1

Maddy



The early August heat is melting the make-up right off Dad's face, but his eyes are soft behind his thick-framed glasses, his voice calm. "You can get this, Maddy. Just ease your foot off the clutch."

The stench of burning rubber makes my eyes water as I grip the steering wheel. I blink and give it another go, but we don't go anywhere. My timing's off again and the ancient Dodge Neon shudders like a bug in the last twitch of death.

Gabe makes this look so easy; why can't I do it? The heat flares in my chest and I want to throw something. Release my frustration in some sort of primal battle cry. But I don't do those things at practice and I won't do them here, especially not with the camera crew sitting in the backseat.

Dad squeezes my shoulder. "It's all right."

In the rearview mirror, I see the face of the aide who offered up his car for this driving lesson because Dad thought lessons in a stick shift would be more interesting. He doesn't look all right. There's a big toothy smile on his face but his eyelids are tilted up toward his forehead in a way I didn't even know was possible and his eyes look like they're about to pop out of their sockets. I need to think win-win here. What do the aide and I want? Me out of this car, right now. What does Dad want? Footage for his campaign ads. I smile, half at Dad and half at the camera. "Thanks for always believing in me, Daddy."

The petite woman in charge of our little publicity shoot has tears in her eyes. Maybe from my sappy statement, but more likely from the stink of the burnt-out clutch. Either way, she announces in a singsong voice, "That's a wrap. Harold's going to love it!"

A teensy bit of film editing will obscure the minor detail that I still haven't managed to actually drive the car. I give Dad a peck on the cheek. "I love you."

"Love you, too. See you later, figure skater."

Halfway out of the car already, I pause and smile. "Out the door, Sena-tor." And I run from the parking lot into the arena.

* * *

Taking only a split-second peek in the locker room mirror to check that my hair's still camera slick, I change at superhero speed. Then I dash out of the locker room and finally I'm cleansing my lungs with the smell of the ice, the scent of fresh snow with just a hint of fuel from the last Zamboni pass. As soon as I inhale, I feel the anticipation tingle in my body. Hip-hop beats thump from the speakers overhead and, like the music, I'm cranked.

I'm pulling off my skate guards when there's a tug on my ponytail. "Hey, Mad."

All of a sudden there's a completely different tingle running through my body and I'm breathing in the only other smell that can compete with the ice. Irish Spring soap. I turn to face Gabe.

Forget melting in hands or mouths, all Gabe has to do is look at me with those milk chocolate eyes and I'm slush. Add his gorgeous blond waves, and, sadly, so is every other girl at Riverview Prep. Drool-worthy as always in tight black skating pants and a fitted Under Armour mock tee that shows off the upper body he owes to lifting me, he ditches his own guards and steps onto the ice. "How'd the lesson go?"

I follow him. "If it'd been a skating test, I would've gotten marked retry."

"That bad?"

Gabe takes a swig of water, but I take off down the ice. I need the feel of it beneath me, smooth and sure. As I fly toward him again, already headed for lap two, I grin and holler, "It was like practicing triple Axels. Crash and burn, over and over again. Well, no actual crashing but the clutch is burnt toast." I turn backward to face him as I whip past, and pinch my nose at the memory. Gabe laughs.

He catches up to me, but only because I let him. I step forward to match his strokes, easy as breathing. I know I should want my driver's license. My sixteenth birthday's so far past that I turned seventeen last month, but I shrug. "Like I need to drive, anyway. Anywhere I need to go, I can ride with you."

Gabe doesn't answer but as we round the end of the rink, he takes my outstretched hand. We don't need words, anyway. We've been pair skaters since before I cut off most of his hair playing beauty parlor in preschool. Our senior year of high school just started, but we already know we'll be going to Riverview Community College or Wichita State together. Skating and school, that's my life, and Gabe's, too. Since he's the boy next door and has had his license and his own car for almost two years, the bumming-rides deal works out pretty well.

Because he really does live next door, it's also hard to ignore that he goes plenty of places without me, but I shove the thought from my mind and start thinking about triple Axels again. I feel the smile creep over my face. I haven't made any progress with the driving lessons, but I'm going to land a triple Axel. Soon. Our coach, Igor, and I have a secret plan. We've been doing harness lessons to work on a throw quadruple Salchow and, because he knows I like the challenge, Igor's been letting me work my triple Axel in the harness, too.

Gabe and I finish our warm-up and head for the boards. I dart out of the way just in time, and the ice shavings from Gabe's hockey stop miss me. I circle around and send a snow shower of my own across his skates. He laughs and tosses me my water bottle. I take a sip, but I'm drinking in more of his grin than my water.

