Chapter 8

The week followingthe night at the noodle shop was non-freaking-stop.

I had skate every morning, and Ilya was working us all incredibly hard. Anita left the ice in tears twice, and though she could be a witch at times, I felt sorry for her. We were all giving it as much as we had, and it was never quite enough. Sometimes, late at night when I was in bed, sore all over and half loopy from hunger, I wondered why I did it. Why was I skating? Why was I tormenting myself in a sport where only something like one out of fifty-thousand who tried made the Olympics. And that was the goal. Let's face it, if you didn't win gold at the Olympics in figure skating, no one knew who you were. I suspect most people—who weren't skating fanatics—could not name one figure skater who hadn't won a medal at the Olympics.

So yeah, those hard lonely nights made me doubt myself and my conviction to sports in general. Maybe Jun had the right idea. Be a nerd. No sprains, no bruises, no trainers yelling at you to be faster, tighter, thinner. Just books, books, and more books.

Yet, there were days when it all made some sort of mad, wonderful, agonizing sense. Those days were growing more and more distant. Today was one of those good days. Group had gone well. I weighed in at one-twenty on the nose. Ilya had nodded. Once. Then went off to gather the girls' weights from Anita who was in charge of jotting down the pounds lost or gained. I suspected the girls fudged things when needed. Lucky them. I wished I could do that, but I had Ilya hanging over my shoulder like a vulture.

Still, I had made goal weight. I felt good. Proud. The rest of the time went well. No one left the ice crying. There was a reason we have a space called kiss and cry, after all. Tears are a part of figure skating. I felt so good I approached Ilya after practice, my phone in my hand, my notes and music for a future routine to Dua Lipa's "One Kiss" all stored on the cell. Hell, I'd even sketched out a new outfit for the routine. All white and sparkly like the dress she wore in the song's video.

"Coach, can I have a minute?" I asked.

He glanced up from his notes, smoky eyes finding me over the top of his reading glasses. "Do you not have class?" he asked as he closed his tablet. The rink was empty now. The Coyotes would meet later today.

"I have some time." I sat beside him on the home team bench, my hands shaking as I gripped my phone. "So, the Snowflake Classic. I'd like to perform a routine that I choreographed for the exhibition program."

He studied me as if I were insane. "We have discussed this before, Kenji. Routines are prepared by me, for you. You are not a choreographer."

"I know, and I would never think to perform anything not cleared by you for the short or long programs. But this is just the exhibition after the competition. No points on the line. As you know." He continued to scrutinize me. "I know it's short notice," I hurried to say. "But my grandmother is already working on the outfit and?—"

"That is presumptuous."

Shit. Shit. Shit. "Not at all." His stormy eyes narrowed. "If it was, I never meant it that way. I just wanted you to see that I am prepared. I've been working on this routine for months when I have free time. Can I just show it to you?"

"I will think on it. For now, you are to focus solely on the routines we have in place. Changing horses in the middle of the stream is poor practice and leads to confusion."

"No, no, I have no plans to change the routines. Never. We've worked too hard." He seemed to agree with that. "It's just some freestyle upbeat skating for the fans."

"Enough." I fell silent. "I will think on it. Is the music acceptable for juniors?"

"Totally. Can I send you a link to the song?"

"Yes, please. I will listen and judge if it is permissible. If it is, then perhaps we may add it to the exhibition routines, once we are sure the choreography is up to my standards."

I nearly flew to the ceiling like a balloon let off its string. "Thank you, Coach! Thank you."

With his gaze on my back, I floated to classes, then to lunch where I sat with the skater girls until I couldn't stand the snide shit and found a seat alone. I ate a few celery sticks, drank some skim milk, and trashed the rest of the food my mother had packed for me. I managed to avoid Shaun, or he was avoiding me, it was hard to say. I shouldn't have even cared, but my eyes betrayed me by searching for him in the halls between classes. No one filled out a frumpy school uniform finer than Shaun Stanton.

By the time I got home, I was struggling to make it through the door. My energy levels were low, and so was my sugar probably, so I needed to grab a nutrition shake from the fridge. When I shuffled through the front door, I was greeted by sheer chaos.

All of my mother's paintings—she created traditional Japanese watercolors that were so pretty sometimes my grandmother wept when she saw them—were now lined up in the living room. My dad had just rolled in from work, so he was still in uniform, and he and Sobo were standing in the middle of the paintings studying them.

"Uhm… what's going on?" I asked, dropping my book bag and skates to the floor. Mom gave me a look. I picked them up, then placed them on the sofa.

"Your mother has been chosen to show some of her art at the Susquehanna Art Museum as part of an Asian-American exhibition," Dad boasted.

Mom beamed. Sobo peeked up at me—which showed how tiny my grandmother was that she had to stare up at me—and reached out to pinch my cheek.

"Ow, Sobo, why?" I squealed.

"You look white," she said, pointed at a painting of a snowcapped mountain with a tiny pink pagoda sitting by a flamingo-colored lake, and told my mother to take that one. "You need something to eat."

