“Just try and see him for the individual he is,” said Dr. Weisman. “That’s what you’d want, if you were in his shoes. It’s the golden rule, pure and simple.”
And then came my birthday, and the Bruins tickets.
Beside me, Stanley gets up and says he’s going to buy us some hot dogs and drinks. “Don’t go anywhere,” he tells me.
Go anywhere? Is he kidding? Wild horses couldn’t drag me away. I’m, like, three feet from the bench, where the team captain, who is six foot nine and the tallest player in NHL history, not to mention an awesome defenseman, is sitting next to one of the goalies. I could practically reach out and touch their jerseys, if the Plexiglas divider wasn’t in the way.
These are really, really good seats. Amazing seats, in fact. Either Stan the man is richer than I thought, or he’s got good connections.
Turns out he’s got good connections.
The goalie stands up to stretch. He looks over in my direction and his face lights up. He bangs on the Plexiglas and waves. My heart stops for a split second because I think he’s waving at me, then I realize his gaze is focused over my left shoulder, so I look over my left shoulder and there’s Stanley heading back down the steps with our food. I can tell it’s him because the stadium floodlights are bouncing off the top of his shiny bowling-ball head. He’s like a human spotlight. The Garden could save millions if they hired him to help light the arena. Stan waves back with his elbow, grinning.
“You know him?” I ask, incredulous, as he takes his seat again.
“Sure,” he replies casually, handing me a hotdog. “I know all the players. I do the team’s taxes.”
I gape at him. Stan the man is the accountant for the Boston Bruins. I try not to look impressed by this piece of information but I can’t help it. It’s pretty cool. I sip my soda thoughtfully as the referee’s whistle signals the start of the second period. It’s a great game, really close and really fast, and I get so excited a few times I forget who I’m sitting next to. Stanley and I even slap each other a couple of high fives when the Bruins score.
By the end of the second period, Stanley seems more relaxed. He’s smiling, even. He hardly ever smiles or laughs around me. He always seems nervous. Courtney says that’s because I’m always glaring at him. She says a face like mine would make anybody nervous. Maybe she’s right, maybe I’ve been too hard on him. I think about what Dr. Weisman said, about how I should judge Stanley for who he is, instead of always comparing him to my dad. How I should treat him the way I’d want to be treated. I take another sip of soda and watch him out of the corner of my eye. Maybe he’s not so bad after all. Still, though, that doesn’t mean I want Stanley Kinkaid butting into my family.
As the teams disappear for their break, the Zamboni ice resurfacers rumble out onto the rink. I love watching the big machines sweep around the rink, leaving those gleaming paths of fresh ice behind them. It makes me itch for my skates—there’s nothing like gliding across untouched ice.
Stanley nudges me with his elbow.
“What?”
He points wordlessly at the Jumbotron. I look up at the giant screen above center ice. My mouth falls open. So does the mouth of the image onscreen. My image. The camera has zoomed in on me and Stan the man. He smiles and waves. I snap my mouth shut so I don’t look like so much of a dork. My head looks huge, like one of those enormous Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade balloons. Then my picture disappears and is replaced by the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY CASSIDY SLOANE! in flashing orange letters.
“Did you do that?” I ask Stanley, feeling embarrassed but kind of pleased.
“Uh-huh,” he replies. He smiles at me, and for the first time I see that my sister is right. Stan the man does have nice eyes. They’re blue—Dad’s were gray, like mine—and they’re crinkly around the edges. Dad’s were, too. Mom used to call them his happiness lines. Somehow, I don’t think Dr. Weisman’s ban on comparisons counts in this case.
“Thanks,” I tell him, smiling back.
My mother would be proud of me for remembering my manners for once.
Out on the rink, the Zamboni trucks are finishing their work. A voice comes over the loudspeaker, announcing the puck-shooting contest. They always have puck-shooting contests during the breaks.
“Will Miss Cassidy Ann Sloane please come to center ice!” calls the announcer.
I just about have a heart attack when I hear this.
