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My phone glares at me from its spot on my bedspread, tucked halfway under the pillow I’ve been raging on.
“You think you’re better than me?” I ask the social media post, just as soon as it’s in my hand again.
She should have bowed out when Leodonna did. Would have made more sense.
I’ve read this argument before. It’s tiresome and doesn’t explain the solid year I had after Marie Sinclair O’Malley left the ring to wrestle her cancer. Her exit was sudden, both from the stage and the world, but it has nothing to do with Raucous dropping the ball now.
My phone dings once more. It’s a text from Dad.
Thought you’d want to see this.
I press play on the video and immediately regret it. It’s of me in my late teens looking like Hot Topic threw up half their merchandise, which I then rolled in. But only in the blackest, most ‘punk rock’ sections of their cotton goth vomit.
“Get it, girl!” Mom’s delighted voice comes over the speaker.
I shake my head as an unwanted smile curls on the right side of my face. Mom knew just what to do to trick me into what she called an ‘embarrassing but necessary test.’ She’d finally got me, or rather my first character, Disastra, to wrestle a folding chair. She made sure to suggest it while I was playing Disastra in our home ring, which left me powerless to stop the arrogant villain from falling into her dare.
“You got this!” she cries as I manage to kick the chair off balance, then leap over it like I’ve done more than make an obstacle for myself.
But at this point, I’m so in character that I barely give a shit that she’s filming.
Inanimate objects as practice partners don’t just make you look silly. A scene partner that you have to navigate around and make up for in your own performance is a problem every wrestler faces. And I’d bought into the idea that pretending to this degree would make me a better actress. She was right.
“Here comes your doom!” my own voice rings out, and I cringe because I know what’s coming.
I watch my younger self grab and spin her defeated metal foe around and around, finally letting go right into Mom’s face. I wince, though I know she ducks at the last minute. Still, it was a rookie move to let go when I did.
“Get back here, swine!” I watch my smokey, black-shadowed eyes widen just as the angle shifts, Mom’s bubbly laugh ringing out.
“A damn good exercise, Ma. A damn good exercise,” I muster, just as I get a second message.
Care to accompany your old man to a show tomorrow night?
Business or fun?
If he’s going to ask me about Archimedes or working for him, I’m out. No doubt.
Fun. It’s wrestling. People-wrestling. Chair wrestling is next week.
I roll my eyes and heave a sigh. It took me a few more chair wrestling sessions to realize this wasn’t a standard industry practice but something Mom took upon herself to add to her itinerary of warm-ups. Well, a few more times, plus the few people I mentioned it to.
“Still could have something,” I finish, sending a thumbs-up emoji before wobbling my way to the kitchen for a glass of water.
I don’t always sad-drink, but when I do, I wake up hourly in my bed with a ravenous thirst for water. Future Cheyanne will thank me.
* * *
“You don’t look great,” Dad says over the roar of applause from the audience around us.
Our premium seats for tonight’s round-up mean it’s loud but not crowded. At least between us and the ring ahead, where Johnson Tora Tora, a minotaur with a mean streak, stomps out of the ring to face the crowd.
“Spoils of war!” he hollers as everyone stands, including me and Dad.
Tora Tora is part of Fool’s Gold Entertainment and one of Dad’s favorite acts around. Tora Tora removes the gold-plated ring from his nose and hurls it into the audience. Someone far behind us catches it, and Tora Tora lets out a bellow while his entourage pulls him away.
“The guy I wanted to win lost,” I lie, gesturing to the empty ring.
Cathedral, a bitter Spanish monk, is part of Raucous’s crew, so I made sure to hammer home my loyalty during the fight. At least in Dad’s ear.
