Страница 55 из 60
Calliope does not find the joke fu
Aleck and Abby are staying while everyone else goes. The time alone will hopefully force him back into motion, but Andy and I have secret plans to check up on them. Just in case. I’m opening my mouth to ask about Cricket, when he races from the house. “I’m here, I’m here!” He comes to an abrupt halt six inches from me, when he finally notices there’s someone else in the driveway.
I look up. And up again, until I meet his gaze.
“Get in the car,” Calliope says. “We’re leaving. Now.”
“You’re still wearing the rubber band,” he says.
“I’m still wearing everything you last saw me in.” And then I want to kick myself, because I don’t want it to sound like I
forgot
I was wearing it. I am very, very aware of wearing his rubber band.
“CRICKET.” This time, Mr. Bell.
I’m filled with a hundred things I want to say to Cricket, but I’m conscious of his entire family watching us. So is he. “Um, see you next week?” he asks.
“Good luck. To your sister. And you. For . . . whatever.”
“CRICKET!” Everyone in the car.
“Bye,” we blurt. He’s climbing in when Aleck leans down and whispers something in his ear. Cricket glances at me and turns red. Aleck laughs. Cricket slams his car door, and Mr. Bell is already pulling away. I wave. Cricket holds up his hand in goodbye until the car turns the corner and out of sight.
“So.” Aleck ducks his head out of reach from Abby’s grabbing hands. “You and my brother, huh?”
My cheeks flame. “What did you say to him?”
“I told him your loins were clearly burning, and he should man up and make a move.”
“You did not!”
“I did. And if he doesn’t, then I suggest you jump
his
bones. My brother, in case you haven’t noticed, is kind of an idiot about these things.”
Cricket has left a new message for me in his window. It’s written in his usual black marker but with one addition—a crayon rubbing of my name, imprinted from the sidewalk corners on Dolores Street.
The sign reads: GO TO THE DANCE DOLORES
I am going to the dance.
“I heard about Calliope,” Norah says on Friday night. “Sixth place?”
I sigh. “Yep.” In her post-short-program interview, Calliope was quiet but poised. A professional. “I’m disappointed,” she said, “but I’m grateful to have another chance.”
“That’s a shame,” Norah says.
“It’s not over yet.” My voice is sharp. “She still has a shot.”
Norah gives me a wary look. “You think I don’t know that? Nothing is ever over.”
My family, Lindsey, and I are gathered around the television. Everyone is working on my Marie Antoinette gown. The last few decorative details are all that remain, and I appreciate the help as we wait for Calliope’s long program to begin.
The ladies’ short program was two nights ago. We saw the end from the begi
Fear.
The music started, and it was clear that something was wrong.
It happened so quickly.
Her most difficult sequences were in the begi
Calliope landed it, but she fell on the combination.
The expression on her face—only for a moment, she picked herself up instantly—was terrible. The commentators made pitying noises as she bravely skated to the other end of the rink, but our living room was silent. An entire season’s worth of training. For nothing.
And then she fell
again.
“It’s not all about talent,” the male commentator said. “It’s also about your head. She’s not been able to do what people have expected of her, and it’s taken its toll.”
“There’s no greater burden than potential,” the female commenter added.
But as if Calliope heard them, as if she said
enough,
determination grew in every twist of her muscles, every push of her skates. She nailed an extra jump and earned additional points. Her last two-thirds were solid. It’s not impossible for her to make the Olympic team, but she’ll need a flawless long program tonight.
“I can’t watch.” Andy sets down his corner of my Marie Antoinette dress. “What if she doesn’t medal? In Lola’s costume?”
This has been bothering me, too, but I don’t want to make Andy even more nervous, so I give him a shrug. “Then it won’t be my fault. I only made the outfit. She’s the one who has to skate in it.”
The rest of us abandon my dress as the camera cuts to her coach Petro Petrov, an older gentleman with white hair and a grizzled face. He’s talking with her at the edge of the rink. She’s nodding and nodding and nodding. The cameraman can’t get a good shot of her face, but . . . her costume looks
great.
I’m on TV! Sort of!
“You made that in one day?” Norah asks.
Nathan leans over and squeezes my arm. “It’s phenomenal. I’m so proud of you.”
Lindsey grins. “Maybe you should have made my dress.”
We went shopping earlier this week for the dance. I’m the one who found her dress. It’s simple—a flattering cut for her petite figure—and it’s the same shade of red as her Chuck Taylors. She and Charlie have decided to wear their matching shoes.
“You’re going to the dance?” Norah is surprised. “I thought you didn’t date.”
“I don’t,” Lindsey says. “Charlie is merely a friend.”
“A cute friend,” I say. “Whom she hangs out with on a regular basis.”
She smiles. “We’re keeping things casual. My educational agenda comes first.”
The commentators begin rehashing Calliope’s journey. About how it’s a shame someone with such
natural talent
always
chokes.
They criticize her constant switching of coaches and make a bold statement about a misguided strive for perfection. We boo the television. I feel sadness for her again, for having to live with such constant criticism. But also admiration, for continuing to strive. No wonder she’s built such a hard shell.
I’m yearning for the network to show her family, which they didn’t do AT ALL during the short program. Shouldn’t a twin be notable? I called him yesterday, because he’s still too shy to call me. He was understandably stressed, but I got him laughing. And then he was the one who encouraged me to invite Norah today.
“She’s family,” he said. “You should show encouragement whenever you can. People try harder when they know that someone cares about them.”
“Cricket Bell.” I smiled into my phone. “How did you get so wise?”
He laughed again. “Many, many hours of familial observation.”
As if the cameramen heard me . . . HIM. It’s him! Cricket is wearing a gray woolen coat with a striped scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. His hair is dusted with snow and his cheeks are pink; he must have just arrived at the arena. He is winter personified. He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
The camera cuts to Calliope, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from shouting at the television to go back to Cricket. Petro takes ones of Calliope’s clenched hands, shakes it gently, and then she glides onto the ice to the roar of thousands of spectators, cheering and waving ba