Eclipse
Moment in the dark
Quietly few minutes pass
Visible as dew.
I wish
It is all around us
They call it biology
How I wish it wasn’t!
They say that if you want something hard enough, and wait long enough, it might as well appear at your doorstep. Except I didn’t wait and didn’t want for Coach Murray to show up at our front porch. And I certainly didn’t expect it.
She was a delicate spare woman in her forties, with her light auburn hair tied in a messy bun at the side of her head. It reminded me of rotten peaches.
I peered in the eye hole as she rang our doorbell. I pretended not to hear as the woman pressed her manicured finger against the button once again, more persistently this time.
“Margaret, is that the door?” My mother shouted from the kitchen, as if she couldn’t tell. When I ignored her, the bell rang again, as the bells inside me began to slowly die.
“Honey, who is it?” She calls again over the sound of rushing water from the sink.
“Just the UPS man, ma!” I yelled back, wishing the darn woman would shut up and go away. “He brought a package, but it turns out it isn’t for us.”
“Margaret?” The door creaked open.
I slowly turned around, immediately hoping I hadn’t. My father stood in the doorway, and beside him stood Coach Murray. She was wearing bright orange slacks and a mahogany sweatshirt which clearly indicated she was either colorblind or just a very busy woman. When she saw me, her face stretched in a synthetic smile, which made me think of the clowns that I liked to watch at the town circus.
“Margaret! How pleasant it is to see you!” Without a second notice, she marched into the vestibule, thrust her jacket onto the rack, and proceeded into the living room. I sighed and followed her, as my father motioned.
My mother made green tea, from fresh jasmine leaves and leftover cinnamon. It’s my favorite. I drink it in the morning sometimes, and when I have a headache, it makes my head lighten. The soothing smell tickled my nostrils as my parents and Coach Murray were engrossed in a conversation. She unzipped her purse and dug out a patch of papers. It was probably just useless advertisement pamphlets, but I knew that was a lie. Sometimes, the only way to feel better was to hide the truth. Not only from others, but from yourself, as well.
“At ISCC‚ we maintain perfect conditions for training, and provide a healthy and socially safe environment.” Coach Murray was saying.
My parents sat there mesmerized, hanging on to every word she said. My father even took out his planner and scribbled important numbers and names occasionally.
The woman, who introduced herself as Sarah Murray, took a bite of another Polish pierogi and continued. “She will train five hours a day, be provided with two-course meals of her choice, and have the supervision of the top quality coaches available.”
My mother’s eyes widened as she named the cost, and my dad just wrote everything down silently.
“Of course, not only will she practice for a course of five hours, but we also encourage additional warm-up. That includes running, flexibility, and choreography classes. Of course, everything will take place in our fine facility.”
My parents exchanged glances. “This would mean Margaret would have to switch schools and leave her current coach.” My father pointed out. He was always the one protective of the choices.
“Well,” Coach Murray took a loud sip of her tea. Clearly no one taught her how to handle Japanese china. “That wouldn’t be a problem. Margaret would fit in perfectly in Simsbury High.”
“Is it worth it?” I thought I heard doubt in my mother’s voice, but it was only my imagination. She asked only because she had to, as a mother.
“Of course. We train only the champions,” Coach Murray said with a little laugh, as if it was the obvious thing ever.
As much as I hated to know the truth, I knew it was coming.
My parents wanted make me a champion figure skater.
When I was eight I had a best friend called Lisa Friedman. I still remember; she had dark wispy bangs that were so long, that sometimes when the wind blew, you couldn’t see half of her face. She collected rocks because she had said they were dead only on the outside. When it snowed, we would wrap ourselves in warm clothes and run outside, to catch snowflakes with our tongues.
At that time, she was my escape from pressure. When I was with her, I didn’t have to worry about pulling in tighter on my double loop or not traveling during my camel. It was easier to forget about my second life, a cold life I lived on ice. Lisa didn’t care about my figure skating, and never questioned me about it. For once in my life, I felt as light and carefree as a feather.
At the night of our fourth grade concert, Lisa invited me for a sleepover at her house. We’d make brownies and watch movies in the dark until our eyes slurred with sleep. I was thrilled to go, anticipating watching a new flick while eating chocolate chunk ice cream. I’d never gone to sleepovers before, and I didn’t have friends that would invite me.
