Any Way You Slice It

by Kristine Carlson Asselin

  Bad news. Car is totaled after all. No more rides.

  My heart sinks. How am I going to get to the rink?

  It might finally be time to confess.

  I spend all evening trying to come up with a plan. Trying to figure out the right words, the thing that’s going to be the magic bullet and make everything better.

  The next morning, before anyone leaves for work, I creep into the living room. For once, I’m glad they’re all early risers. Al Roker reports the weather on the Today show in the background, but no one is watching. Grams knits on the couch and Dad stares at something on his laptop.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I can do this. “Can you all listen for a minute?”

  Dad looks up irritably. “I’m on a deadline, hon. Can it wait? Troy is waiting for me to get back to them on something before the show airs.”

  Troy. Now he’s on a first-name basis with the dude.

  “Not really.” I push my shoulders back.

  I can do this.

  Grams puts her knitting down on the sofa, and Mom drifts in from the kitchen. “Is everything okay? Are you sick? I knew all that mucking around in water the other night was going to make someone sick.”

  “No. I need to tell you something.” I think about what I want to say. “It’s important, Dad.”

  “I’m listening.” He closes the laptop but leaves it resting on his lap. “Is it something about college? I was hoping we’d have a chance to talk about Johnson and Wales again.” This is the thought that gets him to perk up. “Maybe we can get Paul Steen to come back.”

  The anger bubbles up from my stomach, but I force myself to stay rational. I’m trying to confess something important, and the only thing he can do is harp on about college some more. “No, it’s not about that.”

  He sighs. “Okay, then. What? The show? I think they’re going to come back and try to film a few closing shots now that things are cleaned up.” He’s tapping his fingers on the closed laptop. The tap-tap-tapping is making it hard for me to think.

  I glance at Mom for any shred of encouragement or at least an irritated look at Dad. She’s looking expectant, but she’s quiet. Grams’s hands are folded in her lap.

  “It’s not about the show.” I pause for a second and then just say it. “I’ve been playing hockey with the Rink Rats.” It comes out in a rush; because once I start I can’t stop. “I’m pretty good, we’re still mostly losing, but I’m having a great time, and I can’t believe I love it so much.”

  It feels like the air has been sucked out of the room. Mom actually gasps out loud.

  Dad stands up and shoves the laptop into its sleeve. I imagine hot lava bubbling just under the surface of his red face. “How many times have we had this conversation, Penelope? Playing hockey is off the table. It’s too dangerous.”

  I lift my head and stare into his face. “We’ve only had this conversation once, Dad.” I put the emphasis on the word “Dad.” “And I was eight.” My breath is coming in short waves. “I’ve been playing for a few weeks and I’ve been so afraid to tell you because I knew you’d react like this. I’m not eight anymore. I’m fifteen. I should be able to choose the sport I want to play. I shouldn’t have to work forty hours a week in a pizza kitchen. I know you’re worried about college, but it’s not for two more years. Please let me enjoy this. Please just let me enjoy the rest of high school.”

  Mom opens her mouth, but a look from Dad makes her close it again. Grams picks up her afghan again and is frantically knitting and pearling, as if her life depends on it.

  Dad breathes through his nose. The laptop gets shoved into his backpack, and he walks to where I’m standing.

  Grams clears her throat. “Adam,” she says, almost warningly.

  Dad looks at her like he’s just noticing her for the first time. “You knew. You knew and you didn’t tell me.” He straightens his shoulders. “I can’t believe you lied to us. Yes, we had this conversation when you were eight. We’re having it again now. Hockey is not an option. If I hear of you even thinking about playing, I’ll pull the sponsorship of the team. And you’ll be grounded for the rest of the year. Is that clear?”

  I meet his gaze defiantly, but I can’t find the words to match. “Yes. It’s clear.”

  But it doesn’t mean I’m going to obey.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  It’s my own little act of rebellion. Crumbs, bits of paper, salt and cheese … all unceremoniously dumped on the floor. It looks clean enough after the other night, but Dad has a contractor coming in to replace the tile. So it really doesn’t matter if I brush the gunk off the table rather than sweep them neatly into my hand to toss in the garbage.

