Any Way You Slice It (9 page)

The toilets are technically clean, but there are years of built up sludge trapped in the crevices where the tile meets the floor trim. I pull the putty knife out of my back pocket. It's my best chance at scraping out the black grime—and I'm grateful that Grams remembered.

The knife totally works, but it turns out the grime is decades-old caulking. Once I remove it, the trim starts to bend away from the wall. I fill the bucket with water and bleach, and use a sponge to wipe away the brown gunk. All it needs is a bead of caulking along the edge and it will look like new.

Almost.

As I work my way around the room, I think about what Grams said about hockey. I can't believe she'd be okay with me playing. I wonder if it was only in theory, or if she'd change her mind if I tell her I'm already playing and lying about it. I wonder if she'll help me convince Dad.

I imagine what it was like for Dad to wake up in the hospital, to not have known what happened. Then to find out he was out for at least three months. And then to lose his nerve. I've only been playing a week, and I already can't imagine never lacing up my skates.

Before I realize it, I've scraped the sludge from the edges of the entire room. I take a step back and laugh out loud. It somehow looks cruddier than when I started. What we really need is for one of those shows where they overhaul the whole interior and then lead the family into the renovated restaurant blindfolded. Not the one where the viewers try to insult their way to fifteen seconds of fame.

I dump the dirty water and refresh the bucket with more bleach. My back is killing me—I hope it doesn't affect my game later. The mop in the supply closet sometimes doubles as a de facto doorstopper, so it sometimes gets left outside in the back alley, but it works in a pinch. I use it to push water and bleach around the floor, just like I push the thoughts about my dad around my head.

“We're supposed to be cleaning, not demolishing.”

At the sound of her voice, I'm startled out of my deep thoughts. As I swing around, the mop connects with the bucket, sending dirty, bleachy water streaming across the floor.

Grams had been standing at the doorway, hands on her hips, but she jumps back as water spreads over the threshold and out toward the main restaurant.

It takes five rolls of paper towels for me to blot up all the water. I insist that she let me do the dirty work, since it was my fault in the first place. Mom's going to kill me when she realizes I've used an entire week's worth of paper towels, but Steve always gets irritated when I use the bar rags. When we finish, Grams smiles. “That could have been worse.”

“What was it like?” I blurt out before remembering she hasn't been inside my head listening to my thoughts.

She's looking at me like I have two heads. “Wading through all that water? Weren't you there with me?”

I laugh. “No, I'm sorry. I mean about Dad as a kid.”

She chuckles while tossing a paper towel in the garbage pail. “Your father was pretty much the same as a kid as he is now—driven. He was single-minded. He focused on one thing—hockey—but I guess you know that.” She looks thoughtful. “So, is there something you need to tell me?”

I fake confusion. “Huh? No.”

“I noticed Jake Gomes walked you home the other night. Isn't he on that team at the rink?”

I hadn't expected to hear Jake's name come up in conversation with my grandmother. Sometimes I hate living in a small town.

I'm sure my face betrays all my recent feelings about Jake and hockey all wrapped up together in a complicated jumble. Or maybe I just blush, I'm not sure. “Yeah, I think so,” I mumble.

She collects the array of putty knives and other supplies and tosses them all into the sink. “I ran into Theresa Gomes the other day for the first time in a long time. I miss those days when you kids were little and playing dragons and knights in the backyard.”

For a second I'm afraid my grandmother's slipped into some old-age false memory. “What are you talking about, Grams?”

“When Theresa first moved into the neighborhood, I used to babysit Jake sometimes while I was watching you.” She glances over, surprised at the shocked look on my face.

It feels like I've been hit in the face with a puck without a helmet. “I don't remember that.” My face must be so red; I scurry around the floor to pick up the last of the paper towels and other debris.

“Jake was in here the other night,” she continues. “He's turned into quite a good-looking young man.”

The bell on the front door jingles, and I'm saved from the most embarrassing conversation this side of live television. Lori strolls around the corner. She wrinkles her nose at us. “Do you really have to use so much bleach?”

