Picks and Sticks Page 16

  “Oh, George is not serious about me. Not really.”

  Mike guffawed. “George would give up hockey for you!”

  “More poetry!” Jane said, laughing again. They heard Deb’s bed creak, and shushed each other. “He’s already tried to patch that friggin’ pond,” Mike said.

  “What?”

  “He’s just trying to figure out ways you girls can still play. He was really pissed off I was standing there with Mom, not supporting you. Which I wasn’t, by the way. Not supporting you, I mean. Mom made me come. And I’m weak when it comes to her. I know it. I admit it. Doesn’t mean I agree with her. But George reamed me out anyway. That guy’s your champion, Jane.”

  “He sent you here to talk him up, is that it?” Jane teased.

  “No. I just feel sorry for the guy. His face, looking at you on the pond, probably looks like mine when I’m staring at Irina. His face looks how I feel.”

  “Again! Love has turned you into Shakespeare.”

  “Will you shut up?”

  They listened to the wet, rainy snow batter the window. The pond was probably a sopping mess by now, ruined beyond any human’s ability to fix it.

  “Well, maybe he can convince his father to let us use the arena,” Jane said eventually. “If he figured that out, I’d marry him.”

  “Well, then, I guess he’d better figure it out so I don’t have to keep lookin’ at his moony face.”

  The next morning at dawn, Jane stood before the full-­length mirror in her mother’s bedroom, examining her body. Taut muscle greeted her gaze. Her supple figure skating arms seemed a thing of the past. Defined shoulders, biceps, and triceps tapered down to strong forearms, her tiny wrists and hands and long, elegant fingers the only remnants of a figure skating body. At least the hands have grace, she thought wistfully. What surprised her were her legs. Huge quadriceps and hamstring muscles curved to bruised and knobby knees under which bulged beautifully carved calf muscles. Her tiny ankles echoed her wrists’ elegance. Jane pointed her toes. Her leg muscles smoothed out, her strength less obvious. Just gotta wear tights, she thought wearily.

  As she battled piles of unplowed wet snow making a mess of the roads, smoothie in hand, she marvelled at how a human body could respond. She’d only been playing hockey for a short time and her muscles were already changing. Maybe she was just a freak.

  The sky was laced with wisps of pink clouds as she approached the arena from the top of the hill. Staring at the intensity of the world, Jane did not see Leonard’s car in the parking lot until she was halfway down. There was the rusting junk heap, sitting in judgment of her. Even after — maybe especially after his argument with her mother the night before — he’d made it a point to get to the arena before Jane. What stumped her was the car beside it. A cream-­coloured Cadillac sparkled radiantly like a bride beside a dumpy, shorter husband. Had Al Leblanc’s salary gone up that drastically?

  With trepidation, Jane opened the arena doors. There, waiting for her, with arms akimbo, stood Leonard and Canadian Figure Skating Association president, Gerald Finch.

  “Jane!” Mr. Finch said, greeting her enthusiastically. “Your first day back! Leonard and I are so excited! I had to come and see how our champion is doing!”

  “But I haven’t even practised since the competition, Mr. Finch,” Jane volleyed, trying to head them off. “I’ve been recovering from an injury. I think I’ll just be doing some stroking around for a bit. Right, Leonard?”

  “Oh. I think you’ll be doing a lot more than that,” her coach said, smirking. “You are already in good shape from your activities on the pond, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Look, Mr. Finch,” Jane said as calmly as she could, ignoring Leonard, “I know you drove all the way up here and everything, but I’m not ready to show you or any other official anything right now. I’m just getting back to skating.”

  “That’s not what I’ve heard,” the president said, low. “We had better see some amazing results in the next few days or I’ll drop you from international competition like you dropped that gold medal on the floor. It is embarrassing that I have to come here and tell you and your mother this. Get it together.” He turned to Leonard. “I’ll be back in an hour to see some results. What is your address, Jane, and how do I get there?”

  “My mother is sleeping. She has to work in two hours. She’s trying to adjust to day shift. Leave her alone.”

