by Kalen, Cat
“You coming over tonight, Rebecca?”
I make the question casual, like it’s no sweat off my back if my best friend can’t come over tonight. Inside my gut twists and rolls with the thought of being alone. She plays with her dyed blonde ponytail, pulling the strands tight to her head to fluff it up higher. She’s not paying attention to me. Rebecca’s one focus is Blair. Blair’s main focus is Rebecca. They make me sick.
“Can’t Linds. I’ve got plans.”
I hate that nickname and no matter how many times I ask her not to call me that she doesn’t listen. She dismisses me with a swish of her ponytail and walks over to plant one on Blair’s lips. I cringe with disgust. For the life of me I can’t understand what she sees in him, besides his muscular body. Muscle or not, he’s not something I’m into.
I re-read the text from my mother and resist the urge to type a pleading note back to her not to spend another night away. Mom’s been at a conference all weekend. I had Friday, Saturday and even Sunday night covered. It’s Monday. She was supposed to come home tonight. Now I’m left scrambling for an excuse to spend the night somewhere else or begging a friend to come to my house for a sleepover. Worse, I have to make my impromptu sleepover sound casual, like it’s an afterthought that me, the so-called perfect girl in this Prep school, wants a friend or better yet friends to spend Monday night at her house. No one has sleepovers on Monday. Even I know that. Thing is, I’m all into bucking the trend. Especially when a friend will keep me safe and they won’t even know it.
Taking the time to look at my reflection staring back at me thanks to my handy-dandy locker mirror I reapply my pink lipstick, add a bit more black eyeliner around my bottom lids and flick my long blonde hair off my shoulders. I look cool and sophisticated thanks to Mother’s recent shopping spree and my practiced ‘I’m fine’ look. I’m totally decked out in designer duds, from my shoes to my new hot purple matching bra and underwear, although no one’s going to see that. It’s the top of the line on this bod. But just once I wish I didn’t feel like trash. They say clothes make the woman. My clothes, like the make-up I carefully apply, are my body armour. They protect me and conceal me. Even my scars—carefully hidden thanks to my long-sleeved sweater. They are my shame. My dirty little secret I can’t tell anyone.
Armed with my new Coach purse, another gift from Mother-dearest, I saunter to class. It would not be cool for me to be late so I never am. Appearances must be maintained and just like my good grades, which are totally expected, I play my part to a T.
The class is totally boring and I can’t absorb one freaking word the teacher is droning on about. Something to do with DNA, mitochondria and cellular fusion. I hate biology. You of course would never know that. My last test was a ninety-eight percent and I participate in class even though inside it kills me.
“Mr. Turner, I didn’t catch the last part of what you were saying, do you mind repeating it?” I make sure to bat my eyelashes at him and throw in a flirty smile. Sometimes using the way I look makes me sick. Not today.
“Sure Lindsay, as I was saying…”
This time I take notes. It helps me concentrate on his class, forcing my mind not to wander into that dark place. An itch starts on both of my wrists but I don’t scratch. Scratching would ruin the plastic surgeon’s work and piss my mother off to no end. My mother and I don’t talk about the “incident”. That’s her word, not mine. I have another word I like to use, but uttering that makes her angry. Trust me, that’s not pretty.
We went from Halifax, Nova Scotia to Mexico, just the two of us, but not once did we talk about anything important. The five and a half hour flight might have never happened. But it did. The “incident” happened and now…now, I am supposedly all better. As if! And like all mistakes, we wiped all memories of it clean from our lives. Well, that’s how Mother viewed it. Me, I’m not so sure.