“You have no idea,” I say, with a smile at Grams. “I promise I'll come back and finish next week.”

Dad says the crew isn't due for two weeks, so there's plenty of time. But with school and practice, I'm not at all sure when that's going to happen.

I try not to think about letting Grams down. Especially when she might be my only hope.

An hour later, I'm standing in the empty women's locker room. My hands are cold as I pull on my gear. I can just about get dressed on my own now, so Lori leaves to get a seat in the stands. But I glance at my wrinkled index card just in case I forget the order.

The smell of bleach is pervasive; like it's stuck on the inside of my nose. I used lotion and antibacterial spray, but nothing will cut through the smell on my hands. When I look down at them, they're shaking.

I'm as ready as I can be having spent only a few days practicing; my regular skating time, plus at least two hours a day when my parents think I'm studying. Thank God for Lori. She's picked me up and brought me to Slice for my regular shifts, where all my tips are now earmarked to pay her for gas. After work I do homework my parents think I've already done until midnight. I'm exhausted and loving it.

I breathe deeply and close my eyes. I imagine the sounds of the crowd and the game around me and I imagine tuning out the distractions as I push the puck down the ice. The goalkeeper moves to block as I pull the stick back. Someone on my left moves in, but I hit the puck. I watch as it flies in slow motion over the goalie's glove and hits the net.

The imaginary crowd chants my name. It scares me out of the daydream.

Time to go.

It's not easy to pull open the door wearing my gloves, but I finally get a grip and
WHAM!
I just miss getting hit in the face.

“Damn it, Jake, you scared the crap out of me!”

He's there, his hand raised to knock on the door again. “Geez, don't open the door right as I'm about to knock then.” He laughs. “You okay? What's taking you so long?”

“Why?” I tug at my jersey. “Don't I look okay?”

“Lori didn't help you today.” It's not a question. He's totally trying not to laugh.

“Oh, crap, what's wrong?” I fumble to smooth down my pants.

He pulls off his glove and reaches out to finger the plastic at my neck. “You've got your pads on backward.”

I feel myself blush. How could I screw that up?

“Shoot. Give me a couple minutes to fix it.” I go back into the locker room.

He cocks his head and grimaces, like he's embarrassed. “If I help you, it will only take a second. We've got to get out on the ice.”

The crowd roars. The game is supposed to start in a few minutes. I take a deep breath. It's against my better judgment, but I nod.

He follows me back into the locker room. I throw off my gloves and pull my jersey over my head. Glancing in the mirror, I grimace. Sure enough, the chest protector is backward. I thought it felt weird, but I'd chalked it up to my first time without Lori's help.

“Stupid,” I say, trying desperately not to think about how I'm about to be standing in front of Jake in only a tank top over my sports bra. He's right there, his breath on the side of my face a combination of cinnamon and coffee, and I risk a look out of the corner of my eye.

“Nah, it could happen to anyone.”

He's so close. His tongue is sticking out of his mouth, in a look of sheer determination. My heart beats harder, as he pulls the Velcro strips and lifts the thing over my head.

I keep my gaze forward as he flips the protector around and pushes it back over my head. His hand brushes the side of my face as he straightens it. My face flushes, and for an instant, our eyes meet.

His hand drops to his side. “Maybe, um, maybe you should do that part,” he says, gesturing at the strip of Velcro that needs to be refastened hanging from the side of my chest.

“Yeah. Thanks,” I mumble, pressing the strips into place. “That was faster than doing it myself.”

He grabs my jersey off the floor and gently puts it over my head. I'm reminded of the first time Lori helped me, but this time I don't exactly feel like a toddler.

Just for a moment, we stand there. Like there's something else to be done. But I'm dressed—the right way this time—and the game is about to start.

An air horn blares from the arena.

“Okay, then,” he says, clapping his hands in a dead-on impression of Coach. “Let's get out there.”

When we step into t
he hallway between the locker room and the ice, Lori is up in the stands. She raises her eyebrows, like she's wondering where we've been together. But she just waves. “Looking good, Sharon!”

