Page 7 of Fake Skating

I’m not nervous; I’m focused.

I looked in the bathroom mirror and repeated the reminder, even though it was total bullshit. Nothing was worse than the first days at a new school, and nervous didn’t begin to cover it.

But over the years I’d discovered that if I focused on what I needed to get out of a new school, it made me feel more in control and marginally less… well, powerless . Instead of worrying about things like people judging me or where I was going to sit at lunch, I zeroed in on what mattered.

For example, I wanted to go to Harvard next year.

I wanted to go to Harvard so badly . I wanted to go to Harvard like Lorelai wanted Rory to go to Harvard.

When I was in grade school, my dad was stationed at Hanscom Air Force Base, just outside Boston. My mom used to take me to Harvard for fun, and we’d spend entire autumn days exploring the campus while the leaves were in full color. She fed me Lunchables in Harvard Square, and I fell madly in love.

I’d never been able to put my finger on exactly what I loved about it, but Cambridge was my happy place.

So, yes, my only goal in life at the moment was Harvard.

I’d discovered over the past few years that when everything in your life sucked, making an absurd college goal your primary focus became an extraordinary diversion.

Lacking in the friends department at your new school?

Who cares? You need to focus on getting into Harvard.

Is that volleyball player mocking you behind your back again?

Who cares? You need to focus on getting into Harvard (and that bitch could never get in, by the way).

So what I needed from Southview was Harvard insurance, since I’d been freaking deferred and was still waiting on acceptance.

I needed to maintain my perfect GPA, meet with a counselor to keep my goals on track, and make sure that the only thing admissions saw when they finally reviewed my application again was that I’d landed in Minnesota with my Harvard-destined nose to the grindstone.

The focus of my first day was to solidify those important things and not worry about anything else.

I put my hair in a clip and turned off the bathroom light.

But when I walked out to our little apartment kitchen, there was a note on the microwave from my mom.

The electrical in the new kitchen still isn’t working, so come downstairs for breakfast.

Wonderful.

Last night, as soon as I’d climbed into bed, I’d realized that I still hadn’t had a single one-on-one conversation with my grandpa. Aside from “you got tall,” we hadn’t really exchanged any words.

Which left me with this annoying nervousness about how things were going to be with him.

Mick Fucking Boche.

I rolled my eyes as I thought of everyone’s attitude toward him Saturday night, the way a table full of grown men had behaved as if he’d been Taylor Swift popping in for dinner, instead of an old man with a bad attitude.

Obviously, hockey made people nuts.

I grabbed my coat and backpack and went downstairs, wondering if I should even bother with breakfast.

Seemed like a bad idea when my stomach was so knotted.

Grandpa Mick was sitting at the table when I entered the kitchen, reading the newspaper while my mom appeared to be making scrambled eggs at the stove. He had reading glasses on the end of his nose, glasses that should’ve made him look old but instead just accentuated how intimidating he was.

“Good morning,” my mom said in a singsong voice, glancing over her shoulder and giving me a smile. “How’d you sleep?”

“Great,” I said, not knowing what to do, so I sat down across from him at the table.

“The beds are so comfy, right?” she said, sounding like a Disney princess with her happy breathlessness.

“The comfiest,” I muttered, pulling my phone out of my pocket.

“You don’t like the bed.”

I looked across the table, taken aback by the quiet rasp of his voice and the way it hadn’t sounded like a question at all, and Grandpa Mick was watching me with his eyes narrowed.

“N-no, um, I do,” I stammered, shrugging and adding, “It’s great.”

“Because I can get a different bed.” He pulled off the readers and said, “You need softer or what.”

What is a bed again? I felt like I was under the harsh lights of an interrogation room as my grandfather looked at me like I’d murdered someone and he wanted to know where the body was buried.

“No, really, I love the bed.”

“Oh.” He crossed his arms over his big chest, giving me hardcore direct eye contact, then said, “Today’s a blackout.”

“What?”

He gave my bulky sweater a chin nod. “At school. The kids are wearing all black because it’s rivalry week, starting with Simley.”

“Oh.” I crossed my arms and said, “I’m just going to wear this, but thanks.” The thick, warm wool of my fisherman sweater seemed more important than school spirit.

“You sure that’s wise.” I thought he meant it as a question, but there was a period at the end of his statement.

What was happening?

