CIRCE - THE PAST
“Lift. Lift. Lift!” Tamping her foot to the beat, smacking her hands together as she glares at me with a look of pure disgust, I lift higher. At least, as high as I possibly can.
“That’s lazy, lazy, lazy. Do you want this or not, paresse?” Of course I do, I answer internally. Mentally, I’m critiquing my efforts, denying it’s that bad of an attempt. I’m not a sloth, as she said, and my effort was exceptional. At least I think so.
“Pardon moi, Meme Léon.” Stopping my spin, I saunter over to her. With a towel in hand, awaiting my open palm, I stop at the edge of the boards. “I will do better. I promise.” Meme Léon is bundled up from top to bottom in a massive coat. Her hooked nose is the only thing showing outside her furry hood. Her record of attendance into the US Olympic program is one of the best.
This is all I’ve wanted. I’ve worked toward this point since I was five. Training at five thirty each morning with numerous personal coaches, trainers, and instructors, I’m preparing for the US Olympic Team. It’s my dream. I’ve never slept-in a single day of my life. And even though I envy the kids that sleep until eight, eating a quick sugary breakfast of Fruit Loops or Cap’n Crunch, running out the door to classes with kids their own age, I doubt they have sports that eat up all their free time like I do. I doubt they’re working toward the podium either, so there’s that.
“Try it again. This time, I want to see lift.” Turning away from me, as if I don’t exist, she bends down and grabs her steaming cup of hot cocoa. Knowing I was dismissed, I skate off, back toward the starting point. I stand and await the control room to restart my music.
Scuffing the ice with my blades, shifting back and forth, I prepare. I love how the scraped surface leaves dusty clouds of white fluff in the air that sticks around the edges of my black skate boot. We’ve already been out here for three hours. Meme will keep me until my fingers are blue, and the air in my lungs is pure ice. I’ll be here until I complete my quad jump properly. Trying over and over, I fail each time, landing hard on my ass. Feeling the blue-tinged bruise as it grows exponentially across my ass cheeks, I know I’ll be so sore. For sure, I’m sleeping on my stomach.
Venturing a gander at her before my cue, Meme looks pissed. Watching the steam rise off her cup, she sips it. Staring me down, glaring dark daggers of hatred for keeping her here late, I prepare to impress her.
As the music starts its harsh melodic beat of drums, synthesizers and snares, my notes chime. Taking off like a shot, pounding my skates into the unforgiving ice, I glide back and forth across the surface. Gaining speed, I feel the same rush that comes to me each time I do this; I’m exhilarated and happy.
Timing is everything if I want to hit the corners exactly as I’m supposed to. Today, I’ve done this so many times that you’d think I should have this down pat, but I just keep fucking up that one jump. My arch nemesis, my quad axle. The routine has one quad, three triples, two doubles, a combo double-double, and one gloriously fun set of footwork.
Cutting deep into the ice, lifting the edge of the blade—and myself off the ground—I pound the end of my toe pick in launching myself forward and up. Swivelling and pushing myself to spin, I land with my outside raised leg straight. First jump down.
Turning around, pushing harder and harder, I advance into the middle of the arena. Feeling the icy air blow by my head, cooling me, I relish the breeze. The speed of it all, the sound of nothing but you and your blades cutting the surface gives you a rush. It’s fucking heavenly.
Pulling in my left leg and gliding backwards, I look forward. Lifting from my right to spin forward, I turn twice in the air. Landing with ease, then picking my skate in once more, I add a second set of loops before pounding onto the ice again. Double-axle, double-loop, done.
When you know your efforts are what propelled you toward the next turn, the next set of footwork, or onto the next competition, it feels so good completing it. It’s a rush of exponential proportions when your body does as its requested to do. This time, I hope it agrees to do as I mentally want.
The quad-axle has been the bane of my routine for over two weeks now—every morning, every afternoon, late into the night, and then restarting again. Every day I try, but fail at the quad. It evades me. It’s the next jump, and I swear I’ll land it, even if the landing is a bit dodgy.
Pulling through the footwork, I smile gleefully as it’s my favorite part of any dance routine. You find yourself toe picking, gliding, skimming, turning back and forth, then doing it all over again in a seamless motion. Sure, the spins are great, and the jumps are okay, but I really love footwork. That’s where your true talent shines through.
