Abby's Fabulous Season Read online

  “You better keep your head up next time you come around, Backstrom!”

  His answer was to ridicule me. “You play like a girl, Hoffman!”

  David and I got penalties. So did Backstrom. Our opponents used their advantage to score the winning goal.

  Jim Halliday and Russell Turnbull scored our team’s two goals. They’re by far the Tee Pees’ best players.

  After the game, our locker room is as quiet as can be expected after a loss. I’m convinced that Coach Grossi will let David and me have it. In fact, Scotty is happy to remind us of our mistakes.

  “You made us lose!” he proclaims.

  Red-faced from all his efforts behind the bench, Coach Grossi plants himself in front of us. “Take a lesson from David and Ab!”

  “Yeah,” Scotty pipes up, wiping the fog off his glasses. “They’re the perfect example of what not to do.”

  “It would be easy to blame them for our loss,” continues Mr. Grossi.

  “Obviously,” agrees Scotty.

  David and I don’t say a word. We untie our skates and put on our boots so we can leave the locker room as soon as possible. So much for Abby Hoffman’s fabulous season…

  The coach takes off his hat and wipes his sweaty bald head with a handkerchief. “These two deserve our…”

  “…anger!” interrupts Scotty.

  “…our respect!” Mr. Grossi corrects sharply. He paces up and down to make sure everyone is listening. “Yes, our respect. They came to the rescue of a teammate in difficulty, even if their opponent was bigger. That’s the kind of team spirit I want for the Tee Pees. That’s what I hope to see from all of you before the end of the season.”

  Coach Grossi raises a fist as a rallying sign. The players follow suit. “Tee Pees!” he shouts.

  “Tee Peeeees!” we yell in response.

  Relieved to not be scapegoats for this loss, but almost heroes instead, we go back to our places. David represses the urge to laugh.

  “Coach,” complains Scotty, “David and Ab are laughing at me!”

  We all burst out laughing.

  “You see what I mean?” he whines. “I’m going to tell my dad!”

  Chapter 6

  Sometimes my best friend exasperates me. “I’m telling you, Susie. The players didn’t shower after the game!”

  She could have asked a thousand questions when we saw each other on Monday before the beginning of classes. Did I play well? Did I score? Was I nervous? Did I knock a guy against the boards? Did someone notice I was a girl pretending to be a boy? Did I use the toilet in the locker room? If so, did I pee sitting or standing?

  But no! All Susie Read wants to know is what happened after the game.

  My answer has the effect of a cold shower. Her enthusiasm about a feminine presence in a world exclusively reserved for boys drops a notch.

  “It must not have smelled very good in the locker room,” she says with a look of disgust.

  “It smelled like defeat, Susie,” I point out. “Not like sweat! Boys haven’t started sweating at our age.” In the same breath, I remind her that she can’t tell anyone. And I mean it. “No one, Susie!”

  “Why? What difference does it make?”

  “It makes all the difference in the world! Isn’t it obvious?”

  If someone discovers my secret, I’m convinced I’ll be expelled from the league. Despite our modern 1950s society, a girl playing hockey with boys is inconceivable.

  The bell announces the end of recess. We return to class.

  I’m still lost in my thoughts. Obviously, the battle won’t be easy. That was made abundantly clear when I came out of the locker room after the game.

  Bob Bowden, the coach of the opposing team, was on his way to see Coach Grossi. I was with my mother, who had come to pick me up. We bumped into Mr. Bowden in the hallway. He greeted my mother politely and pointing at me, said, “That boy of yours is quite the hockey player, Mrs. Hoffman.”

  He emphasized the word boy, then winked and smiled before catching up with his friend Al. My stomach was in a knot. He knows!

  I remembered that my brother Muni is friends with Mr. Bowden’s son. I bet that big mouth told him that his little sister plays hockey with boys.

  Mr. Bowden was in a good mood. His team had just won its first game. But what will happen next time if his team loses? And if I score the winning goal? Will he complain to the chairman of the league that there’s an impostor in the game? Do I have to remain unnoticed on my own team, like half of the players whose names or faces I don’t remember? At least that way, I wouldn’t attract unwanted attention.

