Breaking the Ice (2 page)

Chapter Two

Saying a bunch of stupid
words can't completely tank my figure-skating career, right? But I know there are some things you just don't say out loud in skating—at least not until you get home. It's not like normal sports, where everyone screams insults at everyone else, and no one really cares.

I didn't do it on purpose. That has to count for something. It all sort of just . . . happened. Instead of staying stuffed down like usual, the words fell out of my mouth before I could stop them. And pulling all those medals off the table was a complete accident.

I roll over and look at the clock. It's 10:02 a.m. I can't
believe Mom's let me stay up here so long. We got home from Praterville after midnight, and Mom disappeared into her bedroom without saying anything. I thought for sure she'd be up before dawn, in full-on lecture mode.

If I were braver, I'd go down there and get it over with. That's it. I'll go down in . . . five minutes. Or maybe I should call Ellery first, and
then
go downstairs. Except the house phone is in the kitchen, and Mom took my cell. Like that's a big deal. Ellery's the only person I really talk to anyway.

Okay. I'll clean off my desk. It's still covered in glitter and extra plastic water bottles from Tuesday. Then I'll read a chapter of
Little Women
. Or two chapters. I need to catch up on my reading. Then I'll go downstairs.

“Kaitlin! The kitchen. Now!” Mom's voice carries up the stairs and through my closed door.

So much for cleaning off my desk. I heave myself out of bed and pull my long light brown hair into a ponytail—just to put off seeing Mom for a few more seconds. Then I trudge toward the door and walk slowly down the stairs. I peek around the corner into the kitchen. Dad's sitting at the table, filling in the Sunday crossword puzzle. Mom's pacing with her phone in her hand.

“Sit.”

I shuffle across the room, glad I'm wearing socks. The tile is always freezing, even in August.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” She leans on the table and raises her eyebrows at me.

Dad looks at his puzzle.

I gulp. “I'm sorry. I don't know why I said all that. It'll never happen again.”

“What I don't understand, Howard,” Mom says to Dad, as if I'm not even there, “is how so much rudeness came out of our daughter's mouth. Our usually quiet, respectful daughter.”

Dad sort of shrugs and pencils in some letters. Mom's head swivels toward me.

“I'm sorry?” I look at my hands. Mom's right about one thing. I don't normally run around telling judges—or ­anyone—how I feel.

Mom makes a
hmph
sound through her nose. “You realize those judges will never see you the same way again?”

I nod. It feels like there's peanut butter stuck in the back of my throat.

Mom sinks into a chair, grasping her phone. And when she speaks, her voice is quieter. “Kaitlin, honey. This was so unlike you. I know competition is stressful, but you've always been gracious, win or lose. What made this time different?”

“I don't know. It just happened.”

“Skating is your dream, right?”

I nod. It's the only dream I've ever really had.

“Do you understand how hard your dad works so we can afford to pay for lessons and competitions and skates? I didn't give up my career to homeschool you and take you to the rink and ballet lessons and costume fittings and competitions just so you could mess around. This isn't a cheap sport.”

I nod again. I remember the look on Dad's face when he saw the thousand-dollar receipt for my latest pair of boots and blades. It was like someone had taken away his sports-channel cable package, stolen all the ice cream, and told him he could never crack a joke again. I glance at him now. He gives me a sympathetic smile.

Mom looks at me like she's waiting for more. When I don't say anything, she puts her Skate Mom face on again. “You owe your dad a hundred dollars for the figurine you broke.”

Dad looks up from his puzzle and opens his mouth to say something, but Mom just keeps right on talking.

“You'll have to work extra hard to make up for how those judges might lower your scores in the future. And pray they don't mention it to other judges.” She taps the corner of her phone on the table. “We have to do something to show you're
sorry. You'll write an apology letter to each of them, telling them you appreciate the time they volunteer and that you are very,
very
sorry.”

I know I shouldn't have reacted the way I did, but the judges are the ones who gave me such bad marks to start with. I think that makes us even. Plus, it's just embarrassing to write a note like that. But I'd never say any of that to Mom.

Although maybe I will write one to the skating club that hosted the competition. I feel really bad for whoever had to set up and reorganize the medals on the table I took out.

“Let's call Hildy and run it by her.” Mom's punching numbers into her phone before she even finishes talking.

I cross my fingers under the table and hope Hildy will hate the idea.

“Hildy, hi. It's Laura. I have a thought. What if Kaitlin writes apology letters to each—what? I'm sorry, go ahead.” There's silence for a few minutes, punctuated only by Mom's “uh-huhs” and “I sees” and Dad's pencil scratching away at the newspaper. Mom stands up and paces the room again, the phone to her ear.

“Uh-huh. I see.” Each time Mom says this, her tone grows darker. This isn't good. I wonder what Hildy's telling her. Am I banned from the Praterville Open forever? Did I ruin
everything for Regionals? If I can't place well at Regionals, I won't qualify for Nationals. And if I don't get to Nationals this year to start making a name for myself . . . My heart is in my throat. There's no way I can give up my Olympic dream because of one stupid mistake.

“Well, you need to do what you need to do.” Mom drops into a chair and sets her phone on the table.

