Outside Edge (Knockout Girl Book 5) Read online

  To say the drive to Christmastown is awkward is an understatement. I sleep for a bit, but I feel bad that he has to do all the driving so I try to stay awake for him. Does it make any difference? No, because he barely speaks two words to me, opting instead to blast his old music while I slowly die inside.

  By the time I see the sign for Christmastown—complete with a picture of Santa presenting a gift to baby Jesus and the population listed at 10,013—I’m tired and starving. A few minutes later, Dad pulls onto my pops’s street, where there’s a suspiciously large number of cars parked.

  “What the...?” Dad grunts as he pulls up to the curb five houses down from Pops’s. “Guess we’re walking from here.”

  I go and get my own suitcases without letting Dad take any for me. He probably would have if I’d asked, but I don’t want to be his burden anymore. I put my backpack on and drag the suitcases behind me while I follow him.

  “Must be a party going on, eh?” I say, trying to get any amount of conversation out of him before I have to say goodbye.

  He gives me a sharp look. “Don’t even go there, Adrian. You’ve had enough parties to last you a lifetime.”

  I swallow down the shame he’s thrust upon me and stare at my shoes as we head up the sidewalk. It was just a joke but what he said wasn’t.

  When we get up to Pops’s house, the door is flung open by an old lady I vaguely recognize. “Oh, Adrikins!” she shouts, looking past Dad at me. She turns back to the house and says, “He’s here, everyone.”

  “Everyone?” I say, scrunching up my eyebrows. The look on Dad’s face mirrors mine when he glances back at me.

  Dad goes up to the door and is immediately enveloped in the lady’s wrinkly arms. I take my time pulling my bags up the steps because I am not looking forward to old-lady hugs. The screen door bangs open, giving me a good view of “everyone.” There are at least twenty people waiting inside. For me.

  I drop the suitcases on the wooden porch and my breathing quickens. Why would Pops invite his entire neighbourhood or shuffleboard club or whatever they are to greet his delinquent grandson?

  “There he is!” another old lady chirps, staring straight at me. She pushes past my dad and reaches out to pinch my cheeks. Ah, five-year-old me remembers this particular lady very well.

  “Hi, er, Mrs. Rockett,” I say while she continues to squeeze my cheeks.

  Her eyes go all squishy as her lips pull across her face in a thin line. “You are so big, now. Wow. Look at all those muscles.”

  I blink at her a couple of times and then laugh nervously. I turn to Dad for help except he’s already inside making a beeline for Pops. I follow him in, leaving my suitcases out on the porch.

  “Dad,” he says. “Adrian’s not here for a vacation. What is all this?”

  Pops claps Dad on the back and says, “It’s a funeral for your sense of fun, Jay.”

  Dad’s eyes grow wide and a vein sticks out of his head. I’m very familiar with that vein. “Fun? Dad, Adrian’s not supposed to be having fun. This is supposed be work for him. He’s on probation.”

  “Oh, I know,” Pops says. He looks at me and there’s a hard glint in his eyes. “And we’ll get to all that. But I figured you boys would be hungry after that long drive. Come on, son. You’re staying for a bite, aren’t you?”

  I latch on to my one chance to feel somewhat normal and say, “I’m hungry. Where’s the food?”

  “Here!” an old guy says, shoving an empty plate at me. “Food’s in the dining room.”

  “Thanks,” I say, taking the plate.

  As soon as I get into the dining room, no less than five little old ladies crowd around me, cooing over me half in English and half in French, and touching my hair, and filling up my plate with their special dishes. My eyes widen at the amount of food and love they’re piling on and I’m starting to wonder if this is a trap. Like...if I say I’m happy here, are my parents going to ditch me permanently or something?

  But I shove that thought aside and get the food into my mouth before my dad tells me I’m not even allowed to enjoy eating. I peek into the living room and see that Dad’s stuck talking to all of Pops’s friends. They must have known my dad his whole life or something and now he’s smiling at them as they ask him all kinds of questions.

  It makes me smile too until I realize they’re probably asking him about me and Simon and Mom. I wonder what awkward answers he’s giving them and it puts a bitter taste in my mouth.

