Call the Shots (2 page)

“Have you guys been here long?” Helen asks, sliding her arm around Coop’s waist.

“Not really. Maybe fifteen.” On skates, Coop is several inches taller than Helen. He leans down, and the two of them start making out.

There’s a twinge of something inside me as I watch them go at each other. Jealousy, for sure, but also . . . oh, gross. I quickly shift on the bench to try and stanch the rapid swelling in my pants. Jeez Louise. That is
not
cool. I really wish my body was a bit more selective sometimes.

I turn my head before anyone notices the flush in my cheeks. Pretend I’m looking to see if the gates to the ice are opened yet.

The rink guards have just finished putting out the orange traffic cones to cordon off the center oval for people who want to practice their figure-skating moves.

A deep breath and I manage to regain control over my careening hormones. I yank hard on my skate laces, and just like that, they snap in unison, causing both my clenched fists to punch me right in the mouth.

Coop sputters with laughter. “Dude, no need to beat yourself up. Things’ll turn around for you eventually.”

Perfect. This just gets better and better.

“Are you okay, Sean?” Helen says.

“Yeah. Sure. Fine.” I feel my throbbing lip with my tongue. There’s no taste of blood, so that’s one good thing. But the way this night is headed, I’m sure it’ll swell up to the size of a bratwurst.

I do some quick repair work, knotting up the broken laces, then stand and do a few deep knee bends to limber up.

“You guys want to go get something to eat first?” Valerie lifts her chin toward the warm glow of the Wigwam’s doors.

Matt, Coop, and Helen say they’re up for some food, but I beg off using the pork chops I had for dinner as an excuse. But really, I’d rather chew my own arm off right now than sit through half an hour of my friends making googly eyes at their girlfriends while they feed each other French fries. Besides, the smooth ice beckons.

Nobody puts up any arguments. No “Come on, Sean.” Or “Hang with us. You don’t have to eat anything.” Just a thumbs-up from Coop and a “Catch you later” from the others, before the four of them turn and head off without me. At least no one’s there to see me lip-synch the last few lines of the Justin Bieber song.

T
HE CIRCULATION HAS
been completely cut off from my feet, but who cares? It feels right to be gliding over the ice at top speed. The electronic fizzing tweet of the music buzzing and pounding over the arena sound system is like my own personal soundtrack.

The cold air feels good on my face. That frosty bite on the cheeks and nose. A chilly sting in the lungs. I’ve got my arms pumping and my legs working overtime as the acid builds up in my calves and thighs. I can usually get three or four good fast laps in before the rink crowds up and it’s all dodging and weaving around bodies.

I do a sloppy crossover as I round my first lap. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve tripped over my own feet attempting to cross one over the other. But even though I’m going full tilt now, I don’t really care if I take a spill.

When we were kids, Coop, Matt, and me would fall on purpose. Seriously. It was sweet. Especially on a newly cleaned ice surface. We’d take off as soon as the gates opened and then we’d drop like we’d been shot, sliding and spinning until we slammed hard into the boards. We could only get away with it twice a night — once at the start of the session and again at the midpoint just after the Zamboni resurfaced — because that’s when the ice was slickest and there were the fewest people skating.

I’m tempted to hit the ground right now — even though it’s probably too crowded at this point to avoid a collision. Still, a part of me is craving that loss of control. Those few moments when you’re slipping this way and that. Trying to right yourself. Bracing for the impact of the boards. The heavy thud against the body.

Then, as I head into another turn, crossing the blue line, I see an opening. A nice stretch of clear ice heading straight over the far right face-off circle. And before I can talk myself out of it, I dig out a few extra strides to get my speed up and take the plunge.

I’m not on the ice half a second — my jeans absorbing the wet like a ShamWow — when I realize that I didn’t exactly think this through. Sure, there
was
a clear path to the boards when I went down, but the fact that everyone is moving in a circular motion around the rink didn’t get factored in to my snap decision. Neither did the fact that I’m not quite as small as I was five or six years ago.

I clip the first person — a little boy in a white Michelin Man coat — causing him to do several wobbly Bambi-esque pirouettes before he grabs a hold of someone’s arm.

The red-jacketed rink guard is my next victim. I only catch one of her legs, but she isn’t expecting it, and so she goes ass over teakettle, her right skate barely missing my face.

If I hadn’t taken those extra strides before I dove to the ice, that might have been the end of it. As it is, I’m still moving pretty fast heading toward the boards. Lucky for me, the word seems to be out, because people are leaping to the side, clearing a path.

Not so much the pretzel-thin girl who’s clinging to the wall as though this is the first time she’s ever strapped on skates. She’s much too focused on not falling to notice the guy who’s hurtling wildly toward her.

She looks sort of familiar, but I can’t really place her. I try to shift my position in an attempt to avoid her, but the beauty and the curse of freshly cleaned ice is just how slick and smooth it is.

And so I take her out like a bowling pin as I plow into the boards.

There’s a loud
thunk,
followed by a high-pitched scream, which, if I’m being totally honest, I think came from me.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the girl says as she lands on top of me. “I told them I didn’t know how to skate.” She’s all bony elbows and knees, and smells a lot like Swiss cheese.

“It was my fault,” I say, scrambling to get out from under her.

It shouldn’t take this long to extricate ourselves from each other, but we’re slipping around on the ice like a couple of hot-oil wrestlers.

Two rink guards skate over to help us up and out of the gates. Thankfully, everyone is treating this like an accident and not something I stupidly did on purpose.

