On Thin Ice: Girls of Thompson Lake, #2

By PJ Sharon

Seventeen-year-old figure skater Penny Trudeau has secrets. She’s not perfect, as hard as she tries to be. With a mother who is dying and a father who treats her like she’s invisible, Penny has every reason to lie. To escape the life that is spinning out of control, she falls into the arms of an older boy. But when she lies about her age and he finds out the truth, Penny loses the one good thing that has happened in a long time.

Carter McCray is the hockey hunk she falls for, but Carter has his own family drama, and he’s not looking for trouble. Penny proves to be the exception, until the truth comes out and he can’t get past the betrayal—or her father’s threats.

Can Penny find her way back into Carter’s heart, or will she have to face the harsh realities of life on her own? Penny’s choices lead her down a dangerous road and the secrets she’s keeping will change her world forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: PJ Sharon
• Release date: Jan 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9780985607234

PJ Sharon

In addition to her day job as a Massage Therapist, Personal Trainer, and Yoga Instructor, PJ Sharon is an award-winning author of young adult books, including PIECES of LOVE, HEAVEN is for HEROES, ON THIN ICE, and Holt Medallion winner SAVAGE CINDERELLA. Follow the Savage Cinderella Novella Series with FINDING HOPE, LOST BOYS, and SACRED GROUND. HEALING WATERS completes her YA dystopian trilogy, The Chronicles of Lily Carmichael, which RT Book Reviews calls “An action-packed read with a strong female lead.” Her debut non-fiction title Overcome Your Sedentary Lifestyle (A Practical Guide to Improving Health, Fitness, and Well-being for Desk Dwellers and Couch Potatoes) is a holistic living, self-help guide packed with easy to implement tips sure to motivate today’s sedentary masses toward a more balanced and active lifestyle. For more info on PJ’s books and updates on new releases, sign up for her newsletter or visit her website.

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Chapter 1

Journal Entry, May 15th

I’m a liar. I know it, I hate it, and I can’t seem to help myself.  I feel the lies piling up as if I’m being buried, each one a stone that keeps me pinned in a shallow grave.

God knows I have my reasons for hiding from the truth. Truth is hard and ugly. The lies are easier. As Mom gets sicker, my world grows smaller and the lies grow bigger. The uneven ground beneath my feet leaves me unsteady, and I’m waiting for an earthquake that will disrupt my life and change it forever.

At school, I’m expected to get all A’s. On the ice I’m expected to pass tests, compete, and win. At home...well, I’m expected to be strong, help out, take charge and be an inspiration—like one of Mom’s Celine Dion slit-my-wrists songs. If I am Perfect Penny, maybe everything will be okay, but I know that I’m lying, even to myself. Because no matter how hard I try, I will never be good enough to change the truth.

∞∞∞

I hit the ice at 8:00 a.m. Monday morning. Summer camp was one more step on the path to Olympic Gold. At least that’s what Mom had been telling me since I was eight. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that we would never have the money it would take to get me to the Olympics, no matter how talented I was. I started keeping track of our costs in little journals when I was about ten. After calculating the thousands of dollars my parents had spent over those first few years, it was clear to me that unless we found a wealthy sponsor who saw my potential, the best I could hope for was the ice show circuit or teaching.

That idea didn’t bother me the way it did Mom. I hated competing, but telling her that would have broken her heart. She had such high hopes for me, and with her cancer, I couldn’t let her down. So I worked hard and stuck to the plan.

But plans have a way of changing. I could spin with the best of them, but after my second concussion when I was fourteen, I developed a phobia of axels. I had no trouble with all of the other double jumps, but every time I tried to kick through to come off of that forward outside edge, my body balked. Without a double axel in my programs, pursuing a competitive freestyle career was futile. Despite trying every trick in the book to overcome my fear, including use of a jump harness and off-ice training, nothing worked. Instinctual avoidance, my coach called it. So, Mom started me ice dancing, hoping I’d have a better chance at landing a partner—a possibility as slim as me escaping the horrors of daily life in the trenches at number four Barrett Street, also known as home sweet home. At least that’s what the sign above the kitchen door said.

