Breaking the Ice (10 page)

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 right 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.

Typical Dad. Nothing ever fazes him. He doesn't get that I have to do well in this competition or my chances at Regionals are pretty much shot. Gossip spreads like crazy in skating—every judge in the country probably knows about my meltdown by now. And I want to get to ­Nationals so badly. Last year—my first in the qualifying juvenile ­division—I was so close I could almost touch the shiny white ice and TV cameras.

Mom gets me registered and sends me off to the locker room while she tracks down Greg. Dad retreats to the concession stand for coffee. I find my assigned locker room and push the door open to the usual competition commotion. I
slowly weave my way through girls in rhinestones and crystals, coaches giving last-minute instructions, and moms spritzing even more hair spray onto buns and ponytails. I duck around someone's extended spiral stretch and find a tiny empty space at the end of the room.

I've just put my skates on when I feel someone standing over me.

“I didn't think I'd see you here,” Ellery says. She's wearing a blue practice dress and matching ribbon around her dark brown ponytail, and she's with Peyton.

“Really?” I say while pulling my own hair back. “Hey, Peyton.”

Peyton glares at me. What did I ever do to her?

“I mean, with your new program and all,” Ellery says.

“Oh. No, I'm skating.” I gesture at the hand-me-down red dress hanging in the locker.

“It's really close to Regionals to get a new program,” Ellery says. Peyton sniffs like she smells something really stinky.

“I know. I'm super nervous about it.”

“I would be,” Ellery says. She twirls her ponytail.

Something about the way she says that—and the way ­Peyton keeps glaring at me—makes my stomach twist even more. I stuff my skate bag into the locker and grab my water
bottle. The sparkly one that matches the ones I made for Ellery and Peyton and all the other Ridgeline girls before Praterville.

“So, you're doing the triple salchow, right?” Peyton asks. “I mean in warm-up, just to show the judges you can do one.”

Great. I forgot about all those lies I told Ellery at Pizza Supreme. “Um . . . not here. My coach wants me to play it safe.”

Ellery smiles just a little, but her eyes are cold.

“Are you guys on this practice session?” I ask as I tug on the sleeves of my club jacket.

Ellery doesn't answer. She's looking at my jacket.

“So you really joined that club?” Peyton asks. She crosses her arms and raises her copper-colored eyebrows.

I glance down at my jacket. “Yeah. It's not so bad.”

“Fall Down Club? Not so bad?” Ellery says with a laugh. “It's okay, Kaitlin, you can admit how awful it is.”

“You've really tanked your chances now,” Peyton says. “You yell at the judges and then you go join the worst club in the state.”

I bite my lip. Part of me wants to tell Ellery and Peyton off the way I did the judges at Praterville. But another part of me wonders if maybe, just maybe, they're a little bit right.

“You know, it's kind of warm here.” I pull off the jacket.
The second I stuff it into my locker, I feel a little sick, like I'm betraying Miyu and Braedon and everyone else at Fallton. But at least I'll be able to practice in peace, without people staring at me and whispering.

I flick the lock shut. Then I take a deep breath and follow Ellery and Peyton to the ice for practice.

I run my program over and over and try to do tango faces while still hitting all the jumps and spins. I fly across the ice, not paying attention to Ellery, and my jumps are so high I could probably do quads instead of doubles. By the end of the short practice session, I'm drenched in sweat.

“How'd it go? Ready for tomorrow?” Miyu asks as we step off the ice.

“Good. I nailed that double axel at the end every time. Maybe it will make up for how awful I am at tangoing.”

Miyu gives me a smile. “You're not
that
bad at it!”

“I wish Greg felt that way,” I say.

Mrs. Murakami hands Miyu her Fallton jacket.

“Where's your jacket?” Miyu asks.

I busy myself with wiping the ice from my blades and pulling on my sparkling pink-and-white guards. “I was hot.”

“Really? I think this rink is way colder than Fallton.
Although I'm definitely not cold now.” Miyu slings her jacket over her shoulder.

“How did your practice go?” I ask her, hoping to avoid any more talk about the stupid jacket.

“Okay. The ice is weird.”

“Excuses, excuses.” Braedon appears next to us, skates on and ready for the next practice session.

