Any Way You Slice It

by Kristine Carlson Asselin

  “Yeah, but we’ll go down looking like the underdog. People will relate to us; and Warren and the varsity team will only look like the big bullies they are, so it’s a win-win.”

  I’m not sure how he can call us getting crushed “win-win” but I don’t say anything. Because there’s the real potential that we could get crushed—literally. But there’s no way I’m missing this, even if it means being grounded for the rest of my life.

  There have been some legendary fights at Vernon High School. The memory of some of them are fused into the collective membranes of the community, while others are passed down through the generations by word of mouth. It’s weird because even though Jake is known to be one of the biggest fighters in the history of the school, there’s never been a credible witness to any of his fights.

  Of course that’s because there haven’t really been any fights. Principal Jones generally trusts the critical mass. So when a kid comes forward with a black eye and blames Jake, she takes his word for it. It sucks, but there it is. She’d rather punish Jake than bear the wrath of a helicopter parent and a potential lawsuit.

  News about something as big as a fight travels fast. I hear about it almost immediately after it happens. For once, Caroline doesn’t have the scoop, though. The story comes from Ashley Spring—she’s a varsity hockey tramp, so it’s immediately obvious her source can’t be trusted. I don’t know how I ever believed any of those stories.

  “All of varsity hockey witnessed it!” she says in a loud voice in front of the salad bar at lunch. “Jake cornered Warren during gym and beat him senseless, until someone broke them up.”

  It’s just that no one besides varsity hockey can corroborate.

  “What the hell happened?” I ask Jake as soon as I see him in the hallway before seventh period. “They’re lying, aren’t they?”

  He sighs. “Jones made me sit there and listen while Warren told a very convincing story about how I attacked him under the bleachers and punched his lights out. Apparently I’m pissed about comments he made this morning about a newspaper article and an upcoming hockey grudge match. Thing is,” he says, swinging his arms, “I didn’t have a very good alibi. I was sitting under the bleachers during gym.”

  “What’s she going to do?” I say, but something in his tone tells me he’s already accepted the punishment.

  “Jones is giving me detention every day after school this week. I’m not sure she believes I really did it, because she’s not suspending me. But it means I’m going to miss practice all week.” He shrugs.

  “You’ve got to appeal it.” I can’t believe he’s okay with people thinking he’s a thug. He’s okay standing there and taking it.

  He shakes his head. “I just have to get through next year, and then we all graduate. No big deal.”

  “It is a big deal. You’re innocent. What happened to due process?” I’m pacing up and down the hall, like a caged animal. “This is not fair.”

  “She’s got a dozen witnesses. And a school board with a zero-tolerance policy. Her hands are tied.” He shrugs again. “It’s nothing new.”

  “You promised me you’d try to convince her,” I say.

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “It’s a V-6. Smooth ride, right?”

  Carter isn’t my first choice for a ride, but he’ll do. I just have to ignore his commentary the whole way.

  I’ve got to be at the rink. I’m not going to sneak around anymore, but I promised Jake I would get to the rink and tell Coach why he can’t practice. And then tell them all I have to quit.

  How can I be at the rink and not suit up?

  Coach drops the bomb as soon as we’re all sitting on the bench. They’ve planned an exhibition game at the rink on Saturday, not to prove who is better, but to raise awareness for the hockey program. “We’ll trot out the peewees for some drills.” He’s practically jumping up and down. “This is going to be huge. We’re going to raise awareness for this team, for the rink, and for hockey in general.” He gets a faraway look in his eyes and he starts talking like we’re not even in the room. “We’ll have some contests and have the crowd come out and try to hit the net for prize money.”

  The guys do the team cheer, and I smile in spite of myself. They’re getting excited, and I hate myself for what I’m about to say.

  I clear my throat to get their attention. “I need to tell you guys something.”

  Coach doesn’t hear me; he raises his hand to get us to quiet down. “The only problem is that Gomes won’t be playing on Saturday.”