I look back down at my hands as soon as her eyes catch mine.

“That was Hildy,” she says, as if I didn't already know that. “She . . . she's decided she can no longer coach you.”

I jerk my head up. “But she's the only coach I've ever had.”

“Apparently she's more concerned with her reputation than with an eight-year coaching relationship,” Mom says with a sniff.

“But—”

“No buts about it. This is really a blessing in disguise. It's about time we looked for someone more advanced. More successful.”

But I don't want another coach. There's a dull roar inside my head and a scream welling up in my throat. I stuff it down. My chest tightens, and I squeeze my eyes shut to keep from crying. I want Hildy. But Hildy doesn't want me. I can't get to Nationals without her cheering me on from the sidelines.

“Howard, what do you say to this?” Mom asks.

Dad glances up from his puzzle. He pulls off his glasses and reaches over to pat my arm. “It'll all be fine, Pumpkin. You'll see. This thing will blow over with Hildy. And if it doesn't, you'll get an even better coach.”

I run the back of my hand across my eyes. “Do you really think Hildy will want me back?”

Dad nods.

Mom shakes her head. “No. I don't care if she begs. We're moving on. I'll talk to some of the other coaches at the rink in the morning. Maybe you can even get in with George Townsend. Now
that
would be a step up. Just think, an Olympian for a coach.”

More tears slide out the corners of my eyes. I don't want George Townsend. I push my chair back. I can't sit here any longer.

“Grab a banana on your way upstairs,” Mom says. “By the way, you're grounded for a month. No phone, no computer, no hanging out with friends.”

I snag a banana—and a bagel when Mom isn't looking—and race up the stairs. Grounding isn't such a big deal. I don't know why Mom thinks it is. Doesn't she remember the last time I ever had anyone over? Two years ago. In fourth grade,
right before I started getting homeschooled and all my friends probably thought I fell off the planet. I don't even hang out with Ellery outside the rink.

I chew on my bagel and open
Little Women
so I don't have to think about what just happened. The best part of being homeschooled is that you can have school in summer if you want to, and no school in December.

The worst part is that a lot of the time it feels like no one knows you're alive.

Chapter Three

I
know something's off the
second I walk into the rink lobby early Monday morning. It's just before five thirty, and everyone's talking way more than normal—until they see me.

I slink along the wall and pretend not to notice them. Mom's on my tail, like usual.

“Go ahead and get ready. I'm going to find George.” Mom strides toward the coaches' room.

Ellery's warming up in a corner with Peyton, who's a year younger than us and one level behind. I leave my skate bag at my usual bench and join them. Peyton's kind of been attached
to Ellery a lot lately. Last week they spent five whole minutes of practice time sitting in the bleachers and laughing before Hildy shooed them back onto the ice.

“Hey,” I say as I start jumping up and down on the rubber-­matted floor.

“Hey.” Ellery's breath comes in wisps. She launches into a double loop—jumping up, turning twice, and landing gracefully in her pink-and-white sneakers. She doesn't say anything else.

Which is fine with me. I need to warm up anyway. We go through our jumps and sit, one by one, on the floor to stretch.

I look up from a straddle stretch to see Peyton staring at me. She smooths her coppery red ponytail and shifts her legs into the splits.

“So,” she finally says. “Is it true? What everyone's saying?”

I stretch until my nose touches the floor so no one can see my face. Peyton's group had already skated, so I guess she missed out on the whole thing. “Yeah,” is all I say.

“You really yelled at the judges? And threw the medals on the floor? You're the last person I'd ever thought would do that.”

“I didn't mean to. It just popped out. And the medals were an accident.” I'm still talking to the floor and hoping Peyton will quit asking questions.

“My mom told me Hildy dumped you,” Ellery says.

I turn my head so I can see her just over my right knee. “Yeah.” I can't say any more. My throat's all tight, and there's no way I'm going to cry in front of Ellery and Peyton. There aren't any secrets in a skating club. I should've known everyone would be in on what happened.

“So who're you going to take from?” Ellery asks.

I move into the splits. “I don't know. I think Mom's talking to George.”

“George?” Ellery practically yells. “Seriously? Don't you have to, like, try out to skate with him?”

I shrug as I lean forward toward my knee with my arms over my head. “I guess I'll find out.”

“George. Huh.” Ellery jumps up and leaves me alone with Peyton.

“There's no way George is going to teach you. No offense,” Peyton says.

My face goes warm. I've never felt so alone surrounded by so many people. Before Peyton can say anything else, I cut my stretching short and get up to put on my skates.

By the time the session starts, Mom still hasn't come out of the coaches' room. Maybe George really is interested in coaching me. I'd rather be with Hildy, but if she doesn't want me . . . George is better than no coach at all.

My blades make scratching noises as I move backward around the rink, and I realize I'm up too far on my toes. I shift my weight and the scratching turns into rhythmic, grinding sounds as the edges of my blades dig into the ice.

I catch up to Ellery, turn forward, and fall into step next to her. “I forgot to tell you Mom took my phone. Just in case you texted or something.”

“Really? That's awful. For how long?”

“A month. Can you believe it?”

