Pride Unleashed (a Wolf's Pride novel, book 2) (37 page)

“A sleepover?”

Thank god she asks the question in her whisper-like voice. “Yeah,” I nod. “A sleepover, that’s a great idea.”
I am so royally screwed.
I made her think sleeping over at my house was her idea. It’s not, but if it will get her to commit, I don’t care what she thinks.

“You sure?” she asks.

Not really, but I don’t have anyone else to ask and you’re my last hope
. I nod, making sure my smile is bright and full, stretched taut across my face. I notice she’s still taking notes. How the hell can she concentrate on this boring stuff when my guts feel like they are being twisted into pretzel shapes?

“Just you and me, tonight at my house for a makeover. Come around six and we’ll have time for a movie later.”

“You sure your parents won’t mind? It being Monday night and all.”

“My mother’s away at some stupid work conference. And my stepfather doesn’t care what I do.” And that’s the truth. He only cares about one thing but that’s not going to happen—if she comes over, that is.

“You are so lucky. By the way, I don’t have any make-up to bring.”

“Don’t you worry. I have enough stuff to outfit my own store. When I’m done with you tonight you can take whatever you want home with you.”

“I wish I had your life.”

I gulp. A flash of terror slides through my skin at her words. If she knew my real life, if she knew what went on in the dark, when Mother’s not home, she most certainly would not want my life. I can’t say anything for a full minute. Instead, I start to take notes again. My heart’s hammering away and sweat glides down my new shirt. I’m glad now I put on my sweater.

“You okay?” she asks.

“You bet. Just plotting out in my head what we’re going to do tonight.”

The bell rings. Class is over. I gently close my laptop. No one carries scribblers or school books at this school. It’s high-tech all the way. The sickening part is that with it being mid-morning, religious class is next. I am not one bit Catholic, even though my mother said we were. I fake my way through religious class much like how I pretend being happy. Guess I learned how to lie from a pro. The worse part about my next class is with it being Monday it’s mandatory confessional. Honestly, some of my best lies take place in the privacy of a wooden closet. Just me and the priest, separated by a silly wooden barrier. I should journal some of the “indecent” things I confess. They sound exciting even to me so, I can just imagine the hard-on they give that fat, disgusting priest. If there’s one thing I have learned in the past year it’s how to spot a pervert. Trust me, he’s just like Greg, my stepfather, who ever since I turned fourteen has snuck into my room to show me his idea of loving. The concept of
that
type of love is not something I want. If that’s loving, I will take hate any day.

I know something the priest and most of my fellow students don’t know. There is no hell in the afterlife. I’ve been there. Died for a good three minutes. I didn’t feel a thing. Only this life is living hell.

“See you at six,” I remind Megan, as we casually join the mass exit from class.

“Can’t wait,” she says.

I can’t help noticing the bounce in her step. It should make me happy. It doesn’t. I don’t even like Megan. She’s a pathetic excuse for protection but she will have to do.

PJ Sharon

Journal Entry,

May 15
th

I’m a liar. I know it, I hate it, and I can’t seem to help myself.
I feel the lies piling up as if I’m being buried, each one a stone that keeps me pinned in a shallow grave.

God knows I have my reasons for hiding from the truth. Truth is hard and ugly. The lies are easier. As Mom gets sicker, my world grows smaller and the lies grow bigger. The uneven ground beneath my feet leaves me unsteady, and I’m waiting for the earthquake that will disrupt my life and change it forever.

At school, I’m expected to get all A’s. On the ice, I’m expected to pass tests, compete, and win. At home…well, I’m expected to be strong, help out, take charge, and be an inspiration—like one of Mom’s Celine Dion slit-my-wrists songs. If I am “Perfect Penny,” maybe everything will be okay, but I know that I’m lying, even to myself. Because no matter how hard I try, I will never be good enough to change the truth.

