I shake my head. “You are the only person who knows.”
“I find that hard to believe. I bet you make eyes at each other from across the ice.”
“It’s not like that…”
But now I’m not so sure. Terrence would bust my balls if he thought I had the hots for Coach Chris. Unless he thinks being an ally means keeping his comments to himself. Maybe he’s too locked into the hockey season to notice.
“I’m not convinced. I need to see this yearning in person.” Her shoulders sway. “And maybe I’d like to experience a college party.”
“Girl, you’re not missing much. Just gross jungle juice and frat BO.”
Her mouth drops. “You would deny me sweaty frat boys? So much for being my best friend.”
I think about my schedule for the next few weeks. There’s class, practice, the yoga classes I’ve been taking, dance studio and general gym time, homework—I do try to sleep for eight hours a night and eat three meals. “There’s a home hockey game next week.”
Alex perks up, the gills at her neck fluttering.
“It’s one of the only games I’m going to be able to make. You should come.”
She holds her hands like she’s praying, clapping the tips of her fingers.
“A warning. Our team sucks.”
She frowns. “Maybe that’s because you keep telling people they suck?”
“Oh please, it’s not like I’m—”
“Manifesting? You so are. Here.” She holds out her hands palm side up, and I place my hands down atop hers. “My team is going to win.”
I repeat back. “My team is going to win.”
“I’m going to Milan next year.”
I take a deep inhale, as if that will make this silly ritual more potent. “I’m going to Milan next year.”
“I’m going to rail the hot hockey coach.”
I slap her hands like this whole exercise has been a game on the playground. Alex hisses, shaking her hands out. “Two out of three… I would have picked the coach over the team, but oh well.”
“I should probably get back to Mims.” I get up from the table.
She stands but doesn’t get out from behind the table. “Send me pics!”
“Course.”
We give each other one last hug, Alex whispering in my ear, “Go for the gold.”
The bell at the front of Mim’s shop announces my return. “Come, come!” She calls to me from the back. I find her hunched over a sketchbook with Maude nearby, examining two torn out pages.
I peek over Maude’s shoulder. “Skirts?”
“It’s a flourish!” Mim argues.
One of the sketches is different shades of blue; the edges scalloped like waves. Around the hips are faint pencil lines, indicating loose fabric. At the top of the page there are some fabric samples, including a knitted white fabric that reminds me of fishing nets. The other sketch is all white with little dots indicating rhinestones across the shoulders and down the length of the arms. It actually reminds me of Alex, her costumes always bare at the shoulder to highlight her scales. The white outfit also has markings around the hips, but they’re black and stark. The top of the page has a black tulle attached.
“Looks like your wish will be granted in the name of artistic merit.”
Mim makes a sound at the back of her throat. I wonder if they argued about the not-skirt while I was gone. “Do you think the judges—”
