Chapter 19 #2
“Do you know what she’s going to do when she gets home tonight?
She’s going to lie awake and wonder if I’m going to care about her after this.
And then she’s going to cry about her fucking mom because she went to dinner over there tonight and it was another emotional rollercoaster for her.
That’s the only reason why she’s coming to these parties.
It wasn’t to see you, Benson. She needed a fucking Camdenk from reality, and I forced her to come so she’d stop crying.
And now, she’s probably in her bedroom crying her eyes out.
But the bottom line, Benson, is that you don’t know her. ”
I’m looking at my hands. I’m close to crying. I am not crying, but I’m close. Gianna sounds exactly like our mother when she argues.
I nod. “You’re right.”
“I know I am.”
“I — fuck.”
“Switch tutors,” she demands.
I look at her, knowing damn well I’m not going to switch fucking tutors.
“Switch tutors, Benson. End the sessions. Tell Coach you got a different person from the center. Lucy doesn’t need this right now. She does not need to be sitting across from you twice a week for two months while you figure out what you want.”
My chest tightens. “I know exactly what I want.”
“Then prove it by leaving her alone until she has time to figure out what she wants. Without you in her face. Give her room. If you actually like her, give her space. You come on so fucking strong, and that’s why I called you the day I found out she was going to be your tutor.”
“Okay,” I say. Everything’s starting to make sense now.
“Okay?” She raises her eyebrows at me.
“I’ll switch tutors.”
She nods once. “I need space too. From you. For a while.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. There’s no point in arguing.
“I love you. You’ll always be my big brother, but I need space.”
“Okay.”
She looks at me one more time. “Go get cleaned up now. You’re a wreck.”
She walks past me to the front door and calls for Mara. Mara walks over and asks if she’s okay. They murmur amongst themselves and then walk down the steps and around the corner.
I sit on the porch railing for a long time.
The night is still. The maple tree across the street has gone red. There is a streetlight on the corner flashing orange. A car goes past doing the speed limit. My head is empty in a way it has not been in three weeks. Empty is not the right word. There’s one sentence in it, and it’s sitting there.
Find a new tutor.
I get up and go inside.
Stanley is at the kitchen island with the bag of peas on his elbow. He sees me come in and says nothing. The dishwasher’s running. Walsh’s girlfriend is at the sink rinsing red Solo cups. Rowan is wiping down the counter with a paper towel and a bottle of spray. Blue and Percy aren’t around.
“Stanley,” I mutter.
“Yeah, cap.”
“Give me the rink keys.”
“What?”
“I know you have them.”
“Reeve. It’s eleven forty.”
“I know.”
“You okay?”
I stare at him.
He says, “You’re drunk.”
“Shut up and give me the keys. I’ll still be skating in my grave.”
He looks at me for a long beat. I watch him decide not to be a dick about this. He sets the peas down on the island and reaches into his pocket and pulls out his keychain. He thumbs the small silver key off the ring. He holds it out.
“Clean yourself up, man. You have dried blood fucking everywhere.”
“Yeah.” I take the key and go upstairs. I enter the bathroom and stare at my bloody face.
This is what I looked like when I walked Lucy home?
Jesus Christ, I need to get my shit together.
I splash warm water on my face and scrub off the blood.
I look closely at my lip and know that I’ll be hearing it from Coach on Monday.
In my room, I open the closet. I pull a hockey bag down off the top shelf and unzip it.
Skates. Shorts. Shin guards. Gloves. Helmet.
Stick out of the rack in the hall on the way back down.
A roll of stick tape from the desk drawer.
I put on a clean Camden U hoodie and sling the bag over my shoulder.
In the kitchen on the way out, I stop. “Stan.”
He looks over. “Yeah.”
I hold up the key. “Thanks.”
He nods. I walk out.
The walk to the rink is fifteen minutes. I make it in twelve. The back door of the rink is the door Frank told us four years ago to use if we ever needed late ice, with the understanding that we would never abuse it. We have abused it twice in three years. Tonight is the third.
Stanley’s key opens the door.
The rink is dark. Frank has gone home. I know where the Camdenkers are — back office, second panel, the three on the left. I flip the ones for the ice surface and the bench. I leave the spotlights and the scoreboard off. The ice lights up.
I sit on the bench and lace up. My Camdenth comes out in a small cloud. I tighten my left skate, tighten my right, and pull on my gloves. I push off the boards at twelve oh-eight.
I take a slow lap. Then a faster lap. Then I do a sprint from the goal line to the far blue line, stop hard, sprint back, stop hard, sprint to the red line, stop, sprint to the boards. My quads start humming on the third sprint.
I do another set. Five sprints. Stop hard each time.
My mind’s overthinking absolutely fucking everything.
I thought coming here would clear my mind, and it’s doing just the opposite.
It might be the silence or the booze, but I know that calling the tutoring center on Monday is going to be fucking hard.
What bites me even more is all the shit I know about Lucy now.
I wished I had heard it from her instead.
I run more drills until my legs are shaking.
I skate slowly to the bench and sit. I unhook the guards on my skate blades and pull them on.
I pull off my gloves with my teeth one at a time.
I sit on the bench in the half-light and look at the ice — the long fresh ice, scored now with two dozen of my own stops, the rest of it clean — and I think about Lucy in her bedroom across town.
I taste blood. The lip is bleeding again. I let it.