A group of girls stood behind me waiting for the Zamboni to finish cleaning the ice. They were townies like me, but much younger, ranging from eight to thirteen, girls I helped teach basics to as part of our club’s mentoring program. Chad, a twelve year old boy with a pretty face and short blond hair stood amongst the girls trying to blend in. I had noticed some hockey players teasing him earlier and saw the hurt in his eyes. Before I’d had a chance to go put the brats in their place, another guy in a hockey uniform had scattered the little beasts with a few choice words. I would have to remember to thank him.

Chad was the token practice partner for that group, but none of them would land him as a permanent partner. There were ten girls to every one boy on the ice. It was an unspoken assumption that the boys got their pick of partners, and it only made good sense to choose a rich girl who could pay all of the expenses along the way.

This was clearly the case for our premier ice dance team, Kent and Daphne, who stood off to the side arguing about costumes for the upcoming show. Daphne had her hands on her hips and a look on her face that meant the argument would be short lived and she would be choosing the colors they would wear.

The lights overhead dimmed and crackled as they pulsed to full force in their effort to warm up in the cold rink. The Zamboni finished its final round. Carl, the zee driver and all around rink rat, jumped off and shoveled the residual pile of slushy snow out the double doors. We had to wait until the doors were closed and the puddles dried before we opened the gate and took to the ice.

To my left, another group of girls closer to my age crowded in and pressed me up against the boards, subjecting me to their usual rants. The nasally voice of Cassie Phelps grated in my ear.

This rink is so totally lame. If it weren’t for having the best coach around, I’d be skating up in Shrewsbury instead of this crappy little town.

C’mon, Somerville isn’t that bad—if you like the smell of cow manure, Portia Whitman chimed in, working her long dark hair into a French braid and shooting me a dirty look. I followed her gaze as she glanced up at her bleacher mom who was dressed in a business suit and pecking away at her Android, probably scheduling Portia’s next fitting for a custom skating outfit, and ignoring her daughter’s antisocial snarkiness.

There were several of these types of moms in the stands. Mine was conspicuously absent—just as she had always been conspicuously present. She took pride in the way she refused to put up with anyone who thought they were better than her because of money. My heart gave a sad lurch. Mom’s bold color choices and her Wal-Mart bargain rack clothes were a dead giveaway that she could care less about fitting in.

Portia nudged me aside, opening the gate so she could be the first to get on the ice—like it mattered. I competed against Cassie and Portia for a dance partner and I couldn’t stand them. I felt sorry for the unlucky boy that got saddled with either of them. I smiled and nodded, ignoring the jab to my ribs and stepping aside to let the others pass. It served me best to keep to myself and focus on being the best that I could be—which would likely never be good enough. It wasn’t that I didn’t have talent or didn’t work hard enough, but at seventeen, my window of opportunity was all but closed, and I knew I wasn’t cut out for the dog-eat-dog world of competitive skating. In the shark tank of figure skating, I was a guppy.

The early morning fog dissipated once the dozen or so skaters blasted out a few laps. By the time the music started, I was well warmed up. My blades sang across the ice, cutting a deep edge as I swung my right leg through. I pulled my arms in tight and spun in the opposite direction to complete the twizzle that defined the Argentine Tango. I pushed hard to gain speed out of the turn. With my chin lifted and my head tipped to the right, I looked down my nose at the gracefully extended fingers of my right hand. I finished the third pattern of my dance and ended with a lunge followed by a sharp T-stop as the music ended abruptly.

"That was a mess! You were flat going into the end pattern, and you need to keep those toes pointed with every stroke.  George Stewart was well known for his nationally ranked ice dancing teams—not so much for his patience or tact. Tall and slender, George wore middle age well, always dressed for a camera and ready with a breath mint. His hair was dyed a dark brown and slicked back, his nose long and prominent. He clapped his hands together on the beat as the music started again. You’re still off time on the progressive-chasse sequence. Let’s see it again."

