It's My Life - Stacie Ramey Page 0,43

reached the superlong line to get into the parking lot.

Mr. Burrows, one of the hockey dads, is collecting tickets, wearing a fanny pack around his middle to store the $5 he gets from every driver who wants to park. We are considered the home team this time, so our team gets to keep the purse. These are all well-established traditions.

Eric puts the window down and reaches for his wallet, which is stuck in his Viking belt. The fact that he had packed a full Viking costume is not lost on me.

“Well look who it is. I might have heard you were coming.” Mr. Burrow fist-bumps Eric, which makes Rena and I exchange amused looks. Eric may have graduated, but he will always be the champion. “How’s college treating you?”

“Can’t complain,” Eric answers.

Mr. Burrow leans against our door, despite the long line of cars snaked into the street. “We’re going to destroy them tonight,” he says, smiling widely. Then he notices Eric’s hand, waves away Eric’s five-dollar bill. “No, no, put that away. No charge for you. Best scorer in three counties.”

“Thanks, sir. I heard Matthew’s having a hell of a season.”

“Doesn’t hurt that Daniel’s the best goalie in the state.”

“Never does.”

Mr. Burrows steps back and waves us forward. “Glad you’re here for the big game, Eric. Wouldn’t be the same without you. Try up front, they might have saved a spot for you.”

When we get to the first row of the parking lot, there’s a cone in the center of the remaining parking space with one of Eric’s old jerseys attached to it. “I’m guessing this is for us?” he says.

Rena throws her hands in the air. “Huzzah.”

The sheer number of people already on the sidewalk reminds me of the performing arts theater where we saw Wicked for my birthday last year. Rena had wanted to see it forever, and Ben got me hooked on the idea. Dad finally took off work one Saturday and took us. I wanted to go into the city. I loved how New York was always filled with people walking in a big crowd, like everyone was moving toward something exciting. I loved how you could lose yourself in the mob and become a totally different person. But NYC is never easy with all of my mobility devices, so we went to a performing arts center in Hartford.

Mom used the opportunity to talk to me about that operation the doctors wanted to do. The baclofen pump. How much better I could be if only I let them slice me open and fix my broken parts with magic or that superglue stuff they use on cuts now. The thing is she bought the entire deal. Why shouldn’t she? She wasn’t the one who’d be ripped open and have that mess stitched inside of her.

Now driving through the crowd in my scooter, I wonder about the baclofen pump and if it could make my life better. And if so, wouldn’t I be stupid not to try?

We get to the front of the rink, and Mrs. Jacobs, one of the senior boys’ mothers, is taking tickets. Her face lights up as we wind our way forward. She wraps her arms around Eric. “So good to see you. Ian said to go straight in.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Jacobs.”

Eric leans on the handlebars of my scooter. “Pays to know people.”

The hockey rink is super loud already. Our school is dressed up in Frozen costumes, and it’s really funny to see the difference in the stands. Danbury’s fans are dressed only in their boring blue and white garb. Ben points to a bunch of kids in his marketing classes standing at center ice but in the nosebleed section. They are all holding signs and blowing those cheapo horns you get at a party store. They are collecting donations from the crowd as they do. “I’m going to manage the peons. You mind?”

“No, go ahead,” I tell him.

Eric points, and I park the scooter under a railing beneath the bleachers. I’m feeling slightly numb from the cold and my legs are pretty stiff from an entire day of, you know, existing. Also my hip is starting to complain. Eric puts his arm around me and holds up one side and Rena does the same on the other. Together they help me walk up the stairs and then down the other ones to the bench. In the background are the sounds of the players warming up—the swoosh of skates against the ice, the clacking sound