We used to own this same treadmill. Two, in fact. They paid September’s mortgage. Though I’m not supposed to say that. “We’re making room for the Zumba class” was Mom’s official answer.
“Must be nice to have a money tree in your backyard.” Me, jealous? Not at all.
“Tell me about it. I could use one too. Think they’ll let us play with their toys?”
“Maybe.” I look into the barre mirror and refluff my deflated hair. Maybe I should buy some of that Dippity-do stuff.
“If you want to put on some eyeliner before His Royal Highness gets here, I’ll let you borrow mine.”
“Pfft. I’m not putting on eyeliner for some guy.”
“Jonah Choi is not some guy. He’s the guy. He’s like the male version of you.”
“No, he’s not. I’m half Japanese. He’s three-quarters Korean.”
“Not your ancestry, dork. The raw talent that oozes out of your pores. Your obsession with being number one.”
“But I’m not number one.”
“Well, not now, but you were.”
Thanks for plunging that knife deep in my chest, Mack.
“And you could be again if you got off your ass and took it back.” Mack slings her workout bag over her shoulder. “A little something to think about as you do inventory. Well, I gotta get back to the snack bar. The Slushee machine vomited all over your mom this morning. Guess who gets the privilege of taking the damn thing apart and cleaning it out? The things I do for you.”
As Mack walks away, her words reverberate in my head.
If you got off your ass and took it back. But what if it’s too late? What if that was my one shot? What if I’m a has-been at sixteen?
I swing my right leg up onto the barre and fold over until my forehead brushes my shin. Holding on with both hands, I let my leg slide down the barre until I have a line of about 170 degrees. I can’t even blame it on my jeans being too tight, because I’m wearing leggings today. I press into the split until the muscle fibers feel like they are ripping. I get to maybe 175 degrees. Pitiful. And that was my good side. I swing my leg down and walk over to the tiny cleaning cubby in the barre area. I spray the mirrors in front of Jonah’s new state-of-the-art treadmill with Windex and wipe away the sweat splotches that Mack left behind from her workout. I used to dread the five-mile conditioning run Mom made me do every morning when she was my coach. Back when she was still functioning most days. When Egg was here. When I was a competitive skater. When I was #1.
I look in the barre mirror at the girl with the pink-tinged, chopped-off hair and rapidly expanding ass. I have no idea who she is.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket, breaking me out of my trance.
It’s my first ever text from Jonah unless you count the #1 finger emoji he sent me earlier when we swapped numbers after lunch: Need a rain check on our plan. Not skating today.
I text back: Why? Are you dying from Ebola or something?
Nah
Ok
Rain check?
Of course.
“Hey, I fixed the Slushee machine, so I’m knockin’ off early.” Mack interrupts my mirror cleaning. “I want to spend some time with Fiona before I leave for derby training tonight. What time are the Chois coming in? You know your mom doesn’t like you to be here by yourself, especially after dark.”
What am I? Five?
“Soon, I’m sure,” I lie. “It’s fine. I’m sure Fiona is missing her mommy.”
“Yeah. Granny said Fiona cried for a good ten minutes after I left this morning. It breaks my heart. I miss my baby girl.”
Mom texts me while Mack babbles on about Fiona’s new Cheerio habit: Can Mack give you a ride home tonight after the Chois leave? I’m going to bed.
It’s not even 4:00 p.m. Glad Mom misses her baby girl so much.
Sure. See you tomorrow morning. Get some rest.
Thanks, baby. Love you.
You too.
“You should get going” comes out sharper than I mean it to.
It’s not Mack’s fault that Midori Nakashima and Michael Kennedy won’t be winning any gold medals in parenting. I practically push Mack out of the barre area.
“Okay, okay, so you don’t want to hear about the contents of my daughter’s diaper after strained peas. Got it.” Mack punches me lightly in the arm. “See you tomorrow, Liv. And think about what I said.”
I nod. If I open my mouth, I’m going to vomit all my thoughts about being a normal teen all over Mack like our temperamental Slushee machine. Instead, I clean and reclean the mirrors in the barre area until Mack finally leaves.
I don’t want to do my homework. I don’t want to count cups for the snack bar. I don’t want to clean the bathrooms. I don’t want to go home. I throw the cleaning supplies back into the cubby and slam the door closed.
I want to skate with Jonah. Or maybe I just want to skate.
* * *
It’s after nine before I rollerblade home. I’m not quiet when I pass behind the couch Mom is snoring away on. Some sick part of me wishes Mom were waiting up for me, demanding to know where I’ve been and with whom for the last six hours. That she would threaten to ground me for such dangerous behavior. But I don’t have a normal mother. And I am not a normal teen. A normal teen doesn’t bust her ass falling out of a triple salchow, get up, and repeat it twenty-three more times. I pull down the waistband of my leggings. The bruising has already started. The constant bruising high-level skaters have. The bruising that earns you a visit from CPS after a routine visit to the pediatrician. The bruising that is hard for a scared seven-year-old to explain to the CPS lady who makes your parents stay away from you for a little while. The bruising that some sick part of you actually likes because it means your double salchow is about to become a triple salchow if you’ve got the guts to push through the pain. If you get off your ass and take it back.
I open the freezer and pull out a bag of peas. I briefly contemplate eating them, but my hip needs them more. I open up the refrigerator. I can’t make much with ketchup, soy sauce, bottled water, butter, and moldy tortillas. I grab an apple out of the fruit bowl and cram it in my mouth like a stuffed pig. I drop a second and third apple in my backpack. Lunch for tomorrow. Done.
My muscles scream as I climb the stairs. A thirty-minute shower doesn’t even make a dent in the pain signals flooding my brain. For a hot second, I contemplate sneaking downstairs and swiping one of Mom’s muscle relaxers. But one, it would require me to climb the stairs a second time. And two, it would probably make me comatose for the next sixteen hours, and school starts in less than nine. Instead, I rub Tiger Balm into my skin and hope it will appease—or even better, smother—the demons who keep telling me I can’t skate. I hobble to my bed and snuggle down with the bag of half-frozen peas. Just like the old days. Now, this is Olivia Kennedy. This is my normal.
Chapter 7
“Put your hands together for OH-LIV-I-AAA ‘TRIPLE AX-KILL’ KENNNEDYYYYYY,” Mack announces my arrival to Ice Dreams on Wednesday afternoon.
I swap my in-lines for Chucks without a word. Mack takes my silence as commentary on her name choice.
“Liv and Let Die? Livin’ on a Prayer? C’mon, Kennedy, work with me here.”