Fake Skating(13)

“He’d never have the balls to try something that legendary,” Vinny said, shaking his head. “Are you kidding with that?”

“No lies detected, Vincent the Flow,” Reid agreed, nodding while wearing a half-baked smirk. “But I bet I know who would.”

“Who’s that crazy?” Zack said, throwing a handful of sticks into the fire.

“Our boy Zeus.”





CHAPTER FIVE Dani




I’m not nervous; I’m focused.

I looked in the bathroom mirror and repeated the reminder, even though it was total bullshit. Nothing was worse than the first days at a new school, and nervous didn’t begin to cover it.

But over the years I’d discovered that if I focused on what Ineeded to get out of a new school, it made me feel more in control and marginally less… well, powerless. Instead of worrying about things like people judging me or where I was going to sit at lunch, I zeroed in on what mattered.

For example, I wanted to go to Harvard next year.

I wanted to go to Harvard so badly. I wanted to go to Harvard like Lorelai wanted Rory to go to Harvard.

When I was in grade school, my dad was stationed at Hanscom Air Force Base, just outside Boston. My mom used to take me to Harvard for fun, and we’d spend entire autumn days exploring the campus while the leaves were in full color. She fed me Lunchables in Harvard Square, and I fell madly in love.

I’d never been able to put my finger on exactly whatI loved about it, but Cambridge was my happy place.

So, yes, my only goal in life at the moment was Harvard.

I’d discovered over the past few years that when everything in your life sucked, making an absurd college goal your primary focus became an extraordinary diversion.

Lacking in the friends department at your new school?

Who cares? You need to focus on getting into Harvard.

Is that volleyball player mocking you behind your back again?

Who cares? You need to focus on getting into Harvard (and that bitch could never get in, by the way).

So what I needed from Southview was Harvard insurance, since I’d been freaking deferredand was still waiting on acceptance. I needed to maintain my perfect GPA, meet with a counselor to keep my goals on track, and make sure that the only thing admissions saw when they finally reviewed my application again was that I’d landed in Minnesota with my Harvard-destined nose to the grindstone.

The focus of my first day was to solidify those important things and not worry about anything else.

I put my hair in a clip and turned off the bathroom light.

But when I walked out to our little apartment kitchen, there was a note on the microwave from my mom.

The electrical in the new kitchen still isn’t working, so come downstairs for breakfast.

Wonderful.

Last night, as soon as I’d climbed into bed, I’d realized that I still hadn’t had a single one-on-one conversation with my grandpa. Aside from “you got tall,” we hadn’t really exchanged any words.

Which left me with this annoying nervousness about how things were going to be with him.

Mick Fucking Boche.

I rolled my eyes as I thought of everyone’s attitude toward him Saturday night, the way a table full of grown men had behaved as if he’d been Taylor Swift popping in for dinner, instead of an old man with a bad attitude.

Obviously, hockey made people nuts.

I grabbed my coat and backpack and went downstairs, wondering if I should even bother with breakfast.

Seemed like a bad idea when my stomach was so knotted.

Grandpa Mick was sitting at the table when I entered the kitchen, reading the newspaper while my mom appeared to be making scrambled eggs at the stove. He had reading glasses on the end of his nose, glasses that should’ve made him look old but instead just accentuated how intimidating he was.

“Good morning,” my mom said in a singsong voice, glancing over her shoulder and giving me a smile. “How’d you sleep?”

“Great,” I said, not knowing what to do, so I sat down across from himat the table.

“The beds are so comfy, right?” she said, sounding like a Disney princess with her happy breathlessness.

“The comfiest,” I muttered, pulling my phone out of my pocket.

“You don’t like the bed.”

I looked across the table, taken aback by the quiet rasp of his voice and the way it hadn’t sounded like a question at all, and Grandpa Mick was watching me with his eyes narrowed.

“N-no, um, I do,” I stammered, shrugging and adding, “It’s great.”

“Because I can get a different bed.” He pulled off the readers and said, “You need softer or what.”

What is a bed again? I felt like I was under the harsh lights of an interrogation room as my grandfather looked at me like I’d murdered someone and he wanted to know where the body was buried.

“No, really, I love the bed.”

“Oh.” He crossed his arms over his big chest, giving me hardcore direct eye contact, then said, “Today’s a blackout.”

“What?”

He gave my bulky sweater a chin nod. “At school. The kids are wearing all black because it’s rivalry week, starting with Simley.”

“Oh.” I crossed myarms and said, “I’m just going to wear this, but thanks.” The thick, warm wool of my fisherman sweater seemed more important than school spirit.