Any Way You Slice It Read online

  I remember the last time I touched a hockey stick. Grams had helped me pull the old skates out of the garage for the first time when I wanted to learn to skate, and we’d stumbled on Dad’s old gear. I thought he was gonna go postal until we told him I was only skating, not playing hockey.

  There’s no way Dad will ever let me play. I don’t know why I’m still thinking about it.

  At seven o’clock, a couple of minivans pull up at the curb out front. I freeze for a second as the guys from the Rink Rats start piling onto the pavement.

  Damn. I wish Jules wasn’t “sick” tonight. If she were here giving me her usual brand of snark, my knees wouldn’t be shaking as the guys stream into the building. I have no idea why I’m so nervous. I’ve seen most of them before, either at the rink or in school, but I’ve never looked twice.

  They’re a motley group. It’s just a rec team, but even so, none of the boys look like serious athletes. Only a few of them even look like they’ve ever seen the inside of a gym. These are the guys the high school team wouldn’t take; the guys who love the sport, but can’t play at a more competitive level. A couple have long hair, and two have scruffy beards. Some look like maybe they didn’t shower after practice. A couple of them look like freshman. They’re small—like maybe I could take them on a good day. It occurs to me to wonder about their competition. Everyone around here plays hockey. Even the old-folks’ home has a team. The Silver Lunatics.

  Jake waves at me over the heads of his teammates, and I do my best to ignore him. It’s not hard to pretend I’m fully focused on taking Mrs. Corbett’s regular Friday-night order of spinach pizza and onion rings. But out of the corner of my eye, I notice Jake’s disappointed expression when I don’t react. Strangely, it makes my pulse race. And that annoys me more than anything else.

  “I’d like a dozen large pies,” Coach Walsh says, when he finally gets through the crowd to the counter. “Make half of them pepperoni and one vegetarian.” He looks at me for a second, like he thinks he might know me. Jake whispers something in his ear and Coach looks again, nodding. He starts to open his mouth but I shake my head, pleading silently for him not to ask the question. The last thing I need is for Jorge to get wind of my hockey transgression before I have a chance to make up my mind.

  “I’ll put those right in. For here or to go?” I concentrate on making my face completely neutral.

  He looks over his shoulder at the team and various family members who have taken over every available booth. “I guess we’ll eat them here.”

  A couple minutes later, the game starts and there’s a buzz in the room from excited conversations about great plays and whether or not the Bruins will make the playoffs this year. A clip of my favorite song bursts on in the background of an insurance commercial and I dance a little behind the counter when no one is watching. For the second time in ten minutes I miss Jules, with her Friday-night platform heels. But then again, no one ever notices me when she’s doing her song and dance, and tonight I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

  The orders are coming at me fast and furious. Between customers, I’m wiping down the counter when it gets greasy. With a smile, Grams retreats to the kitchen to cut vegetables for Jorge.

  I brush my hair away from my face. I’m sweating like a dude—and I don’t have the benefit of half a bottle of Axe to douse over myself, like most of the guys in the room. But then again, between the pizza and the high-octane aftershave cloud in the room, no one can smell me.

  I try to focus on the job and getting the orders right, but the feel of the hockey stick in my hand keeps popping back into my head. How it felt to hit the puck and see it fly into the net. How it would feel to be in full gear, playing in a real game with other players jockeying for position.

  I have no idea why the thought of hockey has me so worked up. It’s weird. Maybe because Dad forbids it? His anti-hockey stance never really bothered me before. But I never really took it seriously, because I never cared about playing.

  I’m also aware of every move Jake makes, even though there are at least twenty-five other people in the dining area. He’s working the room like a politician, leaning on the back of a vinyl banquette for a few minutes while joking with the kid wearing the ball cap. Then he’s kneeling down to talk to the short guy in the Red Sox jersey.

  “Can I help you?” I ask the next person in line, without looking up from noting the last takeout order.

  “I’d like a BLT, but hold the lettuce and tomato.” Jake Gomes leans against the counter and grins at me like he’s just told the best joke ever. He totally thinks he’s the mayor of Slice Pizza tonight.

