Knee Pads

04 | rink rash

CHAPTER FOUR | RINK RASH

a burn injury caused by (bare) skin rubbing the rink floor.

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          Everything I had learned about Corinne Fontaine so far had been against my will.

          I did not want to know about her bike, or her blonde hair, or her expensive clothes. I did not want to hear about the cult that worshipped the ground she walked on as though she was some sort of goddess. No one ever told me what exactly she was the captain of, not even Katrina, and, if people wanted to be cryptic about it, then so be it.

          I couldn't care any less. The less I knew about Corinne, the better, as I was determined to avoid her as much as possible. Spending time with the person who nearly ran me over on my first day wasn't part of my to-do list while at Yale and it defeated the purpose of my entire presence there—all I wanted to do was finish my senior year in peace and she wasn't going to take that away from me.

          In early September, Katrina decided to throw me a birthday party.

          Had I asked for it? No. Did I want it? Absolutely not. Was I going to be a complete bitch to my roommate, who hadn't been anything but kind and welcoming? Probably not, but no guarantees.

          "I really don't need a party," I said, for the millionth time that week, despite knowing that, if I hadn't dissuaded her from throwing the damn party before, I sure as hell wasn't going to do it on the day before my birthday. Part of me worried about what my parents would think if they found out about what actually went down at Yale: a whole bunch of partying and not that much of academics. "Kat, seriously, it's fine. Redirect your energy somewhere else."

          She frowned. "You deserve a break. You've been working really hard since you got here."

          We both glanced at the piles of unfinished homework, assignments, and essays on my desk for two completely different reasons. I was slacking and everyone around me knew it—I knew it, my professors knew it, Katrina knew it. It was only a matter of time before I got called out or my parents got notified.

          Before any of us got a chance to say anything else, my phone rang. I rarely took it off silent or the occasional vibration mode, but I'd decided to leave the sound out to help me escape from potentially awkward conversations. It always worked like a charm.

          However, my mother was calling.

          "I should take this," I told Katrina. "It's my mom. She gets quite anxious whenever I take too long to pick up." She shrugged, so as to say 'by all means, do it', and went back to writing, as I picked up the damn call. "Hello?"

          "Hey, honey," she greeted. Her voice was chipper, cheery, and it was safe to assume the university hadn't contacted her yet. I was hanging on by a thread, alright, no doubt about it, and I definitely didn't want to push my luck. "How are you? Is Yale treating you well?"

          "Good. It's been good." I glanced at Katrina, just in case. She was no longer paying any attention to me, being entirely focused on whatever she was doing on her laptop. "How's Jordan?"

          "He's . . . well, he's pretty much the same." She briefly paused, voiced clogged with emotion, and my chest tightened with guilt. I tried to convince myself it was normal—both for him to not have improved in such a short amount of time and for me to ask about him—but hurting my mother's feelings in the process had never been part of the plan. "The team at the clinic are really optimistic and they say it's normal that there haven't been any improvements yet, but . . . you know. We always knew it wasn't going to be easy. They're restricting visits, too, at least at the beginning, and I can't understand why."