Excited, I ran to my mother at the end of the concert, and asked her if I could come over to Lisa’s. I told her about the brownies and the new TV show.
My mom made an apologetic face, and her eyes clouded with something I couldn’t quite understand. Pity? Or maybe even regret?
“Maybe some other time.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.
“But ma,” I pleaded, “Tomorrow is Saturday.”
“I am sure your sleepover can wait. You’ve got practice tomorrow at seven.”
Of course. Tomorrow, like at any other day except Sunday, I have to be at Newport Arena in the morning to train. Tracy, my coach, didn’t like to wait, and expected me to be present every day for the upcoming sectionals.
“Go tell Lisa you won’t be able to make it. You know what’s best for you.”
If words could make you hate yourself, I was my worst enemy. I hated myself for not being able to play with Lisa whenever I wanted. Especially I hated myself for doing so badly in class because I didn’t have the time to learn. Skating was my oxygen and my purpose. Skating was what made me turn to Lisa’s freckled face, and confess that I couldn’t be there to make brownies with her.
Two days later, Lisa died.
When I came home from school, I swung my bag on the floor and opened the fridge. The only thing I ate during lunch was lettuce salad and a cup of orange juice. If I was going on ice now, I’d have to eat something or else I’d surely collapse of starvation once I reached the rink.
The only edible substance we had besides yogurt and an endless supply of fruit was canned tuna, which I hated but ate anyway for the sake of it. As I wrinkled my nose at the pungent meaty smell, I heard my mother typing on her laptop. She was in the dining room, and surprisingly early from work. I took a reluctant bite of my lopsided tuna sandwich, and rushed to make sure I haven’t forgotten to pack anything I needed in my skating bag. Just then I peered over my mother’s shoulder to read bright-multicolored words “Custom-made Quality Costume Apparel”. I wasn’t sure about the quality part, but they were definitely costumes—all the dresses shown were embellished with intricate sequins and decorative floral designs.
“Ma, sectionals aren’t until in three months,” I reminded her gently.
“Well, it’s never to early to look for a beautiful set of dresses for you, isn’t it?” she grinned, “You’d look lovely in this design.”
She motioned at a turquoise dress with a flairy double-layer skirt. It had a disgustingly thick turtleneck and a sparkly bodice.
“Yes, I would,” I said and nodded in agreement, knowing it was what she expected me to say.
Lisa Friedman wasn’t really dead. Not physically, at least. But something inside her had died. The Lisa I knew had vanished, leaving behind an empty shell of wide blue eyes and freckles that reminded me of summer.
At the hospital I learned that she had first-degree amnesia and chronic schizophrenia. After school ended that evening, Lisa and a couple of her friends went sledding. She invited me to go, too, but I couldn’t afford to miss my figure skating session. The nurse at the reception told me that Lisa damaged her head when she was going down the hill. The temperature was so low that day that the snow was slippery, which caused Lisa’s sled to ride into the creek nearby. When the sled collapsed, she hit her head against the hard two feet deep sheet of ice. This caused damage to her nervous system and formed a tumor in her head.
I didn’t believe the nurse. If I was there, could I have prevented the accident? Feeling sick to the stomach, I opened the door to Lisa’s room. The hospital smelled of disinfectant and chlorine. I wanted to gag. Then, I saw her. Lisa was sitting on the edge of the bed, flipping through a photo album. I couldn’t say anything. She tilted her head and looked straight at me with her ice blue eyes. Nothing about her changed, except the bandage above her right ear. Her cheeks, which were usually a bright cheerful shade of pink, were white and bony.
“Lisa,” I whispered.
She lifted her eyes again. They were as blue as the ocean, as blue as the sky on a clear day.
“Who are you?” she asked.
A familiar breeze of frosted air melted against my cheeks. When I exhaled air, I could see my breath as if it were a cloud.
If you are a figure skater, you’ll know that the chill of anticipation that runs through your spine as you are about to step on ice is even more meaningful than the feeling you get when you’re already out there, practicing. That is because at the beginning, you can screenwrite the what will happen next. A practice is only worthwhile if you make it worthwhile from the very beginning. Once your blade invades the ice, you should know what you want from it. Not only does a figure skater have the abilities of an athlete, but the mentality of a psychologist!
