Poser (9 page)
We started out with drills. Skating, stickhandling, shooting. It was great being out there with Chan and Frey and all the other good guys. Even Shay couldn't ruin it for me.
“Good work, Spinelli,” shouted Coach during one drill. One in which I
didn't
fall down. It's crazy how proud that made me.
Good work, Spinelli!
I repeated it in my head as I staggered and flailed my way down the ice.
GOOD work, Spinelli! Good WORK, Spinelli! Good work, SPINELLI!
Do you do pathetic stuff like that in your head, or is it just me?
At the end of practice, Coach announced the lineup. I was made second-string defense, along with Chris Fedorek, who is also not much of a jock. Hey, I know it's not exactly the glamor position, but Chris and I had a lot of fun joking about our second-string defense line being a WALL OF PAIN.
“NONE SHALL PASS!” we bellowed, banging our sticks against the ice while the other guys on the team rolled their eyes.
Have I mentioned that I love hockey?
I peeled off the massive equipment, unlaced my skates and stuffed it all into my gym locker. My legs were quivering from all the exercise as I walked to the bus stop.
Reeking and steaming up the windows on the bus home, I thought about breaking it to Mom and Macy that I was on the school hockey team. I thought about all the hassles it was going to cause.
Then I remembered how fun practice had been. Hockey was worth fighting for. The simple right to play hockey. I think it might even be in the constitution somewhere.
I cleared a circle on the steamed-over window and looked out. The bus was just passing the Frey boys' rink, and several massive forms were gliding around out there in the dark.
I smiled.
Yep, it was all worth it.
INTERRUPTION BY MACY #5
“âStylin' Cutz hair magazine seeks boy models with gorgeous hair.' Hey, this sounds like you, Beauty Boy!” Macy was, as usual, surfing the Internet for new and unique ways of torturing me.
“Blah, blah, blah, may require hair being cut, dyed, styled, blah, blah, blah, major national exposure with the possibility of an
extended contract
!” She was practically shouting. She swung around triumphantly.
I gave her a long look (a “steely glare” in modeling speak) and walked out of the room.
“What a grouch!” I heard Macy say to Mom. “You figure it's hormones? It's GOT to be hormones.”
MOM AND MACY FREAK OUT ABOUT THE HOCKEY RIGHT ON CUE (DIDN'T I PREDICT THIS?)
I had to tell Mom and Macy about being on the hockey team. It's not like I suddenly came to a mature decision about not lying anymore. If I could have, I would've let it go as long as possible. Unfortunately, I had early-morning practice the next day, and I could hardly bolt out of the house at 6:00 AM without some kind of explanation.
We were eating dinner. Well, Macy and Mom were eating. I was pushing a watery piece of fish around islands of broccoli on my plate. Macy was ranting about some company she was fighting with. It was amazing how much food she seemed to be able to shovel in while she talked. It wasn't pretty. Eventually, she took a breath or swallowed, and I jumped in.
“Hey, I've been wondering about something,” I began. “Did Dad play sports?”
It wasn't just a random question. This was a carefully planned attack.
“BB, you never saw such an athlete as your dad,” said Macy, putting down her fork.
Mom saw Macy gearing up for another long reminiscence about Big BB and quickly said, “He played basketball in high school. Volleyball too. All the tall sports.”
“How about hockey? Did he ever play hockey?”
“Yep. Defense,” she said. This surprised me.
“He wasn't
great
at hockey though,” she laughed, remembering. “He wasn't much of a skater. Couldn't really stop properly. But he was big.”
“He skated
beautifully
,” argued Macy, who had very likely never seen him skate, “like a...like a...” She flailed a bit, trying to think of something that skates incredibly well. “Like a PRO!” she finished triumphantly.
Mom shrugged, smiling.
I swallowed.
“That's interesting,” I said loudly, “because I play hockey now too. On the school team. Defense. Just like Dad.” Strange how saying that actually made me proud.
Mom and Macy erupted together.
“You WHAT?”
“Why didn't you
tell
us?”
“Do you have a proper helmet?”
“Your
face
, Beauty Boy, your beautiful
FACE
!” This was Macy, of course.
Are you beginning to see why I kept it from them? I thought of breakaways and slap shots. They thought of injuries and head shots. My whole life long, the threat of an accident had put so many activities out of bounds. Like going on a trampoline, tobogganing, rock climbing, even bike riding.
Mom saw the look on my face.
“Sorry, Luke. We should have said congratulations on making the team! That's quite an accomplishment.”
I didn't think I needed to tell her that any breathing body made the team.
“Thanks, Mom. It's only for one tournament,” I explained, “and one game against the teachers.”
“This is TOTALLY STUPID!” Macy burst out. “One puck in the face and POOF! There goes your whole modeling career! Ever thought of that, BB?”
Oh, yes, Macy
, I thought,
as a matter of fact I
have
thought of that. I can only hope.
“Look, it's done,” I said. “Frey's loaned me some equipment, and Chan and his dad are picking me up for early-morning practice tomorrow.” I pushed back my chair and got up. “And you know what? Even though I'm not much good, I love it! I love being on the team!”
I ran to my room and slammed the door. Not very mature, I know, but sometimes a door-slam is very satisfying.
* * *
Macy cornered me in the hall just before bedtime. She gave me one of her smother-hugs, crushing me against her shoulder.
“BB, I'm sorry,” she said unexpectedly. “Congrats on making the team, you superstar athlete you!” She sort of cuffed my head gently, then grabbed my face in her big hand.
“Just take care of this gorgeous face.” She gave my face a little squeeze and a shake. “We have big plans for this face!”
“Okay, okay,” I protested, squirming away from her.
I watched her lumber back down the hall.