That is, until the slam of the metal latch behind me. My unexpected jump leaves my jacket soaked from the water I've spilled down my front. Smooth as ice, that move. I turn away quickly before Gabe notices and see Chris and Kate coming into the hockey box. Their faces are in perfect unison, the same stony expression.

"Weren't even going to tell me, were you?" Chris's bicep bulges on his wiry arm as he throws his skate guards on the floor of the hockey box. "Happy two-year anniversary to you, too." His face clashing pink against his fiery orange hair, he stomps past me and onto the ice.

Gabe turns as though he's about to say something, but his mouth hangs open, silent, and then he closes it again. Now on the other side of the rink, Chris rips the edges of his cross rolls purposefully hard. As his skate blades flash across each other, slashing the ice, the grinding noise competes with the music.

I glance back into the hockey box. Kate is sitting on the bench, her body bent forward as she fidgets with her skate laces. She tucks the loose strands of her white-blond bob back into her barrette with shaking hands.

Gabe beats me to my question. "You all right?"

Kate sits up but looks past Gabe. "Yeah." She pushes herself off the bench. "You guys want your music on?"

Gabe hands her our practice CD, tucking behind it a tissue from the box we always keep on the barrier. I ditch my wet jacket, tossing it onto the hockey bench. As Kate heads for the music box, we skate for center ice.

With the hip-hop beats silenced, there's only the rrrip, RRRIP of Chris's blades. I crouch down, pulling my body as tight to my skates as I can. Even though Chris and Kate are ice dancers and don't do jumps, Gabe jokes about when they're going to land their Axel. He means that their relationship is like us attempting our Axels: up, then down. Hard. Over and over and over again. But- "It's worse than ever this time."

"I'm so glad we're not like that." Behind me, Gabe takes his time covering my body with his own. "Classic why-you-shouldn't-date-your-partner."

I ignore that last part, taking the second to enjoy the closeness instead. Our music starts and we explode into movement, a fast routine from the soundtrack of The Incredibles. We sail across the rink in perfect unison, completing side-by-side triple toe loops before launching into flying camel spins. As we soar down the ice for our spiral sequence, stretching our free legs up behind us, we're at warp speed. In our pair spin, I pull my leg over my head. I am Elasti-Girl.

I rotate around Gabe for the death spiral, my body arching until I'm face-to-face with the ice. Our last move is a throw triple Salchow. Gabe's hands are firm on my sides. I spring from the ice, feeling the release as he launches me. My arms cross tight against my chest, elbows down, ankles crossed. I'm spinning through the air, my ponytail flying out from the force of the rotation. My toe pick hits the ice, then I'm gliding backward, arms checked out and a smile on my face. That landing was demo-video smooth.

We hit our end pose as the last note sounds. I gasp for air, but the smile on my face isn't for the judges that our coach insists we pretend are watching every practice. It's for real. We nailed that run-through. "That ... was ... incredible."

"Drop," Gabe manages, and we lose the pose. He's breathing hard, too. He drapes an arm around me, half leaning on me, half hugging me. "We're ... gonna win."

I grin, too, leaning back into him. If we skate like we just did, he's right. Forget last year's pewter pity medal, the Junior Grand Prix is ours this year.

Gabe releases me so fast it's like I've sprouted toe picks on my shoulders. He snaps to attention, military style, except his hands are clasped behind his back instead of saluting. This means one thing, and I straighten up, too. Igor glides across the ice toward us, his long black coat floating behind him. It's his job to pick our skating apart but today, even though my face is hiding my gloating, I'm daring him to find even one thing wrong.

Igor stops right in front of us but he doesn't smile. He doesn't even nod. His mouth is a thin, straight line and his forehead has a matching thin, straight line creased into it. "We skate like so?" His dark gray eyes stare at us from under furry, silver eyebrows that match his furry, silver cap. "We lose."

I don't flinch, but I feel like the little air I had left has been sucked right out of me.

Igor's eyes pierce mine. Then I see his face smooth out, the steely eyes soften. "Technically, is perfect. But..." He tilts his head. "Is time. Gabriel is no longer a boy. Madelyn is no longer a girl. We do new long program this year, Romeo and Juliet. We are needing ... passion. A love story."

My heart does a split jump in my chest. I can do passion. But it crashes down as I look at my best friend, because Gabe doesn't even look at me.



Copyright © 2015 by Katie Van Ark