Tracy Donell, my coach, follows that philosophy as if it was the Holy Bible. “Margaret, that axel – once you get over that mental state, you’ll nail it!” “If you just stop worrying about the arms, the position will come naturally!” Throughout our five years together, I don’t know which I’ve heard more – ‘practice’ or ‘think’.
All I’m thinking of right now is for Tracy to stop lecturing me and let me work on my program. We choreographed it together, but she always scolds me for improvisation; I just can’t help adding an extra arm movement here and a new step there each time.
Gingerly I take a few strokes forward and check my arms for a double flip. Turn. Check. Pick. Jump. I feel myself tighten in the air as my toe pick comes in contact with the ice after what I thought were two solid rotations. A second later, I am sprawled on the ice, my bare hands turning to ice as they collide with the surface. Crap. I forgot my gloves. I can’t feel my palms, and my feet seem to weigh a thousand pounds. What happened there? I was so sure of the landing, but I slipped. And the rotation seemed so secure!
“Ice is slippery,” Tracy joked, “Do it again.” I am not in the mood for jokes. I turned around and executed the same pattern as before, only with a bit more aggression. Turn. Check. Pick. Jump.There I was again, successfully landed on my butt. What is wrong with me? I skated past Tracy, not noticing and not caring what she had said. I did it again. And again. Collapsing both times, as if I was a beginner. I picked myself up, my face flaming and my fingers prickling from the feel of ice, but it did not matter. I jumped a hundred more times – and if I jumped a hundred more, I’d fall on those, too.
“I…can’t do this,” I panted, brushing a strand of hair from my ice. Even though there was no one on ice except us, I couldn’t help feeling humiliated for failing to do something as basic as a double flip. I didn’t know who I felt humiliated in front of – Tracy, or myself.
“Margret,” My coach said. Her tone hit a solemn note. “Relax. Maybe today just isn’t a good day.”
My entire body ached, I was guaranteed a generous amount of blisters on my knees. That doesn’t hurt though. Falling doesn’t. Not as much as knowing I will fall, anyway.
“Why don’t you take a break? Come back to jump training in a little while.” There is no such thing as break for Tracy Donnell. Break means to skate a run-through of my programs, but without the difficult jumps.
“Fine,” I told her. I wasn’t at all shocked at how angst my voice sounds. That’s not very shocking when inside, I am screaming.
I glide to the center of the ice, my skin still bristling with frustration. Or was it disappointment? I slumped my shoulders as my mind continued to replay my failure, as if it was an old film recorder.
Suddenly, I hear a gentle note. It echoes along the walls of the empty rink, and, oh, what a wonderful echo it is. The sweet melody fills my ears, my mind, my soul, and I could no longer breathe. I began to skate, completing the very first step sequence. It’s not a sequence to me, though, it’s instinctive, like breathing. Every note of the music, every sound and pause that I hear, I link with a movement. I tell a story all to myself. The only thing I feel is my heart pounding softly in my head, and the contented feel of the pattern my blade carves on the ice. I am the artist here, and the ice is my canvas. I am beautiful. I am majestic. I can do anything.
As the last notes of Rachmaninoff fade into the air, I stretch out my leg behind me, with my other leg extended in front of me, and my toe pointed elegantly, like a swan. With all the grace in the world, I crane my neck to the right and stand up straight.
Tracy just stands there. She doesn’t smile or nod, or bob her head slightly as a sign of approval. She simply stares and says nothing. Was I really that horrible? Maybe I could have not slurred the ending of the double salchow, but there wasn’t anything else wrong. Was there?
“Margaret,” Tracy whispered, “That was beautiful.” I am dumbfounded. I could tell from the tone in her voice and the light in her eyes that she was telling the truth. And for once, I wanted to be good enough to believe her.
I subconsciously notice a second figure standing behind the glass beside my coach. The red sweatshirt, the expensive sweatpants and short chestnut hairdo – it was no one other than Coach Sarah Murray, one of the staff from the slave-center called ISCC.
***
It was a typical public session, one that was swarming with people like a beehive with bees. As much as I wanted to pass on this, I took responsibility in giving Learn to Skate to a bunch of little five year olds. Anyone below that age I could not tolerate, because frankly I am little bit allergic to small people. Don’t get me wrong, I love kids. I just don’t love cleaning up all the mess after them, or listening to their selfish wants.
