Page 11 of Oh, Flutz!

Where do I even begin?“You know about the Russian skaters, right?”

“A little, yeah. Why?”

“You know about—”

“Ekaterina Andreyeva? The redhead? Oh my god, I love her.” Alex pops off the container lid and shovels some pie in her mouth, before passing it back to me. I break off a little piece and sneak it to the dog as my sister gushes. “Did you see her Les Mis program last year? Still gives me chills. Didn’t she just get transferred or something?”

“Yep,” I reply, popping the p. “She’s skating here now.”

“In California, or where?”

“No, here.”

“Here, New York?”

“No,herehere. Lake Placid. Our rink.”

Alex stops chewing, turning slowly towards me. “Oh. My. God. You’re so full of shit.”

“What’d I do?” I protest, and Alex groans.

“Jesus, Bryan! How did you not tell me about this before?”

“I just found out, like, five minutes ago, leave me alone.”

“Give me a break. She’s in trouble, too, isn’t she? That’s why they kicked her out. Like you.”

I snort. “Yeah. Lian’s trying to pair us up.”

“Are you serious?”

“I know. It’s horrible.She’shorrible. I don’t know how I’m—” I stop, because my sister has started laughing hysterically. “What?” I ask, suspicious.

“Oh my—I just—you,” she chokes out, letting out another cackle. “You’re gonna punt her in the air? You’re skinnier than I am!”

“Thanks a lot. You’re a real emotional support in my time of crisis.”

“Oh my god, stop, you’re gonna make me pee myself,” she gasps, clutching her stomach.

“Little shit. Go ahead and piss yourself, you baby.”

“Shut up. No, but seriously. Is this really happening?”

I open my mouth to answer, but I realize that I don’t know. Katya seemed to think this is a fate worse than death, but she at least implied she’s committed. I, for one, have to be there tomorrow morning no matter what.Just try it,Lian said.We’ll see. But you’re going to have to try.

“Are you going to tell Mom?” Alex asks.

Now there’s a concept. I think about all the times we’ve tried to have a conversation, about skating, about anything. Her asking me how practice went. Me pretending I’m not hanging on by a thread. She walks away, the end. Even if we were any good at communicating on a regular day, I don’t know if it’d be any different on this—maybe because it almost seems too good to be true?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m already wanting to run away screaming thinking about having to see that girl again, who for some reason seems to have me at the top of her hit list despite only knowing me for all of five minutes.

And I’m not excited about the prospect of having to learn a bunch of super-dangerous elements, either. I can hardlywatchpairs, let alone try and do all the stuff they do. It’s madness. So is potentially having to do it right next to one of the best skaters in the world. But at the same time, what are the odds that I get handed the opportunity of a lifetime right when I’m told my career is over?

I may not be the most cautious person ever—very far from it, as my x-rays are sure to show—but there’s still too many what-ifs for my liking. I don’t want anyone excited, thinking I might have a comeback, just for everything to fall back apart.

“Um, I don’t know,” I say lightly. “You planning on sharing that pie, or what?”

“Look, you know Mom just—”

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