For some reason, I feel ridiculously pleased. Ducking my head, I squat down to pat Pip, who is wearing a little Santa hat.
“Emma sent it from England,” Mrs. Bergson tells me.
The doorbell rings and behind me I see Megan peek at herself in the mirror over the front hall table. As she tucks a strand of her dark hair behind her ear, she catches me watching her and grins sheepishly. I wink.
My mother and Stanley usher the Berkeleys inside. Stanley takes everyone’s coats and hangs them up as my mother introduces Courtney and the Wongs.
“And you’ve met Mrs. Bergson and my daughter Cassidy,” says my mother.
“Of course,” says Mrs. Berkeley, smiling at us.
Simon smiles too. Tristan’s eyebrows go up slightly when he sees me, then he quickly rearranges his face into its usual bored expression.
Fortunately, we’re seated at opposite ends of the table for dinner. My mother thought he’d enjoy sitting next to Mrs. Bergson, since she’s filling in as his skating coach this year. I watch them out of the corner of my eye. Tristan is talking and laughing like a normal human being, for once. I didn’t think he had it in him. He’s always so cool and distant at school. On the other hand, why should I care how he behaves?
After dessert, we all go in by the fire. The Christmas tree lights are on, and the room looks really pretty.
“You have a lovely home, Clementine,” says Mrs. Berkeley.
“Thank you,” my mother replies.
“Thank you for including us,” says Professor Berkeley. “That was an amazing meal.”
I spot Megan and Simon setting up a board game on the table in the window alcove, and I cross the room to join them. Just as I sit down, Tristan drifts over.
“We’re going to play Sorry,” Megan tells him. “We need four people—are you interested?”
His dark eyebrows knit themselves together as he frowns. “Um, no, thanks. Sorry.”
I snort. “Bad pun.”
Looking offended, he drifts off again, and Gigi joins us instead.
Tristan spends the rest of the evening talking to my sister and Mrs. Bergson and the other adults, and playing with Pip and Murphy. I keep my distance. No point getting my feelings squashed again, although I’m still not sure why anything he says or does should bother me.
Finally, the Berkeleys and the Wongs leave and I get a chance to talk to Mrs. Bergson by myself. Mom is upstairs putting Chloe to bed, and I can hear Stanley and Courtney talking and laughing in the kitchen, where they’re doing the dishes. Pip and Murphy are sacked out by my feet on the hearth. Only Mrs. Bergson and I are left in the living room, sipping cocoa.
“Mrs. Bergson, you know how everybody at Alcott High has to do community service?”
She nods. “So I’ve heard.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking, and I want to do something different. You know, something besides recycling or volunteering at a nursing home.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I want to start a hockey club.”
Mrs. Bergson nods thoughtfully. “Interesting. Go on.”
“It seems to me that there should be a whole lot more girls in this town trying out for hockey. Enough that the schools would think seriously about having separate teams for them. So I thought, what if I started a club? Volunteer my time—”
“Do you have any free time left?”
“Not a whole lot, but Mom says as long as my grades don’t start to slip, I can give it a try. I’d just do it once or twice a week to start.”
“I think it’s an excellent idea, Cassidy.”
“Do you think the rink would let me have some ice time?” I ask her. “I couldn’t pay them or anything.”
“Let me talk to the manager. He might be persuaded, especially when I point out that your club would bring in new skaters, and that means more business for the rink store, and for concessions, and for freestyle and stick time.”
I’m glad Stanley suggested I talk to her. “Thanks, Mrs. Bergson.”
“Have you thought of a name for your club?”
“Chicks with Sticks.”
She laughs. “Perfect. I think you’ll get a lot of interest.”
“Now I just have to figure out how I’m going to raise money for the equipment. It can be expensive and I don’t want anybody not to be able to join because they don’t have enough money.”
“Have you thought about asking Mr. and Mrs. Wong? They’re always donating money to good causes, and I’ll bet Wong Enterprises would love to sponsor your club.” Mrs. Bergson sets down her cocoa mug. “And now I have a favor to ask you, Cassidy.”
