Breaking the Ice (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Greg keeps me busy all
week running my program, sending me off to more ice dance time with Svetlana, and telling me to feel my music. No matter how many times he says that, it still doesn't seem to be working.

At least Addison's kept her word to Braedon. Neither she nor her mom has said anything about me not being at dance class last week.

“Ah, Kaitlin!” Jill swoops in as Mom grabs a seat at the far end of the row from Mrs. Thomas. “Glad to see you here on time this week.”

Mom tilts her head, and I can tell she's about to say some
thing to Jill. Something like,
You must have my daughter confused with someone else. Kaitlin was five minutes early last week
.

“I have a question about the
ochos
,” I say to Jill as I step away from Mom. “Is it like this?” I do some completely wrong thing with my feet on purpose.

“No, no, no. Like this.” Jill demonstrates. I look over her shoulder to see Mom pecking away at her phone.

“Thanks. I've got it, I think.”

“You know, you miss a lot when you're not in class,” Jill says.

“I know. I'm sorry.” I glance past Jill to make sure Mom's not listening in. “I just got caught up in something last week.” Something like eating fries with Braedon. “I won't miss any more classes.”

Jill nods, and I hope I've said enough so that she won't bring it up with Mom. I'm already barely hanging on with the Praterville thing and being late to stretching class that one day. I'd never have a life again if she found out about me missing dance. But sometimes I feel as if the secret is like a rat, gnawing at me from the inside out.

On top of all that, Regionals is only two weeks away, and Greg insists I'm still not showing enough emotion in my program.

At least the club's Regionals send-off party is something I don't have to worry about. Greg told me they have the party early so no one will get distracted during the nine days we have left. I sip a cup of punch and survey everyone hanging out in the Fallton lobby. Mom and Dad are mingling with some of the other parents near the snack bar under a huge sign that reads
GOOD LUCK AT REGIONALS!
I left Miyu, Addison, and a couple of other girls sitting on chairs and talking. Well, Addison wasn't actually talking, just scowling at everyone.

I take my punch to the rink doors and push through them. The music from the party is pounding, even out here. The ice is shiny and wet, with fresh, mountain-size bumps in nice straight lines. I close my eyes and breathe in the cold and quiet and the slight hint of ammonia and Zamboni fumes. Ice rinks smell the same, no matter how big or small or where they are.

“Imagining yourself finally landing that triple sal?” Braedon's voice interrupts my thoughts.

I almost drop my punch. “I didn't think anyone was out here,” I say. “By the way, congrats on your award.”

Braedon holds up a certificate. “The Dennis the Menace Award? I think I'd rather have yours.”

I grin at him. “They gave me Best Jumper for a reason, you know.”

Braedon pushes his hair out of his eyes. “Yeah, I guess I should at least be happy they didn't give me Nicest Skater or Best Personality.” He puts his certificate on the nearest bleacher. “Hey, you want to see something cool?”

“Sure, I guess.” I set my punch cup next to his certificate and follow him across the mats between the ice and the bleachers. “So, um, thanks for talking to Addison.”

“Anytime,” he says as he leads the way around to where the boards branch out from the ice and create a short wall between the bleachers area and where the Zamboni enters and leaves the ice.

“There won't be any other time. I can't do that again, remember?”

Braedon doesn't answer. Instead he hops up onto the wall and slides over to the other side. “C'mon.”

I rest my arms on the wall. “Are we supposed to be back there?”

“Not really,” he says with a grin. Then he holds out his hand. “Here, I'll help you.”

My brain is screaming,
No way!
I glance back toward the lobby. The windows face the ice. If anyone was watching us, they'd have to smoosh their faces sideways against the Plexiglas to see.

But isn't this just like skipping dance class or climbing out Miyu's window? Maybe it isn't, though. I mean, we aren't supposed to be here, but it isn't like we're really doing anything bad.

“Kaitlin, are you coming?” Braedon wiggles his fingers. His hair falls into his face again, and I can't help but smile.

Ignoring the voice in my head telling me this is stupid, I climb up on the wall. I take his hand, which makes my heart beat even faster. Thank God ice rinks are cold. Otherwise, my hand would be all hot and sweaty and embarrassing. Braedon helps me hop off the other side of the wall. There aren't any rubber mats on the floor here—just concrete and wet, melty ice.

The door to the garage that houses the Zamboni is wide open. The machine sits inside, rusty and huge and dripping condensation.

“Ever sat on a Zam before?” Braedon asks.

I shake my head. He walks over to it and hoists himself up into the driver's seat.

“Come on up. The view's great!”

I laugh. It looks like fun, but I know we shouldn't even be
near this thing. I can't even imagine how Mom would freak out if she caught me. Or how Greg would react. And another thought crosses my mind—is sitting on a Zamboni reason enough to kick someone out of a skating club?