  The guys go from testosterone tough to silent in an instant. I look around at them and wait for the punch line. “It’s a joke, right?”

  Jimmy says the words we’re all thinking. “What do you mean, Jake’s not playing?”

  Coach cracks his neck before speaking. “I had it all set up with Frank Sutton, the VHS varsity coach before I heard the news. It was too late to change all the plans. Jake is in detention on Saturday.” He rubs the back of his head. “But don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”

  I think I might hyperventilate.

  Carter pokes my shoulder at me, “Did you know about this?”

  Shaking my head, I close my eyes. “I just thought he was out of practice this week. He didn’t tell me he couldn’t play on Saturday.” I look up at the coach. “There’s no way we can do this without Jake.” The outrage from this afternoon rears its head. “We’re doomed.”

  Not everyone knows about the events of the day, so I fill them in. Coach slams his hand against the nearest locker. “Jake didn’t tell me it was on trumped-up charges. What if I call the principal? Is she reasonable? Will she listen to me as a character witness?”

  The guys are all smirking, looking around.

  “This is high school, Coach.” Mark Temple says. “Not Law and Order.”

  “Cancel it.” I’m looking around the room hoping the rest of the guys will back me up. But no one is biting.

  “We can’t cancel it now,” says Coach. “I’ve already called in a favor and one of the guys from the Bruins is coming in to be the master of ceremonies.”

  Jimmy opens and shuts his mouth a few times. He finally turns to me and says quietly, “Pen. You’re the one who said we should play because we love the game. Not because we care about winning. But because it’s fun.”

  I shake my head. “This isn’t what I meant. Aren’t any of you worried about getting slammed by these guys? They’re bullies with an ax to grind. We’re dead meat out there, and without Jake we’ve got no chance.” Coach and the guys stare at me like I’ve betrayed them.

  “Is that what you really think, Spaulding?” Johnson yells from the other end of the bench. “And I was finally starting to think you might prove me wrong. It’s always been about Gomes for you. He’s the only reason you’re here.”

  They’re wrong. But their disappointed faces make me feel like total crap.

  “Not true.” Coach scowls. “You guys can win without Gomes. And Jimmy’s right. It doesn’t matter if you don’t win. You’ve all come a long way this year. You might not win without Jake at center, but you can certainly play your hearts out.” He looks at me, but he still doesn’t reprimand. “Penelope, will your dad donate some pizza or some prizes or something to give away?”

  This would be the perfect time to tell them I’m quitting, but I nod; this thing is bigger than me.

  I’ve got to beg for Dad’s forgiveness. I’ve got to play in Saturday’s game. I can’t let these guys down; I’ve got to play—even if Dad forbids it. Even if we have no chance of winning and a really good chance of someone getting killed.

  I just hope it’s not going to be me.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “Thanks for driving, Carter,” I say with a nod as I hoist my backpack over my shoulder. “But I can get a ride home. No problem.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t mind,” he says, the locker room door swinging shut behind him.

  Reality is that Ethan Carter is a terribl
e driver. He spent the whole ride over telling me all about the drive train and the transmission and, while that wouldn’t have been too bad if he hadn’t been all over the road, he almost hit the guardrail three times and didn’t seem to notice. All I could think about was how much it would have sucked to be in two car accidents in the same week. With any luck, my parents won’t hear about the first one and will keep letting me drive to school with Lori. Whenever the cute mechanic fixes her car.

  When Grams pulls into the parking lot, she’s beaming from ear to ear. Seriously. She looks like the Cheshire cat. “So you’re still playing, then?” She grins, as I climb into the front seat and throw my bag into the backseat.

  I can’t help it. My eyes tear up and I cover them with my hands.

  “Oh sweetheart, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Grams rubs my shoulder. “What happened?” She rifles through the glove box and pulls out a napkin with a fast-food logo on it. “Here. I don’t have anything else.”