"No, Sobo, I'm fine. Just going to grab a shake." I smiled at her, then fell into a long discussion with my mom and dad about what paintings to take. Everyone was flying high, the house so full of good vibes even Koro let me pet him. Once. Dinner was one of my favorites, my mother's beef stew, which I nibbled at, picking out the carrots and a few bits of beef.

"One of the other artists is a queer man, Mochi," Mom said as she passed me a bun, which I handed to my father. Dad ate like a horse. It was pretty obvious that I took after my mother. Petite, black hair, brown eyes. The only thing I got from my dad was my sense of humor, a love of history, and a freckle on my left earlobe.

"Oh cool!" I replied, warming inside at the family nickname for me. Mochi is a tiny frozen treat, a small ball of ice cream wrapped in dough. My dad started calling me that when I was born. Tiny, but sweet. And it just sort of stuck. I didn't mind. I'd heard much more embarrassing nicknames for other people. I could live with being a little-bitty tasty nugget of deliciousness. "So, I asked Coach if he would listen to my song for the exhibition skate that I came up with."

"And what did he say?" Mom asked, thumbing a strand of short ebony hair from her cheek. She wore it in a pixie cut that made her round face look amazing. She was so pretty. No wonder my dad had fallen for her when he saw her during his deployment in Japan. He said it was her artwork on the sidewalk that had captured him until he saw the artist, then he knew no mere paint on canvas could compare to the beauty that was Kiho Abiko. Old Kevin Kelly was a smooth one, that was for sure. A year later, Kiho Abiko became Kiho Kelly and shortly after that, they moved to the US, Dad retired from the Air Force, and they settled in Harrisburg to raise a family.

"He said he would think about it, which is beyond amazing with him," I stated as Sobo dunked her bun into her stew, then tried to make me take a bite. I waved it away, happy with the carrots, two bites of beef, and one chunk of potato I'd eaten. I probably should have skipped the spud, but I loved potatoes cooked with beef, so I indulged. I hoped that wouldn't bite me on the backside when we weighed in tomorrow morning. "So maybe he'll let me work it in. If not this year, then probs for sure next season."

"Way to go, son. It's good to see you being more assertive with Ilya. I think he'll respect you for that," Dad, ever the macho flyboy pilot who had swept my mother off her tiny feet, replied as he helped himself to more stew. "So, this show is next weekend in Harrisburg. We're all going as a family to be with your mother. Jun is even pulling himself away from his studies for a few days. Rumor is, he may be bringing a friend."

"Don't make it sound as if the girl is anything other than a friend, Kevin. You know Jun isn't really into romancing people right now. He's putting all his energy into getting his masters."

Yeah, I strongly suspected my older brother was asexual, but kept that to myself. Sobo had enough trouble understanding bisexuality and pansexuality. I doubted she would be able to wrap her head around someone not having an interest in sex but longing for emotional intimacy. For most people, sex and love went hand in hand. I wasn't sure if my parents were feeling that Ace vibe from Jun or not. Mom might, but she was also keeping it to herself if she was.

"Right, yeah, but him bringing a girl home is something. He's always so wrapped up in his books. But, back on track. Would you like to bring a friend along to the showing as well? We have hotel rooms all lined up for the weekend, as well as an all-day pass to the civil war Civil War museum!"

"Oh cool!" I loved historical museums, no matter what the era. "Uhm…" I could only think of one other person who might enjoy a day spent among Civil War era exhibitions.

"They're even having a free Civil War dance class that weekend! I signed us up." Dad was about to bust his buttons.

"That is doubly cool!" I gushed.

"You two and your history," Mom giggled, then pointed her fork at me. "Why don't you invite Shaun? He loves history as much as you two do."

"That's a great idea, Kenji. We haven't seen Shaun much at all. I thought you two would rekindle your childhood friendship once we got you enrolled at Chesterford," Dad said as he speared a thick cube of tender beef.

"Well, we're both kind of busy, but… I don't know. I guess I could ask him." I shrugged and left that to dangle. Mom and Dad exchanged looks. Sobo slipped some meat to her cat who was under the table begging for scraps. No wonder he was such a porker.

I went to my room after dinner just to chill, study for a math test, and mull over the art show. Moving to my back as I lay on my bed, I stared at the ceiling as some new age meditation music flowed out of my phone. I let my eyes drift shut. My mind wandered down a few paths. All leading to Shaun Stanton. Was I still mad at him? I found that no, I wasn't, because Shaun was like everyone else who didn't quite get it. Sobo was always trying to stuff food at me or into me. I got it. Grandmothers always equated food with love. Maybe most people did, but food for me was a thing that needed to be kept under tight control.

Shaun should know that. Of all the people in the world, he should know. Yet, he kept trying to feed me. I didn't want his food—I wanted his friendship. Maybe even more than that, but he was straight, so that yearning was going to lead me nowhere. Still, we could be friends again. Maybe I was too sensitive. Ilya surely felt I was and did not hesitate to scold me about it, so perhaps the problem was me. More than likely so…

Sighing deeply, I rolled to my side, swiped the meditation app away and sent Shaun a text.