  I look down at the plate. No, that taste was just the capers some well-meaning grandma put on my plate. Bleck.

  After a while, the crowd at Pops’s house leaves almost all at once. It’s like they all had to hit curfew together. But they left behind a ton of leftovers, so that’s great. Those capers are going straight into the garbage, though.

  “Adrian!” Pops calls from the living room.

  I go in and find him in his favourite chair and Dad on the couch. It’s getting too late for Dad to drive back but the looks on their faces say there’s a serious conversation coming.

  I lean on the doorjamb. “Hey.”

  Dad lifts an eyebrow at me and says, “Hey? Get in here so we can talk.”

  I’ll admit that I hesitate for a second at that tone of voice. I know “we’re” not going to talk—they’re going to talk, at me and over me. I sit at the opposite end of the couch from him and wait, holding my chin high.

  “Adrian,” Dad says and I swear I’ve never seen him so serious, “you know you’re on probation. That means no driving, no drinking, no drugs—”

  “I don’t do—”

  “And you won’t be starting,” he says sternly, wagging his finger at me. “No partying. No staying out late. No girls. Whatever Pops says goes. Do you understand?”

  “I get it.” My voice comes out sounding like a little kid’s instead of a grown man’s. “I’m on lockdown and won’t be doing anything.”

  “Oh, you’ll be doing plenty,” Pops says. He cracks a grin at me, showing me his yellowing teeth. “Just none of that rotten stuff you love so much.”

  My eyebrows draw in. “What do you mean? I thought I was on house arrest or something.”

  Pops lets out a sound that’s something between a cough and a laugh, patting his belly at the same time. “You think I’m going to let you sit around this house and mope for the next year? Fat chance, boy. The others and I have got lots of work for you to do while you stay with us. But we work hard and I expect you to, too.”

  I stifle a sigh. “Okay.”

  “Now, I suggest you clean out the loft if you want a place to sleep tonight,” Pops says. He turns to Dad. “You staying here tonight, Jay? The guest bedroom is all set up.”

  “I guess I might as well,” Dad answers.

  I get up, letting out the sigh I was holding back. Of course there’s a guest bedroom set up that I can’t have. I’ve got to clean out the loft and sleep in it like a dog. Great. Just great.

  At the back of this 150-year-old house are the bedrooms. There are three—one for my Pops, one for the guest, and one is a sewing room. Not that Pops sews or anything, but Memaw used to all the time. I guess he hasn’t gotten around to cleaning it out, even though it’s been about three years.

  And, of course, hanging above all that is the loft. Simon and I used to love staying here when we were younger and sleeping in the loft. And I still love it, except that I know I could very well be sleeping in the nice bedroom with an actual door. Also, after climbing up the creaky ladder, I realize it hasn’t been cleaned in a long time.

  Pops must have been using this for storage or something because there are some cardboard boxes up here. There’s also a healthy coating of dust over everything, including the bed. Ugh.

  Out of curiosity, I open up one of the boxes. None of them are labeled so it could be live snakes for all I know. But no, one glance inside tells me it’s far more dangerous—Memaw’s clothes. I guess Pops did try to clean up her things. But surely these three boxes can’t be
all of it?

  I close the box back up and go back down for a broom. Sneezing my way through the sweeping, I try to make the loft as livable as possible. I shove the boxes as far into the corner as I can and then take the quilt off one of the beds. There’s a window that leads to the roof that Simon and I used to always use for late-night chats.

  My stomach twists into knots as I squeeze through the window once more, remembering the last time we came out. It was two years ago and Simon had just broken up with his girlfriend of two years. He cried, I tried not to.

  Now my eyes are watering, but only because the quilt is so dusty that I should have just tossed it into the wash instead of uselessly flapping it around in the still, dry evening air. I shake it as hard as I can without falling over.

  “Are you trying to kill yourself?” a young, pretty voice shouts.

  I nearly lose my footing and fall to my knees as I look around. There, on the street below, is a girl about my age with the longest blond hair I can imagine. She’s straddling a bike and staring up at me with a scowl.