Now we live in Toronto. To say I hate this place would be an understatement. Gone is my tree. The one tree that grew up with me. Mother planted it in our backyard, blubbering away about “us” making our own memories when my father walked out on us. She never once looked back at that relationship, except to look at me. I should have been the wise one. Make one stupid mistake Lindsay and violà, you’ll get taken away from all you know, including the stupid silly things that shouldn’t matter, but do. Like that tree, which had been on a piece of property in my mother’s family for close to two hundred years. She sold off the acreage to some developer, but not before we trekked an hour back into the bug-infested woods for that damn shrub. Cedar. That’s it. We didn’t think it would survive but that tree did. It grew and grew, so much so, that it became my own special tree. Now, that’s gone. After all the shit that’s happened in my life, I honestly can’t believe I miss that stupid tree.
My mother couldn’t live with the shame of my so-called accident. The reality is she couldn’t live with the gossip and still to this day, a full six months later, she is not interested in learning the truth. I tried to tell her it wasn’t an accident. That didn’t go so well.
“What did he say?”
Without turning my head I answer Megan. She’s sitting next to me, only because she got assigned that seat. Megan, with her mousy-brown hair, is about as boring as you can get. The cosmetic ladies would have a field day with her face. I bet she doesn’t even own lip gloss. I look at her for a good twenty seconds.
Beggars can’t be choosers.
“You doing anything tonight?” I turn my head slightly, giving her a bit of my attention but not all of it. Inside my head I am still going through all my friends, trying to figure out who might say yes to coming to my house tonight. Most of my friends have cheerleading practice on Monday night. Since I couldn’t even try out for the team because of my “weak” wrists lie, I’m not on it. Neither is Megan.
She hasn’t answered me, so I’m forced to look at her. “Megan, you busy tonight?”
She gives me a puzzled expression. “No. Why?”
“Want to come over?”
“Over. Like, as in to your house to do homework or something?” I can’t help notice how her uni-brow furrows in frustration and she’s got a pack of whiteheads on her nose that could seriously use some medication. What she really needs is a good makeover. Oh. My. God. I am a genius.
I move my chair slightly closer to her. “Look, come to my house tonight and we’ll give each other makeovers.”
Her eyes widened and honestly the biggest smile on the planet lights up her face. I feel like a heel. What the hell am I thinking? Oh, I know; I’m not thinking. I’m desperate. I can’t believe Megan is my last hope.
“Sure. That would be great. I can come over for a bit.”
A bit. I need her to commit for the night. “I was thinking…you know, there’s nothing going on…why don’t you spend the night?” I gulp. It’s too late to swallow back the words but I know I have just committed social suicide. For a second I wonder which is worse—home alone or having Megan over.
“A sleepover?”
Thank god she asks the question in her whisper-like voice. “Yeah,” I nod. “A sleepover, that’s a great idea.” I am so royally screwed. I made her think sleeping over at my house was her idea. It’s not, but if it will get her to commit, I don’t care what she thinks.
“You sure?” she asks.
Not really, but I don’t have anyone else to ask and you’re my last hope. I nod, making sure my smile is bright and full, stretched taut across my face. I notice she’s still taking notes. How the hell can she concentrate on this boring stuff when my guts feel like they are being twisted into pretzel shapes?
“Just you and me, tonight at my house for a makeover. Come around six and we’ll have time for a movie later.”
“You sure your parents won’t mind? It being Monday night and all.”
“My mother’s away at some stupid work conference. And my stepfather doesn’t care what I do.” And that’s the truth. He only cares about one thing but that’s not going t
o happen—if she comes over, that is.
“You are so lucky. By the way, I don’t have any make-up to bring.”
“Don’t you worry. I have enough stuff to outfit my own store. When I’m done with you tonight you can take whatever you want home with you.”
“I wish I had your life.”
I gulp. A flash of terror slides through my skin at her words. If she knew my real life, if she knew what went on in the dark, when Mother’s not home, she most certainly would not want my life. I can’t say anything for a full minute. Instead, I start to take notes again. My heart’s hammering away and sweat glides down my new shirt. I’m glad now I put on my sweater.
“You okay?” she asks.
“You bet. Just plotting out in my head what we’re going to do tonight.”
