And then I run back to my room to get ready.
* * *
• • •
Every time I go ice-skating, I’m reminded of three things:
My ankles are weak.
There’s always a long line for hot chocolate.
Kids skate like maniacs.
“This is so fun,” Phoebe says. She’s a solid skater. She’s wearing a skater’s skirt and tights while the rest of us are in basic leggings, and her wavy blond hair flows behind her as the four of us make our way around the crowded rink. She can do some fancy tricks. Her arm is linked in mine, and I’m hoping that next to her, I look almost like I know what I’m doing. Phoebe’s wearing a white hat with a gigantic fake-fur pom-pom on top, and her cheeks are flushed red from the cold.
Ice-skaters of all ages and abilities surround us, while cheerful holiday music plays. Little kids who look barely old enough to walk hang on to their parents for dear life—but sometimes it’s the other way around. A lot of the grown-ups are wearing helmets.
I adjust my slouchy red beanie.
“My ankles are kind of hurting,” I admit. Phoebe has her own ice skates, but the rest of us rent them. I’m not sure how the skates are supposed to fit, and the kid who rented them to me wasn’t very helpful. I resist the urge to bend down to adjust the laces—I don’t want to do anything that puts my standing upright at risk.
“Did you layer your socks?” Caitlin asks as she glides next to me. She pulls off her hat, and her fine strawberry-blond hair is super-staticky. It reminds me of how she looked when she touched the van de Graaff generator at the Franklin Institute on our eighth-grade field trip.
“No,” I say, mentally wiggling my toes inside my rented skates.
“Good. That cuts off your circulation,” she says briskly. “Okay, now try not to make that face for a second.” She holds up her phone and begins taking a bunch of selfies of us. It’s tricky, because I’m trying to keep skating forward while looking casual and cute at the same time. Caitlin and I are pretty similar in our skating ability—or lack of it. No way would I risk trying to take photos.
“Let me see,” Mellie says, taking Caitlin’s phone. “OMG, I legit look like Princess Leia with these things,” she says, taking off her brown wool earmuffs. “They aren’t even doing anything. My ears are frozen.”
A group of boys wearing black hockey skates zips past us, showing off and spraying ice shavings in our faces. Mellie shrieks—she’s one glide away from catastrophe. I’m okay if I keep moving in the same direction.
“Are you kidding me?” Mellie yells after the boys. “We’re in high school! Have some respect!” We all gradually come to a stop against the wall.
Caitlin rubs her hands together. “I could totally go for a hot chocolate now,” she says, trying to get a glimpse of the concession line.
“Is it because Ethan Cooper is over there?” Phoebe asks, lowering her voice to a whisper. Sure enough, I spot Ethan’s signature Notre Dame baseball cap and red hair amid the crowd.
“Shhh! What if he reads lips?” Caitlin says, pinching Phoebe’s arm hard enough that she yelps and swats her away.
“Whatever. I don’t care who’s standing over there. I need to pee,” Mellie announces, grimacing. “Just thinking about hot chocolate makes me have to go even more.”
As Caitlin and Mellie make their way toward the exit, Phoebe turns to me. “Would you mind if I skate off to the back to freestyle for a little while? I don’t want to leave you alone, but…” She trails off, looking forlorn. I know she’s been dying to have some time on the ice to practice jumps and spins. She used to take private lessons, but her dad was furloughed for a few months, so she had to give them up. Luckily, he’s working again, but now she just practices on her own.
“Oh, sure,” I say. “I’ll meet up with you in a few.”
“I feel bad,” she says, but she’s already unlinking her arm from mine. When she skates off, I feel a little unsteady. I keep going around on my long oval loop of the rink, but without my friends here to support me, I feel self-conscious. Maybe I should go find Caitlin and Mellie in the bathroom line. But I hate to do that when the skating session is so short. If you’re not careful, you can spend half your time in the concession and restroom lines.
Kids with no fear are zooming past on my left and right. Suddenly I’m moving like a grandma on the ice, inching forward, holding out my arms to keep my balance.
I decide to skate over to the wall. I’m doing pretty well, crossing one skate over the other as I move, aware of the way my weight moves from one leg to another, when the toe of my skate snags a bump in the ice and I trip. My arms windmill forward—and then backward, and I careen back and brace for impact.
But my butt barely skims the ice when strong arms reach under my armpits and pop me back onto my skates.
“Easy now,” a voice with the slightest British accent says behind me. It all happens so fast that I’m not even sure what happened.
I look up into the face of an angel. A freaking skate god angel. He’s tall, with silky blond hair and fair skin that’s just slightly flushed from the cold. Or maybe amusement.
I’m not sure.
To my horror, I start laughing. I tend to laugh when I get nervous or flustered, and right now I’m feeling both of those things in a very intense way.
He’s watching me, a slight smile on his lips. “What’s so funny?” he asks, taking my arm and gently guiding me over to the wall as if I’m a small child who’s wandered off the playground. He’s wearing a navy blue wool coat with a scarf around his neck, dark jeans, and black ice skates, the kind that look like hockey skates.
I giggle uncontrollably some more. “Oh, you know,” I say, waving my arm around dumbly. “Life.” Stop being so lame! He is going to think I’m the biggest idiot in the world. Right now I think I’m the biggest idiot in the world. “Actually, I…I just…I was laughing at something my friends said earlier.”
Now he looks around. “Friends? Where are they?”
“They went to the bathroom and to get hot chocolate,” I tell him, waving my hand in the direction of the concession stand. I feel a flush come up my neck.
“You need to learn how to fall,” he tells me before I can formulate any more words. “It’s a fine line between falling too far forward and landing on your bum.”
“Right,” I say, nodding. I reach back and brush some ice off my left butt cheek in what I hope is a nonchalant way.