“Sure.”
“I have an exceptional student this year, someone who has been skating with a partner he had to leave behind when he moved here. He’s been practicing with me and with one of my protégés, but she’s quite petite and he’s quite tall, and it’s presenting difficulties. He has an important competition coming up this summer, and it’s vital that he keep up his skills. He and his partner back home are currently among the top-ranked athletes in their age bracket, you see.”
My heart sinks as I realize who she’s talking about.
“How would you feel about stepping in as Tristan Berkeley’s practice partner?”
For a few moments all I can hear is the loud ticking of the grandfather clock out in the hall.
“Ice dancing?” I manage finally. “Me? I don’t know if I could squeeze anything more in.” What I really want to say is, Over my dead body.
My mother comes in the room. “What was that about ice dancing?” She perches on the arm of the sofa beside me as Mrs. Bergson explains her proposition. When she’s done, my mother turns to me.
“Of course you’d be happy to help out, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?”
I shoot her a desperate glance. “But I don’t know anything about ice dancing! I’m a hockey player.”
Mrs. Bergson smiles. “You’d be surprised how much the two sports have in common. Footwork, balance, strength. And what you don’t know, I can teach you.”
“Sounds like an offer you can’t refuse,” says my mother.
I press my lips together tightly, squelching the protest that’s trying to burst out. My mother has a point, especially since Mrs. Bergson just offered to help me launch Chicks with Sticks. I guess it’s only fair that I return the favor.
“Deal?” she says.
I nod reluctantly. “Deal.”
Two days later I’m at the rink as promised. I stand by the door for a few minutes, watching Tristan warm up. Stewart is right—he’s really good. Phenomenal, in fact.
Mrs. Bergson spots me and motions me over. “There you are,” she says. “I was worried you weren’t coming.”
“A deal’s a deal.” I try not to sound too grumpy.
“That’s the spirit!” She smiles. “I have some good news for you. I’ve managed to carve out some ice time for your new club on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons after school. And the manager is willing to waive the rink fee. He’s even going to put an ad in the newsletter for ‘Chicks with Sticks.’ ”
“Wow!” My grumpiness melts away at this news.
Mrs. Bergson holds up a pair of skates. White figure skates. I haven’t worn anything but hockey skates for about a hundred years. “A present for you, for being such a good sport.”
I sit down on a nearby bench to lace up, then step tentatively onto the ice. Figure skates are different from hockey skates—they have toe picks on the front of the blades, for one thing. Hockey is all about speed, not jumps and twirls. We don’t need toe picks.
I push off and glide—and although I stumble a few times, I quickly start feeling confident. I speed up a little, and try a few crossovers, hoping Tristan’s watching. Out of the corner of my eye I can see that he is. Unfortunately, he’s also watching a few seconds later when I trip over my left toe pick and go sprawling.
He gives me one of his cool glances, then turns to Mrs. Bergson. “I thought you said she coul
d skate.” His words are as clipped and hard as the ice I’m sitting on.
Furious, I scramble to my feet. Mrs. Bergson puts a restraining hand on my arm.
“Cassidy is one of the best skaters I’ve ever seen,” she tells him, which is high praise coming from a former Olympic champion.
Somewhat mollified, and determined not to make a total fool of myself in front of Tristan, I push off again and this time I make it all the way around the perimeter of the rink without stumbling once.
“Backward this time,” calls Mrs. Bergson. “And pick up the speed.”
Piece of cake, I think, and instantly find myself facedown on the ice again, thanks to the idiotic toe picks.
“Can’t I just wear my hockey skates?” I plead.
Mrs. Bergson shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it, Cassidy, you’ll adjust. Now, let’s try some side-by-side work.” She positions Tristan to my left, with his right hand on my waist and my left arm extended across his chest. He crooks his left elbow, and takes my hand in his. His fingers are rigid with disapproval.
“This is called the Open Killian position,” Mrs. Bergson tells me. She cocks her head to one side and gives us the once-over. “You’re certainly well matched,” she says. “You make a very good-looking couple.”
