Breaking the Ice

by Gail Nall

  I’m still not sure if this counts as a date. I mean, he came just to get me, but then he invited Addison, too. But if it is a date . . . The whole idea makes me want to smile and throw up at the same time.

  “Didn’t feel like skating. Ended up hanging out with a couple of guys from school instead.” He squirts ketchup from one of those little plastic packets onto the open wrapper of his burger.

  “Won’t your parents be mad that you skipped practice?”

  “Probably.”

  He doesn’t seem to want to talk about it, so I change the subject. “Are you nervous about Regionals?”

  “Not really,” he says through a mouthful of food. “I never qualify for Nationals, so it’s just another competition for me.”

  “Don’t you want to?”

  “Sure, I guess. Doesn’t everyone? But it’ll never happen. And even if it did, I would have to practice more and work harder. That’s no fun.” He pushes his hair out of his eyes and takes another bite of burger.

  I don’t know what to say to that. Miyu just skates for fun, but even she wants to qualify for Nationals. And somehow I know that if she did, she’d take it seriously and work as hard as she could to do well. “So why do you skate?” I finally ask Braedon.

  He drags some fries through the pool of ketchup. “I don’t know. Because I always have? I like jumping.”

  “Me too. It’s like flying for a second, and when I land a jump, I feel so good. Like I’ve done something really incred­ible. Like I’ve done something no one else can do.”

  “Yeah, just like that. If all I had to do was go out there and jump, it would be great. No spins or footwork or artistic interpretation.”

  I roll my eyes. “Don’t get me started on artistic interpre­tation.”

  “Still can’t flirt, huh?”

  My cheeks heat up and I concentrate on rescuing the lettuce and tomato sliding out of my bun. “You really don’t like to spin?” I ask, hoping he won’t bring up the flirting thing again.

  “Not really. I mean, it’s okay, but I don’t get the same thrill from it as jumping. Give me a good triple salchow over a perfect camel any day.”

  “I wish I had a triple sal,” I say. “Then the judges would have to notice me, whether I can tango or not.”

  “They notice you. It’s kind of hard to forget the girl who spoke her mind and then took out the medals table.”

  I put my burger down. That’s all I’m ever going to be. The skater who lost her composure and ruined her whole career.

  “Hey, Double Axel? I meant that as a compliment.” Braedon’s giving me this concerned look.

  “Thanks? I don’t know if it’s doing much to help Fallton’s reputation, though.”

  Braedon waves a fry at me. “You couldn’t do anything to change that—good or bad.”

  “It’s not fair, though. We have really good skaters, but everyone writes us off.”

  “I know. But why worry about something you can’t control?”

  “I guess.” I chew my last bite of burger and wish there was something we could do.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Braedon walks me back to the dance studio, and I slip inside with ten minutes to spare. Jill gives me a funny look but keeps moving around the room, checking arm position here and demonstrating steps there. Up front, Addison’s dancing with Fernando. Her mom is beaming, like Addison’s going to get the award for World’s Best Tango Dancer.

  When the class ends, I move toward the door to wait for Mom.

  “I hope it was worth it,” Addison says over my shoulder.

  “Worth what?”

  She glances back at her mother, who’s talking with ­Fernando. “My mom didn’t see you leave. But if I told her, she’d probably say something to your mom. You won’t get to eat burgers with Braedon if you’re grounded, you know.”

  I bite my lip. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea. It definitely sounds like Addison is going to tell her mother. What if Mom believes what Mrs. Thomas says? Not only will I be grounded, she’ll never trust me to be alone anywhere, including school.

  Mom pulls up outside. Without a word to Addison, I sprint out the door and jump in the car.

  “How was class?” Mom asks.

  “Great.” I’m watching the dance studio disappear in the side mirror.

  Addison’s probably already talking to her mother. I am so dead.

