Page 20 of The Favorites
The Lins could afford to go through endless items of clothing in pursuit of the perfect lift. Heath only had two decent pairs of practice pants, and I’d just ruined one of them.
Heath hadn’t moved to accept the first aid supplies, so I took the box instead, placing it gently beside him. He’d been so worried about hurting me, but I hadn’t even noticed when I hurt him.
“Don’t feel bad,” Garrett said. “The key’s to make sure you’re balanced right on the center of your blade, and—it’s probably easier if I show you. Do you mind?”
Even without looking at Heath, I could tell he verymuchminded. But Garrett had asked me, not him. I moved into position for the lift entry, extending my leg.
Garrett’s grip was lighter than Heath’s. He moved so fast, I didn’t have time to think. I was on the floor, and suddenly I was in the air.
As I leaned into the backbend, I wasn’t some delicate flower on display. I was a goddess carved on the prow of a ship, the sea parting to get the hell out of my way. I’d never felt like that before. Effortless and powerful all at once. I could have stayed up there for hours.
Garrett initiated a more difficult dismount—flipping me so my hips rolled over his shoulders on the way down, something I’d seen him do with Bella.
I looked over at Heath. His jaw twitched, and he was gripping the first aid kit hard enough to crack the plastic.
“That was great!” Garrett said. “And see: no cuts.”
My blades had left small creases in his white pants, but no injuries. Except perhaps to Heath’s pride.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Sure.” Garrett grinned. “Always happy to help.”
He meant it. Garrett never seemed to get caught up in—or even take notice of—the petty rivalries and power plays at the Academy. Everyone liked him.
Well, almost everyone.
Heath finished tending to his cut and came to stand beside me, putting a possessive hand on my back. Garrett kept right on grinning.
“So,” he said, “what do you two have planned for the holiday?”
“We’ve been talking about—” Heath started, but I cut in.
“No definite plans,” I said. “Why?”
“My mom throws a little party for the Fourth every year,” Garrett said. “No problem if you’ve got something else going on, but we’d love to see you there.”
I highly doubted that “we” included Bella—who was on the other side of the rink doing a series of cool-down stretches, studiously ignoring our entire interaction with her brother.
I had nothing to wear either. In the Midwest, a “little party” means a backyard cookout with brats and beer and maybe some s’mores if you’re feeling fancy, all the guests in cutoff shorts and flip-flops. Whatever the Lins had planned, it was bound to be more formal.
If it gave me a chance to spend more time with Sheila, though…
“We’ll think about it,” Heath said.
“I’ll be there,” I told Garrett.
Ellis Dean:Ah yes, Sheila Lin’s Red, White, and Gold Party. So nicknamed because, unless you were one of Sheila’s students, you had to have a gold medal to get invited.
Kirk Lockwood:Not true. There were silver medalists there too. In fact, back in ’94 a certainveryfamous figure skater got blitzed and barfed in the flower bed.
Inez Acton, a thirty-something woman sporting a messy bun with a pen stuck through it, sits in the Brooklyn offices of feminist blog TheKilljoy.com.
Inez Acton(Staff Writer, The Killjoy): I’m a hardcore skating fan. But sometimes it’s tough to reconcile with my politics. Being a competitive figure skater costs upwards of $40k a year. Unless you have rich parents, you’re pretty much fucked.
Ellis Dean:Josie’s parents were rich. The Lins wereroyalty.
Kirk Lockwood:That party was the ultimate networking opportunity. In skating, doing the right thing on the ice is important, obviously. But knowing the right people can’t hurt.
