Mom makes jook whenever I’m sick, mixing in soy sauce to give it more flavor. It settles my stomach like ginger. I don’t feel like I deserve it now since I’m not actually sick.
I lie in bed, sheets pulled up to my chin, until the hollow ache in my stomach grows fangs. Eventually, I push the sheets back, grab my phone, and drag myself to the kitchen table.
Yesterday, I got up after Mom left and ate a tiny bite of jook before pouring the rest into the sink. Now I sit down and reach for the spoon. I take a bite, swallowing a whole mouthful of creamy porridge. Another spoonful. One more, then a sip of tea before checking my phone.
There’s nothing new from Tamar, but Hayden’s texted me a ton the last few days.
Thursday—4:02 p.m.: I am SO close to done with my cosplay!
Friday—3:20 p.m.: Closerrrr
Saturday—7:10 p.m.: D.O.N.E.
I click on the attached photo. Hayden stands on his porch dressed as Roxas from head to toe. The checkered pattern wraps around his chest and shoulders, and the collar is layered red over black, just like video game Roxas’s jacket.
I tap back into his texts.
Sunday—9:12 a.m.: Hey are u OK?
I had a feeling that was coming. I type up a quick message.
11:30 a.m.: I’m fine. I didn’t feel good so I stayed home the last few days.
11:30 a.m.: PS Your Roxas cosplay looks really great.
Hayden responds fast with a trio of barf-face emojis, and I almost snort tea. At least he didn’t ask me what I was sick with.
Then more messages.
11:31 a.m.: Hey so I asked Cyn if I could come watch u skate next week
11:32 a.m.: And she was cool with it but can’t take me til Thursday
11:33 a.m.: Will u be back by then?
The jook churns in my stomach, but I remind myself that Hayden coming to watch me skate on Thursday isn’t my biggest concern. I have to figure out how to talk to him on Tuesday first.
11:34 a.m.: I’m going back tomorrow. Thursday totally works.
There’s just enough of a pause for me to take another sip of tea before Hayden responds.
11:35 a.m.: COOL! I’ll tell Cyn
11:35 a.m.: Time to work on my keyblade. BBL!
11:36 a.m.: PS I’m sad I can’t say “onward, pants!” anymore cuz they’re done
Normally, that’d make me smile. Now I set my phone down and try to think of anything other than telling Hayden I lied to him. I reach for my spoon and force myself to eat the rest of my porridge. It brings back memories of eating jook on cold mornings before heading out to meet Tamar at the rink. For more than half my life, we were there for each other.
On the very first day of skate-school, I chickened out the second Mom left me with my class and headed into the stands. My legs teetered, unsteady on thin blades and rickety rental skates.
It was Tamar who caught my hand and kept me from falling. She cheered loudest when I landed my first axel.
I finish my last spoonful of jook, letting the warmth settle in my stomach. I’m still thinking about Tamar as I carry my empty bowl to the sink.
I know what I have to do.
I settle onto Mom’s bed and pull up a list of recent calls. Seeing Tamar’s name reminds me of the last thing she said to me. How can I prove I’m not selfish when I’m at home, hiding from all my problems?
I stare at the call button, throat dry. Holding my breath, I tap it.
It rings once, then sends me straight to her voice mail.
The last hint of warmth vanishes, and a trickle of cold settles deep in my bones.
I push up from Mom’s bed, feeling defeated, then slip my phone back under my pillow.
Back in the kitchen, I finish my tea, but the cold lingers when I think about returning to the rink on Monday, then seeing Hayden on Tuesday.
I won’t be able to hide from my problems for much longer.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Monday morning, Faith sits in the SUV’s back seat again, but she doesn’t slide her headphones off. “Sorry, I can’t talk today. I have to finish these sound edits.”
That’s fine by me. My nerves were a soft hum this morning. Tomorrow, my stomach will probably be doing handsprings by the time Hayden arrives for skate-school.
I reach for my phone, but the pocket of my warm-up jacket is empty. I try to remember if I put it in my duffel bag this morning instead, but the closer we get to Oakland, the more I’m convinced I left it at home. It’s been hidden under my pillow all weekend. I slouch back against the seat.
Without anything else to do, I steal glances at Faith. She’s using the same app I’ve seen all summer, with several rows of what look like music files. Each has its own zigzaggy line that seems to show the rises and falls of the song. Faith drags and drops a track into the row above it. She merges one over the other, then presses the play button. Her eyes rise to the SUV’s ceiling. Then she looks down and makes another adjustment.
She tucks her iPad under one arm when Mrs. Park drops us off.
“How far did you get?” I ask as we make our way into the rink.
“I’m almost done. There’s just this one section where I’m trying to blend two tracks that’s giving me problems.”
Her shoulders don’t look tense. She doesn’t frown like she does during freestyle practice. She looks like she knows she’s doing something hard but it’s still worth the effort.
That’s how I used to feel about skating.
My recital poster still hangs from the off-ice studio’s door, reminding me I’ve got to