The bell rings. Class is over. I gently close my laptop. No one carries scribblers or school books at this school. It’s high-tech all the way. The sickening part is that with it being mid-morning, religious class is next. I am not one bit Catholic, even though my mother said we were. I fake my way through religious class much like how I pretend being happy. Guess I learned how to lie from a pro. The worse part about my next class is with it being Monday it’s mandatory confessional. Honestly, some of my best lies take place in the privacy of a wooden closet. Just me and the priest, separated by a silly wooden barrier. I should journal some of the “indecent” things I confess. They sound exciting even to me so, I can just imagine the hard-on they give that fat, disgusting priest. If there’s one thing I have learned in the past year it’s how to spot a pervert. Trust me, he’s just like Greg, my stepfather, who ever since I turned fourteen has snuck into my room to show me his idea of loving. The concept of that type of love is not something I want. If that’s loving, I will take hate any day.
I know something the priest and most of my fellow students don’t know. There is no hell in the afterlife. I’ve been there. Died for a good three minutes. I didn’t feel a thing. Only this life is living hell.
“See you at six,” I remind Megan, as we casually join the mass exit from class.
“Can’t wait,” she says.
I can’t help noticing the bounce in her step. It should make me happy. It doesn’t. I don’t even like Megan. She’s a pathetic excuse for protection but she will have to do.
ON THIN ICE
PJ Sharon
Journal Entry,
May 15th
I’m a liar. I know it, I hate it, and I can’t seem to help myself. I feel the lies piling up as if I’m being buried, each one a stone that keeps me pinned in a shallow grave.
God knows I have my reasons for hiding from the truth. Truth is hard and ugly. The lies are easier. As Mom gets sicker, my world grows smaller and the lies grow bigger. The uneven ground beneath my feet leaves me unsteady, and I’m waiting for the earthquake that will disrupt my life and change it forever.
At school, I’m expected to get all A’s. On the ice, I’m expected to pass tests, compete, and win. At home…well, I’m expected to be strong, help out, take charge, and be an inspiration—like one of Mom’s Celine Dion slit-my-wrists songs. If I am “Perfect Penny,” maybe everything will be okay, but I know that I’m lying, even to myself. Because no matter how hard I try, I will never be good enough to change the truth.
Chapter 1
I hit the ice at 8:00 a.m. Monday morning. Summer camp was one more step on the path to Olympic Gold. At least that’s what Mom has been telling me since I was eight. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that we would never have the money it would take to get me to the Olympics no matter how talented I was. I started keeping track of our costs in little journals when I was about ten. After calculating the thousands of dollars my parents had spent over those first few years, it was clear to me that unless we found a wealthy sponsor who saw my potential, the best I could hope for was the ice show circuit or teaching.
That idea didn’t bother me the way it did Mom. I hated competing, but telling her that would have broken her heart. She had such high hopes for me, and with her cancer, I couldn’t let her down. So I worked hard and stuck to the plan.
But plans have a way of changing. I could spin with the best of them, but after my second concussion when I was fourteen, I developed a phobia of axels. I had no trouble with all of the other double jumps, but every time I tried to kick through to come off of that forward outside edge, my body balked. Without a double axel in my program, pursuing a competitive freestyle career was futile. Despite trying every trick in the book, including the use of a jump harness and off-ice training, I was unable to overcome my fear. “Instinctual avoidance” my coach called it. So, Mom got me started ice dancing, hoping I’d have a better chance at landing a partner—a possibility as slim as me escaping the horrors of daily life in the trenches at number four Barrett Street, also known as home sweet home. At least that’s what the sign above the kitchen door said.
A group of girls stood behind me waiting for the Zamboni to finish cleaning the ice. They were townies like me, but much younger, ranging in age from eight to thirteen, girls I helped teach basics to as part of our club’s mentoring program. Chad, a twelve year old boy with a handsome face and short blond hair, stood amongst the girls trying to blend in. I had noticed some hockey players teasing him earlier and saw the hurt in his eyes. Before I’d had a chance to go put the brats in their place, another guy in a hockey uniform had scattered the little beasts with a few choice words. I would have to remember to thank him.
