Bittersweet (17 page)

“You,” he whispers, “are truly a secret weapon. A force to be wrecked with.”

“Looks like one of us is a little more wrecked than the other.” Will laughs as I clink his plastic cup with my soda, and Josh smiles at me from the other side of the kitchen, raising an eyebrow when I meet his eyes. “Be right back.”

I cross over to Josh. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.”

“Did—”

“I—”

“You go.” I nod toward the monstrous speakers in the other room. “I can’t think straight with the music, anyway.”

“I made something for you.” He presses a black USB drive into my hand. I close my fingers around the device and my heartbeat picks up the pace. How is it that such a little thing can hold so much mystery, so much potential? Anything and everything, or nothing at all. Hope or disappointment. Elation or dread.

“There’s some Addicts on there,” he says, “but I found some other stuff I think you’ll like, too.”

“Really?” I
so
want to say something crazy, like how I can’t wait to go home and listen, memorizing lyrics and dancing with him in my head. But as a general rule, I try to keep my creeper vibe in check, so I slip the drive into my pocket and stay cool. “Awesome. Thanks.”

“Ever hear Undead Wedding’s ‘Freaktown’?” he asks, leaning in closer so we can talk above the noise. “It’s on there.”

“No way! I thought that song was an urban legend. Where did you find it?”

“My cousin has this deejay friend in LA who hooks us up. That song reminds me of Watonka. You’ll see. The part with the paper birds? I always think of those dumb seagulls.”

“I like that Undead Wedding one about the girl in the window.”

“‘Good-bye, Ghost Girl’!” He turns to face me now, inching even closer as the crowd continues to squeeze in behind him. “You know that part near the end, when he’s talking about—”

“The building where they used to live?”

“Totally!” His eyes light up in response, but I keep watching his lips, wondering what it would feel like to kiss them. Soft, I think. Incredible.

“Have you ever—”

“Fifty-six.” Will appears beside us and gives Josh a sloppy punch in the arm. “Abby let you out alone tonight, huh?”

Abby?
My insides feel like the soda in my hand, bubbling up and then going flat. I take another sip to hide the shock that’s probably all over my face. There’s no Abby in our class. If he has a girlfriend from another school, why doesn’t he talk about her? Why wasn’t she at the game tonight? And more importantly, why does she exist in the first place?

Josh looks at me a moment longer, then stares into his drink, ears turning red. “Something like that.”

“She here?”

“Not this time.” Josh’s face changes slightly, his jaw muscles
tightening for just a second, and then he smiles. “I told you, she doesn’t like you, seventy-seven.”

Will strikes a pose, eyelashes fluttering in mock innocence. “What’s not to like?”

“I can think of at least eight things.” Josh catches my eye and we both smile. “And you know Abby. She’s … particular.”

“I know. Just bustin’ your balls, man. Nice pass tonight.” Will gives Josh a fist-bump and I go at my soda like Dani on corned beef hash. So Will knows Abby? I don’t know Abby. I don’t
want
to know Abby. Right now I pretty much hate Abby. And I’d love to say as much for the benefit of the group, but that whole anti-creeper code of ethics gets in the way, so I just stand here like a mime and groove to the nineties rap pounding through the house.

“I can’t believe we were so tight out there,” Will says, still a little wobbly.

“They get it on film?” Josh asks. “Maybe we dreamed the whole thing.”

“No dream. We did it. Thanks mostly to this girl right here.” Well I guess we’re just the Musketeers now, because Will throws his arms around us and squeezes tight, and our little threesome gets a whole lot cozier.

“How come you never came around before, Hudson?” Will asks, slurring the last part so it’s more like
Hud-shon
.

“What do you mean?”

“That day at Baylor’s was the first time we really hung out.”

“Pretty much.” Other than those intimate seven minutes
in the closet a few years back, but who’s counting?

“Where did you learn how to skate like that?” Josh asks.

“Yeah, why aren’t you at the Olympics or something?” Will asks, a baffled expression frozen on his face. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol messing with his reflexes. Either way, he and Josh watch me intently, waiting for my final answer. Where’s my phone-a-friend? I finger the cell in my pocket, but there’s no way I can text Dani without looking like a total clown.

“I’m definitely not Olympics material. Just took some lessons when I was a kid.”

“I guess you could teach
them
now, right?” Josh says.

“It’s not like that. I just …” I shift my soda to the other hand and take another drink, wondering how much Kara told Will about our on-ice history. Wondering if any of the guys know about my once infamous choke-artistry. “I got busy with stuff. Didn’t really have time for training.”

Will cocks his head skeptically and I rush to add more. “My parents split up, so priorities changed.”

“But you’re
seriously
good,” Josh says. “I don’t know much about figure skating, but whenever I see you at Fillmore … and everything with the team … wow. You’re amazing out there.”

“Thanks.”

“What the hell are you still doing in Watonka?” Will asks.

This makes me laugh, and I take another sip of Orange Crush to hide it. What am I still
doing
here? Like I’m just waiting around for my scheduled departure, itinerary planned, English-to-French phrase book and first-class ticket to Paris
stowed securely in my Louis Vuitton carry-on?
S’il vous plaît
.

“Me? What about you guys?”

“I’m leaving for sure,” Will says. “Right after grad, I’m out.”

Josh shrugs. “Me too. For real.”

