Page 111 of Puck You Both

They move on to making eggs, and I move on to take my bag to the bathroom for a quick shower. The mirror is still fogged from whoever went before me, and Patrick's soap is open on the ledge. I have mine with me, but I grab Patrick’s anyway.

I stand under the hot spray longer than my schedule would ever permit and smile.

When I step out, my eyes drift to the two toothbrushes that stand in the cup beside the sink. A black one, probably Patrick's, sits at a responsible angle. Then, there’s a blue one, one that probably glows in the dark, leaning on it with total disregard for other people's structures.

My travel toothbrush is in its slot in my toiletry kit.

I take it out, brush my teeth, and then I just stand there, holding it.

It's a piece of plastic. Any gas station between here and Chicago sells its replacement for two dollars. It’s meaningless, really, yet somehow, right now it means a lot, because a travel toothbrush is supposed to travel home with you.

Theo’s raised voice reaches me from the kitchen. "Wall! Patrick says eight eggs is excessive."

Patrick's voice comes unimpressed. "I said six."

"He says six is excessive."

I look at the two toothbrushes, smile, then yell back, "Make eight."

"Ha! Democracy!"

I put my toothbrush in the cup.

The three of them lean together, black and blue and gray, crowded and slightly ridiculous, and I stand there studying a cup made of plastic.

There. The biggest thing I've said all morning, and I said it, without using words, to a sink.

I adjust mine once, so the cup carries all three without tipping.

Then I leave it there and go where the voices are.

Chapter 21

THEO

BY TEN IN the morning I've checked my phone fourteen times, which counts as a monk-level of restraint, all things considered. There's a list making rounds online with my name third on it, the deadline is five hours out, and my phone is right there in my stall, facedown, humming with evil. Fourteen deserves a medal.

Around me, everyone is performing normal so hard it's crossed into community theater territory. Nobody asks whether I've heard anything and nobody mentions Anaheim. Guys who steal my tape on the daily are giving me careful little smiles.

I'd rather be booed.

A few stalls over, Stevens laces up inside his own bubble of clean air. Sixth on the same list, which means nobody talks to him either. Our eyes meet and we trade one nod, and yeah, I’m a part of the problem.

Dziedzic sets my skates beneath the stall, freshly sharpened, which is its own problem, because they were freshly sharpened yesterday, too. I watched him do it, then complained about the hollow for six minutes straight. Now they've been done again, perfect and unasked for.

The equipment guy being nice to you is how you find out you're dead.

Two minutes before practice starts my phone buzzes, and my hand gets there so casually I nearly take out my water bottle.

The group thread is now called three toothbrushes one cup, because I renamed it Sunday and neither Patrick nor Wall commented about it. They’ve been walking on eggshells too.

Wall has sent a photo of his own skate.

Wall: Left one snapped. Replaced it.

That's the hole message. A lace.

No how are you holding ups, or thinking of yous, no promises about anything being fine.