  Will he reveal my identity to Coach Grossi?

  I share my worries with Susie. She’s absorbed in an arithmetic problem. “Hey, Abby, this is complicated…”

  “Thank you for understanding.”

  “Understanding what?” she says, chewing on the pencil’s eraser. “I’m having a hard time solving problem number four. All these divisions, it’s really complicated.”

  “Hey! We’re talking about hockey, not about math!” I’m upset with her.

  “Oh.” She apologizes. “In figure skating, it’s much simpler. If a boy wants to pretend to be a girl, everyone will know right away.”

  Ms. Morley puts an end to our conversation.

  “Abigail and Susie, keep your comments to yourselves…”

  The thought of my brothers, or Bespectacled Scotty, in pink tutus makes me smile.

  At dinner on Monday night, Muni confirms my fears. He confesses that he might have talked about me to Bowden Junior.

  “I only told him my brother Ab plays for the Tee Pees.”

  The shock makes me drop my fork on my plate. Little Benny immediately imitates me.

  My mother jumps in: “But your friend is well aware that you don’t have a brother named Ab!”

  “He’ll figure it out for sure,” says Dad.

  Muni tries to defend himself. “Is it my fault that he’s intelligent?”

  I’m boiling mad. “I wish I could say the same about you, Muni!”

  “Mom, at home is it Ab or Abby?” he asks.

  “Abby,” she answers, surprised by his question.

  He sticks his tongue out at me.

  “Abby, baby!” he shoots.

  “Abby, baby! Abby, baby!” echoes Little Benny.

  Paul is surprisingly quiet. He’s hardly looked up from his meal during all this. He seems absorbed by the contents of his plate. I throw a green pea at him.

  “Abby! Don’t play with your food!” Mom warns.

  “Mom, he’s hiding something, I’m sure of it!”

  “Paul told his friends too,” Muni confides, happy to shift the attention away from himself. My older brother swallows his last piece of beef with difficulty.

  “Me? Well…”

  “Yes! Yes!” continues Muni. “I heard you at school!”

  Paul avoids my eyes and tries to stay calm. It’s no use, his cheeks turn bright red. “Well…I mentioned it to Erica Westbrook. I…I wanted to impress her,” he explains.

  “I thought your only passion was rocks, Paul,” notes Muni. “Are you doing a different kind of research?”

  Paul is more and more interested in the opposite sex, these days. He is fifteen, after all. But is he so desperate, or so helpless, that he needs his little sister’s achievements to start a conversation with a girl?

  “Paul has a girlfriend! Paul has a girlfriend!” Little Benny and I chant to tease him.

  My father smiles. But my mother is not happy with the news.

  “She’s not my girlfriend!” protests Paul. “At least, not yet…”

  The two met at the Young Naturalists Club of Toronto. My mother points a finger at Paul. “You should concentrate on your studies instead of chasing girls!” Then she turns to he
r husband. “And you, Samuel H. Hoffman. You need to have a man-to-man conversation with your son about the facts of life…”

  My father and Paul have the same reaction: “Oh, no!”

  The expression they have on their faces! It’s so funny that my mother, Muni, and I crack up. It breaks the tension that was threatening to ruin the evening just a few minutes ago.

  “Seriously, guys,” says Dad, in a calm voice. “You shouldn’t spread Abby’s story. Let’s keep this between us, okay?”

  “The least people know, the better it will be!” adds Mom. “If your sister’s real identity is discovered, I’m afraid she’ll be expelled from the league.”

  “Not everyone would agree with the fact that a girl can play hockey with boys,” continues Dad. “Most people believe that when girls put on skates, it should be for figure skating and nothing else.”

  Paul and Muni take a minute to think. At the same time!

  “What should we do about the boys we already told?” asks Paul.

  “The boys and girls,” notes Mom.

  “There’s only one girl,” he replies.

  “Tell them the truth,” suggests Dad. “They should understand Abby’s position.”

