Bubbles trapped, suspended. Motion stopped. I scrape my hockey skates over them, spray shaved ice all over Ethan who stands flat-footed, trying to keep his balance in brown loafers. Free-skate ended an hour ago, but I am still practicing. I have the key my uncle gave me, and I'm allowed to lock up on weekends.
I fly past my brother, Ethan; he brushes the white crystals I have sprayed on him from his wool coat, frowns. "Kaitlin," he sighs, sounding older than fifteen. "Kaitlin, didn't you hear what I said?"
I feel the cool air rushing at my hot face as I skate over the scarred surface. I can hear my skates cross others' tracks, a knife scraping whetstone. Faster, around the far end of the rink, each foot in front of the other in a perfect line, and I arc around, my back to my brother in brown loafers, in sync, in perfect symmetry, a geometric miracle, aligned in skates, ice, space, curving away from him and his words. His ugly news. The ice is uneven and bumpy from so much use. It needs the Zamboni.
"Kaitlin!" He calls at me as I finish the turn, pick up speed and race down the length of the rink, opposite him. "Kaitlin, stop! Didn't you hear me? He's gone. Stop skating!" But I can't stop. I can't stop, and my stick connects with an orphan puck, the dull, marred rubber that once connected with my mouth in practice — no helmet — and knocked out two teeth. My dad ran over to me on the bench, stained his suede coat as he cupped his hands below my mouth, caught the drooling blood and broken teeth.
I float the puck on each side of me, dodging imaginary opponents, as I race to the net. The net grows larger, closing in on me, until I can see even the braiding, each strand woven into other strands, twisted and knotted, stiff in this February cold. I pull my right arm back, staring down the empty goal, let go. The stick smacks the puck, sends it through the air so fast it doesn't even wobble.
"Kaitlin, I'm leaving," Ethan says, a splinter of anger in his voice. "I can't deal with this shit." He wipes his running nose with a gloved finger. He has been crying.
My little brother. Fatherless. No father now. No dad to tell him not to say shit. It probably took Ethan twenty minutes to get here, to come tell me that the hospital called, that our dad is no longer dying but is now dead. His body must be cold already, in the hospital bed; it must have slowly lost heat during those twenty minutes Ethan was walking here. I still have not spoken.
I slow to a stop across the rink. I watch as Ethan slides gracelessly on his loafers towards the opening in the boards, his back to me. Then he is gone, on firm ground and walking towards the front door. I hear the door wheeze open and bang shut. A frozen silence settles over the rink, and I listen to the sound of my breath. It's hard, raspy. My chest heaves up and down; it sounds like someone sobbing.
But it's not me. I'm just trying to breathe after skating hard on the ice.