  “We can sleep our entire lives away, Jane, or we can wake up and smell the coffee. Give me the address.” Miserably, Jane gave it to him.

  “Back in a moment!” he chirped, and pushed out the door. Jane heard his Cadillac purr to life and creep up the hill, a cat about to catch its prey.

  Jane couldn’t look at Leonard. “You’re a rat,” she said, trying to get past him. “You think I’m going to want to practise for real with him around? I’m just getting back!” He grabbed her arm. “And I’m just forcing my hand, Jane. I’m just playing my cards, hoping you’ll fold. Cut the hockey. Cut it out.”

  “Cut the stupid poker metaphors, you jerk.”

  “When exactly did you lose all respect for me, Jane?” he asked flippantly. “You used to be such a nice girl.”

  “You are not exactly motivating me to put my skates on right now, Leonard. You are motivating me to walk right back out that door.”

  “All I have to do is mention how much this all means to your mother, and I’ve got you right back in the palm of my hand.”

  Angry tears were starting to blot her vision. “You used to be such a nice coach, Leonard. At least, I think you used to be.”

  “Go get ready.”

  “And for a moment there, in New Brunswick, when I was hurting … it almost seemed like you could be nice again …”

  Leonard grew momentarily pensive. Then he said, “Nice doesn’t count when you’re trying to win.”

  He would never leave her alone. The only thing she could do was insult him. “I’m so glad Mom dumped you last night. I just wish I could, too.”

  But Leonard seemed to float above her barbs. He said, serenely, almost singing, “Go get ready, Jane. Go get ready.”

  “Your right arm is drooping out of that Axel. Hold it in position, for Pete’s sake!” Leonard hollered. Jane instantly stopped before him.

  “I hurt my shoulder on that last fall,” she snapped.

  “Boo hoo. Shake it off and do it again. Jump higher, damn it. Bend your knee. The more you bend, the higher you jump,” he said patronizingly, giving her a rudimentary lesson. “You know this. This is not new information. The more height, the more you can delay the rotation, the more beautiful the Axel will be. That is why it is called a delayed Axel.”

  “Really? This is not new information?” Jane began, but Deb, who stood bleary-­eyed and in her work uniform at the boards with Gerald Finch at her side, interrupted her, glancing at the president for his reaction. “Don’t be rude, Jane. Just do as Leonard says.”

  “Excuse us for a moment, Leonard? Mr. Finch?” Jane asked sweetly.

  “One minute,” Leonard scowled. “Don’t waste my time.”

  “We’ll have to talk after I get home from work, Jane,” Deb said, but came close to her daughter, putting her hands over Jane’s on the boards. Leonard skated down the ice and Gerald Finch moved up into the stands. Jane pressed her forehead against her mother’s.

  “Please, Mom. I’m cold and miserable. He’s too much. Let me stop. I can’t be late for school again.”

  “No. Can’t you see we’re being watched? Finch is here to test you.” Patches of colour were blotting Deb’s cheeks, a sure sign of her nervousness.

  “Well, at least make Leonard stop being so mean.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because your hatred is motivating you, darling,” Deb said cryptically.

  “That’s just twisted,
Mom.”

  “Because your skating is brilliant.”

  “Brilliant, my butt.”

  “It’s so obvious to everyone but you. When are you going to see it?”

  “Never,” Jane said, despising how sulky she sounded. Her mother took Jane’s hands in her own and squeezed them. “Liar,” Deb whispered. “I know you know this.”

  “And I know that you know that I hate it.” Deb’s exhausted gaze remained on Jane and she refused to let Jane pull her hands away. Instead, Deb stroked her fingers gently over them, warming and convincing her with touch. The gentle gesture of affection and the open desperation in her mother’s eyes weakened Jane’s resolve to leave the torturous practice.

  “Please, Mom. Please, see things my way.”

  “I’m trying so hard, Jane,” Deb whispered, “but don’t you see? I’m caught.”

  “I am, too.” Jane felt her entire body clenching, in tune with her rage.