  The perfect comeback is on my lips until I completely lose my train of thought. I can’t believe I haven’t noticed how much he’s changed this year. I think maybe he’s grown six inches since the last time I stood this close to him. His T-shirt isn’t wicked tight, but I can see his biceps under his sleeves and it’s obvious he works out.

  His brown eyes have me hypnotized. He’s got the longest eyelashes known to man, and I’m having a hard time concentrating on making a wiseass reply. But he’s still the kid who throws spitballs from the back of the bus. The kid who pulls the fire alarm between classes so we all have to go outside with no coats and wait for the fire department to call the all clear. The kid who gets detention for picking fights in the boys’ room and behind the bleachers.

  Isn’t he?

  So I give it my best shot.

  “So basically, you’re at ‘the Best Pizza Joint’ in New Hampshire,” I say, hooking my fingers around the superlative, “and you want bacon on bread?”

  “Yeah, that’s about right.” He nods. “How much?”

  Until this afternoon, I hadn’t paid attention to Jake for years. I stare at him, trying to remember the last time he’d pulled a stupid prank, but I can’t come up with anything. I suddenly realize I haven’t been angry in years. But since that day in the sixth grade, we’ve made a habit of running in different circles.

  I remember the afternoon after “the incident.” I told him we weren’t friends anymore. He stamped his feet and cried. Seriously. He cried. He even told Mrs. Reed. She wasn’t at all sympathetic, and he got detention for two weeks. I wish I could say I don’t remember why I was so mad. But I still remember everything and I’ve never forgiven him.

  Why should anything be different now?

  While I’m staring into his eyes, which are inexplicably twinkling at me, I remember he’s broken my golden rule, “when at Slice, eat pizza,” and it snaps me out of my stupor. If the name of the restaurant wasn’t “Slice” as in slice of pizza, then maybe I’d be more forgiving. But we make the best pizza in the state. We’ve won the New Hampshire “Best Pizza” award five years in a row. My grandfather perfected the recipe from the original owner, Tony “Tiny” Constanza.

  I look over my shoulder and Jorge snorts from the kitchen. The bacon starts to sizzle. He doesn’t care. But it’s not his family’s reputation on the line. He’ll scold me later, “Penelope, it doesn’t matter what we make or serve, as long as it’s the best. Pizza? Yes. But the customer is always right. You want them to come back.”

  I disagree. You don’t order a hamburger at a sushi bar. You don’t order a bacon sandwich at Slice Pizza. I look over Jake’s shoulder at the crowded restaurant. Dad wants us to be more than just pizza—it’s one of the reasons he’s hoping to get a spot on the reality show.

  I grab my pad and pencil and try to play it cool, like I didn’t hit pucks with him on the ice this afternoon. “Jake, right?”

  For a second he falters, like he can’t believe I’m not falling for his act. But he recovers nicely. “You want my number, too?” His smile lights up his face. One crooked eyetooth among a row of straight pearly whites. I’m tongue-tied and totally staring. Jorge giggles from the kitchen.

  “Kidding.” He watches me write his name on top of the order pad. I try to catch my breath while I turn and hand the slip through the pickup window
to the kitchen. I ignore Jorge’s wink.

  Thirty seconds later, the aroma of bacon permeates the whole place and people are lining up. It’s a pretty awesome smell, but I’m not admitting it to anyone. I peer over the counter and realize there’s way too much bacon on the grill just for Jake’s sandwich. Jorge’s got bacon pizza on the brain. He smiles at me and whispers, “Tell your new boyfriend his bacon sandwich is on its way.”

  My eyes flicker over to where Jake is standing to make sure he can’t hear. He’s tapping his fingers in a beat on the Formica, staring at the big screen.

  I hiss at Jorge, “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  He winks and flips the bacon. “Yet.”

  I pick up a handful of olives out of the tray on the counter and start flinging them at him one at a time.

  “Keep that up,” he says, holding his spatula like a tennis racket and swishing it back and forth in front of him, “and I’ll tell your grandmother that strange boys are giving you their phone number.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” I say, tossing the last olive into my mouth. But I don’t tempt fate. It’s never a good idea to piss off the chef.

