Star Shine by Constance C. Greene Page B

mumbled grudgingly.
    â€œO.K., troops.” Norm Dubie’s voice rang out. “Pretend it’s snowing and blowing outside. It’s January, right, and you’re all having a ball. Let’s have some smiles here, folks, to show what a ball you’re having. A little winter music, please!”
    The music commenced, and Jenny was astonished to see the flat-haired lady she’d spoken to in the line at the church hall take to the center of the ice, where she twisted and swooped solemnly, her little velvet skirt standing out from her narrow thighs as if it had been starched.
    Emboldened by the flat-haired lady’s performance, as well as by her newly tightened laces, Jenny wobbled out onto the ice. Man, but those borrowed socks felt like lumps of coal inside her skates. Glide, glide, she told herself, gliding as best she could. Which wasn’t great, but it was her best. Her ankles, already feeling bruised and cold, grazed the ice. And she’d only just begun. Oh, for Mary’s hand holding hers!
    Skaters whizzed by, hands clasped nonchalantly behind their backs, à la Hans Brinker and the Silver Skates. Jenny longed to clasp her hands casually behind her back, but knew in her heart that if she did, she’d fall on her face.
    The flat-haired lady spun like a top in the rink’s center, her face devoid of expression, her hands and arms as graceful as any ballerina’s.
    Doggedly Jenny skated on. If she stopped, she might never start again. Plus, the hordes of bozos zooming behind her might trample her to death. It was best to keep going. Even if she left a trail of blood behind herself.
    A side door opened briefly to let someone out, and Jenny caught a glimpse of Mary and Sue and Tina huddled outside, peering in. She pasted a big phony smile on her face and skated faster, wondering when this torture would end. Not only were her feet killing her; she was also on the brink of starvation. She’d even eat goat cheese if that was what was on the menu. She’d close her eyes and hold her nose, but she’d eat it. Gladly. A brief picture of hot chocolate with marshmallows bobbing on the surface, and of popcorn smothered in butter, passed briefly through her head and disappeared.
    Around and around she went, like a windup toy. Forty bucks a day was a lot of bucks, but she was beginning to think it wasn’t nearly enough.
    â€œAll right, people! Let’s take a break.” Norm Dubie’s voice sounded sweet to her ears. “Snack bar is open, and it’s all on me. We’ll start filming again in ten minutes.”
    A chorus of groans greeted this. “All right, all right,” said Norm Dubie. “Make that fifteen minutes.”
    Jenny staggered off the ice and sat down. Heaven, just to take the load off her feet. How was she going to get to the snack bar without taking off her skates? And if she took them off, how would she get them back on?
    â€œYou looked like you were having a rough time.” Scott Borkowski stood there, looking at her. “Would you care for something to drink?” he asked, and his face flamed as they both remembered Mary asking just that not long ago in the kitchen.
    â€œSure. How about an orange drink? Harpo.” Jenny tacked on the Harpo deliberately, getting even.
    â€œMy name’s not Harpo,” Scott Borkowski said stiffly.
    â€œIt’s on account of your hair,” Jenny said. “It’s just like Harpo Marx’s hair.”
    â€œWho’s Harpo Marx?”
    â€œIn the old Marx Brothers movie on TV, he’s the one who plays the harp. Do you know how to play the harp?”
    â€œI thought only angels played the harp,” he said. “I don’t play anything. Orange drink it is,” and he went off toward the snack bar.
    If only they could see me now, Jenny wished. If only the door would open and they looked inside and saw me drinking an orange drink with Scott Borkowski. Harpo, the barf