Here I am, little Christina clutching my hand, and giggling as if I was tickling her. A giggling little kid is even worse than a scared one. Because at least you can talk a scared kid into learning something, but a giggling kid will just laugh hysterically at everything you show and say. Oh well. The parents paid, I gotta do this job. And it’s not that big of a payment too—only $16 dollars per hour. That’s, like, enough to buy a pair of gloves. I took a stroke and stirred.
“Okay Christina,” I bend down to the little girl, “This is how you do swizzles.”
I showed her, my blades smooth and natural on the freshly paved ice.
“What?” she said, as she did a swizzle, “Do a spinny thing!”
If I knew what a spinny thing was, by any means, I do it.
She looked at my expression and decided there was a need to clarify, “Do a leap.”
A leap. God. What do they teach to children nowadays? That us skaters to leaps and tricks? What’s next, cartwheels?
“Sure, I’ll do a leap.” I thought. If the guards don’t kick me out. This little girl was getting on my nerves, big time.
Wary of the crowd, I did a self-conscious double salchow. Ooops, didn’t mean to do that, but who said it wasn’t a good sign? Doubles are meant to come as easily to Intermediate skaters as breathing. It’s not like I’m showing off or anything.
“Sweet! Do it again! Again!” Christina pleaded.
Then, I saw something, someone, I did not expect. I tripped on my own skates, and stared, gobsmacked. It was her.
Now this was one of the least likely places where I’d expect to see Lisa Friedman.
She has hemophilia.
I even rubbed my eyes to make sure I wasn’t imagining things.
Surely, there has to be some mistake.
Maybe it wasn’t really Lisa… Just some girl that has the same dazzling blue eyes …and the same high cheekbones and dark flowing locks covering her eyes.
Oh, who am I kidding?
It was her, alright.
Lisa Friedman, happy, and on a pair of razor-sharp blades. I didn’t even notice that she was pretty good. All that was racing through my mind were two options.
I either get her out of here, or ignore her and feel guilty for the rest of my life when the white ambulance truck comes to carry her away.
Stop thinking dark thoughts!
Abandoning little Christina in the hockey circle, I followed Lisa—or the one whom I thought was Lisa—around the rink. She seemed completely carefree.
Just then, she reached up to grab her blade, in attempt to do what I thought resembled a catch-foot spiral. Or as my coach likes to call it, “Wannabe Biellmann” (a pun for the people who are not flexible enough, so they do catch-foots instead of the real thing.)
Now she was gliding with her leg extending behind her, in a crooked forty five degree angle.
Crap. She was completely insane. She had to be. Now she was…
Oh no, oh no, no, no, no—
My heart skipped a beat as Lisa let go of her blade, and the toepick of her skating leg stirred into the ice.
She collapsed, hard. It must have taken a second; to me it seemed eternity.
Not catching the breath I needed, I skated faster than I have ever skated in my life to reach her in time.
“Lisa?” I panted as I kneeled down and extended my hand to her.
She did not respond. Was that foam I saw at her mouth? Or blood? Oh God. Not blood, I can’t stand blood. She must have a concussion of some sort. Should I call the hospital?
“Lisa!” I gasped. My voice trembled by now.
“What?” came a weak reply. I helped her to her feet, feeling she would fall again at any moment. Then I dragged her over to the sideboards like dead weight, or a sack of potatoes.
“Are you okay?” I asked sternly, gazing into her eyes. What I was thinking was: Are you crazy? There was something dark red and gauzy under her nose, and blood it was. It was barely flowing – the rink’s negative-something degrees centigrade did the job. But nevertheless, Lisa’s eyes were distant.
I helped her off the ice, and we entered the rink’s lobby. I ordered two cups of coffee and got Lisa tissues. Were people staring? I suddenly wondered. You bet they were.
As she wiped the blood from her nose, I turned away. I may be pompous, but it was simply disgusting.
“Lisa, are you okay?” I asked her. Other than the nosebleed, she seemed alright.
She looked at me incredulously, and then nodded. Oh please. She was acting as if she had not recognized me. Well, she didn’t, not as me, at least. For all she knew, I was just her classmate.
“Why are your eyes so sad?”
“What do you mean?” I blinked.
