Breaking the Ice (5 page)

Chapter Eight

I've spent the day staring
down the clock and dreading Greg's big surprise. At Ridgeline, I would've hung around at the rink all day, doing schoolwork on my laptop between practice sessions and having lunch at the lobby café. But since hardly anyone homeschools at Fallton, and there isn't any skating in the middle of the day, Mom and I went home after the morning sessions.

But I couldn't stop thinking about what Greg has planned. I had to read my chapter for science three times because I couldn't pay attention. And I'm pretty sure the
­personal trainer at my new gym thinks I'm a flake, since I kept zoning out during reps on the leg-lift machine.

Mom's positive Greg's just going to record me or make me skate with a hockey stick in both hands for better posture. I'm not so sure. Those seem really tame for Mr. Skating Sensation.

So now I'm back at the rink, and about to find out. After the off-ice Movement and Interpretation class, anyway.

Mom gives me a nudge toward the far end of the lobby. “The class is about ready to start. At least it'll take your mind off your lesson.”

Somehow I doubt it.

Everyone's gathered in a bunch, talking and waiting for the class to begin. I find a spot between Miyu and Jessa. And try not to get all starstruck over the fact that I'm standing right next to Jessa Hernandez.

“What do you think Greg's surprise is?” I ask Miyu. I told her about it before we left this morning.

“Probably some whacked-out costume from his ice show days. He'll make you put it on and act out the character,” she says as she bends down to retie one of her shoes.

“No way. Are you serious? I'd die of embarrassment.” I still can't get over how easy it is to talk to Miyu. Even though
we just met, I can say things to her I never would've said to Ellery.

Miyu flashes me a smile. “You're making me glad I have Karilee as a coach instead of Greg.”

“Maybe it's just a video camera, so I can see . . . whatever it is he sees.”

“I vote for the crazy costume. Maybe you'll have to be a monkey. Or a clown. Ooh! Or an elephant!” Miyu cracks up.

I force a laugh. The idea is funny, as long as it doesn't actually happen. There's no way I'll skate at my new rink in front of everyone dressed as an elephant. I'd never live it down.

Karilee wafts into the group. She doesn't look anything like a skating coach right now. Instead of the tie-dyed jacket, she's wearing a long, flowy skirt and flower-printed top. Her long hair hangs loose around her face. I can't believe she's going to show us off-ice exercises in that outfit. Mom's eyes are probably bugging out of her head from across the lobby. I look around to see if anyone else is confused. They're all looking straight ahead at Karilee, even Jessa. I guess this is normal for Karilee.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” she says in a singsong voice that reminds me of my kindergarten teacher. “Today we're
going to focus on rhythm and flow and music. Something a little different.” She reaches down and hits a button on the CD player. Some kind of weird, chanting music—like monks in a church—erupts from the speakers.

“Everyone please take a seat.” Karilee sinks to the ­rubber-matted floor and tucks her feet underneath her. The long skirt billows out and slowly drifts down.

I eye the floor. It's covered in grit and damp in places from melted ice. Miyu's already sitting, despite the unidentified dirt. I sneak a glance at Jessa. She wrinkles her face a little, takes a deep breath, and sits.

I do the same, trying not to think of the shiny, wooden-­floored room with yoga mats at my old rink. Do Olympic champions learn stretching exercises on dirty rink floors?

“Forgot to bring my towel,” Jessa whispers.

It takes me a second to realize she's talking to me. “Me too,” I finally say. I look around and realize everyone else—except Miyu and Karilee—is sitting on a towel or a mat.

“Listen to the music,” Karilee says. “Then do what feels natural—just with your upper body.” She closes her eyes, and then begins to sway back and forth. She raises her arms over her head and waves them in time to the chanting. She looks absolutely insane.

A giggle rises in my throat, and I cough to cover it up. Jessa's not so lucky. She laughs, and a few others join her. Not Miyu, though. She's totally into it, rocking from side to side with her eyes closed.

Karilee's eyes fly open. “Yes, we may look funny. But how do you expect to figure out what looks good unless you're willing to risk looking silly? I want to see
everyone
moving to the music. Close your eyes if you feel self-conscious.”

I shut my eyes and move back and forth like Miyu. I raise my arms at the elbows and wave my hands. At least Swishy Hair isn't here to see me look like this.

“Extend your arms. Reach out as far as you can, then reach even farther. Stretch out your fingertips.”

I do what she says and remind myself that everyone else is doing the same thing. We all look stupid together. And—hopefully—we all have our eyes closed.

“Move your arms back and forth. Find your rhythm.”

