Chapter Eight
Mom and I take the bus to a neighborhood nestled in San Francisco’s northern hills after skating the next day. Walking is free, but even Mom won’t risk getting sweaty before tutoring.
We hop off the bus and walk a block together, before heading in opposite directions. “I’ll be back in a little over an hour,” Mom calls. “Have fun with Tamar.”
“I will!” I half sprint, half skip down the street. It’s only been a few days since I saw Tamar, but we’ve got a ton to catch up on.
Tamar lives in a house instead of an apartment. It looks like a castle, with a circular turret on one side, its roof sloping to a conical point. I ring the bell and the click-clack of canine toenails draws close, followed by barking. I’ve visited enough to know that the higher yips come from Pixel, while the throatier yaps are all Poncho.
“Pix! Ponch!” Tamar’s voice is muffled, but her annoyance travels through solid wood. “Away from the door. Get gone!”
The door opens a sliver. Tamar pokes her head out.
“Hey! You hungry?”
“Yeah, a little.” I almost never turn down food at Tamar’s house. Her kitchen’s always full of leftovers from parties her mom throws.
Tamar pushes the door open a bit more, still blocking the bottom half with her legs as a flurry of white and gingery orange whizzes back and forth behind her.
I slip in before either dog can escape, pausing to look at my feet out of habit. Mom and I store our shoes on a rack by our front door, but no one in the Naftali family seems to care about taking their shoes off. I leave mine on, following Tamar into the kitchen.
“The walker canceled, but Mom and Dad argued about something dumb this morning instead of calling the backup. These fluffy goofballs have been antsy all day.” She glares at both dogs. “Then someone didn’t walk them when Mom asked.”
Tamar’s older brother, Eli, is perched at the breakfast bar wearing sweats, plus a tank top that emphasizes his narrow shoulders. His hair is shorter than Tamar’s but just as frizzy. Eli doesn’t look up at first, just pauses a video on his iPad.
“She could’ve meant you.” His curls bob above thick brows. For a split second, his gaze turns to me as Pixel and Poncho weave around my feet. “Hey.”
“Hi,” I return, but Eli’s attention is already back on his tablet.
Tamar makes a clucking sound with her tongue, then heads for the refrigerator. “Doubt it. I had skating practice all day.”
When Eli doesn’t respond, Tamar sighs, then pulls open both refrigerator doors.
“Take whatever you want,” she tells me. “The caterer left a ton of samples.”
I peer in. Pastries line the middle shelf, in rows of frosted blues and pinks. I reach for a cupcake swirled with a blend of both colors. “What’re they for?”
“A gender reveal party. Mom’s organizing it for someone on one of her nonprofit boards.”
I pause with my arm still halfway in the fridge. “Wait, people have events to reveal their gender? How? I mean, why?”
Tamar looks at me with one brow raised. “It’s for a baby, Ana.”
“Ohhh. I thought you meant someone was trying to—I don’t know—announce that they’re a boy or a girl. Or something.”
My expression must be comical because Tamar laughs. “That’d be super weird. Everyone already knows what they are when they’re born.”
“Right.” I think of Hayden and something twists inside me. It’s a relief when Tamar grabs a brownie decorated with an intricate pink flower, then heads upstairs. Conversation over, I take a bite out of my too-sweet cupcake and follow her.
Tamar’s bedroom is on the second floor at the front of the house, in the castle turret. It has custom furniture designed to fit its rounded walls, which are painted a pale lilac. Posters from some of our favorite sports movies line the walls: The Mighty Ducks 1 and 2, Bend It Like Beckham, and Ice Castles, even though we both joke about how fake the skating scenes look.
“I can’t believe we haven’t seen each other in three whole days. Tell me everything.”
As Tamar drops onto her bed, I slide into a dark plum armchair in front of her wardrobe closet.
“Everything? We just talked yesterday.”
“Texted,” she corrects. “And yeah, everything. How’s Oakland? What’s your training schedule like? Do the girls gossip a ton? How cute are the boys?”
“Um.” I study what’s left of my cupcake. I could say, Okay, fine, really busy, and I haven’t noticed anyone super good-looking, but Tamar probably wants more. “It’s good. The rink management is going to let me have free ice-time.”
“Aaaaand you had a lesson with your choreographer. Lydia Marinova, right?” I nod as Tamar rolls onto her stomach, propping her chin on open palms. “She’s such a huge deal. You’re so lucky you get to work with her. I heard she used to choreograph for all of Russia’s top skaters before she moved to Florida.”
I lean back and cross my arms, not sure how to respond.
“Did you get your new program?”
“We’ve mostly worked on some arm stuff, plus footwork. She hasn’t let me listen to my music yet, but…” I frown, remembering my first lesson.
“What?”
I take the last bite of my cupcake, chewing slowly. “She told me I have to wear a skirt during our lessons.”
“How dare.” Tamar shoots me a grin before her expression turns serious. “What’s it been, like, three years since you wore one?”
“Yeah.” My eyes travel to her bulletin board. It’s covered in skating photos. Most are group pictures with Tamar and her synchronized skating teammates. Action shots of the team gliding in crisp formations. Full makeup and frilly, flowery dresses. Tamar’s curly hair pulled up in a tight bun, her pale cheeks flushed. It reminds me of how Faith wears her hair to practice, so poised, both on
