“So?”
“So aren’t you being just a little bit ungrateful? Remember what Mrs. Bergson said—she wanted us to do something extravagant and fun. A once-in-a-lifetime experience.”
“Why don’t we go bungee jumping, then? Anything would be better than this.”
“Cassidy,” she warns, pulling out her Queen Clementine voice.
“Fine,” I snap. “Just please don’t make me wear the bonnet.”
She laughs. “It’s a deal. But it looks cute on Chloe, don’t you think?”
Of course Chloe looks cute in the bonnet. My baby sister would look cute wearing a garbage bag. Especially the way she’s toddling all over the place now. Her chubby little legs are adorable. I still can’t believe my mother’s actually going to dress her up and bring her along to the ball, but Mrs. Wong and Mrs. Delaney have promised to help babysit so Mom can dance with Stanley.
My stepfather comes strutting out of the dressing room a moment later. He’s got these really tight pants on, which aren’t a great look since he could stand to lose a few pounds, and a white shirt with a high ruffled collar, and a jacket with long tails in the back, and boots that come up to his knees. He looks even more ridiculous than I do.
“What do you think, Clemmie?” he asks, striking a pose.
“I think I’m going to call you Mr. Darcy from now on,” my mother gushes, kissing the top of his bald head.
I dive back into the dressing room. Some things you just don’t want to have to witness, especially where your parents—or stepparents—are concerned.
By Wednesday, I’m really ready for something besides “petticoats and bonnets,” as Mr. Hawthorne puts it. Fortunately, Lyme Regis is on the schedule. We leave the hotel early, because it’s a long drive to the coast, but it’s so worth it. Lyme Regis is a cool old resort town, with something called the Cobb that sticks way out into the water, like the jetty does in Dennis, on Cape Cod. The water is cold, but no colder than we’re used to at home, and we have a great time swimming and hanging out on the beach and exploring the town.
After lunch, it’s time to head to London. We’ll be staying there until after the ice dancing competition Friday night.
“I’m officially tired of driving,” Mr. Hawthorne announces as we pile onto the bus.
“You’re doing such a good job of it, though, sweetheart,” says Mrs. Hawthorne.
“Absolutely,” agrees Mrs. Delaney. “How about a round of applause for Nick?”
Everyone but Mrs. Chadwick claps.
We arrive in London in time for a quick dinner, then we set out for Hyde Park. It’s not far from the hotel, and on the way we pass Buckingham Palace, which looks just the way a palace should.
The concert is amazing. Beyond amazing. I’m giddy. It’s my first rock concert ever, and I can’t imagine anything topping this. The Led Zeppelin reunion has drawn a massive crowd, spilling out of the park and onto the streets, which they’ve had to close. People are pushed up against one another, but everybody’s having so much fun that nobody minds. The music is so loud I can feel the thump of the beat vibrating through my entire body. Mr. Delaney snagged us unbelievable tickets, and we’re standing practically right next to the stage, so I manage to take some sweet pictures to send to Courtney. I had no idea these guys were so ancient—Jimmy Page and Robert Plant are as old as my grandparents—but they sure don’t act their age. They can totally rock. The whole band plays and sings the way I play hockey: all out. It’s awesome.
Mrs. Chadwick decided not to come—“I’m not a fan of rock music,” she sniffed—and Gigi said she was just too tired, so the two of them stayed back at the hotel with Chloe. But my mom and Stanley are here, and they’re acting like teenagers, dancing and singing at the top of their lungs. It’s incredibly embarrassing. Emma’s parents are doing the same thing, so I don’t feel quite so stupid. And in the end I start dancing too; I can’t help it. Nobody can. The music picks you up and carries you away.
It’s really late by the time the concert is finally over, but we’re all wired so we go for a long walk down by the Thames past the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben, which are all lit up and look as spectacular as Buckingham Palace.
“This whole country is like one giant postcard,” I tell my mother.
She slips her arm through mine. “Isn’t it great?” she agrees. “I used to love to come to London when I was modeling. It’s one of my favorite places in the whole world.”
