Breaking the Ice

by Gail Nall

  “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 ha
ve 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.

  Chapter Four

  While Mom repeats the whole awful story to Dad over the phone, I run up to my room. Crying into my pillow sounds really tempting, but it won’t get me anywhere. Regionals are only a couple of months away. I can’t miss any training time, and I need a coach.

  Besides, if I’m busy searching for a new club, I can’t think about what a mess my life is.

  I scroll through the list of Michigan skating clubs online and click on the links to the ones that aren’t too far away. I’ve heard of some of them from competitions. Finding one to skate at shouldn’t be hard at all.

  “Are you doing schoolwork?” Mom peers around the doorway to my room and squints at the screen of my laptop. “Remember, you’re grounded. No talking to friends on the computer.”

  Instead of telling Mom she’s completely deluded about my social life, I turn the computer toward her. “I’m looking up clubs.”

  Mom smiles and walks over to me. “I’m glad you’re being proactive.” She points to the screen. “Now that’s a real club. Wouldn’t you love to train with Joanna Michaels? She could get you to the Olympics.”

  I have no idea who Joanna Michaels is, but I just nod and say, “Yeah, that would be great.”

  She leans forward and clicks on a link that shows photos of the skaters. I scan the smiling faces, not recognizing anyone. Skating at a new club will feel like moving to a new town. I practically lived at Ridgeline, saw the same people every day, did schoolwork at the lobby café tables between sessions, worked out at the rink gym. And now I have to start over somewhere else.

  Mom’s sitting on my bed and has pulled the computer into her lap, clicking away and writing names and phone numbers on my pink flower-shaped notepad. I mumble something to her and walk down the hall to the bathroom. I wash my face and look at myself in the mirror.

  “Everything’s going to be just fine,” I say to my reflection. “You’re going to find a great club and a new coach. The coach will be so good, you’ll blow away the competition at Regionals. Everyone at Ridgeline will be so jealous. You’ll meet all kinds of new people.”

  I can’t even think about the alternative—not skating at all. It’s what I do every day. What I’ve done since I was three years old. Skating is like a physical need. When we go to Florida for a week in May, I do jumps in the surf while I count down the days until I can be back on the ice. Not skating ever again would be like cutting off a hand.

  I force a smile at myself in the mirror, pull my ponytail tighter, and go back to my room.

  “There,” Mom says as she scribbles down one last name and number. “I’m going to call all of these clubs first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay.” I sit on the bed next to her. I’m not going to cry. Not, not, not.

  Mom doesn’t say anything. She just wraps her arms around me and squeezes. “We’ll fix this,” she says. “I promise.”

  And if Mom says she’ll fix something, it’ll happen. I smile and hug her back.

  Mom clicks off her phone and crosses another club off our list. It’s Friday morning, and I haven’t been on the ice since Monday. I never knew it could take so long for people to call back. My feet are practically itching to put my skates on and do something. I miss the cold, and the sound my toe pick makes when I jab into the ice to jump. And maybe I’m going crazy, but I even miss the wet sock smell of the locker rooms.

  Mom sighs. “Well, that leaves us one club.”

  “Which one?” I ask.

  “Fallton.” Mom doesn’t meet my eyes.

  “Oh.” I don’t know what else to say. I can’t imagine telling Ellery and Peyton that I’m skating at Fallton.

  “I know. It’s not your first choice. But everyone else claims their coaches are all booked, or the club has a waiting list. But . . .”

  I know what she’s going to say. It’s either skate with Fallton or don’t skate at all.

  “I want to skate,” I say. “I just . . . well, everyone calls it—”

  Mom cuts me off. “I know what they call it. I’ve heard the girls at the rink.”

  I bite my lip.

  “Why don’t we just go check it out? They’ve invited you to skate as a guest at one of their sessions tomorrow morning. We can meet the coaches and some of the other skaters. We don’t have to make a decision until after we’ve seen it.” Mom turns her phone over and over in her hands as she says this.

  I nod. That’s reasonable. But I don’t feel reasonable. Who wants to skate for a club that everyone calls Fall Down?

  Chapter Five

  It
’s seven a.m. on Saturday, and I’m curled up in the front seat of Mom’s car, on my way to skate at the Fallton Club.

  It’s like a part of me has been missing all week, and I’m going to find it today on the ice. But then again, it’s the Fall Down Club. The worst club in the history of all skating clubs. I can hear Ellery giggling in my head. You’re skating at Fall Down? Wow, Kaitlin, that’s such a loser rink.

  Mom makes a left turn onto the highway. “We’ll just try it out.”

  “Their skaters aren’t very good.” I feel bad saying this, but it’s true. I’m thinking of the girl at the Praterville Open—the really nice one in the green dress who helped me. She placed dead last in our level. Her program music was this awful screechy violin stuff, and she fell three times.

  “If we decide you’ll skate there, I’ll make sure you don’t get whoever coached that girl at Praterville,” Mom says, reading my mind.

  I lean back in the seat and breathe in the citrus scent from the air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. Mom claims it reminds her of vacations in Florida, but it smells like bathroom cleaner to me.

  The drive to Fallton is only thirty minutes, but it feels even shorter than that. Before I know it, we’re parked outside the rink.

  I get out of the car and smooth my clothes. It took me forever to decide what to wear. At my old club, skaters wore either plain practice dresses or tight skating pants. I put on my favorite black dress this morning but took it off. I didn’t want to look overdressed if everyone else was wearing pants. So I went with my black pants with the white stripes down the sides.

  Mom pushes open the door, and we walk down a short, narrow hallway to the lobby. It’s way smaller than my old rink. Straight across from us, rough white ice shows through the windows that line the far side of the lobby. An ancient, dirty, rusty Zamboni chugs around in slow circles, smoothing the ice and sending fumes throughout the building. I wrinkle my nose and try not to breathe too deeply.