I was impressed. “You sewed all your own costumes?”

  “I couldn’t afford to buy them,” the coach said. “Don’t you sew yours?”

  “I’m still learning,” I confessed. “I use a dress my cousin handed down to me when she quit skating.”

  “Well, if you have any questions, ask the folks at Nelda’s Notions.” The coach nodded her head back toward to the store. “Nelda’s got a soft spot for all skaters, and she hires staff who love skating as much as she does. If they don’t know the answer, she will. Nelda’s such an expert on skating outfits that even professional designers consult her.”

  The coach listened to the carols ringing through the crisp, cold air from the carillon in the college’s clock tower. “I grew up in a town a lot like this,” she said. “Enjoy it while you can.”

  I looked at her in surprise. “I like it, but it can’t be anything like the cities you must have seen.”

  The coach gave me a twisted smile. “I’ve been all over the world, but I haven’t had a real home for a long time. Most of the time I just lived out of a suitcase, whether I was in Atlanta, Grenoble, Paris, or Tokyo.”

  Our house was the only one that still had snow piled in front of it. My brothers aren’t lazy exactly. They’ll do chores if someone keeps after them, but they never think of doing them on their own—their brains seem to click into idle as soon as they get home. I love them all, but that part is annoying.

  When the coach stopped by the snowbank that covered the curb, we could hear hollering from my house. “Is there a cattle stampede inside?” she asked.

  I got out and sank up to my knees in snow. “You should see my brothers when there’s a pizza delivery at the door!”

  “I’m amazed you haven’t gotten trampled,” the coach said, taking Skip’s hockey gear from the backseat.

  “So am I,” I said. I would have taken the smelly burden alone, but the coach insisted on sharing it.

  With our arms full, we high-stepped through the snow until I could ring the doorbell. When no one answered—no doubt my family didn’t hear me because they were making too much noise—I started to kick at the door.

  The coach eyed the old scuff marks on the lower panel. “You’ve done this before.”

  “All the time.” I shrugged. “We might as well disconnect the bell.”

  When Rick opened the door, the whooping rolled out like an ocean wave. Although he is only two years older than I am, he is already a head taller. I winced when I saw the hockey pad in his hand. My brothers were no doubt playing a game of tag using a piece of their sweaty gear. Excitedly, he threw the pad back behind him, narrowly missing the ceiling light.

  “Hey, Mia! Did you get the message? Perry won! He won! His team is playing for the tournament championship tomorrow!” Rick is always so excited that everything he says comes out a mile a minute and with exclamation points. But all my brothers are just as proud of one another’s achievements as they are of their own. Skating for elite hockey teams gives them the chance to compete against the best hockey players around, but they each manage to really stand out.

  Perry appeared at the door, looming above Rick. Last summer, Perry changed from a skinny teenage boy to a gorilla who can out-skate anyone. “And Rick made the winning goal for his team,” said Perry.

  “Yeah, but we lost our other game,” Rick said, “so we’ll only be playing for third place tomorrow.” Rick’s team had been at a tournament in a different city.

  I started to say something, but Dad rushed out, just as excited as the boys.

  “And Skip shut out his opponents,” Dad said. He was shorter than Perry, but that didn’t stop him from putting his arms around his two sons and hugging them. “What a family! What a day!”

  As the coach and I set Skip’s stuff next to the door on top of someone else’s hockey gear, my mother came toward us.

  “Mom, Dad, this is Ms. Schubert,” I said, “the new head coach at the Lucerne.”

  Mom said, “It’s so nice to finally meet you in person. I was on the hiring committee that recruited you, and we’re excited that you’re here.”

  Dad spread his arms in a grand gesture. “Yes, and welcome to the home of the Fighting St. Clairs.”

  The coach smiled in response. “So it would seem. How do you do? You have quite a daughter. I can already see that she’s a very hard worker!”

  “Yes, we’re proud of her,” Mom said. “Please come in, have a seat.”

  “No thanks, I have to be going. I’m still getting settled,” the coach said and turned to wave to my family. “Nice to meet you all. And congratulations on your games, boys.”