I stiffen. Tristan inhales sharply, a sure sign he doesn’t like this idea any more than I do.
“Now, Tristan, partner her around the rink.”
As we move awkwardly forward, I glance up at the bleachers, hoping that none of my hockey buddies are around to see me.
Our first practice is a disaster. I’m not picking the basics up at all, and I feel clumsy and uncoordinated. It’s so different from hockey! I spend half the time sitting on my butt on the ice, and Tristan doesn’t make it any easier. He just looks at me like I’m some kind of science experiment gone very, very bad.
By the end of the hour I’m frustrated, sore, and close to tears, which is not a normal feeling for me where sports are involved.
“I can’t believe she ever thought this would work,” Tristan mutters under his breath as we skate over to where Mrs. Bergson is waiting.
“I’d like to see you in a scrimmage, Mr. Fancypants Berkeley!” I snap back at him, wishing I had my hockey stick so I could smack him with it. “You wouldn’t last thirty seconds.” Furious, I stomp off the rink.
Mrs. Bergson follows me. “Cassidy,” she says gently.
“What?”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s going to take some work to get you up to speed, but you, my dear, are a natural athlete and a fine skater. You have exceptional balance and lovely, crisp footwork, and best of all, you’re strong.”
The tears spill over and I lean down and unlace my skates, hoping she won’t notice. “I don’t feel strong—I feel stupid. I can’t do this.”
She pats me on the shoulder. “Never say ‘I can’t.’ ‘I can’t’ is a limit, and life is about breaking through limits. Say ‘I will’ instead.” She passes me a tissue. “This sport is simply ballroom dancing on ice. All we’re going to do is develop your grace and rhythm and style.”
She doesn’t think I have grace? She doesn’t think I have rhythm or style? Has she never seen me do a triple deke? I’m poetry in motion.
“Come back Thursday afternoon after school,” she tells me. “I’ll help you with ‘Chicks with Sticks,’ and then we’ll try again.”
I blow my nose. This whole thing is the worst idea in the history of the world. Why on earth did I say yes? The problem is, I can’t back out now. Not with Mrs. Bergson being so nice about helping me with my community service project. I have no choice but to stick it out.
Final score: Mom, Mrs. Bergson, and Tristan Berkeley: 1. Cassidy: another big fat zero.
Jess
“This is quite shocking!”
—Pride and Prejudice
It starts as a single whisper and quickly spreads, like ripples from a stone dropped in a pond. The solo list is posted. In a flash the music room is buzzing with excitement. Mr. Elton, our choir director, pretends not to notice.
“From the top, ladies,” he says, tapping his baton on the music stand in front of him.
Obediently, we burst into the opening notes of “Lirum bililirum.” It’s an Italian madrigal, and the upbeat tempo and cheerful tune don’t really match up with the lyrics, which are all about waiting for love. As I dutifully sing my part, I can’t help thinking, I can totally relate. I close my eyes as the melody soars, imagining myself singing it to Darcy Hawthorne.
“Le ses an che t’vo mi ben”—I have loved you for six years. Well, okay, maybe it’s not been six whole years that I’ve had a crush on Emma’s brother, but still, it’s been a long time. “Ma t’aspet che l’so ben”—I’ve been waiting for you so long—“Ch’al fin sclopi per amor”—that I shall end by bursting with love.
Oh, yeah. That about covers it.
Between thinking about Darcy and wondering if my name is on the list, rehearsal seems agonizingly long. The minute the final bell rings I find myself in the middle of a very undignified herd of MadriGals, all stampeding for the door.
We race for the bulletin board down the hall where the list is posted. My voice teacher and I worked for weeks on my audition piece, which I thought was as good as anything I’ve ever sung. The MadriGals enter a big regional choral competition every year—this time around it’s down in New Haven—and the winning groups go on to nationals. Colonial Academy usually places pretty well, and about ten years ago they actually made it to nationals. Mr. Elton is hoping for a repeat victory. I’m hoping for a chance to sing a solo onstage at the Civic Opera House in Chicago.
