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Something pulling me inside.
2
The next day, I went back to the hockey arena.
I couldn’t shake the feeling I was going to end up regretting it, feeling stupid and vulnerable the way I so often did.
But I’d found a job application online. I’d filled it out, and even though I was supposed to be headed to my actual job making smoothies, I drove to the arena instead. The application would be an excuse to go inside, wander around, and see if any memories jogged loose. I’d have the application in hand to explain why I was there if anyone stopped me, even though I was pretty sure no one hired people like that anymore.
When I stepped out of the car, I took a quick check in the mirror, trying to make sure I looked okay. I’m not sure an eleven-year-old Honda Civic with one mirror falling off offers anyone the most flattering sense of self, though.
My dark hair was loose around my thin, pale face. I looked fine. Boring, but fine. Nondescript and ordinary, and maybe it was no surprise I wasn’t special enough for anyone to have recognized and claimed.
When I started along the sidewalk toward the arena, a man and woman walked toward me. As the cold breeze rushed along the sidewalk, he shucked off his coat without a second thought and wrapped it around her shoulders. She smiled up at him gratefully, the two of them moving in sync; the thoughtful act seemed effortless.
A familiar ache of longing tightened in my chest.
I wanted to be loved like that.
But I’d settle for someone stopping me in the supermarket because we were in fifth grade together.
I’d settle for someone saying my name.
I headed into the arena’s lobby. It was upscale, a huge venue with several different concession stands, all of which were closed this early.
Clutching my application in one hand, I felt drawn to the big double doors that took me out into the bleachers. Right now, when the team wasn’t practicing, there was an open skate, and the soft sound of blades over the ice sounded… familiar.
The ice seemed far down below. But as I breathed in the cold scent of the arena and listened to the hushed sounds of skating, it felt…comfortable. Homey.
“Can I help you?”
I turned to face the older woman who stared me down like I was about to steal the Zamboni and drive off with it down the highway.
“Oh, hi,” I said.
“Are you here for open skate? You need a wristband,” she snapped.
“I was just looking to apply for a job at the rink.”
“You’re in the wrong place,” she told me. She bustled out, then threw over her shoulder, “Come on. Follow me.”
Even though she wasn’t exactly welcoming, for the first time in…forever…I felt as if I were in the right place.
To my shock, there was an opening at the bar attached to the arena. My brusque new friend had brought me over there, and I found myself turning in my application, feeling rather dazed.
But I didn’t want to leave the arena, even when the paper was out of my hands and the older lady was back to glaring at me.
“I think I am going to get a wristband,” I said.
I think I’m going to find out if I know how to skate or if I fall flat on my face.
This felt a lot riskier than finding out whether or not I liked processed foods from the vending machine.
She checked her watch and eyed me suspiciously once again. Apparently my behavior did not suggest to her that the Zamboni was safe after all. “Open skate closes in half an hour.”
“I can probably get my money’s worth of falling in half an hour,” I promised her and hustled off. I gave the girl who worked at the ticket counter a $10 bill, and she gave me a pair of black skates with worn, knotted gray laces. And of course, that precious neon yellow wristband.
I took them down to the entrance to the rink and sat on a bench. I felt wobbly when I stood up in the skates on the black mats, but I managed to flounder my way over and onto the ice.