  I’ve made a decision. It’s finally time to tell Jake. As long as I’m being honest with people, and no matter what the consequences are. I’ve got to come clean.

  Ha. Clean.

  I’m supposed to be at practice right now, but I told the guys I needed to skip today. I’m all about disobeying Dad, but I’m not stupid. I figured I should at least give it a couple of days. Make sure he’s not trailing me before I start sneaking around again.

  Lori spent a good chunk of yesterday afternoon talking to people at school about hockey. She keeps texting me with all sorts of quotes and what she calls “research.” Maybe I’m taking it out on Warren because I’m angry at Dad, but I’m more focused than ever to get this article written and submitted. And I don’t even care if my name is on the byline. Lori and I are going to coauthor.

  “Afternoon, Blades.”

  My heart skips a beat. He’s wearing that Sherpa-lined hoodie again.

  “You’re, ah, dripping there.” Jake points to the dishrag.

  “Yeah, doesn’t matter.” I throw the rag onto the nearest table and throw my arms around him. “How was practice?”

  “Wow, that’s some greeting.” He pushes me away slightly and gives me a quick kiss, before furtively glancing toward the kitchen.

  I punch his arm. “No one’s looking.”

  “But how do I know the cameras aren’t rolling?” He laughs. “That Troy Depalma is a sneaky one; he might be behind the chip rack.”

  “Yeah. Right.” I pull him toward a booth, and push him into it. “I need to tell you something.”

  He grimaces. “That sounds serious.”

  I take a deep breath and plow forward, just like with my parents. “I’m not allowed to play hockey anymore. My dad thinks it’s too dangerous and forbid me from playing.”

  Jake’s mouth hangs open. I can almost see the gears turning in his head.

  “Are you going to say something?” I lean forward and reach for his hand.

  “What are you going to do? How can we convince him?” He shakes his head, like he’s trying to get water out of his ear. “You’ve got to play. You’re a natural. How can you not play?” He looks at me and cocks his head, and I know the gears are locking into place. He’s figuring it out. “How is it that he’s let you play this long, but is forbidding you now?”

  I nod my head. “I’ve been lying to them. At first I didn’t want to tell them because I knew he’d hit the roof—I figured I’d practice with you a few days and then stop. No harm, no foul. I just didn’t know I’d love it so much.”

  “I should have known something was off,” he says, and puts his hand on my arm. “You’ve been acting weird since the beginning. You didn’t want Coach to call your parents. You were hyper-worried about what the team and what Warren was going to say to the people from the show.” A noise in the kitchen makes both of us look up.

  “It’s just Jorge.” I take a deep breath. “What were you going to say?”

  “Why? Why won’t your dad let you play? Maybe we can fix it—make him realize it’s not as dangerous as it seems.”

  I stare out the front window as a motorcycle cruises past. “He got hurt really bad in high school, and he never played again. He still gets headaches sometimes.” I close my eyes. “The day you dared me to shoot the puck into the
net, we’d had a fight about college. I probably wouldn’t have even agreed to take the shot if I hadn’t been so pissed off.”

  Jake chuckles, but puts his hand up in apology at the look on my face. “I’m sorry, it’s just that the thought of being rebellious by playing hockey is hilarious.”

  “Anyway, I loved it. I mean, you were annoying,” I pause to smile at his mock distress. “But it felt so right from the first moment. I just wanted to enjoy it for a while without fighting with him.”

  “It just got easier not to say anything.” I laugh when I think of all the rides I’ve had to arrange, and the times Jules and Grams have subbed for me at work, and I wonder if it’s really been easier.

  Jake cringes. “Do you see a trend here, Pen?” He pokes my arm. “Maybe you need to start trusting people. I mean, you’re a junior in high school. You’re a responsible person. If you tell your parents you’re doing something you love, don’t you think they’ll respect you for it? I know your parents from hanging around Slice, and they’re not horrible people.”

