This isn't my first draft, but I have yet to finish editing.
My mother insisted that I attend public ice skating with Ashley every Friday night since I was old enough to balance on my two feet. Mom always suspected that Ashley was going to do something stupid with “those lunatic friends of hers,” as she liked to say. Although the idea was a bit far-fetched, she claimed that it would keep Ashley focused on trying to keep me from smashing my face open, rather than spending her time smashing into the gumball machine for quarters. After all, I could barely skate, and Ashley wouldn’t have the heart to go off with her friends while I was falling head over heels, unable to even get back up after I had fallen.
So, every Friday, I placed my chubby little hand in Ashley’s long thin one, and she dragged me around and around the rink. Of course, despite several, "C'mon, knock it off!"s on Ashley's part, there was no stopping her boisterous friends from romping around me, but she made sure I never got hurt. In time, I got used to the hockey players running up to us and skidding to a stop, letting snow spew up into everybody’s faces.
As I grew older, my footing on the ice stabilized, and Ashley slowly moved away from me. One day, eager to traverse the rink alone, I withdrew my hand from hers. She glanced at my slowly wobbling figure and saw I was doing fine. She never skated back. When I was in seventh grade and she was in college, her long, thin hand would never be there for me to hold onto.
It was quarter to eight on October third when I laced up my skates for the first time that season. It was Friday night, and countless students from my school would be there when public skating started in fifteen minutes. The Zamboni whirred in the background, and my fingers ached as I pulled on the laces. I gave a start when the skin between my fingers cracked. Eczema again. Who knew someone could be so cold when winter hadn’t even started yet?
I looked at my left hand, the one Ashley always held. It had a freckle in the very middle,, though it wasn’t visible now that the cold had taken so many tiny bites out of my hands. That freckle always told me which hand was my left, so I didn’t have to embarrass myself with the “L” finger trick. My fingers were longer now, almost like Ashley’s, but not enough to keep me from wanting another hand – a different hand – to caress my own.
Dylan hobbled in with his hockey skates dangling over one shoulder – the first to arrive, after me. Were the bloody lacerations on his face were the results of acne, a bad shaving job, or some vicious hockey accident? “Hey,” he muttered, more to the air than to me, because he never made eye contact with anyone. Before I had the chance to answer, his cell phone and money flew across the floor -- something very apt to happen to that clumsy hormonal kid. I felt obligated to do something other than sit there, so I dropped on my hands and knees and scavenged around for his change without saying a word to him.
“I got it,” he said, dropping on his hands and knees as well, still not looking up.
“Here.” I held out the thirty-two cents and hundreds of pieces of lint I had gathered.
“Thanks.” He nodded, gazing not at the snack stand, but somehow beyond it.
I glanced at his hands. He stuffed his phone and whatever change he had found into his pocket. Then he sat down on the bench and let his chubby little fingers fumble with the laces. There was something profoundly comical about this kid’s actions.
When he had finally finished getting his skates on (which seemed to take forever), we walked together to the gate while we waited for the Zamboni to finish its job. His acne suddenly didn’t look as repulsing as it had at school. He actually had a pretty nice face, what with those high cheekbones and that straight little nose. He was a hockey player, and I could tell someone must have smashed him into the glass not long ago by the nasty bruise on his elbow. Hockey players never dress as warmly as they should in the winter.
The Zamboni had retreated off the ice and half the grade was already lacing up their skates when a thought came to me. I’d never skated with Dylan. He didn’t know how good I was.
I opened the gate and put one foot on the ice, pretending to slip and then regain my balance.
“Dylan … I can’t really skate that well. Can you?”
He nodded, looking at the one awkwardly twisted foot I had placed on the ice.
I held out my hand. “Do you think you could help me balance?”
He gave me his hand without hesitation. Our eyes met.
Good luck!
