THAT

Thirty feet, twenty-five.
When had Charlie last been happy? When, for that matter, had he? Christ, he
couldn’t stand the taste of defeat, the way he felt like hanging his head all the time.
Fifteen feet, ten feet.
When Philip was no more than five feet from him, Jim stuck out his foot. He
braced for the impact of the boy’s shins against his ankle. He rehearsed surprise, an
apology, words of concern. But Philip’s reflexes were extraordinary. He leaped like he
was jumping a creek, clearing Jim’s outstretched foot and landing as gracefully as if the
interaction had been choreographed.
In the immediate aftermath, Jim wondered if he had only fantasized his intention
to trip Philip. But the next moment, the boy turned, a quick, decisive twist of his head.
Even as his momentum carried him toward the end of the rink, he gave Jim a look both
stunned and full of disgust. Their eyes locked, and as much as, afterwards, Jim wanted to
imagine the boy didn’t understand his intention, he knew otherwise. For months, Philip’s
expression would haunt him, prickling his happy moments, reinforcing his darker moods,
shaming him like nothing else in his life.
Presently, Charlie approached, his leisurely, almost lackadaisical, skating a
contrast to Philip’s speed. When he reached his father, he made a quick stop, doubtless
intending to spray him playfully with ice, though he raised only a few shards. Charlie’s
smile was ebullient, stretching his face in such a way as to make him seem, with his orange
outfit and flat square teeth, like a gleeful Jack-o-Lantern. For a moment, Jim thought
Charlie had seen what he’d tried to do and had come to thank him for his contribution,
however unsuccessful, to the war against Philip.
“Guess what?” Charlie said, beaming. “Philip asked me to do a duet with him in
the spring show. We’re gonna skate to the theme from Star Wars and carry light sabers.
Isn’t that cool, Dad?” °
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