  “Bacon Pizza is the special for the next hour,” I turn and yell to the crowd.

  The guys are all energy. The camaraderie in the room is palpable—I try to imagine what it would be like to be a part of the team. It’s a mistake to think like that, but when Ethan Carter tells a joke about a flying fish, I catch myself laughing along with the rest of the team. Between taking phone orders, I find out that Carter is crushing on Myka Dearborn, and that Jake’s broken arm last year happened hiking Mount Washington, not in a fight with the football captain, which was the rumor around school. Despite feeling like a major fly on the wall, I’m starting to like these guys.

  “What are you celebrating?” I ask Jake, when I deliver the bacon sandwich.

  He leans on the counter, and looks around the room. “Our third loss this month.”

  “Wha—?”

  Before I can process, the door swings open and a couple of big dudes walk in—Warren McNeill and Hunter Tilton. They’re juniors, like me and Jake, and they are both wearing letterman jackets. Tiny little hockey sticks peek out from behind the Viking on the “V” for “Vernon High.”

  Warren tips over someone’s soda as he walks through the crowd. The noise level gets noticeably quieter. I notice Hunter stops to apologize for the spilled soda.

  “Jake.” Warren holds out his hand to shake.

  Jake nods as he grasps the offered hand. “Warren.” His expression is something between contempt and nausea, like he stepped in something disgusting and tracked it down the sidewalk.

  “What are you doing here?” Wiping my hands on my apron, I glance behind me to see if Jorge is paying attention. Warren’s uncle owns our primary competition, Tim’s House of Pizza, five miles away in the next town.

  The only time he ever comes to Slice is to stir up trouble.

  “I’m just delivering a message to the Rink Rejects.” He scans the room. “You’re all a bunch of traitors. My uncle doesn’t sponsor your stupid team for his health. From now on, you eat at Tim’s after practice. Or else.” He turns to his friend and smirks. “Get a load of these guys.”

  Jake steps forward. “We appreciate Tim’s sponsorship, but you do realize he’s not open on Friday nights, which is kind of weird for a pizza place.”

  “Now you’re giving business advice?” Warren sneers. “When are you going to leave the Reject Rats and play for a real hockey team?” He says it loud enough for the whole room to hear, and it’s suddenly so quiet you can hear the low sound of the TV. Jorge is scraping the grill. But he’s listening, ready to morph into bouncer mode if necessary. Mom peers around the partition separating the rooms and takes in the awkward silence.

  Coach Walsh and a few other parents sit at attention from the front booth watching the interaction, but no one moves. It’s as if the entire room is holding its breath, like some big moment hinges on Jake’s answer. His jaw twitches. I hear his grinding teeth. “I’d rather play on a team that loses fair and square than a team that has to cheat to win.” This is clearly not the answer Warren expects. His face turns purple and splotchy.

  He looks like he’s about to pummel Jake right here in front of me.

  “Excuse me.” I reach across the counter and wave my hand in front of Warren’s face. “We’ve got a nice special tonight on meatball sandwiches. Two for one. I can have Jorge whip a couple up for you and your friend.” I gesture to Hunter, who hasn’t said a word.

  “Spaulding,” he says. “Pizza Princess.” He looks at me like I’m an alien, like he can’t believe I’ve taken the spotlight away from him. “I didn’t come here to eat.”

  I ignore his words. “I’ll even throw in a couple of bags of chips. On the house.”

  Jake looks at Jorge in the kitchen. “That sounds almost as good as bacon on toast.” He takes a deep breath, and his shoulders relax a little.

  Hunter steps forward and with a glance at Warren, says, “That’s wicked. We’ll take ’em.”

  Jake moves backward. Maybe he’s hoping out of sight will be out of mind.

  Warren spends the next two minutes texting madly on his phone, while Hunter just looks around the room nervously. There’s an awkward silence as no one else even moves. I’m sure my mother’s finger is poised on speed dial to call the cops.

