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A car turned down Joanna Way, its headlights shining through the bay window. The crystal pieces sparkled and the light brushed his body, then disappeared. Bobby watched the car as it drove past their driveway, feeling relieved—and disappointed, too—that it wasn't his father. He crawled to the archway between the living room and the dining room. It felt wrong to
spy
on his mother. In her own house. Still, he sat back against the wall. The next song began.

"
You see this girl
" his mother sang. "
This girl's in love with you
..." Her voice was star ding. Elegant. As elegant as she might look in her most beautiful evening dress. Bold. As bold as she had been some time ago, before this mess had started. "
Yes, I'm in love ... Who looks at you the way I do...
"

Bobby peeked around the wall, through the dining room, into the family room. His mother, as if onstage, swayed to the music, eyes closed, smiling softly, the music climbing to a crescendo, piano keys pounding, Dionne Warwick's voice and his mother's overlapping into one, stretching the final note into one long wail.

The song ended, and another began....

And then another...

Bobby's eyes welled up. Why was this the first time he had heard his mother sing? he wondered. Why had he never seen her dance before?

He thought for a while. Eventually, slowly, it was apparent that something about this made him feel older. He always wanted to act like a man, to be treated like a man, to live in a man's world. But this time, it was too much.

He wasn't ready to see his parents as people. They were his
parents.
But it was now so clear that he didn't know
anything
about his mother. What she thought about, or wanted, or dreamed of. And as he watched his mother in a way he had never done before, he wondered where she
really
wanted to be at that moment. It certainly wasn't in
this
house. On Joanna Way. In Short Hills, New Jersey.

Bobby's eyes clouded. Not much longer after that, he cried. He was confused and scared about his family. And especially his mother. And if it was true about his mother, he realized, it could be true about his father. It was obvious Bobby could only trust what he could control. And he could only control who and what he could trust. The
who
was himself. The
what
was Wrestling.

Bobby stiffened. The music was still playing, his mother still singing. He wiped away the tears, stood up, and walked out of the living room—different from earlier. For the better? He wasn't sure. Did it matter? He was too tired for deeper consideration. His legs plodded up the stairs, heavy. The music faded when he turned the corner at the top of the stairs. He closed his bedroom door.

His world had changed.

The snowflakes pricked Ivan's cheeks, gusting winds rushing one way, then another. He leaned against the shovel handle and looked back. A fresh layer of white had already covered the walkway. His father would be home soon. He would not be pleased.

This'll never get done.
It seemed like everything was that way. Like the application for Western Arizona. Whenever Ivan sat at his desk and tried to finish the dozens of intrusive essays and prying questions, he'd lose interest, thinking about Wrestling, or Shelley, or stocking his hatred of McClellan. There wasn't much more he could write about his mother. Now, he had to pretend to care about school and classes and teachers. He'd write a paragraph, maybe two, then throw down his pen in frustration and mutter, "Screw it, another day won't make a damn bit of difference."

A trickle of sweat ran down his cheek.
At least I'll cut some weight today—

Something hit Ivan. A snowball. His anger sparked.
What the hell?
And he spun around.

"Ha! Surprised you, didn't I?" Shelley shouted.

Ivan mustered a smile, but not much of one. Something was very wrong, he could feel it. Frustration had been building all season. Everyone was pissing him off; everything was pissing him off. Being on a lousy team. McClellan and his ridiculous pep talks. Now Ivan's anger had ignited. There was nothing he could do.

"Saw you from my window," Shelley said. "Thought you could use some company." She scooped snow into her mittens. "I'll get you again, Champ. I don't care how fast you are on a Wrestling mat. You can't duck this." She raised her arm.

Ivan stood motionless.

"I will," Shelley said. "I swear I'll hit you with this." She pulled her arm back. "I got a pretty good arm."

"You'll miss."

"You sure?"

"Sure as McClellan's an asshole."

Shelley looked at him, oddly.

"Come on," Ivan said. "Take your best shot."

Shelley smiled, hesitantly. "Oh, you'll duck. Just when it's coming right at you."

Ivan shook his head. "I won't move."