“I meant what I said,” she replied and tilted up her head, so the blood would go back in her nostril. Um, ew?
Whatever, I am not sad.
“Where are your parents?” I changed the topic.
She squirmed under my gaze. I could hear Christina calling me in the background. Oh, who cares about Christina.
“They…er…thing is, they don’t exactly know I am here,” she said finally. Just as I expected.
An awkward silence lengthened between us. My mouth was dry. I had no idea how to talk to an old friend. A lost friend. Every memory we shared, every laugh and joke, came rushing into my mind, clogging my thoughts.
“How will you be getting home?” I asked finally.
“I have a bike.”
Suddenly, I had to ask her the question that has lingered on my mind since the second I saw her.
“Why did you come here, to skate?” I couldn’t conjure up any reason for Lisa wanting to come here on her free will, no matter how hard I thought.
“Because,” she told me earnestly, “I love it.”
I had never, never in my ten-year coaching expertise, seen a skater skate to the music as well as that. Margaret Kutyla hadn’t missed a single beat of the music. It’s as if I have seen the Rachmaninoff sonata in a whole new light. Watching this girl skate was like coming out of a choreography hell into a breath of fresh air.
Just wow.
I mean, yeah, she had a few glitches here and there. But that is natural for all skaters, especially in jumps. When Margaret Kutyla skates, it is almost like magic is taking over your soul.
As I watch her, this young fifteen year old in her plain practice dress, I think of my own skater, Lin.
Lin is everything you can ask for as a skating coach. She is only thirteen years of age, and can be already considered a prodigy. Three clean triples, extraordinary quality of skating, quick lithe movements… A perfect figurine of a parents’ and a coaches’ dream.
Surely, Lin is better than this Margaret. With that shaky double salchow landing, I doubt she can even land one triple.
Surely.
I even laughed a little.
The girl’s coach, Mrs. Donnell, turned to look at me, and I stifled it into a cough.
The girl—Margaret—left the ice as gracefully as she had entered.
Ha, she’s not even as skinny as Lin. Not that that matters in skating. But nevertheless, she is. She probably eats a lot of junk food. ISCC’s special program wouldn’t be right for her.
She is just definitely not skater-skinny. She’s normal, but not by skating standards.
Her coach told her something, and she made a face. She noticed me standing there, assessing her. I wondered if she had a good mental state, one suited for a competitive skater. She glided on ice again, with the lightness of a feather. She’s too fat, I thought mechanically.
Then, the thought evaporated as I watched the effortless spread eagle into a double axel. Even though it wasn’t that giant of a jump, it seemed as if gravity didn’t exist for Margaret Kutyla. No triple of Lin’s could possibly match her lightness.
She smiled as she landed, clearly pleased with herself. As she glanced at me, I noticed a small frown cross her face, which disappeared as quickly as morning dew.
She’s it, I thought, he’s it.
What the hell does she want now?
I can feel my skin bristle. I mean, first she barges into my house, and now she is lurking around my rink as well?
I have my limits, woman!
This Coach Murray just can’t seem to leave me and everyone around me alone. I am suddenly some sort of ISCC magnet, or a coach magnet. Or worse, spectator magnet. And that is most annoying, because when I know someone is watching my every motion, it becomes difficult to keep my concentration clear.
I skated off the ice, worried with the first half of my practice, satisfied with the middle, and annoyed with the last.
Coach Murray was right outside the gate, beaming. I noticed her eyes for the first time. Unreadable, green, greedy.
“Hello, Margaret darling,” she said. I flinched at the way she said darling. “I watched you skate.”
“Huh,” I nodded, indifferent.
“Don’t twist your shoulder so much on the double flip, and…” she paused.
“And what?” I asked. “What?” What was I doing wrong?
“Ah, suddenly interested, are we?” A triumphant look crossed her face, “Alright, so what you are doing is turning your shoulders too much because you are leaning into the circle. You are using your shoulders more than hips for rotation. That is a very bad habit. Your single flips looked effortless, but this double just seems to be mentally instable.”
I see it now. I was so preoccupied with being perfect that I lost my concentration on everything else.
“Oh.” Thanks, I thought, but did not want to say it.
“Would you like a Pop Tart?” She was holding a delicious looking cinnamon pastry. Strawberry, too.