Kenji: Hey, sorry about the noodle shop. I wasn't feeling well. ~K

Kenji: My folks wanted me to invite you to an art show/Civil War museum weekend if you're free next weekend? ~K

Kenji: If not no biggie. Just figured you would be into it. ~K

Kenji: Civil War dancing bro. ~K

It took no time for me to see the dancing dots appear.

Shaun: Sorry about the noodle shop, too. I'm an asshole.

Shaun: Bro, you had me at Civil War dancing. ~S

* * *

Panting and laughing,I flopped down beside Shaun as my Mom and Dad began the Virginia Reel at the museum. We'd just done a hellacious couple of rounds of a quadrille.

"The folks back then were all kinds of scandalous," Shaun said with a nod to the period actors in flowing skirts and fancy vests who were showing the dance class participants the moves. "Look at all the hand-touching."

"Dude, they all have gloves on," I pointed out, then leaned back into the folding chair. The museum was open for us to investigate, and I was itching to check things out. "How scandalous can it be?" He chuckled. "Want to go check out the exhibits?"

"Yeah, I'd love that. You sure your folks won't mind?" We both rose. Dad spied us, waved, and then, spun my mother around in a circle, which made her laugh.

"I think they're not seeing anything but each other," I said, then left the dancers to spin about in the bright March sun flowing through the windows of a large meeting room.

The lawn was soggy from melting snow., so the lessons took place inside. We'd already visited the cemetery where over a hundred and fifty Union and Confederate graves were located. That had been somber, and Shaun and I had been eager to leave the sadness behind.

The sound of fiddles, drums, and a fife followed us into the stately building. I could hear my mother's laughter for the longest time.

We meandered through the exhibits showcasing a range of Civil War era things like medical equipment, war memorabilia, and slavery that we both found upsetting and depressing.

Shaun made small talk as we made our way to the gift shop where we bought some replica Union caps to wear. Then, we made our way back into the museum to spend more time examining some of the artwork on the walls. One painting was of the war, cannons and bodies scattered about a bloody battlefield. Under the oil was a long gun, a musket, that seemed to be as long as I was tall.

"I wonder who the guy who lost this gun was," Shaun said as we stood side-by-side, our sight on the painting.

"I guess no one will ever know," I whispered, keeping my voice low out of respect for the artifacts and the guided tour taking place nearby.

He nodded, his gaze moving to grab mine. "I'm really sorry about the noodle shop, Kenji. I know food is a tricky subject for you." I tensed. "No, don't get mad. I just wanted to tell you that I realize that I tend to push too hard. I won't do that anymore. I swear."

"Okay, yeah…" I moved from the painting to sit on a bench. Shaun sat down beside me, his bulk filling the available space to my right. His thigh and mine were plastered together. The tour moved past. I stared down at my sneakers until they turned a corner. "I know you think I'm out of control like I was before, but I'm not."

"I never said you were out of control," he said softly, glancing my way from under the brim of his Union cap. "I never thought that at all. I just… what I saw that night…"

"I don't do that anymore." He nodded halfheartedly. "I don't. I only did that a few times. I saw a counselor. We got it under control. Everything is fine. I just have to stay lean for skating." He bit down on the inside of his cheek. "Seriously, I'm good. Strong. Healthy. You've seen me on the ice. Do I look out of control?"

"No, but you didn't look out of control when you were making yourself vomit."

I exhaled so hard it made my head feel funny. Guess I should have grabbed more breakfast at the hotel. My orange juice and cup of yogurt had been burned off by all the dancing.

"Look, I appreciate your concern, I do, but it's good. I talked to someone. I don't do that anymore. I promise."

"Okay, I believe you that you don't do that anymore, but you still?—"

"No, please, don't start on me. You said you understood now."

"Sorry, yeah." He blew out a breath. "I won't preach. I just want to say that Ilya is using coaching methods from the freaking seventies or some other ancient era. He's fixating on weight, and that's not good, especially for kids our age, you know? You and the skater girls… I just…" He shrugged a thick shoulder. "I just worry. I care about you, Kenji. A lot."

He hooked his pinkie finger into mine. My heart did a triple lutz in my chest. I dared a peek and got lost in his bright blue eyes. He was looking at me in a way that was not that of a straight dude chatting with his bro. There was some real emotion in his gaze.

"I… care about you too," I whispered as we sat there across from some lost soldier's gun, pinkie fingers hooked, thighs tight to the other. It was the most romantic moment of my entire life. But was this really a romance thing? "Shaun, I mean…" I wiggled my pinkie finger. "Are you saying something to me here, with this?" I lifted our joined fingers into the air.

He stared at our hands for the longest minute ever recorded.

"I think I might be…"

"It's cool. You don't have to say another thing. I'll totally keep your secret if what this means is what I think it might mean."

He cleared his throat, bobbed his head, and we said nothing more about the pinkie hold that went on for about forty minutes.

Guess there were times when words just got in the way.