  “I was doing just fine before you came along,” I shout back at her.

  Her eyes narrow even further. “What exactly are you doing on Judge McDuff’s roof?”

  “Cleaning!” I shake the quilt one last time with oomph and then scramble back through the window. My heart is racing for no reason and I’m not going to give that girl the satisfaction of knowing she almost killed me.

  The next morning, Dad gets up early to leave. I pretend it’s because it’s a long drive and not because he can’t stand to be with me anymore. A moment after shutting the front door, Dad comes racing back in, carrying one extra bag.

  “Adrian, you almost forgot these,” he says, shoving the bag at me.

  “Thanks,” I mumble.

  I didn’t actually forget my skates. I just don’t want them anymore. Yet somehow they’ve found their way back into my arms.

  CHAPTER Three

  Brooke

  I don’t hate this bike. I don’t hate my hair. I don’t hate my life.

  These are the things I’ve been told to remind myself of whenever I feel down. I’m supposed to make a positive change inside myself so it can make its way outward. Whatever that’s supposed to mean.

  I glance over my shoulder at Judge McDuff’s house. I definitely don’t hate that hot guy I just saw, but he’s gone, so now my life is bleak once more. I’m still mad at my therapist for suggesting I ride this awful bike to a job I don’t want.

  But it will help, she’d said.

  Exactly what part of this is helpful? I’d asked.

  Try it, you’ll see.

  Right...I’ll see that my legs are burning every day because I haven’t worked out since January. I’ll see how fat I’ve become since I gave up skating. I’ll see how people look at me with pity because “she’s such a nice girl, it’s sad she threw away a good chance at a great life.” Yeah, I’m seeing lots of things, Rosa.

  I never expected to see a hot guy on a roof doing weird things with a blanket, though. So there’s that.

  I pull into the Community Centre’s parking lot and walk my bike up to the bike rack. Even though it’s late August, the air is already starting to cool. I don’t know how long Mom expects me to ride my bike to fill in all these nonsense hours, but I don’t feel like riding it through ten inches of snow this winter.

  I open up the door, where a balding man in a ball cap holding a clipboard is waiting, his constant smile in place. As soon as he sees me, his smile grows and he makes a mark on his clipboard.

  “You don’t have to tick me off every time you see me, Dawson,” I say, trying not to sigh loudly.

  “Well, it’s not too hard to tick you off, is it, Brooke?” he asks, his eyes lighting up at his own silly joke.

  In spite of myself, I smile. “You’re lucky I love you so much.”

  He laughs and nods towards the rest of the centre. Dawson is one of my favourite people ever, but I wish he wouldn’t keep tabs on me like that. He’s known me my whole life, though, so I guess I have no say.

  I scurry down the hall to the change room that’s empty—I’m late, because of the biking thing—and sling my backpack off my shoulders. I dump my skates out onto the floor and as soon as I see them, I feel like throwing up.

  These were the skates that were supposed to lead me to victory. Now they represent my huge failure to be everything this town wanted me to be. I haven’t looked at them since December and now I can’t force myself to pick them up.

  Instead, I put my face into my hands and let my tears fall freely. That was another thing Rosa told me. To let myself cry when I felt the urge, but to not let it drag on forever. So far I’ve been doing well with the first part. But the second part...

  Well, who’s good at stopping themselves from crying anyway? Like, who can just say, “Okay, for one minute I’ll cry,” and then after the minute’s over they just...stop? Not me, that’s for sure.

  In fact, I think I spend the next half hour sobbing over my skates and my life and by then the program I was supposed to assist is basically over. I shove the skates back into my bag and rush out of the room before any of the girls come.

  With tears still clouding my vision, I manage to get on my bike and speed away before anyone sees me. How will I complete the rest of my hours like this? Maybe there’s something else I can do, something far away from the Community Centre that doesn’t involve skating.

  I pedal hard and by the time I’m home, my legs are really killing me. Sugar. I could really use some sugar. I toss my bike onto the front lawn and head straight through the side door that leads into the kitchen. There’s a tub of chocolate-swirl ice cream in the freezer with my name on it.