I hit the ice at 8:00 a.m. Monday morning. Summer camp was one more step on the path to Olympic Gold. At least that’s what Mom has been telling me since I was eight. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that we would never have the money it would take to get me to the Olympics no matter how talented I was. I started keeping track of our costs in little journals when I was about ten. After calculating the thousands of dollars my parents had spent over those first few years, it was clear to me that unless we found a wealthy sponsor who saw my potential, the best I could hope for was the ice show circuit or teaching.

That idea didn’t bother me the way it did Mom. I hated competing, but telling her that would have broken her heart. She had such high hopes for me, and with her cancer, I couldn’t let her down. So I worked hard and stuck to the plan.

But plans have a way of changing. I could spin with the best of them, but after my second concussion when I was fourteen, I developed a phobia of axels. I had no trouble with all of the other double jumps, but every time I tried to kick through to come off of that forward outside edge, my body balked. Without a double axel in my program, pursuing a competitive freestyle career was futile. Despite trying every trick in the book, including the use of a jump harness and off-ice training, I was unable to overcome my fear. “Instinctual avoidance” my coach called it. So, Mom got me started ice dancing, hoping I’d have a better chance at landing a partner—a possibility as slim as me escaping the horrors of daily life in the trenches at number four Barrett Street, also known as home sweet home. At least that’s what the sign above the kitchen door said.

A group of girls stood behind me waiting for the Zamboni to finish cleaning the ice. They were townies like me, but much younger, ranging in age from eight to thirteen, girls I helped teach basics to as part of our club’s mentoring program. Chad, a twelve year old boy with a handsome face and short blond hair, stood amongst the girls trying to blend in. I had noticed some hockey players teasing him earlier and saw the hurt in his eyes. Before I’d had a chance to go put the brats in their place, another guy in a hockey uniform had scattered the little beasts with a few choice words. I would have to remember to thank him.

Chad was the token practice partner for the younger group, but none of them would be able to land him as a permanent partner. There were ten girls to every one boy on the ice. It was an unspoken assumption that the boys got their pick of partners, and it only made good sense to choose a rich girl who could pay all of their expenses along the way.

This was clearly the case with our premier ice dance team, Kent and Daphne, who stood off to the side arguing about costumes for the upcoming show. Daphne had her hands on her hips and a look on her face that meant the argument would be short lived, and she would be choosing the colors they would wear.

The lights overhead dimmed and crackled as they pulsed to full force in their effort to warm up in the cold rink. The Zamboni finished its final round. Carl, the Z driver and all around rink rat, jumped off and shoveled the residual pile of slushy snow out the double doors. We had to wait until the doors were closed and the puddles had dried before we opened the gate and took to the ice.

To my left, another group of girls closer to my age crowded in and pressed me up against the boards, subjecting me to their usual rants. The nasally voice of Cassie Phelps grated in my ear.

“This rink is so totally lame. If it weren’t for having the best coach around, I’d be skating up in Simsbury instead of this crappy little town.”

“C’mon, Somerville isn’t that bad—if you like the smell of cow manure,” Portia Whitman chimed in, as she worked her long dark hair into a French braid and shot me a dirty look. I followed her gaze as she glanced up at her bleacher mom who was dressed in a business suit and was busily pecking away at her Android, probably scheduling Portia’s next fitting for a custom skating outfit, and ignoring her daughter’s antisocial snarkiness.

There were several of this type of mom in the stands. Mine was conspicuously absent—just as she had previously been conspicuously present. She took pride in the way she refused to put up with anyone who thought they were better than her because of money. Mom’s bold color choices and her Wal-Mart bargain rack clothes were a dead giveaway that she could care less about fitting in. My heart gave a sad lurch, remembering how proud I was that my mother was so strong and confident and how much had changed in the past few years.

Portia nudged me aside, opening the gate so she could be the first to get on the ice. I competed against Cassie and Portia for a dance partner and I couldn’t stand their superior attitudes, as if money and living in a big house made them better than me. I felt sorry for the unlucky boy that got saddled with either of them. I smiled and nodded, ignoring the jab to my ribs and stepping aside to let the others pass.

