified expression. “Someone needs to ask the hard questions, since you're not doing it.” She pulls out her pencil and notebook from a side pocket of her backpack, putting on her best Lois Lane expression.

Jake shrugs. “Some of the guys have been playing since we were kids,” he says. “But once you get past a certain age, hockey's a leveled sport. If you can't make it at a higher level, you sort of get stuck, until you can play in the adult leagues.” He glances down the hall to make sure no one's in earshot. Leaning in, he whispers, “Most of these guys couldn't make varsity; they either can't skate well enough, don't have enough experience, or aren't coordinated enough with the stick.” He looks around again. “But don't tell them I said that. We try not to talk about it, even though it's pretty obvious when you see them on the ice.”

Caroline peers around the side of her locker door and butts in with her two cents. “What about you? I hear you could play varsity but you pissed off the team.”

I'd wondered the same thing since seeing him with Warren on Friday night. Jake has the decency to look sheepish.

“I could play varsity, if I wanted to.” He inhales before he continues. “Let's just say I've got some history with the captain of the team, and I'm not interested in the shit storm.”

“Well that explains a lot.” Caroline huffs. “But if our girl Penelope is so good, why shouldn't she go and try out for a girls' team? Why would she want to play with a bunch of losers like you?”

Honestly, I'd never even considered that. I thought of the girls I know who play hockey: Jennifer Pearson, Tamara Wetherbee, Myka Dearborn.

They're all cool.

Jake's mouth drops open and he shifts his backpack to the other shoulder. “Oh, sure,” he says, recovering quickly. “But they don't have any space on the team for someone just learning the ropes, and some of those girls have been playing since kindergarten. They're better than some of the varsity guys.”

“So who's your competition?” Lori's back to her mama-bear questions.

Jake nods, like he's used to the third degree. I have to give him props for playing along. “We play in the state recreational league, so we're playing teams from all over the state. Actually, we play more games in a season than either varsity team.” His pride for the team is obvious. I feel a little spark in the pit of my stomach.

“When's the last time you won?” Lori asks, just as the bell rings.

“The last time the Rink Rats won?” Jake turns to start down the hall, but looks back over his shoulder. “Coach tells us it was sometime in 1989.”

Caroline slams her locker. “You know this is social suicide, Penelope, right?”

I don't care about my social status. I drift somewhere between cool and not cool. People love the pizza at Slice, so I'm always going to have some popularity. On the other hand, even though I'm sometimes invited to parties, I can almost never go. No ever really expects me to show up anymore. My parents really have no idea how much normal high school life I've actually missed because of the family business.

I peer over Lori's arm at her notes. “What are you writing?”

“I just found my first feature for the school paper.” She nibbles on the end of the pencil. “I've just got to find the angle,” she says, looking at me sideways.

“No way. You even mention my name in that article and I swear I'll never speak to you again.” I give her ‘the look'. “Seriously, you know I need to keep this under the radar. At the rate we're going, my parents are going to know by this afternoon. It's just a good thing neither of them have time to be online.”

“I thought you were going to tell them.” She furrows her brow. Her parents would let her do anything she wanted. She's planning on skydiving,
with their permission
, on her seventeenth birthday.

I shake my head and walk away. I'm not going to explain it to her again. It just sounds lame coming out of my mouth, but I know they wouldn't let me play. I'm sure I could convince them to give me time off to try the debate team, or better yet, the cooking club.

So why do I have to defy them and play hockey?

It's absolutely not because of Jake Gomes. That would be shallow and completely unlike me. It's because I might have a talent for it that I didn't know about and it only seems fair that I explore that talent without the pressure of my parents' expectations.

Right. That's it.

I walk into math class, completely distracted by my own thoughts. Warren McNeill is holding court in the back of the room.

We've always had a sort of mutual hatred. Because his uncle owns Tim's House of Pizza, he never hangs out at Slice, so it's easy enough to ignore him. But the last couple of years, when we've been awarded “Best Pizza” accolades; he's good for a couple of days of smack talk.

Today, he smirks as I walk in and a nasty knot forms in the pit of my stomach.

“Spaulding!” he shouts. “What's this I hear about you playing with Team Reject?”

“Don't worry, Warren,” I say, pulling as much attitude as I can muster. “I'm not going out for your spot on varsity. Your team is safe. For now.”

Before he can formulate a reply, Ashley Spring sashays in behind me and slides onto his lap. She'll jump off as soon as Mr. Ford walks through the door, but for now we all have to witness their gross PDA. But at least it saves me from mindless banter.

I put my head down and stare at my homework until Ford strides through the door just as the bell rings. “I just heard you're playing hockey, Ms. Spaulding. Well done!”

OMG. Why does everyone suddenly care that I'm playing hockey?