We’re tired by now, so we hop a bus back to the hotel. Jess falls asleep with her head against Darcy’s shoulder, and I see Mr. Hawthorne waggle his eyebrows at Mrs. Hawthorne, who smiles over at Mrs. Delaney. I guess I’m not the only one who’s noticed what’s going on.
Thursday is just as good as Wednesday. London is huge, as big as New York or bigger, maybe, only without all the skyscrapers. There’s no way we can see it all, Mrs. Hawthorne tells us. We take a tour in the morning to give us an overview of the city, sitting on top of a double-decker bus with a really hilarious tour guide. After lunch, we split up, to allow people to see the things they’re really interested in. I go with my stepfather and Darcy and Jess and Stewart to see the Tower of London. Emma’s right—there’s tons of armor there, and old weapons, plus the Crown Jewels. I’m not a big fan of jewelry, except for my hockey earrings, but these things are in a league of their own. I’ve never seen such enormous gems.
While we’re touring the tower, Mrs. Chadwick and Mrs. Delaney and my mother and Mrs. Wong all head for the Royal Botanic Garden. Gigi and Megan and Becca make a beeline for some store called Harrod’s, and Emma and her parents join a walking tour of literary London, what else.
We sightsee until dinner time, when we meet up at the hotel again. Then it’s time to go to the theater—Romeo and Juliet, at the Globe Theater, where we spend the evening standing again. Like the concert last night, though, it’s worth it. The play is amazing.
“I’m so glad that Jane Austen believed in happy endings,” says Mrs. Hawthorne, afterward. “Shakespeare can be so darned depressing.”
“But so darned wonderful, too,” says Mrs. Delaney.
“Can’t argue with you there,” says Emma’s father.
“I can’t believe how much we’re cramming in,” says my mother, yawning.
“But wouldn’t Eva be proud of us?” says Gigi. “We’re certainly being extravagant.”
We have one last Jane Austen stop on our schedule here in London—the British library. After breakfast on Friday morning, we take the tube (that’s what they call the subway over here, like Boston calls it the “T”), and head for something called the treasure room. I’m expecting gold doubloons at least, but instead it’s mostly books, of course. Well, and stuff that belonged to writers and composers.
“Look! It’s Jane’s writing desk,” says Emma, her eyes shining behind her glasses. “Wow.” She’s standing so close that her breath is clouding the glass case. “And look—original manuscript pages from one of her novels.”
“Persuasion,” says her mother.
“That’s her handwriting,” Emma continues. “See how she crossed stuff out and scribbled things in the margin? Just the way I do!”
Emma looks like she’s going to start hyperventilating. I see Stewart is hovering nearby, like maybe he wants to say something to her. He catches me watching him, though, and drifts away.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” says Mrs. Hawthorne, and I nod. Nothing to get that excited about, maybe, but still, pretty cool.
We’re due to rendezvous with the Berkeleys for lunch at the Victoria and Albert Museum, so after we’re done looking at Jane’s stuff, the tube whisks us off again. I’ve been dreading this part of the trip, and unfortunately it’s just as awkward as I expected. At the café, Annabelle ignores us, pretending like nothing has happened. Simon is
busy trying to avoid Megan, and our parents are all completely clueless.
I’m surprised when Tristan comes to sit next to me. I didn’t see much of him after I turned hi
m down for the spring formal. I had that trip out to California first of all, plus even though we tried to practice together after Mrs. Bergson died, it was pretty hard without a coach. And then school was over and he and his family took off to explore America.
“Hullo,” he says.
“Hey,” I reply.
“Having fun?”
I nod. “Yeah. England is great. How was the Grand Canyon?”
“Brilliant.”
“So are you ready for this?” I ask him.
He nods. “I think so. Annabelle and I are still having a little trouble with those synchronized twizzles, but our coach has been working with us all week and I think we’ve got the programs down.”
Annabelle sees us and frowns. She gets up and comes around the table and plunks herself into the empty chair next to Tristan. I swear she sticks to him like tape on a hockey stick. I can tell that she considers him her own private property. Well, if he’s stupid enough to want that, he’s welcome to her. Not that I really care, anyway.