I move my arms farther to the side. “Sorry,” Miyu and I whisper to each other when our hands smack together.

“Now try forward and back. Lean down to the floor. Then arch backward, as far as you can go.”

I reach forward, my nose inches from the disgusting rubber mats. As the smell of feet and dirty water enters my
nostrils, I move back up. And try not to think of how many hockey players have spit on the floor.

“Now arch your back. Tummy to the ceiling!”

I bend back as far as I can.

And fall over.

But I don't just land on the gritty, damp floor. My arms, stretched over my head, connect with a pair of standing legs. I didn't think anyone was behind me. My eyes pop open.

A face tilts down and grins at me. It's Swishy Hair.

“Hey, there, Double Axel. I know you missed me, but you don't have to hug my legs,” he says.

I jerk back into a sitting position. Everyone has their eyes open now, even Karilee. My face goes warm, and I wish we could just get back to waving our arms with our eyes closed.

“How nice of you to join us, Mr. Walker,” Karilee says. “Ten minutes late, as usual.”

“Sorry,” he says offhandedly. He plops himself onto the floor on the other side of Miyu, no towel or mat, and stretches out his long legs. His hair falls into his face, but he doesn't bother pushing it out of the way.

Miyu turns to me and rolls her eyes. I kind of wish he'd been able to sit next to me, even though I'm totally mortified at having accidentally grabbed his legs.

“All right, let's stand up. Now we're going to do full-body movement. Try walking or jumping or doing whatever you feel interprets the music. Don't forget to use your arms.” Karilee stands on one foot like a flamingo and waves her arms again. The class slowly moves into action. Some people are really into it, like Miyu, who's taking giant steps in a circle with her arms raised straight overhead, while others—like me—are waiting to see what everyone else does.

“Let's just spin in circles until we get dizzy and fall down,” Swishy Hair says in my ear.

“Um . . .” I don't know if this is a good idea.

“Or, better yet, let's chicken dance. C'mon, Kaitlin, chicken dance with me!” He tucks his hands under his armpits and starts flapping his elbows like a chicken. He bobs his head in rhythm with the chanting, and his hair hides his eyes.

I look around. Miyu's staring up at her arms and is in her own world. The ice dancer guy I saw this morning is doing some crazy interpretive dance in the corner by the gumball machine.

“Are you too chicken to be a chicken?” Swishy Hair flaps an elbow wing against my shoulder.

No one's watching, so what does it matter? Even Mom's busy chatting with the other parents. And this is all about musical interpretation, right?

“Okay,” I finally say.

“Let's go, then.” He bobs his head and struts around the group, elbows flapping. I tuck up my hands and follow him.

We weave between Addison and a short brown-haired girl. Addison eyes me, her eyebrows raised as she swings her arms from side to side. I bite my lip, and my arms droop a little.

Swishy Hair looks back. “Really, Double Axel, is that all you've got?”

I wish I could feel as free as he does. Everyone looks ­stupid—moving their arms all over and stomping around our little corner of the lobby.

Just go for it, Kaitlin,
I order myself.
No one cares
. I take a deep breath and flap my arms harder. I lift my knees, mimicking the cute guy.

We tromp around the group. It really isn't so bad. In fact, it's kind of fun.

“Fly, chicken, fly!” he calls back to me.

I flap my arms harder and slide between two girls pretending to be trees. My right elbow collides with something hard.

“Ow!” someone yells behind me.

I drop my arms and spin around. Addison's standing right there, clutching her nose.

Chapter Nine

“What's your problem?” Addison squeals
in a nasal voice.

“Oh my God, I'm sorry! Are you okay?” I reach toward her, but she backs away from me.

“Girls, what's going on?” Karilee floats toward us. “Addison, are you all right?”

Addison winces. “The new girl broke my nose.”

“I—I didn't mean to.” Did I really hit her hard enough to break her nose?

“Let me see.” Karilee pulls Addison's hand away from her face.

“I'll bleed all over the place!”

“Honey, there's no blood.” Karilee gently touches Addison's nose. “I don't think anything's broken. It'll just be sore for a while.”

“What happened? Addison?” Addison's mother pushes aside the crowd that's gathered around us.

“She got bumped in the nose. She'll be okay with some ice,” Karilee says.

Addison's mom peers into her daughter's face. “I don't know. We're going to the urgent care center.”

“Kaitlin did it,” Addison says with a breaking voice. She points at me.

“I'm really sorry.” I want to shrink back into the other skaters.

“It was an accident,” Karilee says.

Addison's mom glares at me. “You need to be more careful.”

I can't help but think of this morning, when Addison nearly plowed me over while I was in my program. But I don't say anything. I just swallow hard.

