Breaking the Ice

by Gail Nall

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  For my Evie Pea, the reason for everything

  Chapter One

  I have my fingers crossed for a gold medal.

  Not where everyone can see them, of course, but hidden in the sleeve of my maroon-and-white Ridgeline Figure Skating Club jacket. If I win this competition, it’ll show the judges I’m the skater to beat at Regionals in October.

  My stomach rumbles. It’s almost three o’clock, and the last thing I ate before I performed was a bowl of Toasted Oats cereal early this morning. And by morning, I mean even-the-birds-are-still-asleep morning. So by now, the concession-­stand popcorn smells like something gourmet. I try to ignore it and stand on the tiptoes of my plastic blade guards to look for my friend Ellery. I can’t spot her in the sea of girls in ­sparkling dresses crowding the hallway.

  “Aren’t you cold, Kaitlin?” Mom pulls her wool coat tighter around her.

  I shake my head. I’m rolling back and forth on my blade guards. Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. Mom and Dad got me new pink-and-white guards for my twelfth birthday, to match my competition dress. I glued some rhinestones to them, so they kind of twinkle in the lights when I walk. My coach, Hildy, always says you want every little detail to be perfect.

  Mom checks the time on her phone. “Where are the results?”

  Like magic, a competition volunteer threads her way through the anxious crowd in the hallway and tacks the results to the bulletin board. Everyone swarms forward. The volunteer has to elbow her way to safety.

  A tingling feeling shoots through my body. This is it.

  Dad squeezes my shoulder as we shuffle toward the board. Mom sips coffee and grips her phone, ready to post the good news online for friends and family.

  Hildy keeps trying to guess who’s placed. “It’ll be a toss-up between you and that tiny blond girl from Detroit for first,” she whispers. “It depends on whether the judges dock your double flip for under-rotation. The girl in the green dress from the Fallton Club was dreadful. She’ll place last, for certain.”

  I tune Hildy out and squint at the eight-by-ten white sheet of paper. Ellery’s in the very front. She hugs her mom, which can only mean she’s gotten good marks. She’s clutching the bejeweled pink water bottle I made her. It took me all day last Tuesday, but I finished one for every girl in the club, with their names in silver and tons of glitter to make them really sparkly.

  Another girl runs off, her eyes red and watery. I can’t see the names or scores yet, so I concentrate on not stepping on anyone’s toes with my skates.

  I’m not going to think about how the results of the Praterville Open can determine the course of my entire season and whole skating career. If I win here, then it shouldn’t be hard to do the same at Regionals, where I can qualify for Nationals. Ever since I’ve known what Nationals is, I’ve wanted to go. And if I make it this year, I’ll be on track toward the biggest competition of all—the Olympics.

  Olympics. Just thinking the word gives me the shivers. Never mind that it’s a few years away.

  If I don’t place well here, then . . . Right, not thinking about it.

  “No matter what happens,” Mom says, “you skated beautifully. And you deserve first place.”

  She has to say that. It’s like a mom requirement.

  “Can you see it?” Mom asks over my shoulder.

  I look up, and there it is right in front of me.

  Final Results—Juvenile Girls’ Division. I scan the list for my name. I’m not first. Not second or third. My heart falls into my stomach. Not even fourth, fifth, or sixth. Maybe the judges made a typo and accidentally left me off.

  But then I see it.

  Eleventh place. Out of thirteen girls. Third to last. Loser zone.

  “What?” Hildy’s practically glaring at the sheet of paper. She blinks a few times, takes a deep breath, and then ­rearranges her face into a Professional Coach expression. “Well, I didn’t expect that. Don’t worry, Kaitlin. It’s just a little summer competition. Not Regionals. Now where can I get a copy of those protocols?” She looks around like she’s going to find an explanation of the judges’ decision just lying in the middle of the hallway.

  And it’s not just a little summer competition. Hildy definitely knows that. Everyone knows that.

  I stare at the paper. The number eleven glares at me. I run my finger across the page to my scores. I got a 22.35 for technical elements—jumps and spins and stuff like that. That’s a good score, especially this early in the season. Most of the other girls didn’t even break twenty points. But the next ­column . . . 9.65 for program components, all the in-between moves, artistry and style.

  “Nine point six five?” I feel light-headed. At my last competition, I got almost ten points higher. When the top girls in my group are getting nineteen or twenty points for program components, 9.65 is kind of pathetic. It’s like the judges are saying my program was robotic. That I have no artistic expression, nothing interesting at all. That I’m boring.

  I am not boring.