  Closing the door, I poked Perry and Rick in turn. “That’s so great about the goals!” I held up a hand as Skip started to open his mouth to remind me. “And your shutout,” I added hastily. “Remember, Skip— I was there cheering you on this morning!”

  I really miss seeing my brothers play. Before I got so involved in figure skating, I went to all their games. Their victories were my victories and their defeats my defeats. However, school and figure skating never leave me any time to go with them anymore. I miss cheering them on—and I also just plain miss being with them.

  So I made Perry and Rick each give me a blow-by-blow account, acting out each play, and I cheered every goal. And then, even though I had already seen the game, Skip demanded equal time by re-enacting every attempt on goal that he had blocked.

  I was just about to tell them about the new coach when I got distracted by the dirty plates scattered around the living room and the rumblings of my stomach. I sniffed the air and began to salivate. “Did you make pot roast, Mom?”

  Mom’s pot roasts are the best, the meat tender and tasty, the potatoes and carrots soaked in flavor. I couldn’t wait to dig in.

  “Yes, but…I don’t think there’s any left.” Mom looked distressed. “Your brothers were so hungry after their games…”

  “You didn’t save me any?” I asked, disappointed. I don’t expect my family to treat me like a queen, but I don’t expect them to act as if I don’t exist.

  “Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry. It was gone before I realized they’d eaten it all. You know how the boys are,” Mom said. That’s what my parents always say whenever my brothers misbehave, and it sort of bugs me. The fact is, my brothers are so good at hockey that it excuses a lot of things they do or don’t do.

  I nodded. “Yeah, I know. Each one is a vacuum on two legs. But—”

  She started to get up. “I’ll cook something else for you, sweetie.”

  I could see how tired she was. Even though she hadn’t worked today, I knew she had spent the day driving from game to game. And the roads had probably been rough from all the snow. And then she made that pot roast that was now all gone.

  “Let me do it,” Dad said to Mom. “You take it easy.” He put an arm around my shoulder. “Let’s you and I go scramble some eggs for you.”

  Perry followed us into the kitchen. “Hey, I wouldn’t mind it if you scrambled some for me, too.”

  I stared at him, annoyed. “You already stuffed yourself with dinner.” Including my dinner, I thought.

  He patted a stomach that was as hard as a board. “I’m a growing boy.”

  I waited a moment for him to take the eggs from the refrigerator, but he didn’t. Silly me. Why would he lift a finger when his little sister can do whatever needs to be done?

  As I opened the refrigerator, Skip popped into the kitchen. “Make some for me too, Sis?”

  When Rick trailed after him, I just raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “Sure, why not!” Rick said as if he were doing us a favor.

  “I actually didn’t get much to eat, honey. Why don’t you and Dad throw in some of that good Swiss cheese, along with an egg or two for me, too,” Mom called from the living room. It is just like my piggy brothers to eat everything in sight without a second thought.

  What is it about boys? I wondered. How come they can be so clueless?

  As they began to dissect the games again, my brothers kept getting in the way, like large, obnoxious traffic cones. I gave up asking them politely to make room for me. It was faster just to hip them out of the way. It didn’t matter that they are so much bigger than I am. As my science teacher says, the correct leverage and the timely application of force will overcome inertia anytime.

  After I bumped Rick into the dishwasher, he straightened. “Technique like that is wasted in figure skating!”

  “It’s been a long time since we had a game on the pond,” I said nostalgically.

  “Even when you were a shrimp, you wanted to play hockey,” Perry reminisced. “You made Dad cut down that old hockey stick just for you.”

  “You were so cute,” Dad agreed, breaking the last of the eggs into the bowl emphatically.

  “Until you took that first shot with a puck,” Perry said ruefully. “Who’d have thought a twerp like you could hit it so hard?” He rubbed the spot on his forehead where he’d needed three stitches. “Too bad your aim didn’t match your strength.”

  “Who said I was shooting at the goal?” I shrugged. “Maybe I hit what I wanted to.”

