Dear Mother Daughter Book Club,
It is Day Three of Torture Camp—which, I guess, isn't actually that bad.
For the first four days, we have either core or running in the morning, dance in the afternoon, and the rink in the evening. On the fifth and sixth days, we'll be in the rink the entire time, perfecting our routines. And the seventh day is the day of the competition, which you guys should totally come to because I'm going to win.
(Haha, just kidding. These people are really good. D: Then again, they have been doing this since they were like five years old, so I don't think pitting me against them is a fair comparison.)
The biggest surprise so far is dance class. It didn't suck!
We did some gymnastics stuff first, which was fun. Do you know I used to take gymnastics when I was little? I got kicked out after I broke the rules by sneaking over to the big kids' vaulting horse and tried to copy their handspringing, somersaulting awesomeness.
That catastrophe ended with a broken leg, a lot of hysterical yelling, and me being grounded for four months.
(Do you remember, Mom? Four freaking dull months of no sports. Still, I guess I shouldn't complain, since you were perfectly willing to ground me for a lifetime.)
After gymnastics, we did some ballet—boring, but not too bad.
Anyway, guess who my partner is for the pair skating stuff.
Guess.
Guess.
Okay, you guys probably aren't even guessing, so I'll just tell you: Tristan Berkeley.
Yep, what a coincidence, huh?
He's nicer than before, I think. Not as arrogant. Of course, it helps that I beat him in running yesterday. He's been a good sport about it, but I think he's still sulking on the inside, haha.
By the way, you know what I just realized? Maybe Coach Larson didn't tell us that this was pair skating camp, but she couldn't get away with not telling the parents…which means YOU WERE IN ON IT, MOM, and you just decided not to tell me, hmm? Gosh, what happened to 'having no secrets in the family'? Being 'open and communicative' with each other? The minute I get back, I'm going straight to Dr. Weisman.
(Oh, and don't think I'm forgetting about you, Stanley. If Mom knew, you knew. Forget about all those Red Sox bonding moments—this is an act of BETRAYAL. }:| )
See you all soon,
Cassidy
There are two things that I didn't include in my letter.
The first is that ballet wasn't just "not bad." I actually liked it. Like, like liked it.
At first, I was horrified we had to wear actual tutus, but it turns out I'm pretty good at ballet because I'm really flexible. In fact, the instructor said I was a natural.
The reason why I didn't tell this to the Mother Daughter Book Club is because they would make a big deal over it. And also because it would somehow find my way to my mother, who would proceed to sign me up for a ten-week ballet class and buy me sparkly, lacy tutus in every disgusting hue of pink there is.
Ergh. Just because I like ballet doesn't mean I want to do it for the rest of my life.
The other thing that I didn't include is that there's something going on with the other people at this camp.
Remember when I said that Tristan has a two-sided personality? That describes about everyone except the Lady Shawmuts. Whenever they get within a ten-feet radius of the coaches, they just seem to brighten up and become annoying mini-versions of Ellie. It's like the coaches have some magical happy fairy dust or something.
Like, during dance yesterday, there were so many people pushing to be in the front line. One girl literally shoved this other girl—who was from the same school—to the floor. Allegra and I were just like, really? The back is where the cool kids are.
That incident bothered me for the rest of the day. There's a lot of bad mojo in this camp, and I have a feeling in my gut that something's going to blow up soon.
It happens during lunch.
See, even during lunch, there's a feeling of tension in the air. The first few days, I was too busy moaning about how much the camp sucked, but now I notice that the cafeteria is always so much quieter than normal smelly cafeterias filled with jocks. The people at the Westfield and St. George tables are like anti-social or something. They never laugh, and barely talk to each other.
At first, I thought they were just so tired from all the exercise that they couldn't even talk. But it's the third day and they're still sitting so stiffly, and they can't be that out of shape, right?
Weird. Actually, it's more than just weird—it's unsettling.
We Lady Shawmuts make up about half of the total noise. The other half comes from the Greenwich kids, who seem to be pretty close.
Which is why it's so surprising that the catfight during lunch is between two girls from Greenwich.
One minute, we're all eating and talking. The next minute, there's a bunch of shrieks from the back table and two girls are on each other's backs, pulling each other's hair, clawing at each other's faces.
I couldn't make out what they were saying, but the words "rich father" kept on being thrown around.
It ends as quickly as it starts. The burly coach on lunch duty easily separates the two hysterical girls and they're escorted out of the room before any of us can say, "What just happened?"
"It's complicated," Tristan says.