“It’s warm and I don’t even know what a Simley is, so yes—it’s perfect.”

“Dani,” my mom said, “it’s rivalry week. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to wear black today.”

Oh well, if it’s rivalry week.

I knew my mom meant it in the best way. She knew how much I loathed first days of school, so she was more concerned about me fitting in than anything else.

But the truth of the matter was that I knew all the rules of fitting in at a new school; I could write the damn rule book.

Rule #1—It’s not about fitting in; it’s about blending. Be invisible.

That wasn’t me being melodramatic; it was me knowing how to survive.

As a new student, you need to be relatively in style so the assholes won’t see a clueless dork and move in for the kill, but you can’t be too in style or it might look like you think you’re cool.

And you don’t want to be ugly because the jerks love that, but prettiness can be perceived as a threat too, so it’s best to be vanilla.

To look like everyone else.

To be utterly forgettable and absolutely uninteresting.

“Yes, I’m sure,” I said. “I’m too new to care about rivalries.”

Wearing spirit-week clothing on your first day might be perceived as try-hard.

“Southview should win,” Grandpa Mick said, his eyes on the newspaper. “Simley’s got no answer for Zeus.”

“I’m assuming you’re not talking about the Greek god…?” I regretted it the minute the words left my mouth, because I couldn’t care less about sports.

“Helluva defenseman,” he said to me with his eyebrows up like he genuinely thought I wanted to talk to him about sports. “The kid backpedal hits like Kronwall, I swear to God.”

“What’s a Kronwall?” I asked.

“Niklas Kronwall,” he said, his eyebrows scrunching together in disgust. “Played for the Red Wings? Legendary checker?”

Now, I knew what he meant by “checker,” because even I knew the Red Wings were a hockey team.

But I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “Wait, ‘hits’—is this baseball? What’s this Kronwall’s batting average?”

“Hockey. It’s hockey.” He managed to scowl at me while also looking confused by my stupidity, like he couldn’t fathom that someone might actually respond that way. “I’m talkin’ about hockey.”

Minnesota men and their propensity for dropping g ’s, I swear to God.

“Are you ready to go?” my mom asked, giving me a look that told me she knew I was being a pain in the ass on purpose.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I said, wishing I could just be homeschooled.

I tried very hard to convince my parents to let me do online high school when they decided to divorce, but good ol’ Mom and Dad were adamant that the things you learn socially are just as important as what you learn in your textbooks.

Sure, I thought. It’s super important for me, as a senior, to continually relearn that I hate high school.

My mom chattered the entire drive to school. I knew she was trying to distract me, but all I could do was stare out the window at the snow and houses while trying my hardest not to throw up on my own lap.

My heart started beating faster when my mom turned into the parking lot, as I stared up at the ridiculously large brick high school that loomed in front of me.

Everything about it looked ominous.

Foreboding.

So freaking cold.

“It looks so different from when I went there,” my mom said, leaning forward to look up through the windshield. “But it’s a great school. And I gave you Alec’s number if you want to text him, right?”

Alec never showed up the other night, which was a relief at the time but left me still dreading the reunion.

My mom gave me his phone number so I could text him if I needed anything, and I was contemplating sending something in hopes of getting the awkwardness out of the way before we had to meet face-to-face.

“Yeah,” I said, reaching down to grab my backpack as she drove closer to the doors.

“Text me as soon as you can, just to let me know how it’s going so I can stop worrying, okay?”

“Okay,” I said. “But don’t worry—it’ll be great.”

I didn’t believe that, but what was the point of letting her into my stress? It wouldn’t make anything better for her, and she was already struggling to bounce back from the whole failed-marriage thing.

“I’ll text you later,” I said, reaching for the door and climbing out. Only the air punched me in the face as soon as I straightened.

God, how can it be so freaking cold?

“Bye, sweetie,” she said, giving me a wave before pulling away.

I swallowed and headed for the doors, careful to take deep breaths in through my nose to try to keep the panic at bay. An anxiety attack on day one would be a nightmare, so I was going to make sure that didn’t happen.

Please, God, no panic attack.

As soon as I entered the school, I saw the office.

Which was nice in that I didn’t have to wander around looking more lost than I felt.

But as I walked over, I couldn’t help but notice the massive amount of hockey… enthusiasm decorating every surface of the school’s interior.

It was ridiculous.