I rested my hands on my thighs, trying to catch my breath. To my eternal regret, I had the stupidity to ask, Three full patterns?

He eyed me with the disdain of a man who believed I was a waste of his precious time. You’ll do it until you get it right. Thank God, my lesson was only an hour long.

Three and a half hours later, I’d completed an hour lesson, an hour of power skating, (with George’s half-his-age boy-toy, Paul), a half hour of off-ice drills, and an hour ballet and stretch class. I was exhausted and exhilarated. It felt good, although I knew I would pay for it with new blisters and sore muscles the next day.

Skating was the closest thing I could imagine to flying. The sensation of the wind in my face and the speed at which the barriers passed by, made me feel like I had wings. I felt light when I was on the ice, a wisp of air spinning and flowing like a spirit set free. If only the skating was all that mattered. I might not make it to the Olympics, but I knew that someday, I would teach. When I did, I’d be kind, patient, and supportive. And I’d never tell anyone they were fat.

Giggles and chatter filled the dance room behind me as I made my way out the door, already anticipating whatever disaster awaited me at home. Mrs. Russell, our neighbor and Mom’s best friend, had agreed to stay with her until one o’clock. My internal clock ticked the time away. I slung my bag over my shoulder and waved to Tiffy and her little band of friends huddled together on the bench. They all chimed in together, See you tomorrow, Penny! I smiled in return.

Then I collided with a solid object.

Hey! Look where you’re... a  boy with dark, sweat-soaked hair, and long-lashed hazel eyes stopped and looked from me to the front of his hockey jersey, now splattered in orange soda. I recognized him as the boy who had stepped in to help Chad earlier.

Oh! I’m so sorry, I backed away, watching him drip and brush the soda off his shirt. The crushed cup lay between us in a puddle on the floor. He had a helmet under his arm and a hockey stick in his hand and appeared dumbfounded about what to say or do next. I sympathized. Let me get that, I said. I reached in my bag and grabbed the towel I used to dry my blades. I dabbed at the front of his shirt, avoiding looking up at his face, which I was pretty sure was crimson with rage or at least annoyance. How could I be so clumsy? ‘Good going, Gracie,’ I heard my sister Rachael say from the recesses of my brain, causing my own cheeks to flush with heat.

I’ve got it. He took the towel from me and finished wiping his orange stained shirt. His eyes met mine and his annoyance melted away. No big deal. Then he smiled. I felt something click inside me. Like the lock being opened on a safe—only the treasure inside seemed both thrilling and dangerous. His eyes were the color of a frozen lake, a deep blue-green that sparkled like the sun shining through ice. My breath caught in my chest.

I swallowed and looked down at the puddle. I’ll tell Carl about the mess. He’ll take care of it, I said, working my eyes up to his face again, happy I hadn’t fumbled for words.

As if my ovaries weren’t in enough of a twist, he cocked his head to the side slightly, the light catching the shades of deep red and gold in his dark brown hair that was drying into wild curls and waves. If you know the cleaning crew on a first name basis, I guess this isn’t your first collision. He looked amused, which somehow embarrassed me more than if he’d been annoyed. He handed me back my towel, his fingers brushing against mine. I could feel his warmth and it sent goose bumps trailing up my arms.

With his skates on, he towered over me by almost a foot, his wide shoulder pads making me feel like a five-foot-two-inch shrimp in comparison. It was hard to judge his age, but he didn’t seem like a high school guy and I didn’t recognize him as a local. I held the sticky rag in my hand, not wanting to put it back in my bag. I try to stay on my toes, I said. He was right about the clumsiness, but I wasn’t about to admit it.

That’s very funny. A figure skater...on your toes...I get it. He laughed, a sound that sent an unexpected jolt to my already edgy nerves.

I glanced down at my flip flops, skating skirt and leggings, and cringed since I hadn’t really been trying to be funny. But whatever it took to see him smile like that again, I wanted to do it. My face went a degree hotter and I looked at his feet, the beat up hockey skates still splattered with a few orange drops. Like an idiot, I bent down and wiped the tops of his skates. Not knowing what else to do, I resorted to cleaning up the mess on the floor. The rag was going in the trash anyway.