After lunch, it’s time to go to the rink. I suck in a big lungful of cold air as we enter the main doors. I love the smell of ice. It makes every nerve in my body tingle. Everything about me comes alive in a rink. Different things do it for other people—an art studio, maybe, or a science lab or a kitchen or a bookstore, but for me, it’s always been a skating rink.
Tristan skates over when he sees me standing by the edge. I slap him a high five.
“You’re gonna do great,” I tell him, going into coach mode. I owe that much, at least, to Mrs. Bergson. No point being snippy with him here, right before his competition. I take something out of my pocket and pass it to him.
“What’s this?” he asks.
“Mrs. Bergson’s silver whistle,” I tell him. “Stick it in a pocket or something for good luck. I want it back afterward, though.”
“Right. Got it. No pinching the silver.” He smiles and gestures at his costume. “I don’t have a pocket, though. Spandex, remember? Mr. Fancypants?” He passes it back. “How about you hold it for me. It’ll be doubly lucky that way.” He places it on my palm and closes my fingers around it. His hands are warm, and I feel my pulse start to race.
Annabelle comes skating over. Her eyes narrow when she sees his hands wrapped around mine. “Tristan!” she says in a shrill voice. “Thirty-minute warning! You should be warming up.”
“I heard,” he tells her. “I’ll be right there.”
She glares at me and skates off.
“Good luck,” I tell him, and I mean it, feeling suddenly shy. “I wish Mrs. Bergson was here to see you.”
“Me too,” he replies, his deep blue eyes serious all of a sudden.
He lets go of my hand and heads back out onto the ice. I sit down slowly, feeling a little light-headed.
A couple of minutes later I hear the clack of skate guards against cement, and look up to see Annabelle Fairfax standing in front of me with her hands on her hips.
“Stay away from my cousin.”
“Distant cousin,” I correct her.
“I mean it. Hands off.”
It takes every ounce of restraint that I can muster not to lay into her, but I think about the fact that Annabelle has to get out there in less than half an hour and perform in a competition, and I think about what Mrs. Bergson would want me to do. It wouldn’t be fair of me to rattle her cage. “Whatever,” I tell her, and start to walk away.
“Promise me!” she calls, her voice rising.
Without looking back, I flap my hand at her. If I stop now, I don’t think I’ll be able to keep myself from saying something I’ll regret. I really, really don’t want to be responsible for messing this day up for Tristan.
I hear the quick clack of skate guards behind me again, like someone’s running, followed by a scraping sound and a shriek. I whip around just in time to see Annabelle go sprawling on the cement floor.
Things get jumbled after that. Her coach comes running over, and Annabelle’s holding her ankle and hollering that I pushed her, which is obviously not true since I’m nowhere near her, plus Tristan saw the whole thing.
“Annabelle was running after Cassidy,” he tells their coach. “She was reaching out to grab her arm, and she slipped. Cassidy never touched her.”
It turns out Annabelle’s ankle is sprained. Her coach goes ashen-faced when the rink doctor gives him the news.
“This is it, then,” he says to Tristan. “A whole year of hard work down the drain. If you don’t place in this competition, you don’t go advance to the European Junior Championship. You’re out.”
Tristan’s eyes slide over to me. “What are the rules about last-minute substitutions?”
Half an hour later I’m out on the ice. I still don’t know how it happened. They practically had to cut Annabelle out of her costume, she was so determined not to let me use it, and then Megan and Gigi had to do some last-minute alterations to get it to fit me since I’m so much taller. They scrounged up a needle and thread and somehow managed to let out the shoulder seams, though, and I squeezed into it.
Finding skates were a little harder. I have big feet. But we managed that, too, thanks to a Dutch skater who had to bail out because of the flu.
I had exactly five minutes to warm up. Five minutes! And I haven’t been on the ice for over a week.
The thing is, though, once I am out on the ice, nothing else matters. Ice is my native element. When I’m out here, I don’t hear the crowd, I don’t see the people in the stands, I only see that gleaming expanse of frozen liquid stretching out in front of me. And whether I’m wearing hockey skates or figure skates, whether I’m in Concord or London, I am never more me, Cassidy Sloane, than I am when I’m in the middle of a rink.
