by Carly Syms
It's a shot I have to take.
I look up at Dad.
"When do I start?"
***
Shane and his dad appear at our front door minutes after the moving truck pulls up in front of our house.
"Told you we want to help," Joe Stanford says over my mother's protests that it's really not necessary.
I can't help but smile when I see Shane, though, and I hope Mom zips it before they take her seriously and go home.
The movers pretty much have the furniture part covered but once they've put all of mine in my room, I'm ready to start painting the walls.
"Shane," Mom says. "Why don't you help Natalie paint? She's never done it before and I'm afraid it will turn into a disaster."
Shane grins and I try to hide my smile even though she makes me sound like an idiot. Mom's immediately forgiven for trying to drive them away earlier.
"Sounds good," he says, looking over at me. "I'm a master painter. Lead the way."
He follows me up two flights of stairs to my third-story bedroom. All of the furniture is smushed together in the middle of the floor and Dad had put the drop cloths in place earlier.
"What color?" he asks, rolling up the sleeves of his old, paint-splattered shirt to reveal strong forearms.
"Orange."
He raises his eyebrows. "Orange?"
"It's more of a burnt orange," I reply. "Kind of like the desert. You'll see. It's nice."
"I'm sure it is."
He helps me pour the paint and get on the ladder to reach the corner of the room.
"You know what to do?" he asks.
"It's painting," I tell him. "How hard it can be?"
He shrugs. "Your mom seems to think you're gonna struggle."
"I got this."
"Okay," he says. "I'll start on the other side then."
We paint in silence until I realize my brush needs more color and I climb down the ladder. My foot slips on one of the bottom rungs and I tumble to the ground.
"Oof," I mutter.
The paintbrush lands on my face and I'm just thankful it wasn't sopping with color.
Shane's by my side in seconds. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," I say, pushing myself up to a sitting position. "No big deal."
He's looking at me with a funny smile on his face.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing," he replies in a voice that I immediately don't trust. "Nothing at all."
"What?" I repeat.
He just shakes his head, grins and goes back over to the wall he'd been working on before my fall.
I narrow my eyes and walk straight into the bathroom to check the mirror. I'm horrified when I see bright orange streaks covering my face and hair. That's going to be impossible to rinse out later.
I march back into my bedroom where Shane has his back to me. I load up my paintbrush with a gob of orange and walk right over to him.
I don't say anything as I wipe the brush across his back.
He stops moving, his shoulders rise and fall like he's taking a deep breath, and as he slowly turns around, I take a step back.
"Did you just do what I think you just did?" he asks me in a low voice that sounds more like a growl.
I raise my palms to the ceiling and shrug innocently. "I don't know what you're talking about."
He grabs at his shirt and looks over his shoulder. "That wasn't there before."
We stare at each other for a few seconds before he lunges for me and I shriek and run away, but there are only so many places to hide and so many pieces of furniture to use to dodge him before he catches me and wraps me up in a giant bear hug from behind, lifting my feet off the ground.
"Gotcha," he whispers in my ear.
We're both laughing when he sets me down.
"Truce?" he asks.
I wipe the extra paint on my fingertips across his forehead. "Okay," I say, and he shakes his head and smiles. "Truce."
We both go back to painting and work in silence until we meet in the middle of the wall and take a step back to admire our work.
"I like it," he says. "Even if it is orange."
"Are you hungry? I think my parents were going to order pizza. It should be downstairs."
"Sure," he says. "Sounds great."
We set aside our paint brushes and head downstairs where my parents are sitting around the kitchen table with Shane's dad.
"Dig in," Mom says. She does a double take when she sees us. "What happened to you two?"
"Natalie's a klutz," Shane says immediately and I glare at him, mock outrage on my face.
"Shane just got what he deserves."
Our parents all exchange looks before shrugging, and Shane and I walk over to the counter to grab some pizza.
I happen to glance up at him and he's watching me. He winks once and smiles before pulling out a seat at the kitchen table.
I stand at the counter by myself for a minute, the grin on my face out of control.
Wisconsin isn't half-bad so far.
***
The next morning, Monday, is my first day at my new high school. There's a bus that goes between our neighborhood and the school, but I'm not about to hop on my very first day.
Dad drops me off in front of the building just before eight o'clock, and I step gingerly out of the car as if my feet don't want to hit the sidewalk and make this part of the move real.
I'm starting here just a couple of months after the year began, and jumping into a senior class where everyone already knows each other isn't exactly my dream social scenario.
It's not even like I've got Shane to show me around. He's back on the University of Wisconsin's campus where, according to Dad, he apparently lives most of the time. He was only in our neighborhood this weekend because his father needed help with some home improvement project.
Fantastic.
But at least he and I'll be meeting after I'm done with school today to figure out the whole hockey thing. Tryouts are only a month or so away, and I don't have much time to figure out...well, all of it.
Doubly fantastic.
I walk through the main entrance surrounded by people who see right through me. I'm nobody to them, but maybe that isn't such a bad thing. At least in a school this big, I won't stick out like a sore thumb wandering the halls. For all they know, I'm just another face who's been here all along.