As soon as I slam the door, Grams throws the car into reverse and backs out of the driveway. Dawn is just starting to break at 6:30 a.m. and I hope she remembers to check that our neighbor Mr. Howes isn't behind us on his sunrise constitutional with Smoky the bloodhound.

She's been beating me out of the house all week to give Slice a scrub down with bucket loads of cleaning supplies. I feel sufficiently guilty to join her. I'm supposed to be at practice later, but I can spend a few hours on a Saturday morning before the restaurant opens elbow deep in bleach and rubber gloves.

“Do you ever watch hockey?” I ask casually, knowing full well she loves the game.

She throws the old Lincoln into drive and looks over at me. “I don't mind a good hockey game once in a while. I love watching the Bruins when they're in the playoffs. Those boys can move around the ice.”

I second-guess myself and almost don't say what I want to, but I know Grams will give it to me straight so I plow forward. “I've got some friends who play, and since I love to skate …” I pause and look over at her. “They've been trying to convince me to try out for the team.” It's not so far from the truth, and it feels good to say it out loud.

“Oh, Penelope,” she says and I prepare myself for an earful, but when I look up I swear there's a twinkle in her eye. “That's the best news I've heard all week.”

If she'd jumped out of the car and started doing the chicken dance, I wouldn't have been more surprised. “But … I thought you'd hate the idea. Aren't you worried about me getting hurt like Dad?”

She makes the turn onto Main Street and pulls into her regular spot next to the ragged picnic table at the edge of the parking lot before she speaks. “Of course I'm worried about you getting hurt. I worry about you when you leave the house every morning, but that doesn't mean I don't want to also see you have some fun.” She pauses and takes a deep breath, letting me know she understands what I'm asking. “Seeing your father get hurt in high school was the worst day of my life. Watching what came after was...worse.” She backs out of the parking space and turns the wheel to straighten out the car. “He should have gone back when he was cleared. At least for fun, if not competitively.” She sighs as she pulls the keys out of the ignition. “You have a tough battle ahead, chickadee. Your father won't be so keen on you playing.”

“I'm not sure he'd be so keen on me doing anything but taking orders from now until the day I die.” I turn away from her, hoping she doesn't see me dab at my eyes.

“That's not fair, Penelope,” she says. “Your father works hard and it's all for you. For all of us, really. When he left corporate to take over at the restaurant when your grandfather died, it was the scariest thing he'd ever done. He's responsible for the insurance, for everyone's salary, for making enough money for all of us to eat and to live.” She looks at me with a stern look I'm not used to seeing from her. “And he's done a great job. He's really improved the business.”

“I know.” I take a deep breath. “But sometimes I wish we were like a normal family. All my friends take vacations. All my friends do sports or clubs. All I do is work.” When I see her expression, I add, “I love it, I really do. I just wish I could do something else once in a while.”

She clears her throat. “I think you should talk to him seriously about playing hockey. I think deep down he'd love to see you play.”

I have a gazillion questions, but I don't know where to start. In a daze, I get out of the car. I didn't know Dad ever had clearance to play again. All these years, I've thought he'd been benched by either his parents or the doctor. That means after the accident he made the decision
not
to play. It was his choice. And it pisses me off that he's forbidden me. Taken my choice away.

I open the back door of the car and pull out our supplies. A five-gallon bucket, new rubber gloves, a gallon of bleach. It's going to be a fun morning—elbow deep in dirty water. I quickly text Lori to be here at 10:20. I push all the questions and thoughts of hockey to the back of my mind. The TV crew could show up any day for the surprise screen test. We are totally not ready.

Grams struggles with two gallons of white paint, a container of spackle, some paintbrushes, and two different-sized putty knives. It's clear she's moved beyond cleaning to basic repairs.

“Do you think the show is a good idea?” I ask as we shuffle toward the building with the supplies. I crouch to pick up a rag Grams drops as she fumbles in the dim light with the key.

The noise she makes is a cross between a huff and a snort. I take it to mean “no.”

“Doesn't matter what I think.” She props open the door with her foot and gestures with her chin to let me pass. “Why don't you get started in the bathrooms? I've spent the last few days in the kitchen, but the bathrooms are going to be critical for good reviews.” She hands me the narrower putty knife and rolls her eyes, reminding me of Lori for a second.

Slice feels like a different place at sunrise. I've got about three hours, but Grams doesn't have much longer before Jorge arrives to prep for the lunch rush. I'm not sure anyone will even notice the place is cleaner.

It's not like Slice is dirty. It's just an old building, with outdated appliances, fixtures, paint, ceiling tiles, and trim. We have the best pizza in the state, so no one cares about the niceties. But look in the dictionary, there's a picture of Slice next to the term “dive.”

I salute Grams and walk down the short hallway to the bathrooms. There are two, each with a small sink and table next to a toilet. The urinal always freaks me out, so I decide to start in the women's room. I pull a pair of industrial-strength rubber gloves out of my bucket and prepare to enter the dragon.