“Cassidy Sloane?” the announcer repeats. “The birthday girl?”
I can’t move. I’m glued to the spot. I’ve been to a lot of pro hockey games before, but I’ve never gotten to be in the contest.
Stan the man nudges me again. “That would be you,” he says, his eyes crinkling again.
I manage to clamber up onto my seat and wave my arms over my head, and an official skates over and unlocks a nearby door in the Plexiglas screen. He beckons to me.
“Give me your camera,” says Stanley. “I’ll take some pictures for your mom.”
I hand it to him and follow the official out onto the ice. I’m wearing sneakers, of course, and they slip a bit. But I manage to make it to the center of the rink without falling, and I take my place on the red line. Some other guy the announcer called down from the stands is there too. The official hands us both a stick and places a puck on the ice in front of each of us.
“Now, folks, we all know how this works!” says the announcer. “Each contestant will have three shots. Whoever gets the most goals wins!”
The other guy is bragging to the official about how he played college hockey, and how he’s on the New England Senior Hockey League now, and how his team took first place in last year’s Bostonfest Tournament. He doesn’t even look at me.
I don’t say a word. I’m too busy eyeing the goal. The puck shooting contest is harder than it looks. Most people don’t even make it anywhere near the net. I’m going to have to put muscle into my shot to get it all the way to the goal from center ice.
“First up is our birthday girl, Cassidy Sloane!” calls the announcer.
The official gives me a nod. The other contestant gives me a smug grin. “Good luck, kid.”
Kid? I’m thirteen as of today! Grown-ups can be such morons. Ignoring them both, I lift my stick, frowning in concentration. The noise of the arena fades. All I hear is my own breathing. All I see is the ice, the puck, and the goal.
I swing my stick down and it connects with the puck, which goes flying. Right past the net, unfortunately, and into the boards.
“Oh, too bad!” says the announcer. “So close, and yet so far. This little lady has a powerhouse swing though, that’s for sure. Can our other contestant top that?”
As it turns out, he can’t. His first shot isn’t even close. It just peters out about halfway between where we’re standing and the goal. He doesn’t look too happy about it.
“Now for the birthday girl again,” says the announcer.
My second shot is lined up perfectly. It slides across the ice directly toward the goal, but loses steam right at the last second and stops just barely outside the edge of the net. They even send an official over to check on it and see if it’s close enough.
He shakes his head regretfully. No goal.
The other contestant’s second shot gets a little farther down the ice than his first, but it still falls short of the mark.
“Let’s mix it up a little here for the final shot,” says the announcer. “How about you flip a coin and see who goes first?”
The official produces a quarter. I call heads. It’s heads. “You first,” I tell the other contestant.
“Age before beauty, eh?” jokes the official.
The other contestant is sweating now, and he looks kind of mad. I guess it’s no fun to have to play against a girl, especially when you’re a grown-up. His third shot almost makes it in, but it clips the edge of the goal post at the last second and skitters away.
“No goal, but the puck definitely tapped it!” cries the announcer. “Unless
Miss Sloane can do better than that, folks, it looks like we may have a winner.”
My mother says I’m the most competitive person she knows. I don’t know about that, but it’s true that I really hate to lose. I take a deep breath and try and refocus myself, then wind up and let it fly. My stick comes down and the puck shoots off like a bullet, and this time it flies straight and true, all the way down the ice and into the net. The crowd lets out a cheer.
“Score!” shouts the announcer, and the Jumbotron overhead starts flashing my name again.
“Nice job, kid,” says the official, clapping me on the shoulder. “You play a little hockey, do you?”
“A little,” I admit.
“Maybe you should recruit her for your league,” he suggests to the other contestant. “This girl can shoot.”
The other contestant looks like he wishes the Zamboni would come out and run me over. I don’t care, though. I get a prize—an official Bruins game jersey—and he doesn’t. I take the shirt back to my seat with me, and show it off to Stanley.
“Very cool,” he agrees.
This birthday is turning out better than I thought it would, I have to admit.
