the steps. I won’t get the rhythm right, I’ll go in the wrong direction. Everybody will laugh at me.”
Miss Violet’s School of Dance was a pretty brick building with outside stairs that swooped: the sort of stairs a famous dancer would stand at the top of to receive photographers and journalists who wanted to interview her.
You could fall dancing, Christina thought. Is that what they want Dolly to do? “The Shevvingtons are making you take dancing on purpose,” she said. “That’s what the Shevvingtons are like.”
Mr. Shevvington unfolded like a huge paper doll from a parked car next to Miss Violet’s. “Christina,” he said sadly. “Still fighting that sick and twisted jealousy, aren’t you? We are doing this to help Dolly overcome her fear of failure, to build her frail body and fragile confidence. This is our gift to Dolly. And you, poor girl, are eaten up with jealousy.” He patted Christina’s shoulder. She wanted to bite him.
Dolly clasped both her hands in front of her, like a child in the nativity scene seeing an angel. “Oh, Mr. Shevvington!” she cried. “ You paid for the lessons! You are so wonderful! I love you so much!” She turned to Christina. “You don’t have to come in with me, Chrissie. Mr. Shevvington’s here. I’ll be fine now. You go skate in the parking lot. ’Bye.”
Jonah and the boys had taken over the parking lot ice. They were speed skating: bent low, thrusting forward, circling as hard and fast as they could. All the little kids had been pushed away and were sitting sadly on the benches over by the tennis courts. All the girls who wanted to practice figure eights or spins had been knocked down enough times that they had given up and left. Christina laced on her skates and skated hard and fast. She pretended her skate blades were slicing Mr. Shevvington.
“Jonah,” she said, skating even with him, “do you think I am sick and twisted?”
Jonah grinned. “Sure. That’s why I like you. I’m drawn to sick and twisted people.”
Jonah’s legs were long. It didn’t matter how determined Christina was; Jonah could cover more ground. Her muscles cried out for rest, but she disciplined herself, pretending it was the Olympics, her country’s honor at stake.
What’s really at stake, thought Christina, is being a friend to Dolly. How can I be Dolly’s friend when she listens to Mr. Shevvington, not me?
Jonah pulled ahead. Two tenth-grade boys spun by Christina as easily as birds on the wing. Jonah called back over his shoulder, “Hey, Christina, you wanna come over to my house? Have something hot to drink? My toes are freezing off.”
“Hot date!” shouted the tenth-graders. “What an invitation — his toes are freezing off! You gonna warm ’em up, Christina?” One of them swiped at Christina, knocking off her cap. Her hair spilled out, blowing in the relentless winter wind.
A true friend, Christina thought, is a person who helps even when the friendship isn’t close anymore. “You’re jealous, aren’t you?” she said. How nice to call somebody else jealous.
The wind separated the strands of her hair: silver and gold, chocolate laced. The tenth-grader grinned and slowed down. They skated in step: her right leg swirling across the ice in tempo with his, then left legs together and right again. When his hand reached toward her hair, Christina knew he was not going to yank it, the way seventh-grade boys would. “I love your hair,” said the boy softly. “Silver and gold and brown. It’s — ”
Jonah skated between them.
The huge clumpy feet he tripped over in class were graceful in long, black, men’s skates.
Jonah said firmly, “Leave it alone.”
Jonah’s mother acted as if Christina came every afternoon. They made hot chocolate in a big, friendly, messy kitchen, with Jonah’s little sister swinging her legs from the counter and Jonah’s little brother yelling because it was his turn to sort the laundry. They played Monopoly on the
Miss Violet’s School of Dance was a pretty brick building with outside stairs that swooped: the sort of stairs a famous dancer would stand at the top of to receive photographers and journalists who wanted to interview her.
You could fall dancing, Christina thought. Is that what they want Dolly to do? “The Shevvingtons are making you take dancing on purpose,” she said. “That’s what the Shevvingtons are like.”
Mr. Shevvington unfolded like a huge paper doll from a parked car next to Miss Violet’s. “Christina,” he said sadly. “Still fighting that sick and twisted jealousy, aren’t you? We are doing this to help Dolly overcome her fear of failure, to build her frail body and fragile confidence. This is our gift to Dolly. And you, poor girl, are eaten up with jealousy.” He patted Christina’s shoulder. She wanted to bite him.
Dolly clasped both her hands in front of her, like a child in the nativity scene seeing an angel. “Oh, Mr. Shevvington!” she cried. “ You paid for the lessons! You are so wonderful! I love you so much!” She turned to Christina. “You don’t have to come in with me, Chrissie. Mr. Shevvington’s here. I’ll be fine now. You go skate in the parking lot. ’Bye.”
Jonah and the boys had taken over the parking lot ice. They were speed skating: bent low, thrusting forward, circling as hard and fast as they could. All the little kids had been pushed away and were sitting sadly on the benches over by the tennis courts. All the girls who wanted to practice figure eights or spins had been knocked down enough times that they had given up and left. Christina laced on her skates and skated hard and fast. She pretended her skate blades were slicing Mr. Shevvington.
“Jonah,” she said, skating even with him, “do you think I am sick and twisted?”
Jonah grinned. “Sure. That’s why I like you. I’m drawn to sick and twisted people.”
Jonah’s legs were long. It didn’t matter how determined Christina was; Jonah could cover more ground. Her muscles cried out for rest, but she disciplined herself, pretending it was the Olympics, her country’s honor at stake.
What’s really at stake, thought Christina, is being a friend to Dolly. How can I be Dolly’s friend when she listens to Mr. Shevvington, not me?
Jonah pulled ahead. Two tenth-grade boys spun by Christina as easily as birds on the wing. Jonah called back over his shoulder, “Hey, Christina, you wanna come over to my house? Have something hot to drink? My toes are freezing off.”
“Hot date!” shouted the tenth-graders. “What an invitation — his toes are freezing off! You gonna warm ’em up, Christina?” One of them swiped at Christina, knocking off her cap. Her hair spilled out, blowing in the relentless winter wind.
A true friend, Christina thought, is a person who helps even when the friendship isn’t close anymore. “You’re jealous, aren’t you?” she said. How nice to call somebody else jealous.
The wind separated the strands of her hair: silver and gold, chocolate laced. The tenth-grader grinned and slowed down. They skated in step: her right leg swirling across the ice in tempo with his, then left legs together and right again. When his hand reached toward her hair, Christina knew he was not going to yank it, the way seventh-grade boys would. “I love your hair,” said the boy softly. “Silver and gold and brown. It’s — ”
Jonah skated between them.
The huge clumpy feet he tripped over in class were graceful in long, black, men’s skates.
Jonah said firmly, “Leave it alone.”
Jonah’s mother acted as if Christina came every afternoon. They made hot chocolate in a big, friendly, messy kitchen, with Jonah’s little sister swinging her legs from the counter and Jonah’s little brother yelling because it was his turn to sort the laundry. They played Monopoly on the
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