Breaking the Ice

twenty-six

I didn't care that I'd definitely flunked my finals for the semester, despite having buried myself in textbooks for the past week. I say that because I spent half of my personal study time getting high or drunk alone in my bedroom and my actual classes sleeping off a hangover on my desk. In that time, Miss Bortz's favorite hobby had been slamming her palm down on the back of my chair to violently wake me up. My head would shoot from between my elbows, the lights would beat into my eyes, and her wicked smile would bend and contort around her words: "remember, participation is part of your grade."

The rest of my household wasn't fairing much better. My mom had been overworking herself half to death, clicking around on her laptop all day and filling the house with food that we wouldn't be able to eat all night. Jen had taken to bringing anything untouched by us to the hospital for her coworkers during her frequent nightshifts since she was at our house so often these days, making sure I got home safe and shyly asking if Alex wanted help on her biology homework. Ian had taken to sleeping in the guest bedroom, driving to work in the mornings and coming back after his shift to take care of Mom.

As our last week before Christmas break was closing out, all the time I had spent buried half-heartedly in textbooks, trying to avoid my friends and their pitying stares, began to free up. They'd all heard what happened by now, when I sent a short message in the group chat and told them I'd be skipping some party I suddenly didn't care about. I'd also missed a couple hockey practices to stay home and watch my dad pack his shit, making sure he didn't take anything that wasn't his. He didn't say a word, didn't even greet me when I opened the door for his sorry ass after getting the locks changed. He just walked past me like I didn't exist and took the things Mom left out for him, then left without so much as looking at me.

Jason, Simon, and Hector had all tried to text me at some point or another, then come up to me at school with questions and concerns. Each time, I slipped away with some lame excuse about having to work or study or something. But now, being thrown party and hangout invitations, my laying around the house, getting drunk alone in my room, and scrolling endlessly through my phone was looking suspicious. So, I'd taken to picking up extra hours with Robert at the skating center to get away.

We had a whole routine: I'd get a ride from Jen, who was usually going for a night shift at the hospital, and work to clean rinks or help around the concessions for the Winter shows that had begun. Meanwhile, Robert would start cleanup early on the empty ice, and by the time the last rehearsal had ended, there'd only be a little work left and he'd drive me home. Some nights, he'd follow me inside and open a bottle of wine with my Mom, who'd cry into his shoulder. Others, he'd bring over some old, shitty movie from when they were teenagers and pop it in the DVD player to lure some smiles out of her. But most days, Robert would just leave me at the door with a hug over the center console.

It was during one of those late rink nights, when I was working to train some volunteering middle schooler at concessions during a Winter figure skating show, that a sweaty man holding a glittery diaper bag came up to us.

"Hey, so, my daughter and I were watching my son's little league hockey match in rink three and we think she dropped her stuffed horse between the bleachers," he hurried. "Do you think someone could get it back for us?"

I nodded, pulling a keyring from my belt. "Yeah, of course. Which side of the bleachers?"

"Um, the left side when you're facing the back wall," he said, relief pouring into his eyes. "Thank you. She's losing her mind."

"I'll be back real quick. Sit tight." Glancing at the middle schooler—Finn—I cocked a brow. "You'll be okay for ten minutes?"

He shot me a thumbs up, and I was off to snatch a flashlight from the supply room and unlock the door of the rink. However, before I even twisted the key, the door slid open. Inside, the lights were off and the only noise came from the AC, but aside from the Zamboni in the middle of the ice indicating this rink was set to be cleaned, it was empty. The bleachers were bare, save for the occasional empty popcorn bag or left-behind jacket. Cold air prickled my face as I climbed behind the seats, squeezing through the rows as I had done many times before.