Yes, Macy
, I thought,
I have big plans for this face too. And they don't involve modeling. They involve pizza.
MIDDLE-OF-THE-COLD-DARK-NIGHT HOCKEY PRACTICE
I'm not a morning person.
Early morning (any time on the clock that starts with a five or a six) is particularly horrible. It's practically the middle of the night.
Anyway, early-morning hockey practice sounded like much more fun than it was. Chan and his dad picked me up at 6:15 AM. It was still dark outside, and very cold. The kind of cold where you see every breath you exhale; the kind of cold that reminds you how often we really breathe. It seemed very heroic, leaving a warm house to crunch out to hockey practice in the middle of the night like this.
Chan's dad jumped out of the van. He's got trendy glasses, a big smile and tons of energy. He made it feel like we were going off on an exciting trip.
“'Morning, Luke! Hi, Kathy!” he called, reaching for my enormous bag of enormous equipment and stowing it away for me.
“'Morning, Edwin!” called my mom from the door. “Brrr. What a morning! Hey, thanks for giving Luke a ride.”
“Oh, no problem.” He looked surprised, like who wouldn't want to be up at the crack of dawn, driving kids to hockey practice?
“Yeah, thanks, Dr. Chan,” I said, “Bye, Mom.”
“Have fun!” She gave a hurried wave and shut the door.
The Chan van was wonderfully warm as I slid into the backseat. I had bed head and huge bags under my red-rimmed eyes, and I was barely thinking at all. Chan was completely awake, alert and ready to talk.
“See the game last night, Spin? I had hockey practice, but we got home sort of mid-second period.” He rattled on about the game as the mindless morning radio blared. As we turned left onto the main street, I marveled, in a slow and sluggish way, at how many people were up in the middle of the night.
Chan's dad started talking cheerfully about some junior hockey player he'd seen recently for some disgusting rash. I only caught parts of it.
“...raised and pus-filled...”
“...had to cut his shirt sleeve right off...”
“...creeping up his neck onto the side of his
face
...”
Both of Chan's parents are very enthusiastic dermatologists. You have to be prepared for rash-talk (and worse) when you're with skin doctors. I looked at the back of Dr. Chan's head as he chattered about boils, pus, rashes, sores and blood. My 6:00 AM Cheerios lurched dangerously around inside me. I looked out the window, and tried to tune out Mr. Chan's rash-chatter.
Finally, several scabby patients later, we pulled up at the arena across the street from our school. A black BMW slid in behind us. Shay and his dad. Shay has mentioned his dad's Beamer about four thousand times at school.
Mr. Chan was just finishing up his last story about a monstrous pustule that had required some totally putrid digging and draining.
“...six stitches to close it!”
“Wow! Six!” Chan squirmed excitedly at this disgusting fact.
I looked out the back window at the Beamer. I'd never seen Shay's dad before, and I was curious. He was just an average-looking guy in a suit, with slicked-back hair, talking on his cell phone.
Who is he talking to in the middle of the night?
I wondered. Shay got out of the car, walked around to the trunk and waited. And waited. Finally, he knocked on the trunk, just once, just one of those one-knock, open-up kind of things you do to let a driver know you need the trunk opened.
The knock did not go over well.
Shay's dad swiveled around and glared at Shay before he popped the trunk. Shay dug his bag out, and the Beamer fishtailed off, his dad still glued to his cell phone.
Now, I'm not expecting to see hugs and kisses every time a parent drops his kid off. Nobody wants that. But maybe eye contact? Maybe not letting your kid wait in the bitter cold until he has to
knock
? I knew my dad wouldn't have dropped me off like that.
Dr. Chan did one of those exaggerated
oof
sounds as he heaved my gigantic equipment bag. “What do you have in here, a
body
?” he said. We all laughed.
Shay looked over as he walked by.
“Hey, Shay,” I said.
“Hi,” he said shortly, without stopping.
I watched him walk toward the big white arena doors, just a little dark shadow in the gloom, getting smaller and smaller.
TRUTH. HMMM, I'M NOT SO GOOD AT THIS.
It was the night before the FUNdraiser. I imagined another day of avoiding Mrs. Walker's increasingly obvious smiles and glances. Another day of trying to stop Shay from finding out that I was the fake-sick kid who started the whole thing. And if I lived through tomorrow, the next day was the
Shiny, Happy Family
shoot with Chad and Clarissa. My life was getting better and better.
I lay in my bed trying to convince my body to become really, really sick. Getting really sick would solve all of my immediate problems. I wouldn't get to play in the hockey game, but, to be honest, playing the first official game of my life in front of the entire school terrified me.
Getting hot
...
Think feeevvvver
...
Think sore throat
...
I was interrupted by a soft knock on the door. Mom. When Macy knocked, she hammered so hard it sounded like a construction crew.
“Come in,” I said.
“Hey,” she said, coming into the room. “Whoa, it's cold in here! Can I close that window? You'll catch pneumonia!”
That was the plan.
Mom sat down on the side of the bed and smoothed my hair from my annoyingly non-feverish forehead.
“Are you feeling okay?” she asked, looking concerned.
“Yeah,” I said. She looked tired.
“How about you?” I asked. “How's work?”
“Oh, all right,” she said. “New manager's driving me crazy though.”
Then I remembered about Red Plush. Mom and I hadn't had much time to talk since I'd broken the hockey news, but I felt guilty that I'd forgotten to tell her what Frey said.
“Hey, Mom,” I said, propping myself up on one elbow, “I know a place where you might get a job. One you'd like. It's a really cool place.” I ended up telling her all about Red and the store, and how it was near the school and Frey's family and the rink.
She listened. My mom was a good listener. She didn't fidget or look away or bite her nails or anything. She just sat there, looking at me encouragingly.