  “Anyway,” Rick nodded, “you’re a natural.”

  “You don’t belong in figure skating,” Skip urged. “You skate better than most of the guys I know, and you handle a stick as well as Perry. You’d be a star player on any girls’ hockey team.”

  “Yeah,” Perry said, “why don’t you listen to older, wiser heads? You always used to.”

  I rolled my eyes. They keep coming back to my playing hockey like dogs to an old bone—and right now I felt like the old bone itself.

  “I’m not four years old anymore,” I pointed out to them.

  “Yeah,” Rick smirked as he patted me on top of my head, “but you’re always going to be younger and smaller than we are. Face it, Sis. Your big brothers know what’s best for you!”

  “Now, boys, it’s Mia’s choice,” Dad said tactfully.

  “But it’s the wrong one,” Rick insisted, and he jutted out his jaw. Like all my brothers, he got that gesture from Dad. All four of them thrust their jaws out in exactly the same way when they’re determined about something. When Perry and Skip had thrust out their jaws, too, ready to argue, I got ready for another one of our quarrels. I may not have the chin, but I have the same determination.

  Putting his fingers into his mouth, Dad let out a piercing whistle. “Penalty!”

  “But—” Perry began to protest.

  Dad, though, spread his arms and scooped up all three of my brothers, propelling them toward the door. “Clear the junk off the dining-room table so that we can all sit down together for a change.”

  I made the mistake of suggesting, “And don’t forget the settings!”

  “Settings? Well, ain’t we gettin’ fancy?” Skip called from the other room.

  “It’s all those fancy figure skaters she hangs around with,” Rick said.

  Once he was sure that my brothers were clearing the table, Dad came back into the kitchen. “I’ll set the table, honey.” He grabbed some silverware and started taking dishes from the cupboard.

  He looked as tired as Mom. “Let the boys do that,” I said and spanked the air with the spatula. “Just give the dishes to them.”

  Dad returned from the dining room and ran his hand guiltily through his hair. “I know we depend on you a lot, Mia.”

  “That’s because you’re busy working hard for all of us, you and Mom.” I smiled. “Now go on, scoot! Out of my way. I’ll call you when the eggs are finished.”

  Grateful for the calm, I concentrated on the scrambled eggs. I’d been wishing I could do something with my family again, so I told myself not to let them pick a fight with me.

  Dad came back in to help me carry the platters of steaming scrambled eggs and toast into the dining room. My brothers were standing stiffly at attention behind their chairs. “I forgot the jam and butter,” I said.

  “I’ll get them, dear little sister,” Skip said and went into the kitchen.

  Perry pulled out the chair where I usually sat. “Take a load off your feet, Sis,” he said. He is the prankster, so he was the one who had probably come up with this politeness scheme. He instantly corrected himself. “I mean, please have a seat. You must be tired from all your endeavors.”

  I wouldn’t have expected my brothers to be polite any more than I would have expected a cat to sing an aria. I eyed the pair suspiciously. “Just what are you clowns up to?”

  Perry batted his eyelashes in mock surprise. “Why, we’re just trying to treat you like the young lady you are now.”

  “Since hockey’s gotten too rough for you, we’ll try to act as refined as your friends at the Lucerne,” Rick explained with a straight face.

  I half-expected Perry to pull the chair out from under me, but he was the perfect gentleman. And for five minutes, my brothers kept up the charade—all the while wolfing down everything on the table.

  But my patience wore out when Rick picked up his glass of juice and Perry clicked his tongue. “Manners, old bean, manners.”

  “How uncouth of me,” Rick said. “I beg your pardon.” He extended his pinkie finger as if he were sipping tea.

  I had already been feeling different enough without them making fun of me.

  “Stop it!” Exasperated, I threw a half-eaten piece of toast at Rick’s head. He ducked easily from long years of practice.

  “Hey, stop it, all of you!” Mom frowned. “You boys leave your sister alone now. And, Mia please eat your food instead of throwing it at your brothers.”

  But I was fed up with my brothers.

