Are you okay? I text Jonah as the newscasters move on to the next horror of the day.
Yeah, Jonah texts back.
Are you sure? The image of Jonah sobbing against his dad haunts me.
I wish I could skate today.
I wish you could too. I miss you.
We’re having a *family discussion* about whether or not I will be returning to school. Mom wants Dad to homeschool me since he turned down the job he interviewed for last week.
My heart clenches. I like having Jonah at school. Noooooo! I need you. You make HS bearable. I love you.
THAT’S VERY SWEET, OLIVIA. MY SON WILL HAVE HIS PHONE RETURNED TO HIM TOMORROW MORNING *IF* HE LOSES THE ATTITUDE AND TALKS TO ME IN A RESPECTFUL TONE. THANK YOU FOR YOUR UNDERSTANDING, JOCELYN CHOI
My face flames, and then I panic. I hope Jonah routinely deletes our texts, especially some of the late-night ones. Oh, God. I will never be able to look Mrs. Choi in the eye again.
“Since the Chois aren’t coming in today, and we don’t have any birthday parties or privates this evening, I say we knock off early.” Mack slides my bedazzled O cup full of water in front of me, and I chug it down. “Granny has community choir practice tonight, so Stu and I are getting Chinese takeout and binge-watching My Ice Life after we get Fi down.”
“Who are you?”
“Shut up.” Mack snaps her cleaning rag at me. “Get your stuff, and I’ll drop you off on my way home. Unless, of course, you want to hang out with Stu and me.”
“Nah, that’s okay. Besides, I’ve got homework.”
“Really? After what happened today?”
“Screw homework, I’ll … I’ll…” I’ll what? All I do is go to school, skate, and hang out with either Mack or Jonah. I don’t have any other hobbies. I don’t have time for other interests. I don’t even stress-bake like Brandon. “I’ll take a long bath and go to bed. Tomorrow has got to be better than today.”
* * *
“Hey, honey. You’re home early,” Mom says from her usual spot on the couch. Wires protrude from underneath her body. The four TENS units we own are attached to her back and hips, sending electrical impulses into her muscles in an attempt to override the pain signals coming from her spine. “How was your day?”
Are you kidding me?!
“Fine,” I say, throwing today’s mail into the huge pile next to the door. A letter with the words Final Notice in bloodred letters falls onto the floor. I snatch it off the ground and add it to the pile that I know already contains warning letters from the electric company and probably the water company too.
“Good. Want some dinner? Karrie put on some rice for us when she dropped me off after my MRI appointment today.”
I hold up the carton of beef and broccoli Mack insisted on buying for me because she thinks I’m getting too bony. I’m getting back into shape. There’s a difference. I’m not too proud to turn down a hot dinner, though.
“Oh, okay. Enjoy it while it’s still hot, then.” Pain crosses Mom’s face as she shifts to be able to see me. “I’ll eat some ochazuke later. The meds they gave me before the MRI today are making me nauseous.”
“So, you didn’t get my texts?” My throat starts closing up again.
“Uh-uh. I left my phone upstairs this morning, and I haven’t been able to go back up and get it. Was it something important? Stuart left a message on our door earlier. It just said to call him. Was there a problem with yesterday’s shooting? Can you call him for me?”
Shooting. If I open my mouth, a sob will come out. And venom. And possibly a long list of four-letter words. I shake my head. I walk upstairs with my beef and broccoli and a gaping hole in my chest.
“Wake me up in an hour or so, and we’ll talk,” Mom calls up the stairs after me.
I don’t answer her.
* * *
When I come out of a long, hot bath an hour later, someone is blowing up my phone. My heart leaps, but then crashes when I realize it isn’t Jonah’s number. It’s Dad’s.
“Oh my God, Olivia,” Dad says. “I just got your text and saw the news report. Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Honey, I am so sorry. I wish I could teleport home right now.”
“I wish you could too.”
“Did you at least talk to your mom about it?”
I talked to a mom today. Does that count?
“Yes,” I decide because Dad has his own stressors with work, all the problems with our rink, Mom’s health issues, and the growing collection-letter pile.
“Okay. Now I feel at least slightly less like a failure.” Dad sounds so defeated and tired.
“You’re not a failure. You’re Olympic Gold Medalist Michael Kennedy.” I make a fake crowd-cheering sound.
Dad chuckles. “I’m calling a Code Peach as soon as I come off the road. You deserve it, and so much more.”
“Yes, I do.”
“So, I hear Stuart finally got off his butt and auditioned for Olympians on Ice.”
I collapse onto my bed and snuggle under the flannel sheets. “Yeah. I think it turned out really well. You’ll have to watch it sometime.”
“I already did. Annabelle emailed it to me early this morning.”
“Aaaaaand?”
“Stuart did a great job.”
“Aaaaaand?”
“I have no idea who that attractive young woman is skating with Stuart.”
“C’mon, Dad, you know it’s me.”
“No, my daughter is five and has curly pigtails.”
“Daaaaad.”
“I know. I’m having a hard time getting my head wrapped around how fast you’re growing up.” I can picture Dad raking his fingers through his receding blond hairline. “And I still hate that costume. Also, Stuart needs to find a new opening pose that does not require his hand to be on your posterior.”
This time I laugh. “Dad, I want to start skating again.”
“Good for you. Go to Ice Dreams and knock yourself out,” Dad says and then corrects himself. “Figuratively speaking, of course.”
“No, like skating skating.”
“Oh.” Dad is quiet for so long that I look at my phone to make sure we haven’t been cut off. “I’m not saying no, but please understand that we—none of us—are where we used to be, physically or financially. I wish we could go back in time and do things differently, but we can’t.”
Tears well up in my eyes as my parents’ harsh criticism comes racing back to me. “I know you don’t think I’m good enough, but I want to try again.”
“What?”
“I’ve changed. I found the missing element. I have passion in my skating now to go with my technique. I’m learning how to work with my new body.”
“Please, Olivia. It’s late. Let’s discuss this when I get home.”
“When will that be?” I say.
“I don’t know.”
“Dad, I really want this.”
“Olivia, honey, be reasonable. It’s too late.”
“For this Olympic cycle, yes. But I’m only sixteen. I can’t be washed-up yet.”