  I grab a spoon and the ice cream and sink down to the kitchen floor with it. Guilt eats away at me as I eat the ice cream. In my former life as a pre-Olympic athlete, I would never have eaten as much junk as I’ve had in the past eight months.

  The junk food doesn’t make me feel good, though. The extra weight certainly doesn’t either. But it temporarily distracts me from the humiliation of my failure.

  “Brookie!” Mom calls.

  I shoot to my feet and shove the ice cream back into the freezer, spoon and all, before she sees me. Mom has actually never been so happy to see me “eating properly” and taking care of myself. But I don’t think she truly understands how drastically my diet has changed and I don’t want to disappoint her more than I already have.

  “Hey, sweetie,” she says as she comes into the kitchen. She smiles at me like I’m a pediatric cancer patient. “Dawson told me he saw you at the Community Centre.”

  I try to surreptitiously lick any remaining chocolate swirl from my lips. “Mmhmm.”

  “But...” Her smile freezes in place. “Marie said you never made it to the ice.”

  I look down at my shoes. “Uhhh...no. I wasn’t feeling well.”

  “Right.” She sighs. “And I suppose you’re better now that you’ve had a little chocolate swirl?”

  I lift my hand to my face where there’s a sticky patch of ice cream still on my chin. My face starts to burn under her scrutiny.

  “Brooke...” She reaches out and strokes my hair away from my face. I didn’t wash it today or yesterday for that matter, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. “Remember you said you would do this.”

  “And I will,” I say, leaning into her. “When I’m ready.”

  “Sweetheart.” She pulls my head to her shoulder. “It’s time to get back on your feet.”

  “I am on my feet, Mom,” I say. “It’s the skates I’m terrified of.”

  “Oh, honey.” Her voice is full of sympathy but I know she’s running out of patience. “You have to at least try. You can’t say something’s not working if you haven’t tried it yet, okay? You’re expected back in a couple of days to help Marie with the little ones.”

  “I know.” I lift my head off her shoulder and breathe out deeply. “Okay. I’ll try.”
/>   ***

  I spend the next day and a half lying in bed, trying to prepare myself to put on my skates—again. I looked at them a couple of times. I thought about them a million times. The one thing that finally got me into the skates was one of my costumes. It was the last one I skated a full program in—a shiny blue dress that miraculously still fits.

  I put on sweatpants and a hoodie overtop of the outfit so I can ride my bike to the centre once more. Dawson greets me again and I go to the change room. There’s a bunch of five- to seven-year-old girls getting their skates on with the help of their moms. I take my pants and sweater off and then tug my skates on. This time, I don’t quite feel like hurling but that’s mostly because I’m distracted by the little girls cooing over my pretty dress and asking me all sorts of questions.

  I tie my skates up as quickly as I can and tell them I’ll see them on the ice. I don’t know what Marie expects of me, but I don’t feel like answering a million questions. She’s already on the ice, waiting for all the kids to come out. They slowly trickle in—all 15 of them—and awkwardly make their way to us.

  Marie claps her hands together, gaining their attention. “Look at all of you, petits chouchous!” she coos in her cute French Canadian accent. “I’m so excited that you’re here to learn to skate with us this fall. This is Brooke. She’s going to help us learn.”

  The little kids in front of me all look so excited to get to learn some figure skating moves from a “real” skater. I don’t want to disappoint them or dash their hopes upon the rocks that are my depression, but I also don’t feel like doing anything fancy tonight.

  And also, this skating outfit is tighter than I first thought and I’m second-guessing wearing it. I used to feel beautiful and empowered in my skating costumes. Now I feel frumpy and gross. Maybe I shouldn’t have had those extra pieces of bacon this morning.

  “We’re almost ready,” Marie says. “But there’s one more person joining us, so let’s do some warm-ups while we wait for him.”

  Him? I can’t even be bothered to ask as Marie has already moved on. She’s doing some simple exercises meant to help with balance. One of them is jumping back and forth from one foot to the other.