  “I’ll show you who’s gotten soft.” I was so annoyed with them that I didn’t care if the sock I picked up off the floor was clean or dirty. I could always disinfect my hands after I mopped the floor with my brothers. Rolling the sock up, I tossed it up into the air. “I challenge you all to a game of living-room hockey.”

  “No guts, no glory!” Perry said and grinned as they all stood up.

  It was just like the old days when we couldn’t get out to the pond. It was Dad, me, and Perry against Mom, Skip, and Rick. Because Skip wanted to have a turn on the “ice” instead of being confined to a goal, Rick agreed to be the goalie for a change.

  The rink is the living-room carpet, and any objects on it—clothes, shoes, furniture, discarded newspapers—are obstacles around or over which we have to play. Our sticks are the empty cardboard tubes from wrapping paper. Hitting anyone with one of them means a time-out in the kitchen, which serves as our penalty box, but there are no other rules.

  Laughing, we battled back and forth for a few minutes because, although my brothers may be bigger, I am quicker. Finally, I got the sock-puck away from Skip. Not for long, though, because Mom came up on my blind side and snaked her tube in to steal the puck. Mom had the misfortune to grow up with five brothers, so she learned how to play hockey, too, and can handle a stick as well as any of us.

  Dad was our goalie, but Mom faked him out and sent the sock-puck rolling off our end of the rug.

  She gave her victory dance, which involves hopping about and thrusting her tube up like a sword. (Any sportsmanship I possess, I learned from Dad, not Mom.)

  Skip and I faced off, so I decided to unleash my secret weapon. If his real hockey opponents knew his weakness, they’d make goals all the time. Skip is as fearless as anyone, but he has a fatal weakness: He likes to laugh.

  I started to mug, twisting my mouth and nose and eyes into all kinds of weird positions.

  “That’s not fair,” Skip complained, but he started to laugh like he always does. Not your cute chuckle or polite chortle, but a full-bellied guffaw that ranges up and down.

  “Go!” Dad said and threw the puck up in a high arc. It landed between us.

  “Make her stop,” Skip laughed as he held his ribs, unable to move.

  I tapped the puck around some boots and hopped over a hassock, keeping an eye out for Mom. She tried to sneak up on me again but this time I was ready for her, and I slipped around Dad’s easy chair so that it blocked her. And then I was clear, streaking toward Rick and the goal.

  Rick crouched as he moved to intercept me—and fell right into my trap. With one foot, I kicked at the sports pages, which had been left on the floor near a chair. Pieces of newspaper flew into the air like startled pale bats as I hit the sock-puck at the same time. (I warned you that there are no other rules besides not striking someone with a tube!)

  Bewildered, Rick flailed at some basketball player’s photo, then at a picture from a volleyball game and the statistics page while I tapped the sock-puck across their end of the carpet. Score: Even.

  They countered by rolling up two other socks and then all three coming at us, each with a sock-puck. In the confusion, they managed to knock both the real sock-puck and the pair of counterfeits into our goal. They tried to claim three goals, but we argued them down to one—winning the debate by out-shouting them rather than with logic.

  The game went back and forth like that, with neither side asking or giving quarter, and the score remained two to one. From his goal, Rick began a running commentary. If he can’t make it as a pro player, he wants to be a hockey announcer.

  “And now Mia the Mauler has the puck!” Rick said.

  “And now Mia the Mauler has the puck!” Rick said, pretending breathless excitement. “And here come Skip the Rip and Boom-Boom to take it away.” Boom-Boom is the nickname Mom got long ago from my uncles.

  I tried to slip around them, but that brought me right along the edge of the sofa just as the sock-puck rolled underneath it.

  “Out of bounds!” Skip said.

  I got down on my knees and peered under the sofa. “No, it’s still on the carpet.” I tried to knock the sock-puck back into play with my tube. Mom and Skip knelt and jabbed their tubes beneath the sofa, too.

  I finally used my tube like a billiard cue and poked the sock-puck a couple of yards away. We all jumped to our feet and…well, I’m a little hazy about what happened after that.