  “I tried that. I already confessed, and if he hears I’m playing hockey, I’m grounded.” I sit up and grab Jake’s hand. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

  “Not that I would have helped you lie.” He squints at me. “Or actually, I might have. We’ve been getting better with you on the team.”

  “Just shut up. I’m trying to apologize.” I squeeze his hand.

  “Apology accepted.” He pulls me into a bear hug. “Just promise me you’ll tell me from now on. I think I’ve proved I’m trustworthy.”

  I sink into the hug and put my arms around him.

  He leans back. “So what are you going to do?”

  I take a deep breath. “I don’t want to give up hockey, but I’m exhausted from lying to everyone.”

  “Good, ’cause I don’t want to help you sneak around, Penelope.” He uses my full name and I stiffen. “How on earth did you get away with having Lori help you for so long?”

  “Money.” I shrug. “It’s a powerful motivator.” I pull away from him and cross my arms. “It’s not like you don’t have enough practice. You let everyone around here believe that you’re a troublemaker.”

  He grimaces. “It’s easier to let them believe I’m a fighter than try to convince them they’ve had it all wrong all these years.”

  I laugh. “Why is it so hard for you to understand that it was easier for me not to tell my parents, when you’re essentially doing the same thing with everyone at school.”

  “I never thought of it like that.” He leans forward with his elbows on the table. “After everyone thought I had anger issues in the sixth grade, it was just easier to have people believe what they wanted if it meant they’d stay out of my business.”

  I push him and he almost falls off the bench. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll try talking to my parents again about hockey, if you tell the whole school that you’re not a delinquent; that it’s all been a misunderstanding.”

  He looks at me for a long time. I know he’s weighing the consequences. It won’t be easy for him to come clean. Some people might not believe him. I’m not sure he’ll ever convince Principal Jones.

  I think about my own situation. I can only imagine how angry Dad will be if I continue to sneak around behind his back and play hockey. It might sound stupid to a lot of people, since it’s not like I’m doing drugs. But I’ve gone against a direct order, and I’m doing something he considers to be extremely dangerous.

  I take Jake’s hand. “What do you say?”

  He squeezes my hand, but he shakes his head. “I’m not sure I can do it.”

  “Yes, you can. You just told me you’re a trustworthy guy. I want the school to know the same thing.” I pause. “Besides, you might want college scouts not to hear that you’re bad news.”

  And in convincing Jake to come clean, I’ve convinced myself. This is more than hockey. I want to be what my parents think I am: trustworthy.

  “Hey, Warren!” Some random sophomore calls out in the middle of the crowded hallway. “Didn’t realize Team Reject might actually be better than you guys.” He waves the paper around. “Says here, they have heart and are more fun to watch than the “ruthless” varsity team.”

  I cringe. The article went live in this morning’s weekly school newsletter. Online and print copies.

  Everywhere.

  Warren stops and looks for the voice. “What? There’s no way in hell that team is better than us.”

  “Hey, it’s written in the paper. Anything written must be true, right?” The sophomore is trying to be sarcastic—brave dude—but it’s lost on Warren.

  “Where’s Gomes?” Warren shouts from the other end of the hallway, and it’s as if the Red Sea parts down the corridor. “He’s got something to do with this.” He grabs the paper from the kid and waves it as he strides toward us. Everyone scurries out of his way.

  Lori slams her locker shut and leans against it. She whispers, “We’ve awakened the sleeping giant.”

  “I thought you might actually get away with it. I wasn’t sure he could read.” Jake shakes his head. “Besides, he’s had it coming for years. You guys were just the first ones brave enough to do anything.”

  “I think maybe it’s more stupid than brave.” I chuckle. “I wonder how my dad will react. He’s been battling with Tim over being the best for years, too. If he wasn’t so angry at me, he might love the irony.”