I'm glad she remembers the fake name we decided to use to deflect attention. It's probably not fooling anyone.

I step onto the ice and forget about everything else. I keep to the line, Jake directly in front of me with Flores a step behind. We skirt the wall tapping the ice with our sticks. It makes a cool rhythmic sound that's supposed to intimidate our opponents. That's the theory anyway. The opposing team is a rec team out of Gilson, and they're doing the same thing, so it's sort of pointless. But apparently, it's tradition.

I'm playing center, so as soon as the official drops the puck, I'm supposed to battle the dude in front of me for control of the game. Over the last few days, I've practiced the face-off a dozen times with Jake, and I've gotten pretty good. Not good enough, apparently. I don't even get my stick on the ice before the giant I'm up against nabs the puck and pushes forward, moving toward Carter in the net.

I'm about to chase him but as soon as I turn, I barrel into Flores, who is supposed to be on right wing. He falls to the ice in a beautiful swan dive.

He was out of position, so it's not my fault. It's against protocol and I know it will embarrass him, but I can't help it. I stop and lean over. “You okay?”

I know he hates being mothered, but my instinct is to make sure he's not hurt. I reach out to help him, but he's already up and waves me away. It rattles me and I'm more aware of my own feet as they make contact with the ice.

The small crowd is jeering, but I grit my teeth, trying to focus and shut out the noise. A kid with “SMITH” across his back steals the puck from Johnson and drives through our defense. Carter dives to his right, but he's a second late and it's an easy shot over his shoulder. The cheers rise into a crescendo, and we all stop to watch our opponents celebrate. Smith jumps on the back of one of his teammates and gets carried around the rink, pumping his arm in the air to the chanting crowd.

Jake glides by me. “Platter shot,” he yells. “We just totally handed that goal to them.” He doesn't sound angry, exactly. “Let's try to pick this up!”

As soon as the game resumes, I draw on instinct and skate toward the action. Jake is going head-to-head with Smith. It's still a complete surprise when Jake gets the puck and passes it to me. I manage to take three steps before the gorilla behind me steals the puck.

Johnson comes out of nowhere and tries to cut the guy off, but he's a second too late and goes down face-first. I cringe; not because I feel sorry for Johnson but because it looks like it really hurt. Smith wastes no time, cruising down the ice and getting a quick second goal.

Carter screams something from the net that I don't understand. I'm wondering who he's yelling at and it annoys me. It's one thing to yell during practice, but I can't believe he's bitching out here during a game. This is the time we're supposed to be unified.

Then I finally catch his words and realize he's yelling at me.

To move.

Before I can react, someone pummels me from behind and I go down hard, face-first. The crowd gasps. The grill on my helmet keeps me from breaking my nose. Which, I realize in a split second, would be awfully hard to hide from my parents. It occurs to me too late that Carter was trying to warn me.

Jake's there, pulling me to my feet. But Coach is yelling from the bench. “Spaulding! You're out!”

I stumble past Flores, who's already on the bench, and throw myself down next to him. My stick bangs on the wall behind me in the process, just missing Johnson slumped on the other side.

“Watch it, Pizza Princess,” he growls.

Ignoring Johnson, I turn to Flores. “Five minutes into my first game and fifty percent of our line are already out on our asses. Must be some kind of record.”

Flores shrugs. “Nope. Last year, there was a game where we all went down in the first thirty seconds.”

A new aspiration.

The next day, Jorge perches on a stool in the kitchen working on the
New York Times
crossword puzzle while Grams is taking a break from her mad cleaning at the front booth. Until a couple years ago, she covered her romance novels in brown paper. But since we got her the e-reader, I can't tell what she's reading, but I suspect its cover is some iteration of a half-clothed cowboy.

There's no game on tonight, so it'll be mostly takeout. As far as I can tell everyone must be home prepping for the blizzard we're supposed to get this weekend. In the last twenty minutes, not one single car has driven past the front of the restaurant. I'm surprised the town isn't out in full force scrambling for the last of the bread and milk from the grocery store.