  As the Zamboni plods across the ice on Saturday morning, I search for Braedon in the crowded lobby. I spot him leaning against the concrete block wall next to the snack bar, drinking water and watching the Zam move in slow circles. After I make sure Mom is busy talking with some of the other ­parents—and that Addison and her mom aren’t here yet—I move toward Braedon.

  “Hey, Double Axel, long time no see,” he says.

  My stomach jumps at his lazy smile. Then I remember the world of trouble I’m going to be in once Addison gets here.

  “So . . . um, that was fun last night. The burgers, I mean. But I kind of can’t do anything like that again,” I say.

  Braedon sets his water on the snack bar counter. “Why not?”

  “Because Addison’s going to tell her mom, who will definitely say something to my mom.”

  “I told you, she wouldn’t do anything like that.”

  “She pretty much told me that she was.” I roll up to the tips of my blade guards and search the lobby—just in time to see Addison and Mrs. Thomas walk in.

  “I’ll talk to her.” Braedon grabs his water bottle and strides across the lobby to meet Addison.

  “It’s probably too late,” I say to his back.

  I stay put near the snack bar, watching. I can’t hear them from here, but Braedon’s smiling and Addison looks really annoyed. She glances up at me and glares. I bite my lip and cross my fingers. Maybe she hasn’t said anything yet.

  Then he must say something funny, because she laughs. He claps her once on the back before heading back toward me. She watches him, all happy and smug-looking, and then turns toward her mother.

  “What did she say?” I ask the second he gets close enough to hear me.

  “She didn’t tell her mom yet. She promised to keep it quiet.” He pushes his hair out of his eyes, looking pleased with himself.

  “How did you make that happen?” I can’t imagine what he would’ve said to convince Addison not to get me in heaps of trouble.

  He taps his gloved fingertips together like some old movie villain. “I have my ways.”

  He looks so silly that I can’t help laughing. “Thanks,” I say.

  “No problem. Hey, look, the Zam’s done.” And with that, Braedon tosses his water bottle into the air, catches it, and walks off toward the ice. Near the doors, Addison catches up with him. She says something, and he touches her arm and laughs.

  My happy feeling floats away. I wonder what exactly it was that Braedon told Addison to change her mind.

  When I’m not in my lesson, I spend most of the two back-to-back skating sessions watching Braedon help Addison with her double axel and worrying about whether she’ll really keep my huge mistake a secret. And about whether I missed the one thing in tango class that could’ve made my program perfect.

  I don’t get a chance to talk to Miyu until after the last skating session. I sit next to her while we wait for Karilee’s Movement and Interpretation class to begin.

  “Are you mad at me?” I ask her quietly. I’d told her on the phone last night about going to Burger Hut with Braedon.

  She sighs. “No. I’m just confused, I guess.” Miyu unties and reties her shoelace. “You want to win Regionals, and now you’re skipping out on a class you’re taking to do that, just to hang out with Braedon?”

  “I know. It was kind of a dumb thing to do.”

  “But you still have a crush on Braedon.”

&nbs
p; “I don’t have a crush on him!” I hiss at her.

  “Yes, you do. It’s so obvious, Kaitlin. All he does is look at you, and you turn all red and giggle.”

  “I don’t giggle!”

  Miyu gives me a look.

  “Okay . . . maybe I like him a little. But I don’t giggle. I don’t know if it even matters. He seems to be into Addison, anyway.”

  Miyu shrugs. “Who knows? Just remember what I said about him before. I mean, he’s been expelled from how many schools? And he’s definitely not serious about skating.”

  “You’re not serious about skating,” I say defensively, even though I know exactly what she means.

  “I am, just in a different way than you are. If Braedon’s mom didn’t make him come to the rink, I doubt he’d skate at all.”

  What was it Braedon said at Burger Hut yesterday? He skates because he always has. Not being ultracompetitive about skating hardly makes him a bad person. But then there’s the whole skipping practice sessions and getting me to leave my dance class thing. Kind of red flags.

  What I should do is forget about Braedon. At least until after Regionals.