Shelley packed the snowball, rounding it in her mittens. "Remember when we were little kids and I hit that huge pinecone at the top of the tree behind my house? That was on only my
second
try. Remember?"

Ivan unbuttoned his jacket and dropped it in the snow. He laced his fingers behind his back.

"Like I'm going to be distracted if you take your clothes off," Shelley said. "I've seen you in a singlet dozens of times, Ivan." She smirked. "It's no big deal."

"You
won't
hit me."

"How do you know?"

"I know."

The whipping wind blew beneath Ivan's sweatshirt. He shivered.

Shelley stood, arms at her side. A surge blew open the scarf from her neck. She quickly wrapped it around again. Her skin was red, her eyes slits, her mouth stiff when she spoke.

"Big deal, Champ, you took off your jacket. You still have on a sweatshirt, probably long underwear underneath. A stud would—"

Before she finished, Ivan pulled off his sweatshirt, his chest now bare. Shelley's smile withered as Ivan threw his gloves aside, too.

The frigid cold came at Ivan from every direction, feeling as if it scraped against his puckered skin. His first breath was halted by the spasm of his diaphragm. He fought it. And fought it. And fought it.

Until he simply refused to feel the cold.

Soon, he was breathing calmly, almost comfortably. Again, he clasped his hands behind his back, staring at Shelley.
What the hell am I doing?
He hadn't a clue.

"You're crazy," Shelley said; the lightness in her voice was gone. "God, it's like twenty degrees out here. Colder with the windchill." She shielded her face from another swirl.

"Hit me," Ivan said.

Shelley turned away, then looked back at him, as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing. "Ivan," she said, almost pleading, "it's really very cold."

Ivan didn't flinch. Flakes bounced off his skin, and those that didn't melted in a moment or two. A thin cap of white had settled on his spiked hair.
What's happening to me?
He couldn't control himself. He was trapped in that muscles-flexed, heart-racing, supremely arrogant mode. As if he was about to step out on a mat for a match.

Shelley dropped the snowball. "You win. This is stupid—"

"Try to hit me." Ivan tried to hold back, but his voice was harsh. "You said you could. I'm giving you a chance."

"I don't want to."

"Why not?"

"I came out here to joke around, not watch you undress in a damn snowstorm." She shook her head. "Ivan, what's happened to you lately?"

"Nothing."

Ivan knew he was losing control. It wasn't just this moment. It was pushing Ellison in practice last week. Skipping home ec class the week before. Telling the reporter from the
Daily Record
to screw himself when he asked about last year's state semifinal match. But his mouth wouldn't stop.

"I'm standing here waiting for you to throw a snowball so we can see if you'll hit me in one throw like you said you would but I said you wouldn't."

"Put on your clothes."

"Throw it at me."

"No."

"Pick up the damn snowball!"

Shelley stopped and turned. "I'm going home."

As she plowed through the snowdrifts, Ivan thought—hoped—she might stop and turn around again. But she didn't. She crossed Farmingdale and continued up the driveway.
Please turn around. Please!
Ivan wanted to yell, but his mouth was silent.

The Petersons' front door opened, then closed.

Ivan was suddenly cold.
Friggin" cold.
His teeth chattered; his skin felt as if it were burning. He squinted into another wave of white, searching for his gloves, and his sweatshirt, and his jacket. His diaphragm jerked tight, and he could hardly draw in a breath.

Ivan ran up the front walkway, sliding on the ice-slick porch, his knee slamming into the front door. He fumbled for the doorknob, then stepped inside. The shivering was uncontrollable. He pulled off his shoes, stripped off his jeans, and raced up the staircase.

In his bedroom, Ivan tore through a dresser drawer, pulling out sweatshirts and sweatpants. His chest shook violently as he put on the clothes, then he ran to his closet, grabbed wool blankets, and draped them over his body. He sat against the heater. Utterly embarrassed. Utterly confused.

An hour had passed. Ivan heard the Nova pull up the driveway and, shortly after, his father walking around in the kitchen. He hadn't finished clearing the walkway of snow, and for that, he expected some kind of remark. Maybe something more.

Ivan dropped the blankets off his shoulders. He thought of Shelley.
Why'm I such an asshole?