  I have no idea how Jorge gets two meatball subs ready at lightning speed—I have no idea what made me say meatball, not bacon—but they are on the pickup shelf in under two minutes. It’s the longest two minutes of my life.

  Warren narrows his eyes when I hand him the bag of food. “My uncle sponsors this ridiculous excuse for a hockey team,” he says to no one in particular. “He’ll hear about this betrayal.” The whole room takes an audible breath when the door slams behind them.

  “Yeah, be sure to enjoy that meatball sub before you tell him, cretin.” Ethan Carter is waving his middle finger out the window, but Warren and Hunter are gone.

  Jake walks back to the counter with a big smile on his face. “Nice move, Blades.”

  It’s a better nickname than Pizza Princess.

  I like it.

  I lean in so only Jake can hear, and say, “You think that was smooth, you should see my moves on the ice.” I have no idea why I say it. Maybe it’s the adrenaline from the last few minutes. It might have been the lighting or my imagination, but for a second, I swear Jake blushes.

  The room buzzes behind him. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. And then the phone rings.

  “Slice Pizza,” I say, never taking my eyes off Jake. “Pickup or delivery?”

  Chapter Three

  When things finally slow down, I step outside the back door to get some fresh air. I stare at the blinking yellow light at the intersection across the street as Dad’s old BMW cruises around the corner and into the parking lot.

  “What are you doing out here in the cold?” he calls, getting out of the car.

  I wrap my arms around myself, knowing I should be wearing a coat. “Just taking a breather.”

  He looks blankly at me for a second, and then smiles and shakes his head. “Keep up the good work, kiddo.”

  The meeting with the Restaurant Network people must have been good. He’s been gone all night and there’s a bounce in his step as he strolls toward the building. For a split second I consider telling him about Jake’s invitation to play hockey. Maybe I’m wrong about everything and he’ll be excited for me.

  “Dad?”

  He turns around and rakes his hand through his hair. Something makes me pause. Nah. I don’t want to spoil his good mood, so I fall back on the old faithful. Apology.

  “I’m sorry about this morning.”

  He strolls over and gives me a quick hug. “Me too. We’ll talk about it later.”

  I start to say something, but it will just start the fight all over again, which is the last thing I want right now. So I shut my mo
uth.

  As he strides toward the restaurant, a couple of guys from the team walk by. Ethan Carter gives me a salute. Dad turns back to look at me. “Are those kids wearing Tim’s House of Pizza jerseys?”

  Figures. Even blindfolded, Dad would notice the competition encroaching on our business.

  A half hour later, when the game on the big screen ends, the place empties out fast. Luckily, my parents are both in the other room when Coach Walsh comes behind the counter and shakes my hand. “I’ve never seen such a natural shot from a first timer before. You have a spot on the Rink Rats, if you want it.”

  I nod, and look warily behind me in case Dad is in earshot. I don’t know how to answer. “Thank you.” It’s the only thing that comes to mind.

  Jake’s leaning against the corner booth, watching me wipe down the tables. “You missed a spot,” he calls. I whip the towel at him, but he starts to help me straighten the salt and pepper shakers and restock the chip rack. Jorge glances up from scraping the grill and grins.

  Mom is still serving in the bar, but it’s down to just the regulars and a few date nighters. She yells over, “You can take off any time, sweetheart.”

  Jake shuffles his feet. Almost nervously.

  Interesting.

  “Can I walk you home?” he says.

  I laugh out loud. “What, is this, the fifties? You want to ask my dad if it’s okay?” For a second, he looks like he’s considering it. “I’m kidding. How did you know I usually walk?”

  He shrugs. “I’ve seen you walking at night.”

  Jake Gomes has noticed me walking at night. I’m not sure if I should be elated or creeped out. I tell myself to remember we used to be friends, and to forget why we stopped.

  I flip the CLOSED sign facing outward on my way out, and Dad locks the door behind us. He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything about Jake. Maybe it’s his way of apologizing again for the fight this morning or maybe Mom said something. Or maybe he just blindly trusts any kid who chooses to eat at Slice. Even if he’s wearing the competition’s logo.