Tristan skates over. “Ready?” he asks. I nod. He holds up his forefinger, and I smile. One minute. That’s all it takes to complete the compulsory dance.
The music starts and I feel my tense muscles start to relax. It’s Strauss—Mrs. Bergson’s favorite. I think about the rock concert last night, and I let the music pick me up and carry me. One-two-three, one-two-three, step glide release, step glide step, the moves are in my bones, just like the music. Practice makes perfect, Mrs. Bergson always said, and she’s right. I’ve practiced this a million times at the rink back home. This waltz is in my DNA. I look over at Tristan and see it on his face too. He gets this. He loves the ice as much as I do.
We finish to wild applause.
“That was the easy part,” I tell my mother, who’s waiting for us at the edge of the rink with Stanley and Chloe and the rest of the Mother-Daughter Book Club.
“Cassidy, nothing you do is easy,” she tells me. “I don’t know anybody who works as hard as you do, or who has as much gumption or flat-out determination as you do.” She gives me a hug. “I’m so proud of you! I wish your father could be here right now to see this.”
That brings tears to my eyes. She’s right—my father would be thrilled. Then I see my stepfather standing a little ways apart with Chloe, giving my mother and me a little space and pretending he can’t hear every word of our conversation. I think of all those early mornings when he got up to drive me to practice, and all those weekends he gave up to haul me around New England to games and tournaments.
“I know, but I’m glad Stanley’s here, at least.”
My stepfather’s face lights up at this. I smile and blow him a kiss, and he smiles back. My mother hugs me again. “Thank you,” she whispers.
A minute later our results finally flash up on the screen, and they’re solid. Not stellar, but solid. I didn’t disgrace myself out there, and we’re still in the top six. We still have a chance to place.
A few rows up in the stands, I spot Annabelle sitting with her parents. She’s changed into her warm-up suit, and she does not look happy. Tough. She has no one but herself to blame.
And then it’s time to change into my costume for the free dance. Back in the dressing area, Megan and Gigi are working overtime to someh
ow remake this outfit too. It’s a black and white number that fits the mood of the music, which is a very dramatic Flamenco piece.
“We added a ruffle here,” Megan says, pointing to the bodice. “And I sliced off a strip from the bottom of the skirt to use as extenders for the shoulder straps.”
I wedge myself into it and stare at the mirror. Then I turn to her and grin. “All I can say is, I’m glad Fashionista Jane has gone into retirement.”
Back out on the ice again, Tristan is waiting for me. He holds out his hand and I take it, aware that my palm is sweaty. This is much, much different from the compulsory dance. Most of our score rides on this free dance, and it’s a whole lot more complicated than the waltz. I try not to think about the handstand lift in the middle of the program. That’s the one move that’s been giving me fits since we started this whole practice partner thing. I’ll just have to trust my training. We skate out into the middle of the rink and take our starting position—a reverse Kilian. I take a deep breath. I’m not doing this for Tristan; I’m not doing it for me; I’m doing this for Mrs. Bergson. This is my thank-you to her. My final farewell.
The music starts with a flourish. Tristan and I toss our heads back and fling our right hands into the air, and then we’re off. I match him step for step, turning and gliding. He pulls me close and pushes me away, lifts me up and swings me around and spirals by my side. I don’t think about the steps—I don’t have to. My body is doing what it was trained to do, what it practiced and practiced and practiced again. What I do think about is the music.
In hockey, I hear the music of the crowd. I hear the music of adrenaline pumping, of the drive for the puck and the goal. Out here, today, I hear the music of the Rodrigo Concerto, and as I surrender to its drama and passion, it carries me forward.
My palms grow slick with sweat as we approach the lift, though. Keep it together, Sloane, I tell myself sternly. You can do this.
I nail the forward inside mohawk leading into it, and the energy from that move sends me soaring as I place my hands onto the upper part of Tristan’s bent leg and throw myself into a handstand. His right arm encircles my waist, giving me the stability I need, and we pivot, my legs extended in the air above our heads, his left arm flung triumphantly upward.