  They looked at Leonard who was twirling into a tight corkscrew spin, showing off for Gerald Finch as mother and daughter worked things out once again. Suddenly, he slipped and landed on his behind, the fur on his coat shimmering with the fall. Jane giggled.

  “Don’t. He’ll hear you.”

  “Don’t care.”

  “Go help him up. He is wallowing in his mink. He looks like a beached beluga.”

  “Or a stranded polar bear. Let him stay there ’til he frosts over.”

  “Jane.” Deb lifted her hands off Jane’s, releasing their connection, and Jane reluctantly skated to her coach and hauled him to his feet. “Let’s go,” Leonard said rudely as a smile played on Jane’s lips. She turned and skated away so he would not see it. She glanced up into the stands. There, in his chosen spot, sat Gerald Finch, judging her, judging them all. I want him to praise my hockey skills, Jane thought absurdly. My hockey skills need some praising.

  “Jane, I said, let’s go!” Leonard snapped, breaking into her thoughts. “Delayed axel. Again.” Jane nodded, set up for the jump, bent low into the takeoff and soared through the air. She landed it beautifully and waved to her clapping mother.

  At lunch, Jane found herself sitting in front of the desk in the principal’s office, the team standing behind her. As they waited for Mr. Marsh, she stared at the sculpture of the Eskimos with their dog sled. The little huskies were straining so hard, seemed capable of travelling a hundred miles an hour, there was that much effort sculpted into their tiny muscles. Jane felt weary just looking at them. Her butt was sore where she’d landed hard on it after an off-­balance attempt at the combination. At least her rib didn’t bust apart, but her unused figure skating muscles were killing her. Leonard’s admonitions and recriminations still rang in her ears. And Deb just let Leonard rant, a scared look on her face. No matter what, just when relations seemed improved between herself and her mother, Leonard — and the pressures of figure skating — were there to wreck things.

  That morning, coming in late and forced to sign in, Jane had spotted Mr. Marsh’s notice announcing the need for used skates and equipment for children in the Arctic. As soon as she saw it, Jane had interrupted the student announcers, grabbed the microphone, and asked members of the girls’ hockey team to join her outside the main office at lunch. She had totally exposed them, basically announced their existence to the world, but she didn’t care. It was time to act. If Mr. Marsh supported hockey players in the Arctic, then maybe he would support female hockey players in his hometown. He was such a manly man, though, Jane doubted he would want anything to do with them.

  The team was getting fidgety, but even Jenny, Patti, Karen, and Katherine had arrived from the technical wing. Best of all, Mike was in the room. If anyone legitimized their cause, it was the captain of the Junior C Shamrocks.

  Mrs. Blackburn sat behind Mr. Marsh’s desk, staring back at the silent group. Jane sat directly across from her. “He’ll be just five more minutes,” she said. “He’s dealing with some smokers in the back parking lot.” Jane wondered how Mrs. Blackburn could possibly know his exact movements, but adults were funny that way. They said things and hoped they would come true.

  Five minutes later, Mr. Marsh came in.

  “What’s this? What’s this?” he chortled, excusing himself around Jane’s girls. “Are you all in trouble with Mrs. Blackburn?” The head secretary giggled and squeezed herself out as he squeezed himself in, bumping the dog-­sled sculpture over. Jane wanted to reach out and set it right, but Mr. Marsh placed it back into its perfect position and she could breathe again.

  The principal wedged himself behind his desk, leaned back in his chair, scanned their faces, and nodded at Irina. “How’re those snowshoes working out?” he asked.

  “Very nice,” she said. “They help me a lot. Thank you.”

  “Glad to see you back in school. You left no number with us.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I come back.”

  “Good. Good. What’s up, girls?” Mr. Marsh asked as George knocked on the open door and crammed himself in. “Oh, sorry, Mike. Didn’t see you there. Hello, George.”

  “Mr. Marsh,” George said, nodding at him.

  “Jane? Are you the leader here?” the principal asked, noting her proximity.

  Jane swallowed. Why did this feel like the only chance they had?

  “… I’ll do the talking,” she said.

