Forget clothes. I would buy groceries. Steak. Broccoli. Strawberries. Bread. Peanut butter. Milk.
I push the clutter piled on the coffee table to the side so I can prop up my swollen feet. A pile of DVDs landslides into the floor. I slap them back onto the table one by one. Several are autographed Olympians on Ice highlight DVDs to be sold online for a little extra cash. One says Olympics on it. My heart clenches. While I’ve been out being a normal teen, Mom has been reliving her teen years. One last DVD peeks out from underneath the table. I place it on top of the others.
Olivia.
Not Olivia and Stuart. Just Olivia. I smile. I wouldn’t mind a trip down memory lane with Baby Olivia, even if she was kind of a pain in the ass. I take the DVD out and spin it around my finger. Is this footage of the little firecracker whose first years as a solo skater could be charitably described as “promising but inconsistent”? At ten years old, the “ice was so ragged” most days that it was Mom who begged Shirley Trout to let Egg skate with me. While the Trouts were traveling most weekends with Scott and Steven’s club football teams, the oldest brother, Patrick, got stuck babysitting thirteen-year-old Egg. No college student wants to be saddled with their mouthy little brother most weekends, so Patrick dropped Egg off every Saturday and Sunday for Open Skate whether he wanted to come or not. At first, Egg straight up mocked me. He and his buddy would skate by me, imitating badly whatever jump I was working on. The only difference: Egg started landing the jumps even as his obnoxious friend continued to hit the ice and then howl with laughter at his stupid joke. Mom noticed. Stupid Friend moved on to tormenting someone else, but Egg started training with two Olympic medalists for free in return for partnering their headstrong daughter. And it worked. I became consistent. Not because I was so awesome, but because I wasn’t about to let some boy show me up.
I clearly have underestimated my parents. I plan to call Dad out on his part of the subterfuge the next time I see him.
I put the DVD in the player and fall back onto the couch with the grace of a ninety-year-old. I hear the crowd first even though the screen is still black. I settle in to watch Baby Olivia do her thing. My breath hitches when it’s my teenage face—not Baby Olivia’s—that suddenly fills the screen. The shot is wobbly, as usual, and vertical. Mom has never been the greatest camerawoman.
“Skate Detroit! Number one!” I squeal and do cheerleader-worthy spirit fingers. I’m still wearing my warm-up outfit, but my hair is up, and I have about four inches of makeup on. Because Alexei’s motto is “Why do, when you can overdo?”
Mom pans around to Dad, who adds his own pep talk. “You and Stuart go out there and show ’em how it’s done. Grab it and growl, tiger.”
I give the camera one last goofy wave before skating off to the prep area. The footage cuts off abruptly and then comes back on. Now Egg and I are in full phoenix mode. Our choreography and music are new, but our costumes are the same. Alexei was pissed—though surprisingly, Mom wasn’t—when the seamstress said she couldn’t get our new costumes made in time for this beginning-of-the-season competition.
Turn it off, my inner voice commands. Turn it off before it’s too late.
It’s like a car wreck. I can’t turn my head even though I know there is carnage waiting on the other side.
“I hate that costume,” Dad mumbles in the background. “It’s too sexy for a sixteen-year-old. Oompf.”
Mom must have elbowed him.
“I hope she can land that triple-double-double,” Dad says like he’s concerned that I can’t.
“Hush, Mike,” Mom says in the background, and I have to agree with her.
Mom pans over to Alexei, who is giving us last-minute instructions before our names are announced.
“We should be over there,” Dad says.
“I know, but Alexei thinks we’re part of the problem. They’re senior level now. We have to completely step away this season and trust Alexei’s coaching.”
Our names echo across the Detroit Skating Club’s rink and the small crowd gives us some polite applause. Egg and I skate out to the middle and take our opening pose. I put on the “sexy face” that Alexei told me I needed for our opening pose. Granola bar almost comes out my nose. It’s one step up from a duck face. It’s not sexy. It’s ridiculous. The music starts mercifully soon after the face. The knot in my stomach releases as the routine progresses on. It’s not great, but it doesn’t completely suck.
“Oooooo, here comes the throw triple lutz. Land it. Land it. Land it. OH! So close,” Dad says from off-screen.
Dad adds color commentary throughout my performance. Our perfectly matched spin combo elicits a squeal from Mom. And then comes the platter lift. We set up for the lift. I grab Egg’s forearms right above his wrists, and he grabs my hip bones. We push off the ice until I am above Egg’s head in a plank, my legs crossed at the ankles. As Egg starts to rotate on the ice, I release his forearms and reach back into a swan dive shape. My heart jumps to my throat as I watch Egg’s back foot hit a rough patch of ice. Thank God, Egg stumbled forward and not backward. Otherwise, I would’ve taken a header into the ice like Mom did. Off-camera, I hear Mom’s scream and the crowd’s gasp as Egg pitches forward. You can see the fear on my face. My ankles flame remembering how hard my blades struck the ice coming down. Egg honors Rule #1. Instead of letting me go and saving himself, he holds me even tighter. I remember the sound of Egg’s shirt ripping under the armpits as his shoulders hyperflexed and nearly dislocated because of me. We wobble and bobble, but Egg holds on to me until we get our blades under us again and finish the routine. Finally, we dip into our final pose, and I make the face again. It looks even worse this time because the pain is shining through.
“She’s okay,” Dad says off-camera, and I hear Mom sniffle.
Mom cheers loudly, the footage bouncing around with her clapping. I wave to the small crowd with a huge fake smile on my face, like my ankles don’t feel like someone has a blowtorch on them. For the first time, I notice Egg’s face. Egg is always pale, but former Junior US Pairs Champion Stuart Trout looks positively green. He waves to the crowd, but he’s not smiling. Egg is not that good of an actor. Finally, the screen goes black even though I can still hear the crowd. I shake my head. This isn’t the first time Mom has shot fascinating footage of the inside of her purse. Before I can peel myself off the couch to pop the DVD out, I hear Mom’s voice again.
“That was scary, Mike. Really scary.”
“Livy looks okay. Stuart, however, I’m not so sure about. Be sure that Mr. Trout and I will be having a word about that drop. And I’ll make damn sure Alexei gives Stuart extra laps for breaking Rule Number One.”
“Honey, he’s rubbing his right shoulder.”
“Okay, he’ll get penalty laps after he checks out clean with Sandy.”
“I hope the judges are merciful this time.”
“That performance … hmmm. In fact, the whole last season … hmmm. Maybe they should have stayed at the junior level another year?”
“You were right, honey. I should’ve never listened to Alexei. They aren’t ready for senior level competition,” Mom says, her voice tight with emotion.