  It’s enough to make me laugh, and I realize how dumb I must look. “I came over to tell them I quit, but I couldn’t do it. Jake can’t play on Saturday, and Coach is … well, he just … I couldn’t tell him.”

  She dabs at my face with the scratchy napkin. “Your father is being an idiot.”

  “Grams, stop it.” I push her hand away.

  “Well he is.” She hits the steering wheel. “When he was your age, he would have died rather than quit hockey. Well …” Her tone softens. “I guess he almost did. You know that’s why he won’t let you play. He knows how close he came to not waking up that day. He doesn’t want that to happen to you.”

  “I need to play on Saturday. I need to make him let me play.” I stare at her face and whisper. “I don’t want to lie anymore. It’s one thing to lie by omission, but this time it would be for real.”

  “Welllll,” she says and I can almost see the lightbulb over her head. “You’re right. There must be a way to convince him.” She glances over at me as she starts the car. “By the way, the television people are at Slice right now.”

  It takes me a minute to make the connection, but then it hits me like a slap shot to the forehead. “I ask him in front of the cameras!”

  Grams nods and smiles. “I didn’t tell you to do that.”

  I mime zipping my lip to show her I’m not telling. “How fast can you drive without hitting the guardrail?”

  Dad’s sitting at the front booth, watching a production assistant move tables and rearrange the chip rack, which haven’t been moved since Gramps died. He’s just patiently letting the makeup lady powder his face.

  “Mr. Spaulding,” Mark Wilder says. “Can you move to this booth? The light is better over here.”

  Sometimes I really don’t get my dad. This is the same guy who wants to lock me up for playing hockey. And he’s just letting these TV people walk all over him. It makes me want to scream.

  The camera guy adjusts the lens as Troy Depalma swoops in and shakes Dad’s hand. In two seconds, they’re chatting across the table like old friends. Three other crew members swarm around, as far as I can tell, just trying to look busy. From my vantage point at the back door, Dad looks old. Tired. Angry as I am, I still know that I’ve contributed to that.

  Grams puts her hand on my shoulder. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “No,” I whisper, brushing a stray hair away from my face.

  What choice do I have? Either I go behind his back and play on Saturday or I find a way to get him to give me permission. Is it really any better to make him give it in front of an audience?

  I cover my eyes with my hands. “How the heck did I get into this situation, Grams? I never wanted to lie to anyone. I’ve never wanted to make them angry. I don’t hate Slice. I just wanted a little freedom.”

  I hear my own voice and it sounds whiny and childish.

  “Why don’t you just tell him that?” It sounds so easy when Grams says it, but I think it might be the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

  Just tell him?

  We stand together and watch them tape the segment. It must be the last thing for them to film. Dad’s talking about taking over the business, about the pride he felt when Slice first won a fan-favorite contest, and about working alongside his own father before he died. I glance over at Grams and watch the tears roll down her face.

  I can’t do it. I can’t interrupt Dad’s moment.

  When the camera crew packs up the equipment, I’m still standing there against the counter. It all feels like slow motion. Like my breathing has slowed down. Or like I’m under water. My feet won’t move.

  “Excuse me, can I get a large slice of bacon pizza?” a voice breaks through my thoughts.

  “I’m sorry, we’re closed for business right now,” I say, not looking away from my last best chance to play hockey on Saturday night. Once the crew is packed up, it’s over.

  “Blades.” Jake waves his hand in front of my face. “Penelope! Anybody home? I’ve been texting you for the last two hours. Where have you been?”

  Like I’m coming out of the deep end of a pool, I shake my head to clear my vision.

  “What’s wrong?” Jake looks like he’s about to jump over the counter at me.

  I shake my head and gesture to the camera crew. “It’s just over, that’s all.”

  “What’s over?” He laughs nervously, and grabs my hand. “What are you talking about?”

  The last of the crew hoists a light onto his back and with a small salute, walks out the front door. Troy Depalma shakes Dad’s hand and waves at me. “Thanks for everything! Be prepared for your business to explode!” And he’s gone.

