Chapter 4
The ice skating rink was new this year—they’d put it in the town square, next to the giant Christmas tree.
It was only temporary, and they had to run some kind of coolant under the ice to keep it from melting (Hastings Rock had the charming ability to be bone-chillingly cold without actually, you know, dropping below freezing).
I’d heard a few of the locals complain that it was an eyesore, but it honestly wasn’t too bad, and to judge by the crowds, it was doing what it was meant to do—bring in more winter tourists during Hastings Rock’s slow months.
It was actually kind of magical, in my opinion—at night, with the lights from the big tree softening everything, Bing Crosby crooning over the loudspeakers, and everyone laughing and rosy-cheeked and happy.
“What do you mean you’ve never skated?” I said. “That’s impossible.”
“I’ve never gone ice skating,” Bobby said with a shrug.
“But that’s impossible!”
“Being angry is a good choice,” Fox told me as they laced their skates.
“I’m not angry,” I said.
“I’m just disappointed,” Fox finished dryly.
“I’m not—”
“They’re teasing you,” Bobby said. He’d already shucked his sneakers (these were daily wear, not his fancy ones), and he was wiggling his toes in his oh-so-straight white tube socks. Holding up the rented skates, he asked, “Do I just put these on and lace them up?”
“You’ve seriously never gone ice skating?” I asked.
Something hit me in the back of the head.
Keme cocked his arm, another cone from the big Christmas tree ready to throw.
“All right,” I said. “I get it.”
Keme pretended to throw.
“All right!” In a slightly more modulated voice, I said to Bobby, “Here, I’ll do it.”
I helped Bobby into the skates and tied them for him. He could have done it himself, of course, but it felt like the least I could do after my reaction to this latest revelation. Plus, I hardly ever get to do things for Bobby, and this felt cute and fun, like something out of a Christmas movie.
“That’s tighter than I would have expected,” Bobby said when I finished.
“Never?” I said. “For real? Never ever?”
“Is this a problem?”
“No, God, of course not. You’re just so—”
“Vietnamese?”
I burst out laughing and swatted his thigh. Then I began lacing up my own skates. “You’re so athletic. And you’re so good at everything.”
“Maybe I’ll be good at ice skating.”
Out of somebody else’s mouth, that might have sounded…arrogant, I guess. From Bobby, though, it was exactly that: a maybe.
We made our way to the rink. There was already a decent-sized crowd, but the rink was big enough that it didn’t feel overly full.
I got out on the ice, made sure I had my balance, and held out a hand to Bobby.
He wobbled as he joined me; his face was turned down, his gaze intent on his skates, but I could still see that huge, goofy grin when it stretched across his mouth.
“You want to keep your knees soft,” I said.
Bobby nodded.
I skated backward slowly, pulling him with me. “Now we’re going to swizzle.”
With a little laugh, Bobby asked, “Swizzle?”
“Turn your toes out, yep, like that, now push. Great. Now, toes back in—yep.” I squeezed his hands. “See, this is exactly what I’m talking about: you’re a natural.”
Bobby’s head came up long enough for him to flash that ridiculously beautiful grin at me, and then he turned his attention back to his skates again.
We made our way slowly around the rink once: me skating backward, Bobby taking his time. He had a few shaky moments and one near fall, but honestly, he was doing great.
“Did you go ice skating a lot growing up?” he asked.
“A couple of times a year.”
“You’re good.”
I laughed. “I’m not good, Bobby. I’ve just done it before.”
“You’re skating backward.”
“That’s right. I’m a hotshot.” I squeezed his hands again. The whicking sound of blades in the ice mixed with the music—Irving Berlin, now—and the excited voices of our fellow skaters. “Ready to get out there?”
“We just skate around in a circle?”
“Unless you’re a hotshot like me,” I said, and I gave a jaunty burst of speed backward—and promptly almost fell over.
Bobby was kind enough not to laugh. But that big grin got a little bigger.
We skated with the crowd for a while. It’s strange how going round and round in a circle, surrounded by a bunch of random other people, can be so much fun.
Part of it was the season—the big boughs of evergreen, the red bows, The Queen—Mariah Carey—belting out the true anthem of Christmas.
And part of it was Bobby. I kept catching whiffs of the clean, sporty scent of his deodorant, mixed with the crisp cold of the ice and, from the booths set up around the rink, popcorn and cider and hot chocolate.
Because Bobby has an unfortunate affinity for Sports (notice the capital S), he was, of course, a natural on a pair of skates.
He even wanted to try skating backward, and he did a much more credible job of it than I ever had.
We’d started our loops around the rink on the outside, being passed by everyone from Keme and Millie (yes, they were holding hands, and yes, they were adorable) to Bliss and Althea Wilson (who were also holding hands and were also adorable, even if they were fifty years older).
But after a few laps, Bobby wanted to go faster, and we worked our way to the inner circle.
That was when Keme and Millie (but mostly Keme) decided to go even faster.
And then—surprise, surprise—Bobby wanted to go faster too.
And then it was just Keme, with Millie laughingly drifting off to the side of the rink. Keme skating past to swat me on the back of the head. Keme skating up and spraying us with ice. Keme zipping alongside and grabbing the hat off Bobby’s head.
Bobby was mature. Bobby was serious. Bobby was perhaps the most responsible person I’d ever met. But sometimes he got a certain look in his eye that had everything to do with being a boy.
“Go race him,” I said. “And then beat him up.”
“I love you,” he said.
He didn’t wait for a response; he was already flying down the rink, his compact, muscular body bent over the skates.
A total natural.
I was starting to have my doubts again about the whole I’ve-never-been-skating thing.
Easing my way toward the edge of the ring of skaters, I waved at Indira, who was gliding along in her coat and muffler, serene as a swan, and got distracted by Fox, who was doing some remarkably good spins.
(I was so distracted, in fact, that I almost got run over by Mr. Cheek, who had dredged up a sequined bodysuit from somewhere, complete with a flowing, translucent train—and, actually, was totally pulling it off.)
Millie’s shouts of “Go, Keme! GO!” made me turn.
Keme had somehow managed to stay ahead of Bobby, and for a boy who tended toward the stone-faced-killer school of self-expression, he looked surprisingly…
well, boyish. His features were relaxed, his mouth open in a wide grin.
Bobby’s hat still hung from one hand. Bobby, coming after him, looked happy too—but with an edge of so-help-you-God-if-I-catch-up-to-you that was having a real effect on me.
Keme looked back, checking the gap between himself and Bobby.
And that was when Millie shouted, “KEME, LOOK OUT!”
Mr. Cheek had gotten tangled in his flowing, translucent train, and he now presented an obstacle in Keme’s path. Keme’s head snapped back around, and he saw the problem immediately. He deked right, the movement smooth and tight and controlled.
It put him on a collision course with me.
I figured it out about a nanosecond before everyone else.
Which is to say, not soon enough.