Chad was the token practice partner for the younger group, but none of them would be able to land him as a permanent partner. There were ten girls to every one boy on the ice. It was an unspoken assumption that the boys got their pick of partners, and it only made good sense to choose a rich girl who could pay all of their expenses along the way.
This was clearly the case with our premier ice dance team, Kent and Daphne, who stood off to the side arguing about costumes for the upcoming show. Daphne had her hands on her hips and a look on her face that meant the argument would be short lived, and she would be choosing the colors they would wear.
The lights overhead dimmed and crackled as they pulsed to full force in their effort to warm up in the cold rink. The Zamboni finished its final round. Carl, the Z driver and all around rink rat, jumped off and shoveled the residual pile of slushy snow out the double doors. We had to wait until the doors were closed and the puddles had dried before we opened the gate and took to the ice.
To my left, another group of girls closer to my age crowded in and pressed me up against the boards, subjecting me to their usual rants. The nasally voice of Cassie Phelps grated in my ear.
“This rink is so totally lame. If it weren’t for having the best coach around, I’d be skating up in Simsbury instead of this crappy little town.”
“C’mon, Somerville isn’t that bad—if you like the smell of cow manure,” Portia Whitman chimed in, as she worked her long dark hair into a French braid and shot me a dirty look. I followed her gaze as she glanced up at her bleacher mom who was dressed in a business suit and was busily pecking away at her Android, probably scheduling Portia’s next fitting for a custom skating outfit, and ignoring her daughter’s antisocial snarkiness.
There were several of this type of mom in the stands. Mine was conspicuously absent—just as she had previously been conspicuously present. She took pride in the way she refused to put up with anyone who thought they were better than her because of money. Mom’s bold color choices and her Wal-Mart bargain rack clothes were a dead giveaway that she could care less about fitting in. My heart gave a sad lurch, remembering how proud I was that my mother was so strong and confident and how much had changed in the past few years.
Portia nudged me aside, opening the gate so she could be the first to get on the ice. I competed against Cassie and Portia for a dance partner and I couldn’t stand their superior attitudes, as if money and living in a big house made them better than me. I felt sorry for the unlucky boy tha
t got saddled with either of them. I smiled and nodded, ignoring the jab to my ribs and stepping aside to let the others pass.
It served me best to keep to myself and focus on being the best that I could be—which would likely never be good enough. It wasn’t that I didn’t have talent or didn’t work hard enough, but at seventeen, my window of opportunity was all but closed. I knew I wasn’t cut out for the dog-eat-dog world of competitive skating. In the shark tank of figure skating, I was a guppy.
The early morning fog hanging over the ice dissipated once the dozen or so skaters blasted out a few laps. By the time the music started, I was all warmed up. My blades sang across the ice, cutting a deep edge as I swung my right leg through. I pulled my arms in tight and spun in the opposite direction to complete the twizzle that defined the Argentine Tango. I pushed hard to gain speed out of the turn. With my chin lifted and my head tipped to the right, I looked down my nose at the gracefully extended fingers of my right hand. I finished the third pattern of my dance and ended with a lunge followed by a sharp T-stop as the music ended abruptly.
“That was a mess! You were flat going into the end pattern, and you need to keep those toes pointed with every stroke.” George Stewart was well known for his nationally ranked ice dancing teams—not so much for his patience or tact. Tall and slender, George wore middle age well, always dressed for a camera and ready with a breath mint. His hair was slicked back and dyed a dark brown; his nose was long and prominent. He clapped his hands together on the beat as the music started again. “You’re still off time on the progressive-chasse sequence. Let’s see it again.”
I rested my hands on my thighs, trying to catch my breath. To my eternal regret, I had the stupidity to ask, “Three full patterns?”
He eyed me with the disdain of a man who believed I was a waste of his precious time. “You’ll do it until you get it right.” Thank God, my lesson was only an hour long.