Karilee claps. “I think we're finished for today. Everyone get ready for the session. And remember to take what you've learned here and apply it to your programs.”

Skaters disperse across the lobby as Addison's mom pulls her toward the hallway and the door. Swishy Hair winks at
me like nothing awful just happened. He sits on a nearby chair and puts on his skates.

Miyu grabs my arm. “Watch out for Braedon. He's nothing but trouble.”

“Who's Braedon?” I ask Miyu as I follow her to the chairs.

She frowns at me. “That guy you were following around and being stupid with.”

So that's his name. Braedon Walker. “But he seems really nice.”

“Charming,” she corrects me. “But a total—”

“Kaitlin, what happened?” Mom jumps in before Miyu can finish her sentence. “Here, put your skates on and tell me.”

“I just bumped into someone. It's no big deal,” I say as I shove my right foot into my skate. The last thing I need is Mom freaking out about Addison and her mom's reaction. I'm glad Miyu left her skates on the other side of the lobby, although somehow I know she wouldn't give away the truth.

“But I saw Addison and Mrs. Thomas leave, and they didn't look happy.”

“They're just going to get ice and then she'll be back.” I concentrate on lacing my boot tightly so I don't have to look at Mom.

“They could've gotten ice here at the snack bar.”

I shrug. “Maybe they decided to go home so Addison could take it easy.”

“Her mother is a strange one,” Mom says. “She doesn't seem to talk to any of the other parents. She just watches Addison all the time and writes in that notebook. Like a skating stage mom.”

Like you,
I think. But that's something I definitely don't say out loud. At least Mom doesn't watch every move I make on the ice.

“Come on, I think Greg's waiting for you. Now, whatever the surprise is, just go along with it. We're lucky he wants to coach you at all. You can't lose this opportunity,” Mom says.

I'd been breathing a little easier until Mom said that. Visions of an elephant costume dance in my head.

Greg's standing at the ice entrance, drinking a cup of coffee. I pull off my guards and wait for him to say something.

All he says is, “Go warm up.”

I drop my stuff on the boards and fly through my warm-up, crossing over one foot, barely holding the position, and then crossing over the other. I've spent all day worrying about this moment, but now that it's here, I just want to get it over with. I skid to a stop in front of him, completely out of breath.

“I've never seen anyone do Russian stroking that fast,” he says with a grin. “Not even Helmut Pryor.”

“Who?”

“The star of Skating Sensation when I first joined.”

“Oh.” I'm only halfway paying attention. I glance at the bleachers behind Greg. There's no sign of any horrible costume. At least I won't have to prance around the rink like Giggles the Clown or something.

“All right. Follow me.” Greg moves off toward the lobby.

I throw on my guards and follow him, hurrying to keep up. What if he's hidden the costume in the coaches' room, or outside in his car? I cross my fingers.

We bang through the doors. Mom spots us and raises her eyebrows. I shrug and follow Greg to the coaches' room. He pushes the door open and begins rustling through a duffel bag on one of the benches. I peer in from the doorway, crossing my fingers so hard they start to tingle.

Greg pulls a CD from the bag and pops it into Karilee's boom box. He motions at me to come in. I hesitate for a second before sliding in to stand next to the door. ­Skaters weren't allowed in the coaches' room at my old rink. Everyone joked that the coaches had a big-screen TV and a chocolate fountain, and that's why they didn't want ­skaters ­coming
in. There's nothing like that here—just a big, mostly empty room with concrete-block walls and a few benches with peeling paint.

Some kind of dramatic violin music streams from the speakers. Greg taps his fingers on the top of the boom box in time to the music. When it's finished, another piece starts. This one sounds like an orchestra with an electric guitar. Almost like the guitarist from a rock band got lost and ended up in the middle of the woodwind section. That piece ends, and a third one with a lot of drums starts. I shift from foot to foot. Why are we hanging around listening to music?

The third piece ends, and Greg looks at me. “Do you like any of those?”

“Sure, I guess.”

“Which one do you like best?”

“Um . . .” This is the weirdest thing ever. I'm not sure why he cares which piece was my favorite.

Greg pops the CD out of the boom box. “Which one speaks to you?”

“The first one, I guess?” That one was kind of sassy and powerful. I liked it. In fact, I kind of want him to burn me a copy of it. It would be perfect to add to my collection of workout music.

“Great choice,” Greg replies. “A tango. It's . . .” He snaps his fingers as he searches for the right word. “Diva music. So that's your new program piece.”

My heart falls into my stomach.

“My new . . . what?” I squeak out.