I walk through the school, a sign pointing me in the direction of the main office where a secretary checks me in and hands me my schedule with a warm welcome and smile.
"Up the stairs, go down the hall, make two lefts and you'll be in your first period classroom," she says, glancing down at the piece of paper in her hand. "History. Good luck, Natalie."
I nod, thank her and then I'm off.
Here we go.
No big deal or anything.
The halls are still flush with people and I just pray that I won't walk into class late. I promise myself I'll even ask someone for directions if I have to.
But finding the classroom is surprisingly easy and I slip through the door and take a seat in the middle of the room.
I glance around. Only three other people are here, but none of them bother to look at me. I sigh, and dig out the history textbook I was told to buy before I came to class.
On the bright side, since I'm pretty sure I'm going to have no friends, I figure my grades should be pretty excellent for the first time in, well, ever. Not that they were bad before. It's just, well, it's kind of hard to study when it's seventy degrees and sunny in the dead of winter.
My class here in Wisconsin is all about American history. Back in Arizona, we'd done this my sophomore year and I was supposed to study Europe now. I sigh, flipping through the book full of familiar terms and faces. It would've been nice to learn something new.
"You look bored."
I glance up into the face of a pretty blonde girl.
"What?"
She smiles. "With the reading," she says. "You don't look like
you like them much. Not that I blame you or anything. It's kind of dull."
I look down at the text. "Oh, yeah. Well, I took American history back home so I was kinda hoping for something different."
"You know all this stuff?" She drops into the empty seat next to me. "In that case, hi, I'm Ivy."
I smile at her. "Natalie. And I learned it a couple years ago."
"Then that makes you my new best friend." She grins. "I'm mostly kidding. So, you're new."
"Yep."
"Where'd you move from?"
"Arizona."
Her eyes widen slightly. "Arizona? And you came here? Doesn't it usually work the other way around?"
I know she's trying to be funny and I'm in no position to turn down a friendly face so I should laugh, but her comment really only makes my stomach tighten.
"Probably." I force a smile onto my face but I'm pretty sure it comes out looking like a grimace. "But my dad changed jobs so here I am."
"You'll like it," Ivy says. "Fall is pretty here."
"But different."
She nods. "Yeah. And you'll get used to the cold. I've only lived here for a couple years now but it's kind of nice to have a real winter."
"I hope you're right."
"Did you leave a boyfriend back home or something?"
"Oh." I'm sure my cheeks flush. "Nope. No, I'm single."
She smiles at me. "Honey, welcome to the club."
Our teacher walks into the classroom then and Ivy turns in her seat to face him, and I can't help but sit back in my chair, a sense of relief flooding me, a fear that I've had since my parents told me we were moving disappearing.
At least I won't be a total loner at school.
CHAPTER FOUR
"So how are your ice skills? I mean, do you even have any?"
Shane taps his hockey stick against the cold, hard ice in the arena where we watched the scrimmage together the other night. Coach Van, of course, had no problem letting Shane use the rink while it wasn't needed for anything else, which surprises me a little since he's no longer a student at West High.
Then again, when you refer to someone as your 'Golden Stallion,' as Coach Van did twice when we saw him today before leaving us alone, it probably doesn't even cross your mind to say no when they ask for a favor.
Whatever. The coach's obsession with Shane is just one piece of the puzzle that will get me back to Arizona as soon as possible, so I shouldn't complain.
"Ice skills? Is non-existent an acceptable answer?"
"Oh, come on, Natalie, your dad's Phil Melter, for Pete's sake," Shane says. "I find it really hard to believe this is your first time on a pair of skates."
I'm sitting on a long wooden bench lacing up an old pair of his mom's ice skates that he'd grabbed for me before we met this afternoon. I'll be getting my own pair, but for now, these'll have to do.
"It's not," I say, leaning over to tie the left one. "But that doesn't mean I have any skills."
He shrugs. "Well, at least we're working you for goalie. Your skating doesn't have to be phenomenal. Just serviceable."
"And thank God for that."
"Are you being sarcastic with your coach?" He raises an eyebrow at me.
"Me? Never. Wouldn't dream of it."
"That's what I thought. Careful, or you'll find yourself skating suicides."
"I'm not sure you have the power to make me do that." I stand, wobble slightly on the blades and take two clomping steps toward the entrance to the rink.
"Without me, you're not moving back to the desert anytime soon. Isn't that right?"
"I'm sure I could get by without you." I pause. "Okay, that's a lie. I'm pretty sure I need you."
He nods and smiles. "That's more like it. Let's see what you've got."
I just look at him.
"Oh," he says. "Right. Um, skate from net to net."
"You never coach before or what?" I ask, but I'm pretty sure I'm teasing. I skate with unsteady legs toward the left goalie net and almost fall down only once. Not bad.
"Okay," he says, pulling out what looks like a stopwatch from the pocket of his red hockey fleece. "Go."
"Go?"
He smiles. "Go."