  But I don’t know if I can.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Greg keeps me busy all week running my program, sending me off to more ice dance time with Svetlana, and telling me to feel my music. No matter how many times he says that, it still doesn’t seem to be working.

  At least Addison’s kept her word to Braedon. Neither she nor her mom has said anything about me not being at dance class last week.

  “Ah, Kaitlin!” Jill swoops in as Mom grabs a seat at the far end of the row from Mrs. Thomas. “Glad to see you here on time this week.”

  Mom tilts her head, and I can tell she’s about to say something to Jill. Something like, You must have my daughter confused with someone else. Kaitlin was five minutes early last week.

  “I have a question about the ochos,” I say to Jill as I step away from Mom. “Is it like this?” I do some completely wrong thing with my feet on purpose.

  “No, no, no. Like this.” Jill demonstrates. I look over her shoulder to see Mom pecking away at her phone.

  “Thanks. I’ve got it, I think.”

  “You know, you miss a lot when you’re not in class,” Jill says.

  “I know. I’m sorry.” I glance past Jill to make sure Mom’s not listening in. “I just got caught up in something last week.” Something like eating fries with Braedon. “I won’t miss any more classes.”

  Jill nods, and I hope I’ve said enough so that she won’t bring it up with Mom. I’m already barely hanging on with the Praterville thing and being late to stretching class that one day. I’d never have a life again if she found out about me missing dance. But sometimes I feel as if the secret is like a rat, gnawing at me from the inside out.

  On top of all that, Regionals is only two weeks away, and Greg insists I’m still not showing enough emotion in my program.

  At least the club’s Regionals send-off party is something I don’t have to worry about. Greg told me they have the party early so no one will get distracted during the nine days we have left. I sip a cup of punch and survey everyone hanging out in the Fallton lobby. Mom and Dad are mingling with some of the other parents near the snack bar under a huge sign that reads GOOD LUCK AT REGIONALS! I left Miyu, Addison, and a couple of other girls sitting on chairs and talking. Well, Addison wasn’t actually talking, just scowling at everyone.

  I take my punch to the rink doors and push through them. The music from the party is pounding, even out here. The ice is shiny and wet, with fresh, mountain-size bumps in nice straight lines. I close my eyes and breathe in the cold and quiet and the slight hint of ammonia and Zamboni fumes. Ice rinks smell the same, no matter how big or small or where they are.

  “Imagining yourself finally landing that triple sal?” Braedon’s voice interrupts my thoughts.

  I almost drop my punch. “I didn’t think anyone was out here,” I say. “By the way, congrats on your award.”

  Braedon holds up a certificate. “The Dennis the Menace Award? I think I’d rather have yours.”

  I grin at him. “They gave me Best Jumper for a reason, you know.”

  Braedon pushes his hair out of his eyes. “Yeah, I guess I should at least be happy they didn’t give me Nicest Skater or Best Personality.” He puts his certificate on the nearest bleacher. “Hey, you want to see something cool?”

  “Sure, I guess.” I set my punch cup next to his certificate and follow him across the mats between the ice and the bleachers. “So, um, thanks for talking to Addison.”

  “Anytime,” he says as he leads the way around to where the boards branch out from the ice and create a short wall between the bleachers area and where the Zamboni enters and leaves the ice.

  “There won’t be any other time. I can’t do that again, remember?”

  Braedon doesn’t answer. Instead he hops up onto the wall and slides over to the other side. “C’mon.”

  I rest my arms on the wall. “Are we supposed to be back there?”

  “Not really,” he says with a grin. Then he holds out his hand. “Here, I’ll help you.”

  My brain is screaming, No way! I glance back toward the lobby. The windows face the ice. If anyone was watching us, they’d have to smoosh their faces sideways against the Plexiglas to see.

  But isn’t this just like skipping dance class or climbing out Miyu’s window? Maybe it isn’t, though. I mean, we aren’t supposed to be here, but it isn’t like we’re really doing anything bad.