For sure. For real. Everyone talks about leaving here, for sure and for real. My father used to say it, too—way before the divorce, he was talking about bigger cities, better opportunities. Even the old people who sit at the counter at Hurley’s complain about this place, every day dunking bits of bread into black coffee for a thousand years before now and a thousand years after. We’re all gonna leave, right? Today, tomorrow, the next day, one day. Sometimes I imagine the great and final exodus, all of us wrapped in scarves and mittens and puffy coats, piling onto the Erie Atlantic with two suitcases apiece, dousing the place in gasoline and tossing a match, hitting the tracks and never looking back.

But there’s something about Watonka, they say. Something that pulls us back, the electromagnet that holds all the metal in place. It’s the food, they say, or the chicken wings or the sports teams or the people or the way the air over the Skyway smells like Cheerios on account of the old General Mills plant. None of that stuff brought my father back. And what good are all of those bits of nostalgia when your family—the one thing that truly holds you to a place, the one thing that really makes it home over any other dot on the map—crumbles?

“Oh, what up!” It’s Luke, our generous host, clomping up from the basement with a full bottle of something the color of
honey, pumping it over his head in time with the beats. A few other guys squeeze in closer, and on the table next to us, Luke lines up a row of plastic cups, sloshing some liquid into each.

“To the Wolves!” Will shouts, followed quickly by Amir’s signature
how-oooo
.

“And to our secret weapon,” Will adds. “Hudson Avery.”

“The most ass-kicking princess I ever met.” Luke clinks his cup to mine and downs his shot as the other boys whistle and catcall.

“That’s my girl!” Dani emerges from a crowd in the front hall, but Frankie Torres grabs her hand and pulls her into the living room for a dance. She giggles and falls in step against his chest, cheering when he spins her around. Amir howls again and calls for Ellie and someone turns up Redman, bass rattling the foundation, all the framed pictures of Luke’s childhood threatening to jump off the walls.

Get down with the irrelevant funk to make ya jump …

Will kills another shot and slips his arms around me, pulling me into the mix, a tangle of players and fans and hockey wives clapping and moving en masse. I look back to Josh, but his eyes are already on his phone, fingers texting away as if the entire party is happening on that little screen. Before I can get his attention and wave him over, Will drags me deeper into the crowd. He presses closer, throwing his hands up with the beat, and Josh is still texting Abby and what difference does it make because Will’s so loose and fun and he smells so amazing and this warm rush comes over me, like we’re all in this giant snow
globe together, a perfect moment captured under the glass, all histories and futures forgotten. It doesn’t matter that Josh has a girlfriend or that Will doesn’t remember our kiss in the closet all those summers ago. It doesn’t matter that I screwed up at Luby Arena or that I’m working crazy hours at Mom’s diner or that this whole town sucks. Because maybe Watonka was only ever supposed to be a temporary stopover, and maybe I
will
chase that train over the hill, and maybe we’re
all
destined to leave this place, for sure, for real, together or alone. But for right now, we’re here. I’m back on the ice and the boys are back in the game and all of us are laughing and bouncing and rockin’ out, and for a little while, everything is just fine.

… until Kara walks into the room.

And sees me enveloped by her ex.

And drops her drink.

Again.

Press rewind. Press rewind. Press rewind if I haven’t blown your mind …

Miniature banana cupcakes smeared with a thin layer of honey vanilla icing

The halls of Watonka High are buzzing with the news of this weekend’s win.
No one’s volunteering to don a giant wolf head as team mascot, but by Monday morning, everyone at least knows we
have
a varsity hockey team. Baby steps, right?

“Bienvenue, étudiants,”
Madame Fromme trills as we settle into our seats for another excruciating conversation about nothing.
“Mademoiselle Avery, comment s’est passé votre week-end? Avez-vous cuit beaucoup de petits gâteaux?”

“Non, Madame. Je …”
and then, because I forget the French words for “hockey” and “party” and “ex–best friend awkwardness,” I revise.
“Oui, Madame.
Lots—I mean,
beaucoup de petits gâteaux.”

I try to smile
en français
, but then I remember the stack of cupcake flyers in my locker—another of Mom’s brilliant advertising plans—and I’m not sure the smile translates. She moves on to her next victim and, after a bit of forced banter, hands out the test.

Sacrebleu!
Verb conjugations and future tense! I totally forgot. I chance a sidelong look at Dani, desperately seeking confirmation that we’re in this big yellow failboat together, BFFs unite
hoo
-rah, but she’s already got her head down, pen scribbling frantically across the page.

So much for solidarity.

“The only way I’ll pass French is if I keep bringing cupcakes,” I say to Dani as we head to lunch later. “I totally forgot about the test today.”

“Cupcakes?” Dani laughs. “Not to sound all
après l’école spéciale
, but you could … I don’t know … study?”

“I could … I don’t know … punch you right now?”

“Don’t hate on me for being prepared. I tried to quiz you at work yesterday, remember?”

“By translating your pirate fantasy? Not helpful.” I grab a tray from the stack in the lunch line and slide it along the metal rails. “Sorry. I’m just distracted with skating stuff.”

I don’t want to fail French or any other class, but with just over six weeks before the Capriani Cup, I have to focus on training, and right now,
parlez-vous-français
-ing can’t do
jacques
for my on-ice game.

“Speaking of distractions,” she says, “hockey hottie, twelve o’clock.”

Will sneaks into line behind me, smiling at a shy freshman girl who gladly lets him cut.

“Hey,” I say, trying to appear cool and calm in the wake of Saturday’s touchy-feely fest and ensuing Kara weirdness. “Great game this weekend.”

“That was, like, off the
hook
crazy, right?” He loads up his tray with a double order of fries and something that looks like cheese sticks and/or human fingers. Desperate to avoid anything French, I skip the fries and go for a turkey sandwich and carrot sticks.