“What?” I hesitated.
“A Pop Tart.”
If I take one, Tracy Donnell will personally snatch it out, slap my hand, and make me wish that I had never done so in the first place.
“No thank you, I don’t want any,” I lied.
With a look of surprise, she shrugged, popped the frosted Kellogg’s in her mouth, and started talking to my coach. I followed them to the lobby, deeply breathing in the heavenly scent of strawberry as I walked. It didn’t last long.
I didn’t notice the boy at first, perhaps because I did not want to notice him. Everything about him, from his laid-back hair (which reminded me of the head an uncombed poodle) to his crooked nose that was buried in his math textbook, repulsed me. He was wearing a striped polo shirt and a pair of cargo pants, very plain and perfect combination, as if his own mother had picked it out. Some people actually look cool when they slouch, but this boy wasn’t one of them.
Tracy, Coach Murray, and I sat down on a table opposite of the strange boy. Then the stack of papers loaded in front of the boy flocked into dozens of paper birds and scattered onto the floor. He bolted to the floor to pick them all up. Wow, there must have been millions of papers, now scattered all over the café tiles.
I bent down to pick up a sheet that landed near my feet. Out of pity, of course. Formulas, like thousands of connect-the-dot puzzles, swam in front of my eyes. Was this kid smart or something?
I lifted my eyes as I stood up to hand him the paper –
“Oh,” I gasped as our heads collided.
His eyes.
The boy’s long messy bangs moved away from his eyes, clearing his entire face, and I could see them perfectly now. His eyes were so blue that you would think someone drained the entire sea into them. The boy’s entire face was glowing, maybe. Wow.
“Uh, can I have my paper back?”
I tore my gaze away from the boy’s eyes and quickly gave him back his paper, mumbling something. Awkward. But I love talking. Plus, who cares about what color his eyes are? I dragged my glance away from the boy and turned to sit back in my chair, but all I could see were a pair of azure eyes.
Then my hands scraped against the rubbery granite.
Yuck, filthy linoleum, was my first thought; my skating dress!
My second thought: Damn, why is this happening again? This is so not my day. Or maybe it is my day, but it was ruined by an idiot coach and an idiot of a boy.
I scrambled quickly to my feet under Tracy’s incredulous gaze. That’s when Coach Murray put her hand tenderly on the boy’s shoulder.
“Meet my son, Adam.”
My jaw dropped.
“He’s usually there when I am giving lessons; I’m sure you guys will be good friends.”
“Why can’t he do homework at home?” Tracy asked.
Coach Murray paused before giving an answer. The pause was not a pleasant kind of pause. “His room is being refurnished and it’s not comfortable enough for any sort of work while the carpenters are there.”
Adam nodded timidly, a sort of a signal; yes, indeed.
If Adam’s room is being refurnished, why can’t he work in the living room? Or any other room for that matter?
I shrugged.
In an instance, Adam’s nose was buried, once again, in the thick realms of his Calculus book. My nose was buried in my platter of salad, because there’s nothing I wanted more than to hide. From all of them. Just once. Is it possible? I wondered some more.
It was.
***
Why do people cry?
We had a Christmas party once, way back when I was still tying my shoes with the effort of a coal miner and picking my nose when I thought no one was looking (shush, don’t tell my mother!). Santa Claus himself came to our daycare center, with his fat belly and synthetic beard, giving out identical goodie bags to every one of us. (The goodie bags where actually bought by our parents from the daycare PTO, but of course us kids knew little of that). We were all standing in a circle, smelling each other’s anticipation in the air. Happy times, they were.
All so happy, while Santa passed out packages in pretty wrap. Finally my turn came, and I grabbed my package with my little hands, in ignorant delight. I liked packages, I liked surprises. I teared off the wrapping paper with one motion. Then, I was dumbfounded. My eyes flashed furiously.
Colored pencils?
Yes, I was standing there, staring at a compact set of dazzling Rainbow Brights! with an unseeing expression. In the corner of my eyes I could see my friends unwrapping their glazed sugar cookies and chocolates in identical wraps.
I was the only one who got the pencils. Everyone else got candy.
I was struck.
Then tears rolled and rolled out of my eyes, softly at first, but then faster and faster and with more uncontrollable force. When I left the room, I found my mother’s embrace without searching. She was there for me, surprised at my tears. I sobbed even louder at her unknowing face.
