They won’t say it. They won’t, because they know how it will sound—bad. It will sound bad because it is bad to sum Andrew up based on a nosey neighbor’s opinion, and to assume because bad things have followed him through life, he’ll do nothing but bring them to me too.

So instead, my parents talk about how careful I need to be—reminding me why we moved to Illinois in the first place, and the promise that is now only weeks away.

I keep my attention on my phone, wishing like hell I were brave enough to ask him for his number so I could text him right now, let him know I won’t be there. I hate that he’s expecting me, and I’m going to disappoint him.

“What if I promise not to skate?” I ask, surprising myself. I’m putting a foot down, something I haven’t been very good at lately. But I’m doing it.

My mom doesn’t answer, and for a brief second or two I think she might pretend she didn’t hear me. She finally looks at me, and I can see her trying to work out a new reason I can’t go. There’s a lot of work happening behind her eyes—but unless she’s willing to say she doesn’t want me hanging out with Andrew, she’s got nothing.

“No skating,” she repeats, standing and holding a finger up at me, as if I’ve done something wrong.

“No skating,” I say, my stomach sinking a little, knowing I might be lying, because skating with Andrew was so…

“I want you home by noon,” she says, her finger still pointing. Why is she pointing? I want to snap it off; it’s infuriating me so.

“His game isn’t done until noon. I won’t get to talk to him at all,” I say, standing and getting my shoes on, not bothering to pause while I speak for fear she’ll reverse the direction we’re moving. I am getting progress for the first time all morning; I’m not halting it.

“Were you planning on spending the whole day with him?” she asks, and I can sense that small hint of distaste in her tone. I stare her down until she looks away.

That’s the other part about moving here. We had a long conversation about giving me some freedom, within reason. I am what everyone in my high school would call a goody-goody. I call my parents. I come home on time. I don’t sneak around—though, I’m pretty sure I’m going back on that whole no skating promise. I’ve never given my parents a reason not to trust me, and if I’m going to go through with the things on my plate over the next few months, then I’m owed a little slack when it comes to the social things that are supposed to define this time of my life.

“We might have lunch. I’ll be home before the sun sets. My homework is done, and I won’t do anything that will result in a trip to the hospital or casts or…or even a Band Aid,” I plead. Dragging my finger over my chest in a crisscross pattern, I stare into my mom’s eyes, hoping to hear the sound of her keys jingling in her hand. She reaches into her purse, and I hug her.

“Home by six,” she says, one more point with her finger. I don’t even mind it this time—I’m so happy.

Andrew’s game is halfway over by the time my mom gets me to the rink. She wanted to come in and watch with me, but I begged her not to. She compromised by waiting at the curb by the front doors until I was completely inside. There’s a part of me that thinks she might still be out in the parking lot now.

There are a few people sitting sporadically in the bleachers around the rink, mostly wives and family members I think. I first notice the coach who was working with the kids on the ice yesterday. He has a thick beard, which makes him hard to miss. He’s waiting on one of the benches; sweat is running down his face, and when one of the other players offers to trade out with him, he waves a hand signaling he’s not quite ready to go back in.

I follow the various players gliding around the ice, watching their feet stop and skid. A few of them trip up a little when they have to change direction, but not Andrew. I recognize his feet quickly—smooth, fast. He doesn’t control the game, but he changes it, darting in and out of plays before the others can catch up. Andrew isn’t the youngest out there—most of the guys are his age. But the older ones really can’t handle him. He’s disruptive.

When he slides from the ice onto the bench, he pulls a helmet off and looks around the glass until he spots me. He smiles on one side of his mouth—he smiles for me. I raise a hand and scratch at the glass, trying to be cute with my hello. He scrunches his hand back at me.

His hair is floppy and lying in all directions; I’m hoping he’s almost done with his game, because I don’t want him to put his helmet back on. I want to watch him like this. I like looking on while he laughs and talks to his friends, while he yells things and points to other guys—while he’s happy. Andrew might be the most beautiful portrait of happiness I’ve ever seen, and he comes from so much sadness.