You don’t have to do that. It’s really no big deal. He said, resting a warm hand on my shoulder. Like you said, they have employees here that can take care of it.

"I am an employee. I work here on weekends." I stood and faced him, but couldn’t think when I looked in those eyes again. What I’d said came out stupid or arrogant or...why was my brain not working? I could usually talk to people and sound reasonably intelligent, or at least lie my way through a normal conversation.

Do you work the front desk? he asked. He had a lumpy little scar on the corner of his upper lip that drew my attention to his mouth as he spoke, which totally made my brain hiccup and want to tell him every last detail of my sordid life.

Huh? Oh. No. I work snack bar...three to eleven on Friday and Saturday, sometimes Sunday mornings from six to two or a week night shift when they need me. I’m working tonight...later. TMI—he didn’t ask for my schedule, for God’s sake. Why was I blabbering on? I should have just said ‘yes’. Working the snack bar sounded lame. I also teach the younger kids, I said, feeling somewhat redeemed. By the way, thanks for sticking up for Chad earlier.

No big deal. I can’t stand bullies.

Me either, I said, unable to think of anything else useful to say. An uncomfortable silence settled between us and I stared at the rubber mats on the floor.

Well, maybe I’ll see you around. I darted a glance up as a hopeful spark ignited my heart.

He smiled a lopsided smile and stepped around the residual puddle looking back over his shoulder as he shuffled toward the locker room.

Yeah, maybe. I called after him, I owe you a soda. The next one’s on me. Oh, God, did I actually just say that?

He laughed again and looked back one more time before disappearing into the hive of buzzing hockey players. My heart fluttered madly behind my ribs. I watched him go, wondering who he was, and wishing I had asked his name.

Chapter 2

Sit over there where I can’t reach you! My mother shouted from across the kitchen table. Brain tumors cause mood swings and irrational behavior.

I held my breath and dropped my butt into the wooden chair, a table cluttered with newspapers and magazines between us. The last time she had said those words to me, I was thirteen. I had come home an hour late, and she grounded me for a month, making me miss my first school dance and the possibility of a date with Bobby Russell, the boy who lived across the street and the first boy I’d kissed when I was six. Puberty and my mother’s short fuse had put an end to a beautiful relationship. Four years later he was still dating the girl he’d taken to that dance. With my luck, he would probably marry her.

Mom’s voice ripped through the small kitchen, making me flinch. You’re grounded, Penny! I told you I needed you home by 10:00. If I can’t count on you to be here when I tell you to, how can I trust you with my car?  What if I’d needed something? She lowered her voice, her temper draining away like dirty dishwater gone cold. I sat silently, knowing she didn’t really expect an answer and that she would likely cut me off if I tried. You know it’s your father’s night out. He won’t be home until late and what if I got sick?

I’m sorry, Mom. I stayed late at the rink to help close up. A pang of guilt twisted in the pit of my stomach at how easily the lie escaped my lips. My shift had been over at 9:00. I squirmed in the hard chair, the fear of getting caught in my lies edging its way into my brain. I know I should have been here on time...but you can’t ground me. I’m almost an adult. I’m driving for God’s sake.

You can go to work or skating, but that’s it. I want you here ON TIME.  I’m tired of you taking advantage of the situation. This isn’t like you. I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately.

The kitchen stunk of smoke and the dishes from supper sat on the counter, tomato sauce glued to the plates. I gazed at yellowed wallpaper pealing up in the corner and my mind drifted away from my mother’s voice and the smoke that burned in my nose. The thought of dirty dishwater gave me an idea. She wouldn’t make me sit there if I put myself to good use. The involuntary bouncing of my knee sent me into action. Keeping my eyes focused on the minor details of bread crumbs on the counter and the dusty angel figurines on the shelf above the sink, I put a few feet of distance between us and filled the sink with hot water while she continued her tirade. She ignored me and didn’t miss a beat.