The third period is a nail-biter. The score is tied, right up until the last few seconds. I keep a close eye on the Rangers’ goalie, not because he’s cute—I honestly don’t see what the big deal is, but Mom and Courtney always seem to turn up whenever he’s being interviewed on ESPN, and Courtney gave me a poster of him for Christmas mostly so she can sneak into my room and look at it—but because he’s good. He’s really on his game tonight, and almost nothing is getting by him. The Rangers have the puck. The Bruins intercept and gain possession. The puck flies across the ice between the two forwards. With just seconds to go one of them passes it to the center, who dekes left around the Ranger defenseman and takes a shot. The goalie lunges. He misses! The puck slides past him into the net. The Bruins score!
I leap to my feet. So does Stanley. We’re both screaming. Everybody’s screaming. The Garden is going wild! Out on the ice, the players are nearly as excited as the fans. A win like this is a real shot in the arm for everybody, fans and players alike. The Bruins haven’t been doing too well these past few years, but they can turn it around. The Red Sox sure did.
When the arena finally starts to quiet down again, I reach for my jacket.
“Where are you going?” asks Stan.
I shrug. “Home, right?” I reply. “Game’s over.”
“It’s not over quite yet,” Stanley says.
He hustles me down to the end of the rink, through a passageway under the stands and down a long corridor. A few seconds later we’re standing outside a closed door.
“We’re going in the locker room?” I ask in disbelief.
Stan the man nods, grinning. “Don’t worry,” he tells me. “They know you’re coming. They’ll still have their uniforms on.”
If only Dad were here to see this! I feel like I’m going to keel over any second from the thrill.
Stan holds the door for me. “Give me that camera again,” he whispers as I brush past him, and I hand it over.
“There you are!” says the Bruins’ head coach. “We’ve only got a couple of minutes before the press arrives.” He looks at me. “So, I hear you were MVP for the Comets last season. Concord’s own Cammi Granato.”
I open my mouth to reply but nothing comes out. I’m as mute as Jess used to be. The Bruins’ coach just compared me to the greatest US women’s hockey player ever. I know he’s kidding, but still. Cammi Granato!
“My neighbor’s son plays for the Minutemen,” he continues. “I asked him about you and even he had to admit you were good. Said you wiped the ice with them at the championship game last year.”
I still can’t speak, but I manage a smile.
“Better watch your step, boys,” he teases the team. “She’ll be after one of your jobs in a few years.”
“She already has a jersey,” says Stan, holding up my prize.
Everyone laughs. We line up for a picture. They put me right in front in the middle. Afterward, I get a signed hockey stick and the winning puck. I feel like I’m dreaming.
“So this is your daughter?” I hear the coach ask Stanley.
The top of Stan the man’s glossy head turns bright crimson. “Uh, well, actually . . .” he stutters.
“No,” I blurt, scowling.
“Tough customer on the ice and off,” says the goalie, and everybody laughs again. He winks at Stan. “Just like you said. Good luck, dude.”
Just like you said? I whirl around and stare at Stanley, shocked. He’s been talking about me behind my back? To the Bruins? Oh, I get it now. This whole evening was a setup. It wasn’t a birthday treat for me, it was something he cooked up to try and weasel his way into my good graces. And into my family.
Disgusted, I stomp out of the locker room and make my way angrily back to the arena. I charge up the stairs in the stands two at a time. I can hear Stanley behind me, huffing and puffing. I pause at the top only because I don’t know the way to the garage.
“Cassidy, I hope you don’t think I—”
“It doesn’t matter what I think, does it?” I spit the words out like shards of ice. “Nobody really cares what I think.”
“Look,” he says lamely, holding out my camera. “The pictures turned out really well. Here’s you making the shot, and this one of you with the team is great.” He fumbles with the buttons and accidentally clicks on the only other picture I still have stored on my camera. He squints at it. “Say, is this you and your dad?”
“Don’t touch that!” I scream, grabbing it away. How dare he? How dare he ruin my private picture, my private memory?