  My brothers agree with a nod.

  My mother puts her hands on the table in front of her.

  “Now, Paul, let’s talk about this Erica Westbrook.”

  The night before the second game of my career, there was no getting-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night prank. My parents had warned my brothers.

  But once again I didn’t sleep well; I was too excited at the idea of playing hockey. And worried that the news would spread and I would be betrayed in the locker room. At 3:10 a.m., that’s a guaranteed nightmare for sure.

  To take my mind off this growing fear, I storm into my brothers’ bedroom, shake Paul, and rip off his blankets.

  “Hurry up, Paul! You’re late for your date!”

  He opens an eye. “Wh…what?”

  I shake him again. This is fun. “Hurry up! Your date with Erica Westbrook! She’s waiting for you in her father’s car!”

  The key word is Erica. As soon as he hears that name, Paul leaps out of bed and flies out of the room. Incapable of thinking straight, the only concepts that register in his primal brain at this early hour are Erica Westbrook and late. Probably in that order. He crosses the kitchen, grabs his coat from the hall closet, and rushes out into the night.

  I switch off the lights and lock the door. From the living room window, I watch my big brother stand in the cold night, in pajamas, at the edge of the yard.

  “What are you doing, Abby?” says Muni in a sleepy voice. He’s dragging his feet across the floor. He’s not really awake.

  “Shhh! I’m watching Paul. He’s outside, kissing his Erica Westbrook.”

  A spark lights Muni’s eyes. “You might be able to spy on them from behind the garage. Less than a minute ago, he was holding her in his arms.”

  Muni is already delighted. “Hee! Hee! Hee! Brilliant idea, Abby!”

  He throws on his coat, quietly steps out and hugs the wall of the garage to sneak up on his brother.

  Once again, I lock the door. Suddenly aware of the situation, Muni goes to Paul. There’s no Erica Westbrook on the horizon. Only an Abby, waving at them from the kitchen’s bay window, enjoying her sweet revenge.

  “Good night, guys!”

  My brothers run to the front door. I run too—but in the opposite direction to my bedroom. I lunge for my bed and pull the blanket over my head. Heavy pounding rattles the door, and then the sound of the bell pierces the night.

  I hear angry steps—my father’s—in the kitchen. Lights come on. A voice flares up: “What are you doing outside at this hour?”

  Mumbled excuses. A stifled laugh—mine. Paul won’t reveal that he thought Erica Westbrook was waiting for him. And Muni will be too embarrassed to explain that he was spying on his brother.

  But most of all, my brothers’ pride will prevent them from telling my father that their evil little sister yanked their chain.

  I feel lighter, as if I’ve just scored three goals in the finals for the Stanley Cup! My anxiety is gone.

  Chapter 7

  Going early to Varsity Arena is a good idea. Even if we hit a traffic jam we won’t be late. We had to pull Little Benny and my two big brothers out of bed. Paul and Muni were snoring like freight trains, except an octave higher. My parents were not about to leave them alone at home, sleeping like hibernating bears.

  “They were up doing crazy things in the middle of the night,” Mom told my father. Paul and Muni were silent. They never accused me of having pulled a prank on them. They knew it was fair game.

  In the parking lot of the arena, I tell my mother I don’t want her to take me to the locker room. I don’t want Scotty to make fun of me. Plus, I’m old enough to lace up my skates. That’s all I have to do; I’m already wearing the rest of my equipment, including the St. Catharines Tee Pees jersey.

  I flinch when my mother leans in to kiss me on the cheek. From the corner of my eye, I just spotted three boys—our opponents for today—wearing the blue Marlboros jerseys. As they pass me, one of them give me a little shove with his shoulder.

  “Get out of my way, you mama’s boy!” he spits out. It makes his friends laugh.

  I can tell by my mother’s eyes what she’s going to do. I plant myself in front of her as she’s about to lunge at the brat, grab him by the ear—the right one, her favorite—and force him to apologize.

  “It’s okay, Mom. His turn will come once we get on the ice.” I make note of his number: 8.