“Cut it deeper in the corner, Circe!” Meme yells out from the sideboards.
It wasn’t tight enough for her, and I know I could have gone closer, but closer means I end up short on the other end of the landing. Ignoring her comment, I skate on. Last time she had me cut it deeper, I ended up in the boards with a sprained ankle and a week’s bed rest.
Pushing harder and faster through the rest of the routine, pulling every bit of energy I have left, I see the prize. If I can land that quad, I’m going out tonight with friends, to a party. No, the party. Prom. Well, it’s not necessarily my prom, as I’m homeschooled, but my best friends, Shelby and Kiresa, who live next door, invited me to come along with them. I want it so bad it hurts. A social life. Boys. A kiss. Hell, a stolen illegally absconded drink would be an utterly euphoric experience. But if I want it, I need to focus on the task at hand.
Tightening up my footwork and my speed before I venture into the middle of the rink, I hear Meme on the side shouting “Cut it. Cut it.” I’m not listening because this feels so good, the way I’m going. I can make it. I can do this.
Prepping, I turn to see my visual landing. Releasing the coiled-up tension in my spin, I suck in a deep breath. As my foot hits the ice, I pull out my free leg and stick the landing perfectly. Skating off with a sense of freedom and joy in my accomplishment, I beam as I finish my routine.
Finally, I did it! I honestly did it! Sure, I’ll have to prove it time and again before Regionals, or before she lets me prepare for the team, but I did it.
Ending my routine as the music stops, I head over to Meme. Seeing her scowling is not what I’d expected. Here I was, thinking she’d be proud me. Christ on a cracker, she’s pissed. Without her blessing, I can’t go tonight.
“I did it Meme Léon! I landed it clean.”
“Oui, you completed it. Once, Circe. Do you understand that is not an accomplishment in success? Completing it multiple times is worth praise. Once is a fluke.”
Well, that’s a quick way to burst a girl’s bubble. Thank. You. Meme.
Hanging my head, staring at the patchy snow piled against the boards, there’s no more than a snowball’s chance in Hades she’ll allow me to celebrate anything tonight, or any other night. Dammit.
For the next few moments she scolds me, reminding me of my failures, and that my single quad was not a measure of success. She then informs me the day is complete and I’m allowed to hit the shower. Tamping my blades on the hard floor, back to the changing area, I’m so upset at what a horrible day this has become. This is not a night of celebrating. No way will I be entertaining life as a regular teenager. I’ll most definitely not be having that experimental time with a boy.
My life is controlled by others. When do I get a choice? My wants and needs are always overlooked, and it’s becoming difficult to live with.
Cleaning up and clearing out of my private arena as quickly as possible, I find Meme Léon informing my highly strict and overprotective parents that I’m not deserving of a free night. Thanks for crushing my hopes.
Of course, that was after Shelby texted me that she’d snuck into my room.
S: It’s there.
C: What is?
S: THE dress.
C: I can’t.
S: See you at nine.
C: I won’t be going. Have a great night.
S: I’ll be there at NINE.
Informing me that the dress she left suited me best, I tried my best to ignore her. With or without permission, they’d be there to grab me. Great, another person to disappoint. I want so badly to go, but going against Meme’s wishes will just cause me undue grief, further tightening of the leash, and a lack of free time with Shelby or Kiresa in the future.
Will it be worth it? Hell yes.
Will I do it? Probably not.
Getting back to the house a little over an hour ago, my father requested my presence. In his very formal and concise way, he said no. If Meme said no, then his answer was no.
Looking to my mother, sitting in her favorite wingback chair, legs crossed dutifully at the ankles, shoulders straight, and yet at ease, she’s extravagant grace.
“No matter what I say, no matter how much I plead or beg, the answer will be no?”
“Please, understand. We know you want to take on the world as a bright and normal teenager, but I will reiterate. You, my sweetheart, are not a normal heathen like the rest of the rabble that attend those functions.”
I’m done for. My father won’t be swayed.
“Even if I promised more time on the ice, you’ll still say no?” Attempting to look defeated and broken, I give my final attempt at changing their minds. Mustering all the sad pictures of hurt children, puppies, and washed up whales I can think of, I attempt tears. I’ve gotten pretty good at it over the years, and to be perfectly honest, I should be getting an Oscar for this next season. I’m that good.