"So un-complicate it," I reply, crossing my arms over my chest. We're in the rink, and all of the skaters are waiting on line to show the coaches their jumps for critique. We can choose either to do the single, double, or triple, but whatever we choose now is what we'll be expected to do in the competition as well.
"Look, it doesn't matter. It doesn't involve you."
"Actually, I think it does," I say. "I think I'd like to know why everyone in this camp looks like they're about to attack each other any moment. Also why you keep ignoring your cousin."
I give a pointed look at the blond-haired girl a few feet ahead of us, who keeps on glancing back at us. Well, glancing at Tristan and glaring at me.
Tristan doesn't look. "Did Annabelle speak to you?"
"Yeah, the day before yesterday. She asked me if it was true you chose me to be your partner." I pause and realize something. "Which technically isn't true, since the pairings were random."
The pause that follows is too long.
"The pairings were random, right?"
"They're supposed to be," Tristan says quietly. "But the Greenwich School doesn't like random."
"What does that mean?"
"It means it's not difficult for rich kids to fork over a little extra money to underpaid camp counselors."
It takes me a while to understand, and my mouth falls open. "You mean, they bribe them to change the pairings? But, why?"
"Because this is pair skating," Tristan says slowly as if it should be obvious. "Because the skill of your partner determines your own."
I'm still half-convinced Tristan is just kidding. His serious expression tells me he's not. "But—but this is just a camp right? Why do they want to win so much?"
Tristan gives me a look. "Why do you like winning hockey competitions, Cassidy?"
"That's not the same thing."
"Really? Tell me why not."
"I would never bribe people or attacking my own friends to win."
"That's because you play hockey."
"And what's that supposed to mean?" I demand.
"There are no friends in figure skating," he says. "For every competition, you have to present yourself to the judges in a way that makes you look better than your competitors. Everyone is constantly competing. Even your partner for one competition can become your opponent in the next."
"But it's just a competition," I protest. "It's just a sport. A game."
"It's not just a game," Tristan says quietly. "Cassidy, have you thought about playing professional hockey later on?'
"Of course."
"Less than one percent of kids who play sports make it professional. If you want to make your sport your career, you have to prove yourself every chance you're given. Everyone knows that. That's why everyone is trying so hard to win this competition at Adams."
"So that it can be another thing they list on their resume," I say flatly.
"Exactly."
I don't say anything more and neither does Tristan. Seemingly at the same time, we surface from our depressing conversation and realize that there are only two people before it is Tristan's turn, and then mine.
Tristan says all of a sudden, "Do the double."
I blink. "The double."
"You want to showcase your best to the coaches, remember?" With that, he faces frontward.
I watch as Tristan steps forward and executes a perfect triple jump. There is a burning feeling in my chest. My mind is still swirling from the conversation we just had and also from Tristan's words.
You want to showcase your best to the coaches. I don't know what makes me more angry: that Tristan is implying the double jump is the limit to my ability, or that he's just like the rest of his Greenwich classmates in that he's trying to woo the coaches.
Gosh, that's just so messed up.
What Tristan should've remembered is that I set my own limits. And usually, for the better or worse, I like to think the limit is the sky.
"Ready?" Coach Linden calls from the side.
I give her a smile, tighten my ponytail, and bring my chin up. I can feel Tristan's eyes on me, but I ignore him. As my skates glide across the ice, my mind frantically tries to remember what they had told us yesterday about triples.
And then I go airborne and it's just a matter of whether I can win against gravity as I twist my body—one, two, I count, and then I can see the ice coming to reclaim my feet but I need to make that third spin—
There's a second of satisfaction when I manage to land on my feet. And then I promptly fall over.
I grit my teeth when I hear the muffled snickers. Coach Linden skates over and helps me up.
"Are you okay?"
I nod. "Other than a sore butt, I'll be fine."
Coach's friendly brown eyes meet mine. "Cassidy, right? You're one of the hockey players?"
"Yup, that's me."
"Is this the first time you've done a triple jump?"
I smile sheepishly. "Yeah."
"Well, that was very impressive for a first attempt," she says. "It wasn't quite a triple jump because you missed a half of a revolution, so we'd label it as a downgraded jump…plus the judges would have to take points off for the fall at the end…but keep working on it, and I think you could definitely do a triple for the competition."
I smile back at her. My eyes then flicker to where a tall, dark-haired boy is standing a few feet away, and my smile fades. His lips are pressed tightly together and there is a familiar stormy look in his blue-gray eyes.
Author's note: Wow, this got depressing really quickly. xD Next chapter is filled with loads of DRAMA…