My mother was dead wrong. Stan the man isn’t thoughtful, or intelligent, or kind. He’s a stupid jerk.
I stare stonily out the car window all the way home. I don’t care what my mother says, and I don’t care what Dr. Weisman says. I am never speaking to Stanley Kinkaid again.
Final score? Stanley—0. Cassidy—0.
MegaN
“Oh dear, this is such a dreadful predicament. I wouldn’t mind my misfortunes so much if they were romantic . . . but they are always just simply ridiculous.”
—Anne of Avonlea
Emma taps her finger on one of the drawings in the sketchbook on my lap. She’s perched on the arm of my chair, looking over my shoulder. “I think you should definitely include this one,” she says, pointing to a drawing of an orange-and-yellow–striped halter dress.
“I like that one too,” says Jess.
Emma and Jess are helping me sort through my sketches to choose the final lineup for Flashlite. My designs are due by March 15, which is just two weeks from now. I’m kind of stressing about it. Cassidy’s trying to help too, but since her idea of style is anything that’s not actually a garbage bag, she’s not much use.
The three of them have been extra nice to me recently. I’m not sure why, because I know it bothers Emma—Jess and Cassidy, too, but especially Emma—that I’m still friends with Becca Chadwick.
The thing is, I really like Becca. Ashley and Jen, too. And not because they’re popular, either. Well, maybe just a little. But mostly I’m over that. I know Becca can be snotty and snarky and downright mean—and I tell her so a lot more than I used to, especially when she picks on Emma—but she can also be a lot of fun, plus she and Ashley and Jen are just as crazy about clothes as I am. I love Emma and Cassidy and Jess, but none of them really understands how I feel about fashion. They never notice what I’m wearing, never say anything about my earrings or shoes or makeup, and they’d rather do just about anything else than hang out at the mall. Is it wrong to want to have friends who like the same things I do? Even if that means Becca Chadwick?
“How about this one?” says Jess, pointing to another sketch.
“You mean the workout gear?” I reply.
Cassidy crowds closer for a look. Her brow furrows. “Workout gear? How can anyone work
out with those giant sock things on their legs?”
“Those are leg warmers,” I tell her.
“Whatever. They’re dumb.”
“They’re making a comeback,” I explain. “They were big in the eighties.”
Cassidy grunts. I smile at Emma and Jess. The four of us are shoehorned into a small room off the kitchen at Half Moon Farm. The Delaneys call it the “keeping room.” It’s kind of like a tiny family room or something, and really old New England houses used to have them. Mrs. Delaney says that back in the colonial days, it would be easy to keep a room this size nice and snug in the wintertime, so this was where everyone would gather to keep warm.
We’re going to have an Avonlea luncheon here in a little while. Mr. Delaney built us a fire in the fireplace, and we helped him rearrange the armchairs and loveseat facing it. Jess and her mother set up a table in the corner by the window and decorated it the way they think Anne Shirley might have. There’s a white tablecloth, and a vase full of holly and evergreen and pine cones and other winter stuff in the middle, since Anne is such a nature freak, and Mrs. Delaney is even letting us use her fancy blue-and-white china.
“It may not be Marilla’s rosebud spray tea set, but it will have to do,” she told us.
Jess lined the mantle with pretty things, too—teapots and brass candlesticks and figurines—and even Cassidy said it looks good.
I can’t believe I ever thought this house was a junk heap. Sure, it’s old—Half Moon Farm was built, like, way before the Revolutionary War, sometime in the early 1700s—and it’s kind of shabby, with floors that are all slanted and squeaky and a roof that sometimes leaks and ancient drafty windows, but I still like it a whole lot better than my house. Emma says it’s because it’s alive with history, but Emma is what my mother calls a hopeless romantic.
It will be terrible if the Delaneys have to sell. I can’t imagine them living in a modern house like mine, or even in a Victorian like Cassidy’s or a cozy little Cape Cod–style house like Emma’s. The Delaneys belong here, at Half Moon Farm.