The telephone rang. Maybe it was her, Ivan thought. He got up and ran to the hallway, grabbing the receiver before his father did.

"Ivan?" said a raspy voice.

"Yeah."

"Coach Riker here. Got a few?" he said. "I'm sure y'all keep getting coaches 'round the country calling day and night. Pain in the rear end, I'll bet."

"No, Coach."

"How's the weather back East? Heard it's downright nasty."

"I'm used to it," Ivan said, watching down the staircase to see if his father was eavesdropping.

Coach Riker let out a hearty laugh. "Well, that dang cold can't last forever, right? We've talked a few times now, and I think it's at a point where we gotta get more serious about our university. Still liking Western Arizona, right?"

"Sure, Coach."

"How's it lookin' for the end of the season?"

"I'm fourteen and O," Ivan said.

"Good, good," Coach Riker said. "I've been talkin' to the 158-pounder over there at Phillipsburg. Undefeated, too. Do some of my best recruiting in Jersey. Don't know if it's the corn y'all grow out there, but Jersey produces Wrestling talent like a dang factory. And I know how good y'all are. Two-time region champ. Third in the state last year. Son, how'd ya'll do in the AAU freestyle championships last August?"

"Won the Eastern region qualifier," Ivan said. "Most valuable wrestler."

"And the nationals?"

"Took a second."
We went over this last time,
Ivan thought.
Why again?

"Good, real good," Coach Riker said. "Well, let's talk a bit about our program. We gotta tough one here. Dang good wrestlers. Cream of the cream. We wrestle teams in the Pac-Ten and make trips back East against Lehigh and Penn State and so on..."

Ivan had heard this all before. Had read it in
Wrestling USA. Just tell me I'll be accepted.

"We're all looking for only the best wrestlers to bring out here," Coach Riker said. "Now, son, I know athletically you can make it. I figure by your sophomore or junior year you'll be an all-American. But..."

But?
Ivan's throat tightened. He held the receiver tighter.

"...we ran into a kinda situation. A snafu, you might call it. Usually we gotta recruit our butts off to get the caliber of wrestler capable of competing with the teams I just mentioned, and do good enough in the classroom. Last year was different. This year, too. We got lots of quality wrestlers—too many—all with decent college boards and grade points. In fact, we got more wrestlers than our allotted scholarship number. Y'all with me?"

"Kind of."

"While it's great for our coaching staff, it's a bit of a problem for y'all. I looked at your transcript..." Papers shuffled in the background. "Son, your grade point just don't cut it. Can't get around it. Know what I mean?"

"I guess," Ivan answered. But that was the sort of candy-ass answer McClellan would give. "No, Coach, I don't know," Ivan said. "Didn't think grades were so important in Wrestling."

Coach Riker didn't laugh this time. "Son, y'all aren't happy, I can hear it. There might be an answer. Y'all sent in your application, right?"

"I'm finishin' it."

"Get that in now. Deadline's coming up. I could pull some strings ... Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves. I might be able to smooth talk the admissions committee. Maybe accept one of our recruits on an academic scholarship. That might open up a final athletic scholarship for y'all. I
might
be able to pull that off. From your end, since it's a bit late to fix your grade point, I figure there's only one thing y'all can do."

Ivan shut his eyes.

"I'm afraid it comes down to this, son. If y'all win the state championship, I'm sure I can convince the committee to accept you. Anything short of that, y'all be passed over. I know, I know, it's a dang slim margin of error—"

"That's crazy," Ivan said. "I'm better than the guys you're recruiting."

"Whoa, hold on now," Coach Riker said. "We got boys with better grades who are dang fine wrestlers."

"But not as good."

"I gotta consider the
entire
wrestler. Whether he can handle the social stuff, the academics, the travel schedule. I won't lie; it'll kick your butt. Does me no good to bring in someone who can't hack it, right?"

"But I shoulda won the states last year."

"Coaches here want you; make no mistake about that. Vail are as good a recruit as we've seen in years. But our hands—my hands—are hog-tied. If you wanna come to Western Arizona, y'all gonna have to win the state championship."