“Mom doesn’t want to impose. Besides, I dropped a small fortune at the gas company this morning. No way I can cover her New Year’s rates—she’s a total extortionist.” I pour another cup of milk into the cupcake bowl and scrape the sides with a rubber spatula, beaters growling against the paste.
“This is so not fair.”
“No kidding. What am I supposed to tell Will about our date? I haven’t even …” Perfect. So not how I wanted to tell her about me and Will, especially after canceling Christmas brunch on her yesterday. I flip off the mixer and tip the beaters upright. “Will asked me out for New Year’s. But it doesn’t matter, because I can’t go.”
Dani’s eyebrows shoot up under her corkscrew bangs. She’s gawking at me like I just pulled a cupcake out of … well … somewhere cupcakes aren’t supposed to come out of.
“Smoke break. Let’s go.” She grabs my arm and stomps across the kitchen, dragging me out through the back door.
“When did this happen?” she demands once we’re outside. “How?”
I lean back on the wall and rub my arms so the cold won’t stick. “At his house on Friday.”
“Ah, you mean the private tutoring session formerly known as ladies’ night?”
I shrug. “We were working on his essay and goofing around, and then … well … he kissed me. Like, for real kissed me. And then he asked me to dinner and Amir’s party.”
“He kissed you, and you didn’t tell me? That’s totally withholding information!” Her mouth hangs open, breath freezing white around the gaping hole.
“Relax, Detective Bozeman.” I laugh, but it comes out kind of jagged on account of I’m shivering my ass off in my supershort Hurley Girl getup. “This week was crazy with work and Christmas and everything—”
“You couldn’t call me?” Dani folds her arms over her chest. “Or tell me about it any of the five million times I saw you at work?”
“It was only six days ago! I didn’t want to get into it on the phone. And Trick and Mom are always around here, and we haven’t really hung out alone since—”
“Don’t remind me. Know who I spent ladies’ night with? Frankie Torres. Who is not a lady. And the Friday before that, we ditched plans to go to the game. And before that you had practice, so I didn’t even see you. Something wrong with this picture?”
Guilt bubbles in my stomach, but I swallow it down. She’s more upset that I didn’t tell her about Will two seconds after it happened than she is about an estrogen imbalance in her weekend plans. “You know I have a lot going on right now. I’ve only got five more weeks to train, and the scholarship—”
“Oh, right. How could I forget the all-important scholarship?” Dani throws her arms up, alerting a seagull that’s camped out behind the Dumpster. He screeches at her once and darts back into the shadows.
“It is important. Super-important. We’re talking about my life’s dream!”
She jams her hands in her apron pocket, shoulders clenched tight against the cold. “How come you never talk about it, then? You’re always gushing about Will and Josh and hockey, but you hardly ever talk about figure skating. And when you do, it’s never about how much you love the ice or how excited you are for the competition. All you care about is getting out of here, and that scholarship is a means to an end. You act like Watonka’s a prison sentence.”
The blood rushes to my head, chasing away the chill. “You act like it’s the only place in the world that matters. But it isn’t. There’s so much more to—”
“Yeah, yeah, I get you.” Dani edges backward to the kitchen doorway. “You hate Watonka, and you’ll do anything to leave. So now you’re hooking up with random hockey boys in exchange for ice time? Classy, girl. Real classy.” She kicks a chunk of ice across the pavement and disappears into the kitchen.
Back inside, I finish up that clumpy batch of cupcakes—passable, but definitely not my best work—and hit the floor for my breakfast shift. Thankfully, everyone in this town must be home ogling their Christmas loot, because it’s dead today. Dani and I have the space to work around each other, talking only when we absolutely have to. She runs my food when I’m in the bathroom, I deliver her drinks when she’s stuck with a chatty customer. She buses one of my tables, I cash out one of hers. We work as a team to get things done, but we don’t look at each other. And when Nat and Marianne show up for the next shift, I don’t wait around to split a plate of Trick’s corned beef hash at the prep counter or offer her a preview of my latest cupcake experiments. I just hang my apron on the hook, pack two non-clumpy cupcakes for the road, flip open my phone, and text the only person I know who doesn’t have any expectations of me—past, present, or future.
My blank canvas.
meet me @ fillmore in 1 hr? :-)
Josh leans against the signpost and tightens his laces, head bent beneath the thin ice warnings so that when he looks up at me and smiles, the Department of Parks and Recreation sends me a totally new message.
DANGER:
JOSH BLACKTHORN SMILING!
“Thanks for coming,” I say, returning his grin. “You totally saved me.”
He stands and blocks out the rest of the warnings. “Bad day at the diner?”
“Put it this way. Another five minutes and they’d be calling it ‘going waitress’ instead of ‘going postal.’”
“Wanna talk about it?”
“It’s stupid.” I say. “Things have been a little off with me and Dani lately. And now she’s pissed because Will asked me to Amir’s New Year’s thing and I didn’t call her five seconds later with all the gory details.”
“Um …” Josh rubs his head, looking out over the lake. “Wow.”
“Holy melodrama, right? Told you it was stupid.”
“No, I … um … so you’re going to the party with Will?”
“I’m not going anywhere with anyone. I have to babysit my brother.” I stab the ice with my toe pick and sigh. But then I realize I’m not exactly taking a stand against melodrama here, so I plaster on another smile. “Anyway, in exchange for your heroic selflessness in meeting me on such short notice, I have a present for you.” I reach into my jacket and fish out his USB drive.
“You’re regifting my music? Can you even do that?”
“No way.” I shake my head. “That would be a complete gift violation. This is your drive, but my music. Totally reloaded. There’s even some old obscure blues stuff on there from Trick.”
“Nicely done, Avery.” Josh slips the drive into his pocket and tugs his hat over his ears. “But don’t be too grateful. My motives weren’t all that selfless. I need help with the—shoot. Hang on.” He checks his ever-buzzing phone. Great. I hope Cougar Mama doesn’t show up at Fillmore. An ex-stripper against an ex-skater? Ladies and gentlemen, place your bets.
“Sorry, one sec.” He sends out a text, turns off the phone, and buries it in his jacket pocket. “Anyway, I totally suck at those backward crossover things you showed us. So, yeah. Help.”
I laugh. “Follow me.”
The indoor rink is definitely better for technical work, but I was actually starting to miss the ruggedness of Fillmore, my original secret spot. If I was more clearheaded when I left work, I probably would’ve just come here alone. But for once, I didn’t stop to analyze everything. I just did what I felt like doing.
I felt like being with Josh. No kissing, no coach secrets and weird family politics, no subtext. Just two friends hitting the ice.
Now I lead him through backward speed drills, slowly working him up to the crossovers. After several falls (his) and laughs (mine), he’s finally getting it, and I give him a wide space to perfect his moves.
I run through my figures as he works, looping across the runoff, skates rubbing uncomfortably against my toes and ankles. The leather has stretched with my growing feet; it’s thinned and scuffed in spots, torn near the eyelets, but the blades are still sharp. Like all my skates, my father got these for me. A brand-new, custom-made pair. I spent months breaking them in, working them on the ice until they were perfect, soft and buttery.