“Just wait till you get out there,” Miyu tells him.

“If it wasn't the ice, it'd be your skates or the temperature or how many people are watching,” Braedon says with a grin.

“Please, that sounds more like you. I don't complain that much. See you guys later. I have to go talk to Karilee.”

“Hey, you doing anything later?” Braedon asks after Miyu and her mom disappear into the lobby. When the doors swing open, I spot Mom and Greg just on the other side, dissecting every move I made in the thirty-minute practice session. Dad's probably still at the concession stand, downing his sixth or seventh cup of coffee. If he was in charge of taking me to the rink for practice, he'd turn into coffee.

I look back to Braedon. “Not really. Dinner with my parents. Listening to my mom tell me everything I need to do to skate perfectly tomorrow.” For some reason, my hands are
all sweaty even though I'm not wearing gloves. I clasp them behind my back. Braedon's just a friend, that's all.

“Tom and Samantha are competing in an hour or so. Want to hang out and watch them?”

“Sure,” I say, as calmly as I can. This isn't a date or anything. We're just going to sit in the freezing stands and watch people we skate with. Like friends. “Just let me run it by my parents.”

“Here.” He shoves his dirty black skate guards into my hands. “Hang on to these for me.”

“Can't you just set them on the boards like everyone else?” Wait, why did I say that? Now it sounds like I don't want to help him out.

“Not here. Someone will steal them.”

“That's crazy. I put mine on the boards and they're just fine.”

“You were lucky,” he says as he hops onto the ice. “It's only half an hour. Stay and watch my greatness.” Then he takes off around the rink.

I don't know what else to do, so I grab the nearest seat in the third row of the bleachers, right behind a group of moms huddled under blankets and sipping coffee. After a few minutes, I begin to wish for blankets and coffee. Or maybe hot chocolate instead. Coffee kind of tastes like dirt.

The sweat on my dress has turned cold, and I'm starting to shiver. I put Braedon's guards on the seat next to me and rub my hands up and down my arms.

Braedon zips around the rink, warming up jumps and spins. Everything looks perfect. The ice monitor plays everyone's music, one at a time. When it's Braedon's turn, the music starts, exciting and loud. He lands his first jump, but then everything sort of crumbles apart. Everything except the jumps. He nearly falls out of a camel spin and trips on a footwork sequence. It hurts to even watch him. I hope he's getting the bad skate out of the way so he can do well in the actual competition.

“Is there anyone who can actually skate at that club?” A voice from the front row drifts up to me.

“He used to be a good skater. I don't know what happened,” another one says.

I'm breathing as quietly as possible, as if they'll look up and notice me there. I'm pretty sure they're talking about Braedon and Fallton. I want to jump in and tell them that Braedon's a really good skater; it's just the soft ice and maybe the nerves of competition that are making him mess up.

“It's the coaches. They're just washed-up has-beens,” a third mom says.

Greg is
not
a washed-up has-been, even if he is making me do this stupid tango program. My hands are shaking, as if they're talking about me. I sit on them, pushing my palms against the cool metal of the bleachers.

“You know that girl who was so rude to the judges at Praterville?” the first mom says. “I heard she's skating with Fallton now.”

Great, now they
are
talking about me. I want to leave, but someone's already sitting between me and the end of the bleachers. I'd have to crawl over her to get out, and they'd definitely see me then. Instead I keep sitting on my hands and stay put. And pray they stop talking about me.

“They take in all the strays, don't they? Jessa Hernandez and all.”

“I'd rather Hadley and Jason quit skating before they joined that club,” the first mom says. “It's just a waste of time and money. They never win anything. They never even place.”

You're wrong,
I want to yell at them.
Just you wait and see!

“Kaitlin!” Mom's voice sounds to my left, loud enough for the skaters on this side of the rink to look up. My face heats up as the chatty moms turn around.

“That's her,” one of them whispers.

“Kaitlin, what are you doing? You need to stretch out before your muscles get cold.”

I grab Braedon's guards, slink around the person next to me with a mumbled, “Sorry,” and hop down from the bleachers.

“I'll stretch over there,” I say to Mom, and point across the aisle to an empty area past the next set of bleachers. “I'm watching Braedon's guards for him.”