  She dove in and explained everything: the team’s existence, the cracking of their playing surface, Al’s hatred of them, Ivan and Irina’s defection, and the firing of Ivan and his need for a job. She omitted the Russians’ personal dilemma, and her own difficulties with her coach and mother, but wondered if she should include them. Everyone listened, and Mr. Marsh ignored his phone, staring at each of the girls’ faces as the information unspooled. When Jane finished, the team was as still as the tiny figurines.

  “How did you find each other?” Mr. Marsh asked, his deep voice huskier than usual.

  “We just did,” Jane said.

  “Ivan Stepanov has been in our midst and I did not know this?” He stared at Irina.

  “No one knew, Mr. Marsh,” Jane said. “Even some of these girls, until right now. And no one must know … we are … just telling you.”

  “And your mother is okay with this?” he asked Jane. “You’re Canada’s figure skating champion, for crying out loud.” Jane didn’t answer. “Mike?” he asked, looking at her brother in the corner. Mike looked down. Jane had pointed Gerald Finch out to him between her practice and his, and Mike had immediately understood the pressure she was under. “I can’t answer for her, sir,” he mumbled.

  “Jane,” Mr. Marsh repeated softly, “what about your figure skating?”

  “I … I’m doing both, Mr. Marsh,” she said. “My mother’s cool with it.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “She understands that the team needs me. I’ve … I’ve talked to her about it. Really, Mr. Marsh, she’s cool.”

  Mike cleared his throat. Even Susan held her tongue.

  “Well. All right, then,” Mr. Marsh said. He grabbed a pen. “What do you need from me?”

  “We need a place to practise,” Jane said.

  He put the pen down. “I’ll have the janitors flood the back field every night. Let’s pray the weather cooperates. It’s been far too mild for the beginning of February.”

  “I was hoping you were going to offer something like that,” Jane said, beaming.

  Mr. Marsh stood up behind his desk as the warning bell rang for afternoon classes to begin. The girls began to filter out.

  “Would it be okay if I mentioned this to my daughters?” he asked, suddenly shy. Everyone turned back to him. “I — I’ve been flooding my backyard for years. We’ve just been … playing on our own all this time … But if I kept this from them, the possibility to play with other girls like them, as passionate as they are
… Brenda’s just in grade eight, but she’s very tall. And strong. And a very good hockey player. I’ve taught her myself. My other daughter is too young, I suppose, just in grade six, but she could collect your jerseys, do something for the team.”

  “We don’t have jerseys,” Susan said. Jane elbowed her.

  “What position does older daughter play?” Irina asked.

  “Well, Brenda’s very defensive. Defensively inclined. But, of course, she’s never played on a team …”

  “That’d be great. We’ve only got four on defence right now,” Jane said. “She could spell them off.”

  The bear-­like principal reached across his desk and shook her hand. He wouldn’t let go. Without extracting it, Jane asked, “And your younger daughter? What’s her name?”

  “Valerie.”

  “Is she any good?”

  “Fast. But little.”

  Jane grinned. “You never know. Bring her, too.”

  Mr. Marsh pumped Jane’s hand. “I can’t wait to tell them.” The second bell marking the beginning of classes rang out. He turned back into a principal before their eyes. “You’d better go,” he ordered. “Except for you, Irina Stepanov … I want to talk to you.”

  Jane ran up the steps to the front porch just as her mother drove up from work. Deb was slow to get out of the car. As she did, Jane called out, “I’m just getting my gear. Is my practice dress washed?” Her mother didn’t answer. She shuffled up the walkway, looking more tired than Jane had ever seen her. “Mom?” Jane questioned as Deb brushed past, put the key in the lock, and opened the door. She slid out of her parka, and left it for Jane to pick up. She didn’t even bother to take off her slushy boots. She did not say a word. Frightened, Jane followed her up the stairs. In her bedroom, Deb was unlocking the trunk.

  “What are you doing?” Jane asked from the doorway.

  “Losing myself in memory.”

  “Why?”

  “You were a little rusty this morning, Jane,” Deb said, looking at the contents of the trunk.