“Yes!” says Savannah, punching her fist in the air.
Okay, I think, so Savannah made it. She deserved to. I heard her audition, and it was flawless. But I’m pretty sure mine was just as good. Maybe even better. I crane my neck to see over her shoulder, but she’s a lot taller than me and everyone’s pushing and shoving and I get bumped out of the way.
Two seniors and a sophomore start jumping up and down when they spot their names, then Adele lets out a whoop and throws her arms around me. My heart leaps. Does that mean I made it?
No, it means she made it.
I hug her back anyway.
A brief image flashes through my mind: me, standing by the piano in the auditorium, singing “O Waly, Waly” for Mr. Elton. It’s one of my favorite madrigals. I loved it even before I knew it was a madrigal—it shares the same melody as the Scottish ballad “The Water is Wide.” My mother has a recording of Eva Cassidy singing it, and the haunting melody gives me goosebumps every time I listen to it. It gave me goose bumps during my audition, too. I poured my heart into the words that afternoon: “The water is wide, I cannot get o’er, and neither have I wings to fly. Give me a boat that will carry two, and both shall row, my love and I.”
Mr. Elton had smiled and thanked me when I finished, and scribbled some notes on his pad of paper. That must have been a good sign, right? That must have meant that I earned a solo spot.
The crowd surges again and I’m swept up right next to the wall this time. I scan the list.
I scan it again.
My name isn’t on it.
There has to be some kind of mistake! I just know I was as good as Savannah and Adele. But it’s true. I wasn’t picked for a solo, or even for a duet.
Tears sting my eyes and I blink them back, trying not to let my disappointment show. There’s a swarm of girls around Savannah and Adele and the other girls whose names are listed, and I join them to offer my congratulations.
“I’m so happy for you guys,” I tell them, and I mean it. But at the same time it’s hard not to feel crushed. Ever since my mother and I had that talk the night of the meteor shower, I followed her advice and threw myself heart and soul into working on my audition. I really truly tried my best. This time, though, my best wasn’t good enough.
I turn away and head for the door. Nothing seems to be going
right for me this year, at school or anywhere else. I’m not good enough at the thing I love to do more than anything else in the whole world, my best friend is three thousand miles away, and her brother barely knows I exist. Mom keeps telling me it’s just growing pains, and that everything will settle down eventually, but it sure doesn’t feel that way right now.
I hear footsteps behind me and turn to see Adele running down the hall. She links her arm through mine. “Come on, roomie,” she says. “I’m taking you downtown for ice cream.”
“Why?” I say miserably, once we’re out of earshot of the others. “I didn’t make it.”
“You deserved to,” she says loyally. “And you really, really helped me. When I think of all those hours you spent listening to me practice my audition piece—you deserve at least an ice-cream cone for that.” She gives me a sidelong glance. “Maybe even a sundae.”
I know she’s trying to cheer me up, so I muster a smile. We grab our jackets from the rack by the door and step outside to find that it’s snowing again.
“Uh, maybe ice cream isn’t such a good idea,” I tell her.
She laughs. “What are you talking about? It’s never too cold for ice cream.”
We swing by the dorm to get Frankie, who is furious when she hears that I didn’t make the cut and that Savannah did.
“It’s obviously a conspiracy,” she says darkly. “You have a much better voice than she does. Her father probably pulled some strings in Washington.”
Somehow, this makes me feel a lot better even though I know it’s not true.
As the three of us shiver our way across the quad, we decide that maybe it really is too cold for ice cream, and opt for the café on Main Street instead, where we plop into a trio of cozy armchairs and order hot chocolate from the coffee bar.
“I thought March is the month that’s supposed to come in like a lion, not January,” Adele complains. She’s from San Francisco, and they don’t get much snow there.
Ever since school started again we’ve been blasted with one storm after another. Usually we have two more class periods after MadriGals, but they closed school early today so that all the teachers and administrators who don’t live on campus could make it home.
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