  I know what I should do. I should smile and congratulate the medalists. I should wait until I’m safely inside Mom’s car before I cry or complain or show what I’m really feeling. I should say I’ll try harder next time. This is what I usually do when things don’t go my way.

  Dad puts his hand on my shoulder again, but I throw it off as I spin around.

  “These . . .” I point at the paper. “These scores are a total joke!” What am I saying? It’s like I’m not even in charge of my own voice. It comes out loudly and echoes down the concrete-­walled hallway.

  Right to the ears of the three judges walking past.

  Mom’s hand brushes my arm as my legs propel me toward the judges, who are stopped next to a table holding the competition medals. I stand right in front of them, hands on my hips. Words keep rolling out of my mouth before I can stop them, like they’re coming from someplace deep down that I have zero control over.

  “Did you even watch my program? I did a double axel! No one else did a jump that hard.” This is so not like me. Stop talking, Kaitlin! Stop, stop, stop! “And I wasn’t a robot! I had all kinds of style—and—and stuff between my jumps.”

  The judges blink at me.

  It’s like the words have a life of their own, and they’re forcing me to speak them out loud. “My coach thought I’d get second, at least. But I guess double axels and choreography and . . . stuff are only good enough for eleventh place.” Why won’t my mouth stop with the words already? “I hope there are different judges at Regionals. Ones who know what they’re doing.”

  For a few seconds, no one moves. I’m breathing so hard, it’s like I just stepped off the ice after my program.

  My mouth opens to say more.

  No! I slap my hands over my face as if I can take it all back. But it’s too late for that. I just broke one of the unwritten rules of competitive figure skating. The one that says Never Complain About Your Scores in Public. It’s sandwiched right between Keep Smiling! and Don’t Yell at the Judges—which I also broke.

  I turn away from the judges. I can’t look at them after I said all those awful things. Something tugs at my right blade guard as I take in the crowd of skaters and parents gaping at me. Mom’s dropped her phone
and hasn’t even bothered to pick it up. Dad blinks furiously, like he can bat away the words with his eyelashes. And Hildy starts muttering things about subjectivity and sportsmanship.

  I take a step toward them. I just want to grab my skate bag and get out of here. Something pulls hard at my right skate. What is that? I lift it up and—

  CRASH!

  The navy-blue tablecloth that was covering the medals table is now covering the floor.

  “Kaitlin!” Mom cries.

  Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, no.

  I reach down to unhook the teeny tiny, superhuman-­strength thread from the tablecloth that had wrapped itself around one of the springs of my blade guard. My face is so warm, it’s probably starting to match the color of my jacket. My fingers are shaking, but I finally get the thread loose. I take a step backward to catch my balance.

  CRUNCH.

  Like this couldn’t get worse. A glass figure of a skater in a perfect arched layback spin lies in two sparkling pieces under my skate. I vaguely recognize it as the centerpiece from the awards table.

  “Kaitlin, don’t move!” Mom says. She darts toward me and begins picking up the gold, silver, and bronze medals that dot the floor all around me.

  The judges. They’re staring at me. I can’t look away. The big judge with the handlebar mustache clears his throat. The redheaded woman adjusts her glasses, probably hoping to see something different. And the tall, skinny guy reaches down and pinches the blue ribbon holding a gold medal from the top of his shoe.

  The big judge huffs and shakes his head before they all walk off in the opposite direction. My entire body feels too hot, and I wish I were anywhere but here.

  Dad gives a little snort, which turns into a cough when Mom shushes him. She gives him a look, and he springs into action, picking up medals from the floor.

  No one else moves. Except a girl in a green dress—the one Hildy said would definitely get last place.

  “At least these aren’t breakable,” she says as she plucks a batch of silver medals from the floor around my feet. “Well, except for that glass skater. My mom would call it a dust ­collector.”

  I close my eyes and wish for a do-over. Of everything—my program, the scores, and my reaction.

  “Kaitlin,” Mom says in a cold voice as she rolls up the tablecloth. “Gather your things. We’re leaving.” Then she glares at everyone standing around, like she’s daring them to say something. But no one does, of course. Mom’s kind of scary when she’s mad.

  “Thank you,” I whisper to the girl in the green dress. I can’t look at anyone else.

  While Dad fishes some cash from his wallet and slips it under the pieces of the broken glass skater, I grab my bag from the floor where I’d dropped it. Then I take off down the hallway, the skate guards snapping against my blades. Eyes ­follow me until I escape into the lobby.

  Mom doesn’t say anything else until we reach the parking lot. “We’ll discuss this tomorrow.”

  And I know for sure she’s really angry. I pretend to sleep during the long drive home, just in case she changes her mind.

  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.