“What are you waiting for?” Braedon asks. “No one's going to see us. Even if they came out, they couldn't see us way back here. We'd have plenty of time to get down and back over the wall.”

I glance again toward the lobby. Everyone's still inside. When I turn around, Braedon's pushed his hair back and is looking at me with those bright blue eyes. I grab his hand and make the climb. Once I'm up there, I have to squeeze past him. There's no passenger seat—just a ledge with a bunch of levers and things I try not to touch. I step up onto the ledge and perch on a big, rusty-looking, gray cylinder. My knees are about even with the top of Braedon's head.

I gaze over the hood. “Wow, this would be a great place to watch a competition. You can see the entire ice. Wouldn't it be great if Regionals were here instead of in Indianapolis?” I imagine myself doing my program out there, on comfortable ice—home ice. The competition would somehow seem less scary if it happened here.

“I don't think anyone would be nicer just because they had
to compete here. That would probably make it even worse,” Braedon says.

I clench my hands. “We work just as hard as everyone else. Why is it okay for them to make fun of us because of our club?”

Braedon puts his hands on the steering wheel, like he's about to drive the machine onto the ice. “I don't know. Nothing we can do about it, so no reason to worry. I wonder what this thing does.” He spins a knob that's sticking out of the front of the steering wheel.

“But aren't you sick of it? Working so hard, doing well in competition—sometimes—and still having people call us the Fall Down Club?”

He shrugs. It doesn't bother him, I guess. I wonder if he'd be happier if he quit.

“I just wish there was something we could do to change it.” I cross my ankles and bump my sneaker heels against the cylinder.

“What, like put up posters protesting mean skaters? Or you could make them all bracelets. Or wait—we could put ‘nice' medicine into everyone's bottled water.” ­Braedon laughs at his own joke while the music from the party thumps through the empty rink, making the Plexiglas on top of the dasher boards
shiver.

“No . . . wait.” I sit up so straight I almost slide right off the cylinder. I grip the sides for balance. “That's it!”

“What? The bottled water? I'm all for a good prank, but that's a little off the deep end, Double Axel.”

“Not that. Not the posters, either, but . . . what if we did something nice for everyone? Something that made them all realize that we're just normal, regular skaters. And that we're really fun and friendly. Just something that makes them think twice before they say mean stuff or cut holes in our practice clothes, you know?”

“But how?” Braedon reaches past my foot and plays with the shifter-looking thing near his knee, making noises like he's driving the machine.

“That's the problem. I don't know. I doubt beaded bracelets will cut it.”

“No way . . . look! Someone left the keys.” Braedon turns the ignition to the Zam, but it doesn't start.

“Maybe we should go back in.” I stand up, ready to hop off the ledge, when Braedon pushes a button near the steering wheel and the Zamboni roars to life.

Then it begins to creep forward.

I sway and grab hold of the cold metal cylinder. “What did
you do? Make it stop!”

“I don't know. I didn't think that button would do anything. There's got to be a brake down here somewhere.” ­Braedon peers past his legs at the floor.

We're rolling out of the garage at the speed of a turtle, but kind of at an angle, like the steering wheel is turned.

“Hit the brake! We're going to run into the wall.” I can't let go of the cylinder. I'm gripping it so hard, my knuckles turn white.

“I'm trying. I don't know where the brakes are.” Braedon pushes on one pedal. The engine revs. It's so loud, it might drown out the music at the party.

My hands are definitely hot and sweaty now. I can't take my eyes off the wall coming closer and closer. “Try another pedal.”

“I don't see another one.”

“Then look harder!”

“Maybe it's one of these lever things.” Braedon pushes and pulls on the levers sticking up from the ledge. The one closest to his knee just seems to make the Zamboni move faster. He pulls on one behind him, and the big machine makes a hor­rible grinding noise from underneath us. But it's still lumbering toward the wall. “Why won't this thing stop?”

“Wait, push that button again.” I point to it and feel sort of sick that I didn't think of it before.

But it's too late. I watch in horror as the front driver's side of the Zam collides with the short white wall.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

There's a shattering sound, like
glass breaking, and then scraping, and the machine finally stops.

Braedon's eyes are huge as he peers over the side of the Zam. I'm frozen to my seat. We stare at the doors to the lobby, waiting for everyone to come running out.

Nothing happens. The music thumps from the party, so loud it must've covered up the chugging of the Zamboni and the sickening sound of it hitting the wall.

Braedon turns to me. “Get out! We have to get out of here before someone catches us.” His hand shakes as he punches the button and turns the ignition off.

I make my legs move and jump to the ground after ­Braedon. I can't help but look at the Zam as we pass the smashed corner to crawl back over the wall. The headlight is broken and the
front corner is dented in. Part of it still rests against the wall, and I'm sure it's completely scraped up.

“Let's go, Kaitlin! The sooner we get back, the better.” He pulls me over and we hurry past the rows of bleachers to the lobby doors. Braedon peeks through the windows.