“Well, it is pretty serious. What you said to the judges, I mean. And everyone thinks you knocked that table over because you were mad.” Ellery's looking straight ahead, her chin slightly tilted up.

“I didn't mean to say all that stuff. I don't know what happened. It just . . . came out.” I turn backward again so I'm facing her. I thought Ellery would be more sympathetic, especially about the phone. After all, she's practically glued to
her
phone.

“I know. Only a crazy person would say something like that on purpose. You're a little weird, but not crazy.”

I study her face for a hint that she's joking, but she's not smiling. What does she mean by weird?

Ellery's mom knocks on the Plexiglas that separates the ice
from the bleachers as we pass by. She's frowning and shaking her head.
Skate,
she mouths to Ellery. Ellery takes off without a word, moving fast around the rink.

Hildy glides onto the ice wearing her designer tracksuit and doesn't even glance my way. First thing Monday morning is my usual lesson time, but not anymore, I guess. Hildy stops on the far side of the rink next to Peyton. Looks like she nabbed my spot.

As I fly around the perimeter, I push thoughts of judges and scattered medals and Hildy and Mom away. It's just me and the ice. Me and the
scritch-scritch
sound of my blades. Me and freedom. The wind rushes past my ears, and I leap up into an axel, turning one and a half times in the air and landing backward on my right foot.

But no matter how many jumps I do, the thoughts come back.

“Kaitlin. Kaitlin!” My name echoes across the rink, loud enough that it drowns out the dance music playing on the loudspeaker. Loud enough that everyone looks around to see what's going on. Mom's bouncing up and down at the door, waving so hard I'm surprised her arm is still attached to her body.

I want to melt into the ice, but instead I skate as fast as
possible toward her. The sooner I can make her stop yelling my name and waving at me, the better. One time she did this at the mall, and the security guard told her she was disturbing the customers and causing a scene.

I skid to a stop and hop onto the rubber mats, just barely missing the toe of Mom's black ballet flat. “I'm here. What's wrong?” I try to grab her arm to stop her from waving, but she starts motioning all over the place as she talks.

“That's it! Take your skates off. We're leaving.”

“What? Why?” I stare at her, trying to figure out what's going on, when the lobby doors open and Jennifer, the head coach, jogs out.

“Mrs. Carter, I—”

“It's Azarian-Carter,” Mom says, nose-to-nose with Jennifer.

“I'm sorry. You have to understand, I need to act in the best interest of the club. Why don't we take this back into the lobby so we don't disturb the skaters?” Jennifer pushes one of the doors open and holds it.

I look from Mom to Jennifer. What in the world is going on? Mom glares at Jennifer and then stalks into the lobby. I follow her, thankful at least to be out of earshot of everyone else. I try not to look at the parents on the bleachers, watching us through the windows.

“How is it in the best interest of the club to lose a skater as hardworking and talented as Kaitlin?” Mom asks, hands on her hips.

Lose me? Where am I going? “Mom, I'm not going—”

Mom holds a hand up to shush me, and I shush.

“Kaitlin is a wonderful skater, and we hate to let her go,” Jennifer says. “However, she broke club rules.”

“Then make an exception. It was an accident. She was upset and didn't think before she spoke. She's going to write apology letters to each judge.”

“I can't make an exception. The rule specifically states that disrespect toward any other skaters, coaches, judges, or officials will not be tolerated at this club. Period. If I make an exception for Kaitlin, I'd have to make one for every skater who breaks the rules.”

Mom crosses her arms. “What about Hallie Dean? She cuts everyone off, even when they're in a program. How is that not disrespectful?”

So true. Hallie acts like she's the only person on the ice. If your program music is playing, everyone's supposed to move out of your way. But Hallie skates like her music is playing all the time.

Jennifer sighs. “That's a minor infraction. It's nowhere near
what happened with Kaitlin. And the physical reaction . . . pushing over the awards table.”

“She didn't push over the table. It wasn't intentional. Her blade guard caught the tablecloth, that's all,” Mom says.

“That isn't what I heard.”

They eye each other for a second.

“What's going on?” I finally get up the nerve to ask, even though I already know.

Mom shoots Jennifer the evil eye. “They're kicking you out.”

My stomach lurches. Jennifer gives me a sympathetic smile. How can she smile and kick me out at the same time?

“But I've always skated here.” My voice comes out as a whisper.

“Apparently that doesn't mean anything,” Mom says before Jennifer can even open her mouth. “Just put your guards on and wear your skates to the car. We'll find another club. This is Michigan, after all. There are at least six within driving distance. More successful clubs than this one too. Any one of them will be thrilled to have a skater like you.”

I race out into the cold rink and snag my guards and water bottle from the top of the boards, the short walls that circle the ice. I don't look at anyone, even though I feel them staring
at me. Tears roll down my cheeks. I shove the rhinestone-­covered guards on my blades and grab my skate bag from the bench in the lobby.

“And I expect a full refund on all the sessions I've paid for up front,” Mom says to Jennifer before she grabs my hand and pulls me out the door into the parking lot.

A refund? Who cares about money? If I don't have a club or a coach, I can't practice. If I can't practice, I'm completely doomed at Regionals.