“Well, although it shouldn’t be my problem, I’m going to figure something out,” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“I just…” I sigh, running my fingers around the edge of the glass. “You’re the dean. Shouldn’t there be something you can do about it? Like, use the school funding to pay for the rink maintenance and the performances?”
She gasps as if I’ve insulted her. “It’s not that easy, Amelia. North has been running this way since I went there. The buzz was always around skating, so the donations made up for the funding. I can’t change it now. It’s tradition.”
I just nod.
There’s nothing I can say that would get her to listen to me. There rarely ever is. I hate it when she calls me Amelia. I was born Amelia Wren Hackerly, but my first name never really fit. It felt like something I could never grow into. As soon as I could talk, I forced everyone into calling me Wren. Still, very few people in my life call me Amelia or Emmy.
“Forget I said anything.”
Uncomfortable silence settles over us. I can’t remember the last time my mom and I had an actual conversation. About something other than figure skating and the school. Something real. Sometimes it feels like that’s all she needs me for; to tell her how I’m practicing my triple Lutz, tell her that I train all day, every week, until my body feels like it can’t function normally. Until I’m so exhausted and sore that I forget to eat. “That’s my girl,” she would say, completely unaware that I have force myself out of bed every day to please her. This is how she has trained me. To only care about skating and to see everything else as an afterthought.
“It’s as if no one is dedicated to the sport anymore,” she murmurs after a while, sighing loudly. I can feel her eyes on me, but I keep mine focused on the pool in front of me, not braving the intense stare from her. “Was I interrupting your plans when I called you here?”
I turn to her, shocked at her sudden change in topic. “No. Sort of. Kind of,” I stumble.
“Well, which one is it?” she asks, her tone sharp.
“I was on a date,” I say with instant regret. I’m not sure why I said it, but I guess it’s kind of true? Why not get straight to the point? I might as well have thrown up all over her by the way her nose scrunches.
“Oh. That’s, uh, exciting,” she says uncomfortably.
She had loved Augustus, naturally, because he always put skating first.Iwas the commodity. Never the first thing he thought of when he woke up. I was the afterthought, just like my mom would have wanted.
“Can I ask who it is?”
“It’s not serious. I’ll let you know when it is. You might have a grandchild very soon,” I say, shimmying my shoulders, knowing it’ll get a rise out of her.
“Wren,” she snaps. “Don’t make jokes like that, it’s not funny. I’m too young to be a grandma already.”
“Right. Not the fact that your daughter is also tooyoungto have a child,” I say suppressing a laugh. Her face knits in confusion. Another wave of silence sweeps over us. I’m about to get up and make an excuse to leave before she starts talking again.
“When was the last time you spoke to your sister?” she asks.
I try to shake my brain for an answer. Last time I heard, Austin was in Russia, still working on joining The Paris Opera Ballet living with her boyfriend, Zion. The second she finished at NU, she enrolled into another program in Russia where she has been for the last four years. We haven’t spoken that much because the time difference is insane but I’m not complaining.
Austin was basically a second mother to me in a better way. She always pushed me to do better, train harder and stay sharp. She was basically my mom's echo but in a softer way. She understood how we all worked together.
She never openly addressed our strange dynamic, but it made the whole ‘growing up under mom’s eye’ thing feel less lonely. That’s something I don’t miss.
As much as she was kind, it felt like I was getting pushed around in every direction. I do miss her cooking though. Mom was never any good and neither was dad, but Austin was spectacular. We often joked about her being a chef, but she knew she had to stick to ballet. She thought she had to set an example.
“I can’t remember,” I admit.
“Hmm. She’s been distant and I’m worried. Check in on her soon for me,” mom says. I wonder what gave her the reason to be distant from my darling mother.
“Okay, sure, I’ll just get the next available flight to Russia,” I joke. She throws me a daring look. “Fine, I’ll call her when I can.”
“Thank you.”
I get up out of my seat, signalling that I’m ready for the conversation to be over. I get to the patio door and slide it open before I hear my mom call my name. I turn back and she’s still facing away from me.
“And Wren, please take this skating situation seriously. I know you like to joke instead of facing your reality, but your reality is you might not be skating when the new year comes around. We both know you were never any good at school.”
I bite my tongue. I bite it so hard that it makes my head hurt. I walk out the door with my head held high, but my eyes are prickling with tears. The only reason I was ‘never any good at school’ was because of her. Because she didn’t let me do anything other than skate around on the ice. She robbed me of my childhood the second I could walk.