“Wait! Our stuff.” I run back to the first row of bleachers.

My cup and Braedon's certificate are gone. I scan all the bleachers, but they're nowhere to be found.

“Who cares? It's just a stupid fake award. Let's get inside.” Braedon pushes one of the doors open.

I race over to slip in with him. “Someone must have come out and picked them up. They're going to know it was us out there!”

“They can't prove anything,” Braedon whispers.

I follow him to where Miyu, Samantha, and Addison are standing, drinking their punch, surrounded by clumps of ­people talking and having fun.

“What's wrong, Kaitlin? You look like you've seen a ghost.” Miyu tilts her head as she studies my face.

“She's nervous about Regionals, of course,” Addison says. “I'm not.”

“I'm fine,” I say to Miyu. “Just . . . like Addison says, nervous.”

Miyu raises her eyebrows. I'm paranoid she doesn't believe me. “You need to de-stress,” she says. “We've got over a week
till Regionals.”

Addison takes a big gulp of punch from her cup. “This is really good. Didn't you have some earlier, Kaitlin?”

I glance at her. “Um . . . yeah. It was okay.”

Addison gives me a half smile.

And I know. I know she saw us and she knows exactly what happened.

But before I can say anything to her, Greg claps his hands to get everyone's attention. “Time for our official send-off! We have goodie bags for all of our Regional competitors.” He starts announcing names, and we go up one by one as everyone claps.

“Hey, look, extra gloves.” Braedon pulls a black pair from his bag.

New gloves are the last thing I can think about. “What if they figure out we were in the Zam?” I whisper to him.

“Relax and stop thinking about it. No one saw us.”

“Addison knows. She asked me about the punch!”

“That doesn't mean anything. You have to stop talking about it.” Braedon looks around. “We weren't there and we didn't do anything.” He strolls off to talk to Tom.

“We?” But I'm talking to myself. I didn't drive the Zam into the wall; he did. But I was there, sitting where I wasn't supposed to be and probably breaking a hundred club rules.

Probably more than enough to get me kicked out.

“We have a serious problem,” Greg announces early Thursday morning. “Sometime between last night and this morning, someone started the Zamboni and ran it into the boards.”

Chatter rises up across the room. Greg holds up his hand for silence. I look around for Braedon, but he's not here yet. I sit on my hands because I'm sure they're shaking like crazy.

Across the room, I catch Addison's eye. She smiles at me as she twists a lock of hair in her ponytail.

“This means the ice can't be resurfaced,” Greg continues. “They expect the machine to be fixed for tomorrow—good enough to cut the ice, at least. Our morning sessions should be fine, but the club will refund the cost of sessions to anyone who decides not to skate this afternoon. Practice the rest of the week should go on as planned. But the problem is more serious than that. I'm sure you all know how expensive a Zamboni is. It costs almost as much as a small house. And the price for repairing one isn't exactly cheap either.”

I gulp. Why did I go along with Braedon? I should've said no, should've gone back to the lobby. What is wrong with me?

And he's not even here. I'm still fuming over how he walked off from me last night. I thought he was my friend.
Maybe more than a friend. But he's not. The realization hurts even more than the time I tripped on backward crossovers and plowed into the boards headfirst. I won't make the mistake of hanging out with him again.

“The manager says there was no sign of a break-in,” Greg continues. “And our club members were the only ones here last night. Of course, I told the manager that there was no way any of my skaters would do something like that. We respect the rink and its property.” His eyes move slowly across the room. “I don't want to be wrong. That's all.”

I let out the breath I was holding. Half of me expected Addison to jump in and accuse me. I wish I could tell someone, to get it off my chest. Adding this mess to my stash of secrets and worrying about Regionals is making me jumpy. I glance at Miyu. Maybe I'll tell her. And hope she still wants to be my friend.

Addison corners me on the ice as I'm arranging my stuff on top of the boards. She places her silver water bottle next to my purple plastic one. “So,” she says. “What are you going to do?”

I put my package of tissues on top of my CD so I don't have to look at her. “Do about what?”

“Oh, come on, K. I know it was you and Braedon. I have
that cup with your name on it and his award. So, what are you going to do?”

I take a deep breath to try to steady my heart rate. “I don't know.”

“I have an idea, if you want to hear it.” She glances out over the ice as if my answer doesn't interest her at all.

“I don't think I have a choice.”

She turns back to me and smiles. “It's not such a big deal. Just stay away from Braedon. If you do that, I'll keep your little secret.”

“Girls, practice has started. Less talk, more skate,” Greg says as he moves past us.

“Think about it.” Addison tightens her ponytail and glides off.

I clench my hands so hard that my nails are digging into my palms, even through my gloves. Staying away from Braedon isn't the issue. I don't want anything to do with him anyway.

The problem is letting Addison win.