Slow clapping interrupts my thoughts. I whip around to see Egg standing at Table #1. When I get to the wall, Egg drops his gaze. I drop mine too. Always in tandem, we look up at the same time and say, “I’m sorry.”
I come off the ice and stand in front of Egg. “Can we pretend like today never happened?”
“Yes, but I’m still mad at you for not answering your damn phone.”
“I know. I promise I’ll be a professional for the rest of the weekend. I’ll even give you a refund for wasting your time.”
Egg gives me a confused look and then a dismayed chuckle. “What? No. I thought you’d been abducted or hit by a car or something on your way home. And it would be all my fault for being a first class a-hole about some stupid audition. I forgot Coach Kennedy’s Rule Number One today. I’m sorry.”
I throw my arms around Egg and bury my face in his chest, so he won’t see the tears beading up in my eyes. Mom is probably passed out on the couch at home. Dad is soaking up the limelight out on the road somewhere. When would they notice I was missing? The waterworks completely open up.
“What? What? What?” Egg wraps his arms around me tighter, and I blubber into his shoulder. Egg lets me emotionally vomit all over him for several more minutes before I can finally get it all back together. “Talk to me, Olivia. We’ve been partners for a long time. Sometimes I feel like you’re closer to me than even my brothers. In fact, on most days, I would happily give your parents a two-for-one trade so you could be my little sister. Despite this afternoon, we really do work better together than anybody else I’ve ever met.”
“I’m sorry. I know I’m the weakest link. Not you. Me.” I sniff and wipe my eyes on my shoulder. “The USFSA cut our funding because of me.”
“Don’t.” Egg gently pushes me away.
But I do anyway. “Why didn’t you cut me loose well before the phoenix fiasco? You could be so much further along in your career by now if you didn’t have me weighing you down.”
“What are you talking about? You didn’t weigh me down. You lifted me up. You’re the one with the real talent here. Somebody should have put me out of my misery a long time ago. You’re right. I’m not gold medal material. I wish I were, but I’m not.”
“No, that was me being a jerk. I take it all back.”
“Well, yes, it was a jerk thing to say, but it was the truth. And sometimes the truth hurts. That’s why this audition is so important to me, Livy. I may not be good enough for the Olympics, but I still love to skate. I don’t want to be a rent-a-skater-boy anymore. I don’t want to be bought by Britney Xiao or any other ice princess. I want to skate on my own terms. I want to be Stuart. I want to travel the world. I want to fall in love. Multiple times. I want to cram as many memories into my head as I can before settling down and being an adult.”
“Me too.” I should tell him the whole truth, but I can’t. Not yet. I’m afraid to say the dream out loud. It’s too new. But I do admit to Egg, “I don’t know how to be a normal teen. I’ve been trying for the last five months, but I totally suck at it.”
Egg laughs and throws his arm around my shoulders. “Me too. So let’s stop trying to be someone we aren’t and do what we’re best at. Whatever happens, happens.”
“I don’t want to do Alexei’s choreography. I have a new idea.”
I grab my phone and a tissue. Egg looks over my shoulder at my song choice.
“Man, this song? Are you trying to make me cry?” Egg fakes melodramatic sobs until we’re both laughing. “C’mon, Short Stuff, let’s channel some of our angst into art.”
“Got it. And Egg, why didn’t you stop me from making the face? I looked like a complete idiot.”
“Yeah, there are quite a few things I wish I could go back and change.” Egg stops, takes a dramatic pose, and makes the face. I laugh. “But having you as my partner wouldn’t be one of them.”
My heart warms. I’m going to stop pretending like I’m a mature adult skater and be the passionate, mature teen skater that I am.
* * *
It’s midnight before we finally call it quits for the day. My feet sting, my back aches, and my hands are frozen, but my heart is content. The new choreography is set. My choreography. My art. My expression. My love song for Jonah. I can’t wait for him to see it.
Chapter 20
We get a late start on Sunday. Egg insists on taking Mom and me out for an early dinner at the Wisteria Village Cafe to thank her for the extra rink time. Closing time at Ice Dreams can’t come fast enough for me.
“I can’t wait to show you our new choreography,” I tell Mom as we enter her favorite restaurant.
“Irasshaimase!” the chef standing in the back yells without looking up.
“Sato-san, ohisashiburi desu,” Mom yells back across the empty restaurant.
“Midori-san!” The middle-aged man puts down whatever he was working on, wipes his hands on his apron, and jogs to the front of the store. Though Mr. Sato bows, Mom offers her hand to shake instead. “It’s good to see you again. And your lovely daughter. Where is your husband tonight?”
“Houston, I believe.”
“That’s too bad. Come in.” Mr. Sato grabs a couple of menus and leads us to a booth near the back. “Your usual table. Skyler will be over in a minute to take your order. If you want something not listed on the menu, Midori-san, let me know.”
“You are too kind.” Mom looks better than she has in months. But as soon as Mr. Sato leaves, the facade falls away. She blows a pained breath out between her teeth and kneads her lower back. Out in the real world—the supersized world—I realize how much weight my mom has lost in the last couple of months. Mom’s never been big, but now she’s looking skeletal.
“I wish Mack could have come with us. She would have loved this.” Egg pulls out his phone and takes a picture of the framed picture on the wall, which is surrounded by fake wisteria.
I groan. I’m used to seeing autographed pictures of my parents hanging in some of the smaller restaurants and businesses in town. This one is different, though. Five-year-old Olivia had insisted on inserting herself into their Olympic medal picture, and Mr. Sato gladly provided the Sharpie for me to do it. I even wrote Olivia in big, messy letters above my stick-figure self-portrait. Like I said, even at five, I was extra.
“No phones at the dinner table, Stuart,” Mom says as a tall, white teen girl with long brown hair arrives at our table.
“Irasshaimase,” she says, sounding just like Mr. Sato. She pulls a pad of paper from her lavender-colored apron. “I’m Skyler, and I will be your server tonight. Mr. Sato insists that your meal is on the house and for you to order whatever you’d like.”
Though my tongue wants tonkatsu, my brain knows a fried pork cutlet is going to sit like a rock in my stomach when I’m skating later. I order zaru soba—cold buckwheat noodles—and a side of teriyaki salmon instead. Egg orders a whole bento set with tempura shrimp and vegetables. He’s going to regret that later.
“I’m feeling a little under the weather today,” Mom reads the girl’s name tag, “Skyler. Would you ask Sato-san if he could make me ochazuke? I know that is insulting to ask of such an accomplished chef, but that’s the comfort food I’ve been craving lately.”