“Some days,” she whispers, still clutching the dress, “so do I.”
I slip past her through the doorway, everyone waiting silently for the final outcome. Their eyes are on me; Dani shakes her head and Trick’s gaze burns my skin from all the way across the room. Bug sits at the prep counter with his head in his hands, face crumpled, glasses sliding down his nose.
My cheeks burn and I can’t meet their eyes—the people who’ve been my family for so long, related or not.
“Hudson?” Bug says softly, tugging the sleeves over his hands. “Can I help you check the tables now?”
“Sorry,” I whisper to my brother. To all of them. To none of them. I scoop up my backpack from the floor, grab my jacket from the staff closet, and head out into the ice-cold February air.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Liar, Liar, Cakes on Fire
Chocolate cayenne cupcakes topped with cinnamon cream cheese frosting and heart-shaped cinnamon Red Hots
One hour—that’s it. Three twenties. Twelve fives. Sixty one-minute intervals borrowed from the clock on the scoreboard, all that stands between me and my final, don’t-look-back golden ticket out of here. A chance to see the world. A chance to finally live. Because if I don’t, it’s back to the diner to claim my family legacy, all the unchosen things vanishing, all the lines in my mother’s face passed down with the deed to Hurley’s Homestyle Diner in Watonka, New York.
We can’t afford the stars.
Skaters fill the locker room at the Buffalo Skate Club, each stationed at her own mirror, mothers and sisters and coaches applying a final coat of glitter gel or lip gloss. I recognize two of them from my own club days, former Bisonettes, inseparable friends from the west side of Buffalo who were like the brunette versions of me and Kara. I brace myself for the sneers, the who does she think she is showing her face around here whispers. But the girls remain silent. Focused. They don’t remember me, or maybe they don’t care enough to cause any drama.
After I slick my hair back into a tight bun and apply the requisite amounts of blush and shadow, I check out the rest of the competition, sparkly and stiff, concentration pulling muscles taught beneath whimsical costumes. I close my eyes and it seems like a dream, so far away and foreign. For three years I haven’t watched competitive skating. Haven’t seen the girls zipping into their dresses or felt the tension, the pressure, the palpable expectations in the locker room before a big, make-it-or-break-it event.
Instead, I’ve been at the diner, watching Dani, Marianne, and Nat bus one another’s tables, run food from the grill to the dining room no matter who placed the order. I’ve seen Mom tie her hair back and chop vegetables for Trick a hundred times, watched Trick put on a fresh pot of coffee when I was in the weeds with customers, watched Dani pinch-hit when Nat’s nursing class ran late, everyone gathering at the end of the long night to count the money and divvy the sidework and trade crazy customer stories. I’ve been with the Wolves, helping the boys change from a bunch of mouth-breathing hockey thugs to a real team, a real crew.
I look over the girls in the prep area now, so driven and determined, so willing to put everything and everyone else second, and it hits me: For all my stolen hours on the ice this winter, all those frigid, windblown days at Fillmore and the hard work at Baylor’s, the pure competition of it—me against them, them against one another, all of us fighting for a single spotlight—wasn’t something I prepared for.
Did I ever prepare for that, really?
“All skaters and coaches, please report to the ice.” The announcement crackles through the overhead speakers, setting the locker room ablaze with nervous chatter. “The competition will begin in ten minutes. All skaters and coaches, please report to the ice.”
I hobble on my blade guards out to the arena, merging into the line of girls near the edge. One of the west-siders—Paige, I think, or maybe it’s Peyton—follows behind me from the locker room, elbowing her way to the front of the pack, catching me in the ribs.
“Nice costume, Sparkles. Shoulda burned that thing after the Empire disaster. Hope it brings you the same bad mojo tonight.” She bumps me again as she passes by, a sharp reminder that my single biggest mistake will always follow me, its harsh, black lining lurking just beneath the roses-and-glitter surface of my dreams.
“Skaters, this way, please.” A thin man with a walkie-talkie and clipboard waves us over to the box, checking us in one at a time. At his command, we file onto wooden benches and remove our guards. I keep my back to Paige/Peyton and focus on the other surroundings, visualizing my jumps and spins and the cheers that will follow, even from the relatively small crowd—mostly parents and grandparents and a few well-dressed, poker-faced women who are probably part of Lola’s foundation, perched unmoving on the center line seats.
I instinctively scan the arena for my parents, row by row, top to bottom. I know it’s ridiculous—my father is thousands of miles away and Mom is probably locked in her office, hyperventilating about the foodie. I didn’t tell her about the competition, but part of me wishes she’d be here, like she’d somehow found out and dropped everything to watch me, even on the most important night in Hurley’s history. Skating was never her thing—not like it was with my dad—but maybe now it could be. I could show her how good I am, how swiftly I can win this competition. Earn that scholarship. Remap the course of my life and rediscover the path I lost that night in Rochester. Prove to her, once and for all, that I was born to be on the ice.
But … is that why I’m here? To prove something to my mother? To get a do-over on a mistake I made three years ago? Is that the reason I’m zipped too tightly into my old sequined dress, feet anxious to slide and tap and twirl and jump through the right combination of hoops to impress those bored foundation stiffs in the reserved seats? Who are they to decide whose dreams come true and whose die on the ice? Am I here just to win their hearts, to make them fall in love with me?
No. I shake my head, trying to loosen the thought, to jar it free. I’m here because I want to compete. To win. To go to college and continue training and land on a professional circuit. To … what?
The remaining girls pack into the box like glittery sardines, the seconds ticking off the clock, and my resolve melts away. This isn’t some movie where the dramatic music starts and Mom bursts through the side doors, teary-eyed as I hit the ice, all of our problems disappearing in the wake of my flawless triple/triple combo. This is reality. My reality. And though I’ve been off the competition ice for a long time, I’ve done enough events to know with absolute certainty that something isn’t right—something else that has nothing to do with Mom not being here or all the broken, bittersweet choices I made before tonight. I can feel it.
More precisely, I can’t.
That’s the problem. I used to get these butterflies before every event, good ones. They’d swarm my stomach and knock into each other beneath the surface, a gentle tickle from the inside out. Kara would massage my hands and shoulders just to steady them. And then the event manager would say my name over the announcements, calling me for my turn, and all those butterflies would stand at attention, calming me, focusing me, helping to propel me around the ice and ensure I performed my routine beautifully. They’d stop their flitting just long enough to see me through, and then, when my scores were announced and the audience cheered from the stands, they’d reappear, excited and warm inside, drunk from the victory.