We get to the benches, and a quick inspection reveals we’re both okay. Just a little bruised up. Nothing major.

“Evelyn,” the girl says to me when the rink guards finally take off. “Evelyn Moss.”

“Sean,” I reply, since we seem to be introducing ourselves. “Hance.”

“I know.” Evelyn smiles shyly, her eyes cast down to her doe-brown rental skates. “You were in my computer class last semester.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s right. Computer class.” I nod like it’s all coming back to me. She must have been one of the ninth-graders we tended to ignore.

“You don’t remember me. It’s okay.” She glances over at me. “The only reason I remember you is because I used to eavesdrop on you and your friend Matt. You guys were pretty funny.”

“Thanks,” I say, trying to wiggle some life back into my strangled toes. I should probably take off my skates, but if I do that, I’ll never get them back on. And I’d still like to take a few more laps before I call it a night.

“Are you taking any computer classes next semester?” she asks, picking at the fuzz BBs on her avocado-colored sweater.

“Web Design. Maybe. I don’t know if I’ll get in; I handed in my forms late.”

“Me too,” she says. “Web Design, I mean, not the late part. I always get my schedule in way before the deadline. Hey, maybe we’ll get lucky and be in it together.”

“Yeah. That’d be cool.”

Okay, let me get this out of the way right off the bat. I am
not
attracted to Evelyn Moss.

At all.

Sure, she has reddish hair, but it’s stringy and dull. Not long and lush like Valerie’s. And she’s got a raccoon mask of freckles, which isn’t a good look for a girl with the sort of pinched-thin nose that she has. Also, her voice is all nasal and shrill. Like a crow with a cold.

And then there’s that cheese smell. It’s weird. It’s not like it’s so awful as much as just really
there.
Like maybe she works in a deli or something and is exclusively in charge of slicing the Swiss. Don’t get me wrong, I actually like Swiss cheese. Just not wafting off a girl’s body.

“Are you here with anybody?” Evelyn asks.

“Just some friends. Matt and Coop,” I specify, reminding myself that she was in our computer class. “You?”

“My Girl Scout troop. We took a vote for our winter break outing. Needless to say, this was
not
my choice.” She snort-laughs like an excited piglet.

“Girl Scouts? Really? Do people still do that?”

“Sure. I’m a Senior Scout. I’m also a Counselor-in-Training. It’s cool.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.”

“Shut up.” Evelyn giggles as she punches me in the shoulder. Hard. “Is too. We go on all sorts of cool trips. Plus it’ll look great when I apply to college. It shows I’m committed.”

“Like, to a mental institution?”

“Oh, funny, funny.
No.
But once I finish the Counselor-in-Training program, I
can
get a job at a summer camp.”

“I sure hope you can swim better than you skate.”

“Okay, Mr. Graceful.” She whales me in the arm again. Jesus. “Or
maybe
you slid into me on purpose so you could start talking to me?”

“Um, no. I definitely did not mean to run into you. I’m actually a pretty good skater.”

“Good.” And before I know what’s going on, Evelyn grabs my hand, stands, and yanks me up. “Then you can teach me how to skate better. To make up for knocking me over.”

God, she’s strong
and
pushy.

I glance around and don’t see my so-called friends anywhere. So, fine. I’ll be the nice guy and show Swiss-cheesey how to balance on her skates. What could it hurt?

O
H, MAN, HER PALM
is super clammy. Ick.

I didn’t notice at first because I was so shocked by her bossiness. And her superhuman strength. But now that we’re skating around the rink, hand in hand, it’s like I’m holding a warm soggy dinner roll.

“How’s this?” Evelyn says, shuffling clumsily along on her skates. “Pretty good, huh?”

I nod. “Yeah, you’re doing great.”

She’s gripping my hand tight, cutting off all the feeling in my fingers. I’d really like to let go of her, but she’s using me for balance, and if I pull away right now, she’ll do a face-plant onto the ice for sure.

Evelyn looks over at me and smiles. “You’re a good teacher, Sean.” She stumbles and nearly falls. I have to use all my strength to keep her on her feet.

“Eyes ahead,” I instruct. “We’ve got to get you so you can do this on your own.” Like, now.

“I don’t know,” Evelyn says, staring forward again. “I kind of like skating like this.”

It’s strange, but she’s much more attractive from the side. Not like a “Yeah, I’ve got to tap that” kind of attractive. But certainly an improvement over how she appears face-to-face. I guess that’s what people mean by having a “best side.” Evelyn’s is definitely her left one by a good margin.

I wonder if I should mention this to her. So when she gets her picture taken, she can always pretend she’s looking off at something over to her right.

As I debate this with myself, the lights are suddenly dimmed and some slow, sappy love song starts playing over the loudspeakers. A disco ball is lowered from the center of the ceiling and casts little squares of light all over the place.

“Couples skate,” a guy announces in a deep Darth Vader-ish voice. “Couples only.”

“Hey, we can stay on,” Evelyn caws, crushing my hand. “Because there’s two of us.”

“Yeah.” I look around at all the other couples joining us on the ice and feel like someone just dumped a fistful of itching powder down my boxers. People are going to think I actually asked her to skate. “Great.”

I sigh quietly. But then I think,
So what?
So what if people think I asked Evelyn to skate with me? It’s not like she’s
so
hideous. And it’s certainly not like I have any other prospects. Besides, Evelyn seems to really be enjoying herself. Let her have her fun. Maybe I’ll bank some karma points with the girlfriend gods.