I take a deep breath and start skating, hoping it'll come back to me. My first few movements are awkward and forced, but soon I remember what it felt like to skate all those years ago with my parents. It's not hard, really.
It could be worse at least.
And when I remind myself to picture cacti and palm trees and the Arizona mountains waiting for me at the other end of the rink, I feel a burst of speed propel me toward the net.
I slide into it, using the crossbar to help me stop before I wind up tangled in the netting, and turn around to look at Shane.
He's staring at me.
"Uh," he says. "When was the last time you were on skates again?"
"It's gotta be years."
"Okay. Well, wow. Not bad. You look comfortable out there. Maybe this isn't going to be as awful as I thought."
I narrow my eyes. "You thought teaching me to play hockey would be awful?"
"No! No, that isn't what I meant," he says, cheeks reddening. "I thought it might be really hard, but I want to do it. Sorry."
"I'm kidding," I say. "Relax."
"Not nice."
I smile and skate back toward the other goal, warming up my legs, trying to get used to doing physical activity again. I'd kinda let that go more than I should've over the last few months of brooding about the move.
My body starts to feel looser as I shuffle back and forth across the smooth, clean ice.
Finally, Shane makes his way out to the middle of the rink and I stop before I crash into him.
"Jeez," he says, reaching out to catch my arm before I tumble over. "I've been calling your name for what feels like the last five minutes. I'm going to need to get a whistle or something."
"Sorry. I think I got into a groove or something."
"I'll say," he replies, but his eyes are friendly and warm. "First sign of a good hockey player."
"Let's not get carried away. Anyone can skate well in a straight line after some practice. Let's see what happens when you make me do this carrying a stick. And in all that goalie padding."
"Not today. We've got a month to whip you into shape, but I forgot to ask Coach Van about borrowing goalie gear. I'll do that before we leave. How about you go get changed and I'll drop you off at home before I head back to my apartment?"
I nod and head for the women's locker room while the Golden Stallion disappears to make more of his hockey magic happen.
***
"So how'd your first day on the ice go?" Dad asks between bites of chicken and broccoli later that evening.
I shrug. "Well, I haven't completely forgotten how to skate, so that's nice."
Dad's face lights up. "I just knew you'd be wonderful at it. Of course you are. You're my baby, after all."
"Don't get excited, Dad. I still haven't actually tried to play hockey."
He grins and waves me off. "Po-tay-toes, po-tah-toes. You'll be fine."
"And Shane?" Mom asks, resting her napkin on the table next to her plate. "How is he as a coach?"
I wrinkle my forehead as I glance over at her. It's not that there's a twinkle in her eye or anything, but the way she says it gives me pause, like she isn't really wondering about his coaching abilities at all.
"Good," I say, reaching for my glass of iced tea. "Fine. We didn't do much. He has to get me the right equipment."
A worried look stretches across Dad's face. "Oh, I didn't even think of that. Do we need to buy you goalie gear? I don't mind."
I shake my head. "No, Shane sent me a text before dinner and said he had no problem getting some extra stuff from his old coach at the school. I'm all set for now."
Dad leans back in his chair, clearly convinced that he's well on his way to watching his master plan to turn me into the next great hockey player in our family come to fruition.
"Shane doesn't live down the street all the time, does he?" Mom asks once again bringing the conversation back to my coach.
"Nope. He has an apartment downtown with some guys on the team."
Mom nods. "I thought so."
"Why?"
"Oh, no, no reason," she replies dismissively. "I just thought it might be nice if you had a friend here already. I mean, a friend who lives around here, of course. But being that he's in college and an athlete, I'm sure he's very busy all the time."
I narrow my eyes ever so slightly. "Not too busy to find time to help coach me."
My parents exchange a quick glance, one that I'm pretty sure I'm not meant to see, but I catch it anyway.
"He seems like a lovely young man," Mom finally says.
Dad's staring down at his plate in front of him as if the topic of conversation has suddenly become the most boring thing on earth and he can't get enough of the vegetables he usually grumbles about eating.
"What's going on with you guys?"
Mom shakes her head. "Nothing, dear. We're just happy to hear you're enjoying yourself."
I stare at her for a second or two before glancing over at Dad.
"Yeah," I say at last. "I guess I am."
***
I'm sitting out in our backyard later the next night, trying to enjoy the fifty-degree evening before it's gone for good in Wisconsin. It's one of the few weather days that feels even remotely close to home and I want to take advantage of it.
I've turned on the electric outdoor fireplace to keep me warm on the patio and snuggle up under a blanket, taking in the stars in the night sky.
I crack open my book, ready to read by the light of the fire and lose myself in the magic of Heathcliff and Catherine.
"Am I interrupting?"
I scream and jump, sending the book falling to the deck.
Shane chuckles and steps into the light. "Sorry," he says. "Didn't mean to scare you."
"Right," I say, hand over my thumping heart. "You just thought popping out of the darkness wouldn't startle me at all."
"Guess I didn't think that through." He bends down to pick up the book and glances at the cover. "Wuthering Heights, eh? Not terrible."