  It takes everything I have to convince my mother to let it go. “I’d better not see his parents in the bleachers or they’ll get a piece of my mind!” she says.

  “As long as you don’t scream my name at him, Mom.”

  She walks away to catch up with her husband and sons, and I enter the building through the door reserved for the players. It’s still early. I have half an hour in front of me.

  When I cross the open area leading to the rink, I hear music. It’s a Strauss waltz: The Blue Danube. I can play it on the piano. There are no pucks hitting the boards, and no parents screaming to encourage their kids or to criticize the referee.

  Figure skaters have taken over the rink. I move a little closer to take a look. Sitting on the players’ bench, I see two dozen girls in uniform. They spin like tops, jump like toads, fall on their bottoms and cry like babies.

  Oh! There’s Susie Read, looking like she’s in control of her movements. She glides on one leg, like…uh…like a pink flamingo. Her arms are stretched out to keep her balance or maybe so she can fly off.

  As soon as she spots me, she skates over. “Hey, Abby! It’s nice of you to come and see me skate!”

  I give her a dark look. “No Abby here, Susie!” I whisper.

  She quickly apologizes and corrects herself: “It’s nice of you to come and see me skate, AB!”

  That’s better. I relax.

  “Your sport is a little short on pucks,” I say, watching the skaters.

  A voice behind me grates on my ears. “Is that your girlfriend, Ab-ominable?” I don’t have to turn around to know that Scotty has arrived.

  Susie bursts out laughing. “Me, your girlfriend?”

  “Are you going to kiss her, Ab-erration?” he says, mockingly.

  “It’s just Ab, Scotty!”

  “Yeah, but Ab is not a name. It’s only the first two letters of the alphabet. We can do what we want with it.” And then, with a smirk, he adds, “Unless you prefer…Abigail!”

  I try my best to keep a straight face. Does he know? Or did he pick a girl’s name at random to tease me? Offence is the best defense: “Do you know the difference between a salamander and a chameleon, Scotty?”

  He thinks for a mome
nt before giving up.

  Susie is my witness. “In the end, Eve Lismer was right about a scrawl in boys’ brains.”

  Now here comes Muni with an odd smile on his face. He nods toward Scotty.

  “Is that your boyfriend?”

  No! Not again!

  Ticked off, Scotty turns to Muni. “Who are you talking to?”

  That’s when my dumb brother realizes his blunder. He just broadcast that I could be Scotty’s girlfriend—me, Ab Hoffman, a hockey player pretending to be a boy.

  I stare at my brother. How do we get out of this? It’s Susie who ends up saving the day. Both for me and for Muni!

  “Scotty? My boyfriend? Are you kidding?” says Susie, her cheeks turning bright crimson.

  Scotty is all too happy to side with her. “Me? Her boyfriend? Are you kidding?” he repeats.

  Phew! Scotty has had the wool pulled over his eyes. Since we’re standing side-by-side, Muni could just as well have been talking to Susie. Strangely, Scotty didn’t look at Susie. He barely even glanced at her. That’s odd. I could swear Scotty’s eyes are crossed. But they looked okay a few seconds ago.

  “Oh! I guess I made a mistake,” says Muni, without apologizing. Then he turns to me and asks, with an exaggerated wink, “Hey, Ab. Is Susie your girlfriend?”

  Faking disgust, I answer him. “That? My girlfriend? You can’t be serious!”

  I turn on my heel and head to the locker room. Scotty follows me, leaving Muni and Susie behind. I can hear Susie’s angry voice:

  “THAT? I’m a that? I’ll show you what a that is, Ab Hoffman! You’re the most useless boy I’ve ever met!”

  My best friend is not only a good figure skater, she’s a great comedian!

  I hate the Toronto Marlboros!

  They’re really brutes. I don’t think they’re my age. I suspect some of them shaved before the game so we wouldn’t notice their beards! One of the players is as big and tall as my brother Paul! David Kurtis is the Tee Pees’ most imposing player and he only comes up to the guy’s eye level.