“Everyone got candy—I got stupid pencils! Santa is an idiot!” I accused mercilessly. My mom’s eyes softened. Huh? Her face was so kind that it was making me mad. Mad, mad, mad. Why didn’t I get some candy like all the other kids? Was it because candy is bad for me because good figure skaters, like my mom, have to be tiny and skinny?
I scowled up at her, but my mom smiled.
“Open it,” she motioned at the box of pencils trembling in my hands. Downheartedly I ripped off the side of the box, and took out one pencil. Wait, it wasn’t a pencil. It was chocolate candy wrapped as pencils! Uh—wow! They were delicious! The tender milk chocolate melted on my tongue. It tasted like the lobby my mother’s work; coffee? It tasted like home, too.
“Ma, I am sorry,” I manage to say. She whispers back that it’s okay. She hugs me tightly.
Then I start crying all over again.
Why do people cry?
***
I wasn’t getting anywhere. Scratch that actually, I mean, I was—I was getting tried, soaked, and very hungry. It was dark, cold, and my brand new Pumas were soaked with wet soil. It had been raining. I didn’t have an umbrella. Twilight was approaching as softly as fog clouded my eyes. I possessed a map, forty-five dollars in cash, and a half eaten apple. You can buy a sweatshirt for that amount of money, but can you get around a city? Better yet, where was the city? The street was a hollow shell; the only movement was the sunset sparkling in the fresh puddles.
Plop. Plop. Puddles all around.
Patches of my hair clung to my face, and my Aero sweatshirt was like a sopped rug filled with water. Just perfect.
I wonder, are you happy now, mother? Just like the Michelle Branch song. (Except in the song, everything turns out okay.) Am I happy now?
Is my mother searching for me? Or might she be so mad at me she doesn’t give a damn what happens to me?
Searching. I hope she is not crying anymore, oh I hope so.
Just then, out of nowhere, a hand grabbed my shoulder. I had good reflexes, I instantly jolted away from whatever pulled me, before it could affect me full force. I was pushing my luck; I backed into another figure, masked heavily by the darkness.
Should I scream for help? The street is bound to have a house with open windows, an attentive cashier in front of a store counter. Bound to have hope.
Before I could open my mouth to scream, a pair of large chocolate eyes dimmed my rush of adrenaline, just for a moment. It was a young man, almost a boy, much older than me, maybe around twenty. His face had the most arrogant features I have ever seen. Even in the darkness of the evening, the lights visibly illuminated his scowl.
Those couple of seconds I spent on taking a look at his face cost me my chance of escape. Now I was surrounded by three, or maybe four people. They wore raincoats. A stench of tobacco and alcohol skimmed through the air and into my lungs.
One of the guys whistled, the one with the brown eyes, as he loosened his grip on me, “Little spoiled rich girl running away from home, no?”
Spoiled?! That jerk!
“Let me go,” I said. My hand slipped into my bag, and I offered him my wallet, “Here, just take it. I’ll go now.”
Smooth, Margaret. Couldn’t I find something a bit more pizzazz?! He took the wallet and tossed it back at me.
“I don’t want your money,” he laughed.
My exit was blocked once again. “Not so fast!” another voice interrupted. It was hoarse from smoking. I noticed all of the guys were a little tipsy as well. All, except one. He was distanced from the group, hidden in the shadows. His silhouette was slumped, but he stood completely still, as if transfixed.
“Let’s get a good look at your face!” the dark eyed boy said again, this time I could notice how he slurred nearly every word ending. He pulled me by the hand, closer to the light of the street lamp.
“She’s pretty!” he said thoughtfully, “Why don’t you give on of us a kiss? On the cheek? Come on! It’s okay, we don’t bite! My name is Max, what’s yours?”
Man, he was drunk. And that was good.
“None of your business!” I snapped and punched him as hard as I could in the abdomen, and as I took advantage of the shock effect, he received another blow in the face. Before he could gather his thoughts together, I kicked the guy closest to me in the groin and he yowled in pain. Au revoir, you losers.
Just then, the brown-eyed guy scrambled to his feet and pushed me, hard, that I lost my balanced and fell to my knees. Now my favorite jeans (from Armani) are covered in muck, and my pride is in very similar situation.