  “Kaitlin, are you coming?” Braedon wiggles his fingers. His hair falls into his face again, and I can’t help but smile.

  Ignoring the voice in my head telling me this is stupid, I climb up on the wall. I take his hand, which makes my heart beat even faster. Thank God ice rinks are cold. Otherwise, my hand would be all hot and sweaty and embarrassing. Braedon helps me hop off the other side of the wall. There aren’t any rubber mats on the floor here—just concrete and wet, melty ice.

  The door to the garage that houses the Zamboni is wide open. The machine sits inside, rusty and huge and dripping condensation.

  “Ever sat on a Zam before?” Braedon asks.

  I shake my head. He walks over to it and hoists himself up into the driver’s seat.

  “Come on up. The view’s great!”

  I laugh. It looks like fun, but I know we shouldn’t even be near this thing. I can’t even imagine how Mom would freak out if she caught me. Or how Greg would react. And another thought crosses my mind—is sitting on a Zamboni reason enough to kick someone out of a skating club?

  “What are you waiting for?” Braedon asks. “No one’s going to see us. Even if they came out, they couldn’t see us way back here. We’d have plenty of time to get down and back over the wall.”

  I glance again toward the lobby. Everyone’s still inside. When I turn around, Braedon’s pushed his hair back and is looking at me with those bright blue eyes. I grab his hand and make the climb. Once I’m up there, I have to squeeze past him. There’s no passenger seat—just a ledge with a bunch of levers and things I try not to touch. I step up onto the ledge and perch on a big, rusty-looking, gray cylinder. My knees are about even with the top of Braedon’s head.

  I gaze over the hood. “Wow, this would be a great place to watch a competition. You can see the entire ice. Wouldn’t it be great if Regionals were here instead of in Indianapolis?” I imagine myself doing my program out there, on comfortable ice—home ice. The competition would somehow seem less scary if it happened here.

  “I don’t think anyone would be nicer just because they had to compete here. That would probably make it even worse,” Braedon says.

  I clench my hands. “We work just as hard as everyone else. Why is it okay for them to make fun of us because of our club?”

&nb
sp; Braedon puts his hands on the steering wheel, like he’s about to drive the machine onto the ice. “I don’t know. Nothing we can do about it, so no reason to worry. I wonder what this thing does.” He spins a knob that’s sticking out of the front of the steering wheel.

  “But aren’t you sick of it? Working so hard, doing well in competition—sometimes—and still having people call us the Fall Down Club?”

  He shrugs. It doesn’t bother him, I guess. I wonder if he’d be happier if he quit.

  “I just wish there was something we could do to change it.” I cross my ankles and bump my sneaker heels against the cylinder.

  “What, like put up posters protesting mean skaters? Or you could make them all bracelets. Or wait—we could put ‘nice’ medicine into everyone’s bottled water.” ­Braedon laughs at his own joke while the music from the party thumps through the empty rink, making the Plexiglas on top of the dasher boards shiver.

  “No . . . wait.” I sit up so straight I almost slide right off the cylinder. I grip the sides for balance. “That’s it!”

  “What? The bottled water? I’m all for a good prank, but that’s a little off the deep end, Double Axel.”

  “Not that. Not the posters, either, but . . . what if we did something nice for everyone? Something that made them all realize that we’re just normal, regular skaters. And that we’re really fun and friendly. Just something that makes them think twice before they say mean stuff or cut holes in our practice clothes, you know?”

  “But how?” Braedon reaches past my foot and plays with the shifter-looking thing near his knee, making noises like he’s driving the machine.

  “That’s the problem. I don’t know. I doubt beaded bracelets will cut it.”

  “No way . . . look! Someone left the keys.” Braedon turns the ignition to the Zam, but it doesn’t start.

  “Maybe we should go back in.” I stand up, ready to hop off the ledge, when Braedon pushes a button near the steering wheel and the Zamboni roars to life.

  Then it begins to creep forward.