“So that’s it?” I say, hitching my breathing, allowing moisture to well in my eyes. “Nothing will change your minds on the matter?”
Looking at each other wordlessly, they shake their heads. The facade cracks slightly on my mother’s perfectly demure face, but my father’s stoic and stern gaze is still in place.
“No. I’m sorry. Olympic dreams come before a silly dance.”
“Fine. I’ll be in my room if you need me at all this evening.” Turning heel to walk away, I add, “Actually, don’t bother visiting. My door will be locked. I’ll be unavailable. Have a good night.” Smiling weakly, I kiss each of them on their outstretched cheeks before sauntering off to my room in the opposite wing from their sitting area.
Our house is so large and expansive, that for me to even speak to my parents face-to-face takes a good ten minutes from my side of the house to theirs. Really, I don’t mind, as we have nothing in common. So many times, I’ve wondered if I was adopted, or the daughter of a long lost relative they took pity on. Then I look at them and myself. I see the uncanny resemblances reflected back, like in a mirror. The sharp cheekbones, the tight tiny freckles that are concentric. They’re perfectly smattered all over the face of both myself and my father, as if we’re carbon copies of each other.
My hair coloring and eyes are all my mother. Green like the sea foam that sprays up the coast near our beachfront, and coppery red strands, with soft strawberry highlights that neither of us have to pay for. Never mind the rail thin bodies we all have in common. Or the pianist fingers that hang like tree branches down our svelte forms. I lucked out on the metabolism of a house fly, with the appetite of a growing gorilla that keeps the kitchen hopping day and night.
When I finally make it back to my room, it’s midday. The sun is crashing against the backdrop of the ocean outside my window, making me wistful. Despondently so. “Why are they so constricting? Why not allow me a bit of space so that I would feel freedom? Why make me feel like a prisoner to the sport I love?” Tossing off my sweater, I walk in and see the present from Shelby. “Fuck.” Picking it up, turning it around and inspecting it in all its perfection, I’m more conflicted than before.
There’s no way I’d stop skating just to gain the freedom I so desperately desire. I’ve invested too much of my childhood. The flip side to that coin is that I know I would give anything to be given the freedoms that other teenagers in my position are granted.
It’s unfair that I have anything I could want or need, but the true price of freedom is immeasurable to me.
Whether I had permission or not, Shelby and Kiresa would be coming at nine. They’ll push me into it whether I like it or not. The beautiful dress eggs me on to defy my parents, and if I have any chance at keeping the only friends I hold dear, I’ll find a way to escape, undetected.
Smelling like a sweaty gym room after a team of boys have returned, another shower is key. My hair is in shambles—ratty and tangled from all the exertion, even after a shower at the rink. And if I want to look presentable in that dress, I better shave. Stinky girls with wisps under their arms most definitely don’t get a kiss from the prince.
A few hours later, pacing the room has done nothing to help me make a definitive decision. I tried a list of pros and cons, a coin toss. I even put the dress on and stood in front of the mirror, imagining myself dancing with a hot guy named Jackson, Kendrick or even a Phillip. It fit like silk. Dealing with my parents and Meme…will it be worth the pain and anguish they’ll impart for defying them? Mostly. But if I don’t try to be a rebellious teenager that would put myself out there and do as I pleased without permission, then have I really lived?
“Shit. How much of a wuss am I?” I’m a straight A student. I do all the tasks set forth, and I’m prepping for my first year at college without stepping foot outside our mansion. I need to do this for my own sanity.
Shelby and Kiresa have texted me nonstop since two thirty.
Kiresa: Are you?
Shelby: Did they?
And the occasional So??? from both.
Pinging back and forth between us, my phone is running out of juice. Finally breaking free, I answered their hundredth question.
Me: I’m going.
Parents and Meme be damned. I want out of this house. I’ll enjoy an evening without the restraint of being a modest and obedient person. I’m almost eighteen. I think I’m old enough to decide if I want something more than being a prisoner to their choices. Yet I’m still young enough to be scared shitless of their reprimands.
With the dress on, hair done, makeup pristinely applied with a touch of harlot,
I’m ready to break free.