  “You didn’t tell me you couldn’t play on Saturday.” I want to be angry at him, but I’m just so done with everything. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He shrugs. “I was hoping Jones might change her mind about Saturday. She still might, but I called Coach to give him the bad news.”

  It’s so quiet, the clock on the wall sounds like a time bomb, counting down the seconds. “I know. I went to practice to tell him I needed to quit.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I couldn’t do it, though,” I say so quietly I’m not sure he actually hears me.

  Grams wipes her eyes with a handkerchief.

  “When did you kids get here?” Dad finally notices us. He looks shell-shocked.

  “Oh, Adam, you’re too much.” Grams rolls her eyes and pats me on the shoulder. “It’s late, will one of you young men make sure my granddaughter gets home safely?”

  Jake and Dad reply at the same time. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Jinx,” Jake says with a laugh.

  It feels good to laugh, like the ice that’s been stopping me from moving all evening has finally broken. Grams kisses me on the cheek. “Good luck,” she whispers.

  I turn back to Dad and Jake, both leaning against the counter. “Thanks again, Mr. Spaulding, for sponsoring the team,” Jake says. “We really appreciate it.”

  If Ethan Carter had said the same words, they would have sounded smarmy and insincere, but Jake means it.

  “No problem. Glad to support you guys. How’s it going?” Dad looks like himself again, relaxed, calm, in control.

  I take a deep breath. This is happening.

  Jake glances at me before he speaks again. “Not great. We’ve got this big exhibition match on Saturday and well …” He looks sheepishly down at his feet. “Some of the team can’t play.”

  “That’s dumb,” Dad says emphatically, and I snap to attention.

  What?

  “Don’t these kids have priorities? In my day, you better have a damned good excuse to get out of an important game.” He rubs his head absentmindedly, and I realize he’s thinking about his own concussion.

  “Dad.” It comes out too quiet, so I clear my throat and try again. “Some kids don’t have a choice.”

  The realization of my words hits him like a two-hundred-pound defenseman to the ribs. It literally ren
ders him speechless. He’s opening his mouth, but he’s not saying anything.

  Jake purses his lips and jumps back into the conversation. “Penelope is really good, Mr. Spaulding.” He stops and winks at me. “As good as anyone who’s only been playing a few weeks can be. She’s a natural, Coach says.”

  Dad’s face goes all red and splotchy.

  It’s like he’s apoplectic or something. Or he’s drowning. He’s totally going to hit the roof; I’ve overstepped and I’m going to be in my room until I’m eighty. And then he does something that takes my breath away.

  He starts to cry.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  My dad. Crying. Not ugly tears like when Mom watches a sad movie, but actual tear drops in his eyes, sliding down his face. “I heard you guys talking.” He looks away for a second.

  I try to shake the cobwebs out of my brain and listen to his words.

  “I loved hockey.” He rubs his lip. “But I made a choice to stop playing a really long time ago.”

  I swallow a lump in my throat and chance a quick look at Jake. He’s rapt with attention, staring at my dad. Jake must have found the trophies at school. Only Dad’s staunchest admirers look at him that way.

  “I’ve questioned that choice so many times over the years. I always wondered what might have happened if I’d gone back.” Dad’s focus shifts, and suddenly his gaze is directed at me. “When I heard you the other day”—He gestures to the front booth—“I knew how you felt; having the game you love taken away from you. And I didn’t give you a choice.”

  The tears are flowing down his face now and I really don’t know what to do or say. The only time I’ve ever seen Dad cry was at Grampa’s funeral. This is not how I imagined this conversation.

  Jake shifts uncomfortably. His hand twitches, like he might be thinking about how to reach out and comfort Dad, but at the last second he pulls back.

  I take a step forward and reach my arms around Dad’s neck. It’s been a long time since I’ve hugged him. “I’m sorry I lied to you,” I whisper.