It served me best to keep to myself and focus on being the best that I could be—which would likely never be good enough. It wasn’t that I didn’t have talent or didn’t work hard enough, but at seventeen, my window of opportunity was all but closed. I knew I wasn’t cut out for the dog-eat-dog world of competitive skating. In the shark tank of figure skating, I was a guppy.

The early morning fog hanging over the ice dissipated once the dozen or so skaters blasted out a few laps. By the time the music started, I was all warmed up. My blades sang across the ice, cutting a deep edge as I swung my right leg through. I pulled my arms in tight and spun in the opposite direction to complete the twizzle that defined the Argentine Tango. I pushed hard to gain speed out of the turn. With my chin lifted and my head tipped to the right, I looked down my nose at the gracefully extended fingers of my right hand. I finished the third pattern of my dance and ended with a lunge followed by a sharp T-stop as the music ended abruptly.

“That was a mess! You were flat going into the end pattern, and you need to keep those toes pointed with
every
stroke.”
George Stewart was well known for his nationally ranked ice dancing teams—not so much for his patience or tact. Tall and slender, George wore middle age well, always dressed for a camera and ready with a breath mint. His hair was slicked back and dyed a dark brown; his nose was long and prominent. He clapped his hands together on the beat as the music started again. “You’re still off time on the progressive-chasse sequence. Let’s see it again.”

I rested my hands on my thighs, trying to catch my breath. To my eternal regret, I had the stupidity to ask, “Three full patterns?”

He eyed me with the disdain of a man who believed I was a waste of his precious time. “You’ll do it until you get it right.” Thank God, my lesson was only an hour long.

Three and a half hours later, I’d completed an hour lesson, an hour of power skating, (with George’s half-his-age boy-toy, Paul), a half hour of off-ice drills, and an hour ballet and stretch class. I was exhausted and exhilarated. It felt good, although I knew I would pay for it with new blisters and sore muscles the next day.

Skating was the closest thing I could imagine to flying. The sensation of the wind in my face and the barriers whizzing by, made me feel like I had wings. I felt light when I was on the ice, a wisp of air spinning and flowing like a spirit set free. If only the skating was all that mattered. I might not make it to the Olympics, but I knew that someday, I would teach. When I did, I’d be kind, patient, and supportive. And I’d never tell anyone they were fat.

Giggles and chatter filled the dance room behind me as I made my way out the door, already anticipating whatever disaster awaited me at home. Mrs. Russell, our neighbor and Mom’s best friend, had agreed to stay with her until one o’clock. My internal clock ticked the time away. I slung my bag over my shoulder and waved to Tiffy and her little band of friends huddled together on the bench. They all chimed in together, “See you tomorrow, Penny!” I smiled in return.

Then I collided with a solid object.

“Hey! Look where you’re…” a
boy with dark, sweat-soaked hair, and long-lashed hazel eyes stopped and looked from me to the front of his hockey jersey, now splattered in orange soda. I recognized him as the boy who had stepped in to help Chad earlier.

“Oh! I’m so sorry,” I backed away, watching him brush the dripping soda off his shirt. The crushed cup lay between us in a puddle on the floor. He had a helmet under his arm and a hockey stick in his hand and appeared dumbfounded about what to say or do next. I sympathized. “Let me get that,” I said. I reached in my bag and grabbed the towel I used to dry my blades. I dabbed at the front of his shirt, avoiding looking up at his face, which I was pretty sure was crimson with rage or at least annoyance. How could I be so clumsy?
Good going, Gracie,
I heard my sister Rachel say from the recesses of my brain, causing my own cheeks to flush with heat.

“I’ve got it,” he said. He took the towel from me and finished wiping his orange stained shirt. His eyes met mine and his look of annoyance melted away. “No big deal.”