“You little skank,” he said, “What’s your freaking problem?”
“Yeah,” the other one added, “We’re just trying to be friendly.”
One of them stepped toward me, and I kicked him hard in the leg, causing him to loose balance. Seeing this, I rose quickly and kicked him in the shin, and his grasps his knee. His glare at me is confused. Almost pitiful.
“You little piece of—“ the other guy said, but he was rocking on his feet, and his eyes were blurry. I pushed him, hoping he would fall down too, but he turned out to be sturdier than the other one. He grabbed my shoulders, trying to retrieve his balance, and shook me from side to side.
“Are you crazy?” he yelled at me. My ears hurt. My eyes teared from the horrible smell of nicotine and tar. Like in a dream, another figure emerged, and pushed him away. It was a strong blow. The figure was from the shadows. His breath was clean, minty, unlike the others. He neared toward me, and because he wasn’t expecting it, I punched him in the eye and ran.
After running several blocks, I panted breathlessly. I scanned the street.
No one was following me; but then again, I haven’t expected them too.
I was going home. I didn’t like running away anymore. I would catch the nearest taxi and return back to my sweet house and my loving family. Seriously.
I saw a bright yellow car sandwiched between a line of cars, and waved. I was thankful the guy gave me back my wallet.
The driver was a kind man. He was elderly, like my Grandpa. He was probably returning home from work, but taking in account my desperate pleas, he let me in the taxi. I handed him the cash.
“Where to?” the nice man smiled with his wrinkles. His eyes smiled too.
I didn’t waver a bit. “Home,” I said. Home.
My mother opened the door. Her eyes were swollen and her hand was tightly gripped around her cell phone. She was probably calling all my friends, classmates, their parents, and the complete epic list of all our distant relatives.
“Margaret, I called all your friends, classmates, their parents, and Aunt Margelliane in Vermont. You can’t just run out of the house like that. Anything could happen—do you know how shocked I was when I didn’t find you around in our neighborhood?”
Uh-uh. Yadda-yadda.
“YOU ARE GROUNDED, young lady,” she said, “Never scare me like that again. You were gone for two whole hours! What am I supposed to think?”
Uh, I that your daughter just fought a group of drunken guys and miraculously escaped?
“You are just unbelievable!” I didn’t say anything.
Then, her face softened and she caught me in an embrace.
“Oh Meg,” she whispered, “I’m sorry for yelling at you.”
I stayed in her familiar hug as she stroked my hair.
Why am I so horrible? My mother always forgives me, always does everything I want for me. Yet I only do everything she doesn’t want me to do. Why did I decide to run away from such a caring mother? I am one stupid, spoiled girl, that I am. I am going to do work as hard as I can at skating from now on. I really will.
“It’s a promise,” I said aloud.
“What?” My mother asked.
I smiled to myself, “Nothing.”
That day at the rink was a miracle. The ease with which I was executing all of my jumps seem to have precipitated out of mid-air. Tracy was pleasantly surprised after the session ended (good for her, all she does is stand there and criticize), with everything I have done. She complimented me that at this rate, I will land all my triples but ha, I’d be battered by the end. That I all ready was, seeing as how I nearly flew to the counter to buy some cold water. My throat burned. My muscles ached. And, Oh God, I love it.
Before I could get my water, I had to wait for Adam to leave, who was choosing mint tablets from the counter. As he searched his pockets for coins, he glanced in my direction and winked.
Flustered, I lowered my gaze immediately and examined the floor tile, fishing out my own money.
Hold on a minute. Something about him was different. I peeked at his face again, and was disconcerted by what I saw.
He had an eye patch covering his right eye.
“Adam—“
“Your order?” the girl at the counter asked.
I forgot what I was going to order. Oh, yes.
“Some Poland Spring, please,” I breathed.
I drank half the bottle all at once, not removing my mouth from the bottle. When I walked over to Adam, he was sucking on a mint and flipping through a textbook, as he routinely did. (Didn’t the guy have a life outside studying? Well, in that case, nether did I, but outside figure skating. In that we were alike.)
“Hey,” I said. He looked up, startled.
“What happened to your eye?” I asked curiously.
“Eye infection,” he responded, without looking up from his book.
As usual, he was slouching in a very familiar way.