  It’s a great article—Lori interviewed the coach, the rink manager, and several of the kids on the team with questions we came up with together. The angle is that the rink is a great alternative for kids who love the sport and want to play but who can’t play varsity. It’s well written and articulate, and for that reason we assumed no one would read it or care.

  In the end, I promised her my firstborn not to mention my name—no reason to throw salt in the wound—but we can’t help referring to Slice as the sponsor. It makes a nice sidebar to mention that the attention generated by the popular pizza joint breathed life into a stagnant program. And of course, she mentions Local Flavor. We’re still not sure when the show is going to air, or even if they’re done filming. I’ve seen the van around town all weekend shooting cutaways. I don’t know how she did it, but Lori even got a quote from the varsity coach saying he might consider using the Rink Rats as a feeder team for his own program.

  None of that matters if Warren murders us in the hallway. Sure, we knew it would piss him off, but neither of us considered the actual outcome.

  Warren’s reading the paper as he walks down the corridor. A few of his teammates appear out of the crowd and hover behind him, unsure of what they’re supposed to be doing. The end of the hallway is clear, and for a second I consider grabbing Lori and Jake and making a run for it. But that would be too obvious. It’s time to face the music.

  Warren stops in front of us and waves the paper. His face is red and his jaw is clenched so hard his teeth might break. At first he doesn’t say a word; he just opens his mouth and shuts it again. “You.” He points at Lori. “You wrote this article.”

  “Yes. Yes I did.” She nods. “And you apparently read the article.”

  “How can you say the Rejects are better than varsity? They are just a bunch of wannabes.” He points at Jake. “And you agree with her. You’re better than we are? No way in hell.”

  Jake clears his throat. “Actually, if you read the article, you’ll notice that nowhere in the article did anyone actually say the Rink Rats were better.” He gestures in deference to Warren. “I think we can all agree that varsity is, in fact, the more technically proficient team. No one can argue that you are a bigger, stronger, and more skilled hockey team.”

  I love it when Jake goes into nerdy sportscaster mode.

  Warren grins, “Then you’ll print another article that says that.” He motions to Caroline. “Next edition, another article.”

  Caroline nods her head, but then disappears into the crowd. I’m sure Warren thinks
the yearbook and the newspaper are the same thing—and no one is about to correct him.

  “But,” Jake continues as if the interruption never happened, “sometimes when a team has to work harder and be smarter about how they play, they become a better team. A team that enjoys each other. A team that plays with heart.”

  “You’re saying you’re smarter now?” He glances around as if daring someone to agree with Jake.

  Jake reaches out and takes my hand. It feels amazing to be standing in solidarity. My heart soars, even though we’re about to die.

  Where is the school administration when you need them?

  I’m not sure where the rest of our team is either … and then Carter and Flores step out from the crowd.

  Jimmy walks to the middle of the floor. With the checkered pattern on the linoleum, it’s almost like he’s taking his place on the chessboard. He looks around at the crowd. Someone hoots from the back.

  “Yeah, that’s what we’re saying.” Jimmy’s voice wavers, but he keeps talking. “We play smarter. Who the hell cares if we win? We have fun.” He glances at me and smiles. “Right, Pen?”

  I’ve never been prouder of Flores. “Right, Jimmy!”

  “I say we settle this with a game. We’ll crush you.” Warren crumples the paper and throws it at Jake. “And then we’ll see which team is better or smarter.”

  The crowd murmurs excitedly; they think it’s a great idea.

  Warren glances down at our clasped hands. He crosses his arms and straightens his back. Through his gritted teeth, he says, “I never really wanted that date, Spaulding. Just so you know.”

  “Good, because I was never going to go through with it.” Under my breath as Warren pushes his way back through the crowd, I say to Jake, “This is ridiculous. They’re going to crush us.”

  “Us? So, what, you’re playing now?” Jake shifts his backpack. “Doesn’t that mean you’re going to have to convince your parents?”

  “How can I not?” I look at Jake, hoping he agrees. “They’ve got to let me play. Just one last time.” My head is spinning. “They’re still going to crush us.”