On Thin Ice (Editing)

Chapter 5

Twenty minutes.  In twenty minutes, the ice will be free, and I’ll be off the clock.  Currently, all six rinks in the sports complex are taken by figure skaters about my age - my competition.

Some of them, I recognize.  Annabelle Waters, a pretty redhead who always wore sparkly, pink, competition costumes growing up, is in the rink closest to me, failing to perfect a fairly moderate jump.  She’d never been that great with her moves, but what she lacked in technique was made up for by the dances and passion in her routines.  It’s enough to land her a spot at regionals every year, at least.

Four of the rinks are occupied by newbies - probably girls who have just moved to Daytona in the past couple of years.  Their moves aren’t anything special, from what I’ve seen over the past hour.

And then, at the very last rink - my rink - is Diamond Patriarch.

Allow me to take this moment to say that I hate Diamond Patriarch.  I guess diamonds really aren’t a girl’s best friend - not this girl’s, at least.  Growing up, she was a snob, a rich girl who tried to buy her way into every competition.  Diamond is actually the original ice brat, the reason that the term exists in my vocabulary.

She was mean.  In my second year of competing, Diamond tripped a girl just before she was supposed to be called onto the ice, causing her to fall and break her arm.  A year later, she stole my ice skates, and I almost couldn’t compete.  She, Ally and I were the top competitors from Missy’s team, but Diamond was never nearly as good as us, so she had to cheat her way through events.

Watching her now, however, I can see that she’s improved.  Her routine seems flawless from a distance, full of intricate twirls and leaps.  I guess after Ally and I quit skating, Missy decided to start focusing more on Diamond.  Ally says that she’s projected to win Nationals this year.

That is, until I registered to compete.  Now, I have less than two months to nail a routine before my first competition, at the local level.  That's seven weeks to make up for what I’ve missed over several years.

“Violet Whitney?” a voice asks, startling me.  I glance up to see that Diamond has left her rink and is now standing in front of me, perfectly shaped eyebrows raised.  “You are Violet, right?”  I’m about to respond, when she throws her head back, laughing rudely.  “Of course it’s you.  I would recognize those cankles anywhere.  Although it’s kind of hard to tell past the clown hair and raccoon eyes.”

I feel my blood boil as I give Diamond my sharpest glare.  She’s prettier than I remember - tall, thin, with sleek, dark hair spilling down her back.  I unconsciously finger the ends of my curls, wishing more than anything that a Sour Patch Kid would show up with a pair of scissors and chop off Diamond’s locks.

“At least I still have my own nose,” I snap back, my voice mocking.  It’s not a secret that Diamond has had a nose job - or four - in the past few years.  “What’s next?  Breast implants?  A butt lift, perhaps?”

“Unlike you, I’m not in desperate need of either of those things," she smiles cruelly.

I’m this close to hopping over the counter, but Duncan appears and leans against the wall outside the concession stands, stopping whatever potentially illegal thing I was about to do.  He glances between Diamond and frowns.  “Is there a problem here, ladies?”