Page 36 of Her Goal
Hudson’s eyes are bright with interest, whereas Hunter worked hard on his apathetic middle-distance stare.
Gazing at me, he says, “You’re quieter than I expected.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I’ve just been more in my head than usual tonight. First, Hudson is back in town, which makes me think about Hunter. Also, I’m teaching him figure skating lessons. Then, there’s the issue of the email.
Something he can never know but is determined to find out.
Lifting his first two fingers toward his temple, he gives me a little wave salute. “Thanks for the lessons. Later, Skater.”
A Polaroid-like memory appears, developing slowly into an old photo. I used to hate having to share the rink with the high school hockey team at Clarkson High, especially after what I overheard Hudson say to his brother.
Yet, he acted as if it was nothing, always nodding at me and saying those very words when I’d exit to the warm room. I always thought I heard derision in his voice as if he hated me, but he just spoke in the same tone as the carbon copy in my mind.
On second thought, it doesn’t sound like he was teasing me at all.
Quite the opposite, actually.
12
HUDSON
True to form,a day in Cobbiton rarely goes as planned. When I lived here before, I never knew if my mother was going to be home, if she’d be with some strange dude, or what kind of mood Hunter would be in.
Flash forward nearly ten years, and today is no exception. The script is as screwy as ever, it’s just that the characters are different.
For all the time Hunter and Leah spent together, I don’t know what side of him she really knew or if she still holds a candle for him. I hope not. The creep. Yeah, my own brother is a lowlife and I cannot imagine what she ever saw in him. Then again, he only revealed to each person the parts of himself he wanted them to see.
These unwelcome thoughts follow me home. I shouldn’t be surprised that the past would still be alive and kicking back here in Cobbiton.
Everyone else seems to like it, so why don’t I? Because my bully of a brother made my life miserable. Because my mother was more of anotherthan anything like a mom. Despite Mrs. Smith’s silly assessment of my good looks, she’s a sweet woman and bakes her family cookies for goodness’ sake.
Then there’s her flinty daughter, whom I cannot stop thinking about—the adorable way she sneezed when at the Fish Bowl, her graceful glides when skating, and the way she gave me the side eye. Hey, I’ll take what I can get.
I even like the blonde hair. The brown was pretty, too. She could probably have on a wig and I wouldn’t care. I thought I left the vestiges of all those old feelings here when I packed up and left.
Maybe the gnome is haunting me. I should probably give it back.
After a long shower that relaxes the tension in my muscles, I watch some hockey footage, scroll social media and see that while the feud between Liam and Valjean from the Titans is officially over—at least that’s what I heard in the locker room earlier—folks are trying to stoke the flames. I tell everyone to simmer down using some ominous positivity gifs.
Just before I turn off the light, I see an email waiting. It’s probably a trial offer for a nutritional supplement that will change my life or some other internet spam, but I click it anyway on the off chance my secret adversary replied to my email.
The corner of my lip lifts when I see the return address.
from:
to: Hudson Roboveitchek
date: Sept. 18, 8:13?PM
subject: Re: Re: Revenge bedtime procrastination
Dear Cheese for Brains,
Writing letters seems so old-fashioned. I came across several at a thrift store recently dated from the 1920s, and they were jovialinquiries about the recipients’ lives and updates about the sender’s.
Taking a page from that envelope, here goes:
•I hope a stray cat scratches you when you try to pet it.