School has only been out for a week and you’ve already been late three times. I’ve given you the privilege of driving the car and I expect you to be responsible. I don’t need to be worrying about where you are at night.

I snapped my head up, noticing the clock about to hit midnight. How had I not known the time? I always knew what time it was—like I had a clock ticking in my head that measured my life in tiny increments, seconds and minutes that passed by and disappeared into some abyss. Was I becoming someone else? Someone, even I wouldn’t recognize? I had no real defense for being an hour past curfew. None that would take that disapproving look off my mother’s face. I couldn’t say I was making sure my drunken friend Sami got home safely, or that I didn’t want to leave her at a party with a guy that wanted to get in her pants. Sami had called me for a ride and I couldn’t say no. What kind of friend would I be if I had said no? If I told my mother the truth, she would only remind me to find a new best friend and that my responsibilities were here at home—as if I needed reminding of my responsibilities.

My mother’s diagnosis of cancer five years ago had changed our lives completely. Yet here I was in the same dingy kitchen, looking at the same old clock, sucking in the same second hand smoke and wanting to throw up. The moments that had ended my childhood flashed in the face of the clock as the minute hand ticked past the top of the hour and I sunk the dirty dishes into the hot water.

∞∞∞

I have lung cancer, Sweet Pea, Mom had told me on a summer’s day when I was twelve. Then she stomped out her cigarette in the nearly full ashtray and let out a stream of smoke. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to die. I remember she had sipped her coffee and stared at me from across the round oak table, a sturdy antique passed down through four generations that had come all the way from Italy. Scattered burn marks, old food stains, and deep dark knife grooves decorated the distressed surface of the table like tattoos —proof that age and scars added character.

Mom said, Everything will be fine, I promise.

If I had to say when the lies started, that was the moment.  It was also that moment that I realized where I’d gotten my persistent optimism, and with her next sentence where my knack for sarcasm had come from.

I guess that’s what I get for twenty-five years of two packs a day, she’d said, her chocolate brown eyes turning misty and sad.

My world tipped upside down and had not been right side up since.

I should’ve been used to death and loss by then. When I was ten, Grandpa Fred Giordano, who had lived with us since I was born and had been like a nanny to me, had died quietly in his bed at the crusty old age of ninety. My grandfather taught me to read and write by the time I was five, and had instilled in me the virtues of a clean and orderly home, a concept in direct opposition to Mom’s love of clutter, knick-knacks, and chaos.

When I found him, I thought he was sleeping. I’d been sitting next to his bed for over an hour waiting for him to wake up before Mom came into the room and discovered me reading out loud from his worn copy of CALL OF THE WILD. That was over seven years ago and I still missed him and his words of wisdom. I missed his gentle pats on my head. I missed rocking together in our matching rockers and watching exercise programs on TV. I missed his affectionate hugs and the silly jokes I’d never understood. I guess no one ever gets used to death and loss.

Before I could adjust my compass, the rest of my family dwindled away, leaving gaping holes in the landscape of everyday life. My three sisters had flown the coop one by one, a chirping flock of birds headed for less troublesome skies. Rachael got married and moved away, Marie had entered a convent, and Sarah left for college. None of them had returned home for more than a brief visit. I had come along seven years after Sarah was born, and I was obviously a mistake. Unplanned, Mom called it. If I dared to ask him, I would bet my father would have agreed.

On the upside, I finally had my own room, lots of hand me down clothes, and no line for the bathroom. Being the last of four girls living at home had its perks. However, being left behind to care for a sick mother wasn’t one of them.

The dish water cooled and my hands turned pruny by the time I was brought back to the moment. Mom coughed—a harsh barking sound like a seal that jarred me to attention. A deep rumbling spasm wracked her body and made me shudder. The kitchen became quiet then, the only sound the second hand of the clock ticking on and the sloshing of water as I silently scrubbed the plates clean.

Silence never lasted long when Mom was on a roll.  You’re only seventeen, and if you want to be treated like an adult, act like one. She coughed and gagged again as she reached a shaky hand toward her coffee cup. Removing