“It’s not … yours?” She stood in front of the dresser then, looking down at the bra with her fingers spread out on either side of it like she was scanning the day’s headlines.
“Ma.” I met her eyes in the mirror, motioning toward my barely noticeable A-cups. No way it could’ve been mine; as resident bra-buyer of the family, she ought to know my size. I laughed and grabbed the pillow again, but the look that flashed across her face stopped me cold. It was like the aftermath of an ice storm, black and treacherous, yet eerily calm.
I swallowed hard.
After all the late-night arguments, the separate bedrooms, the unspoken glares, things between my parents had just gone from pretty bad to unfixably worse.
“Mom?” I said quietly, still clutching the pillow. “Are you—”
“Almost ready, Hudson. Go down and tell your …” She almost choked on the word, clearing her throat as she opened the top drawer and swept in the bra like crumbs from the breakfast table. “Your father… ask him to start the car.”
“But whose—”
“It’s an hour and a half drive to Rochester and we still need to take Max to the sitter’s.” She bumped the drawer closed with her hip, turning toward me with a pinched grin as the mirror shook behind her. “Big night tonight, baby. Let’s get moving!”
After we dropped off my little brother, Mom gave me the front seat next to Dad. He quizzed me on my routine, and as I verbally walked through each step, guilt jabbed me in the chest. He’s the one who supported my ice-skating, who told Mom they had to find a way to make it work, even if it meant selling Hurley’s, the old diner she’d owned since before they were married. He’d said if I made it to nationals later that year, we’d probably have to move anyway—find a bigger city with better access to private ice time. Interview special coaches and home tutors. Look for sponsorships. Whatever it took, Dad was ready and willing, my cheerleader, my number one sideline support system. Still, there was something off between us that night—something uncomfortable I’d never felt before I discovered the bra. Mom hadn’t said anything else about it, and from the backseat en route to Rochester’s Luby Arena, she stared silently out her window as the highway exits passed.
“You okay?” Kara Shipley asked later, squeezing my hand. My best friend and I were practically twins, and together in the prep area at Luby, we looked the part. Two fourteen-year-olds from Watonka, New York. Slick, strawberry blond buns pinned and sprayed into place. Red-and-gray warm-up jackets with our local club logo—a bison, for Buffalo Bisonettes—embroidered like a badge near the top right shoulder. On our skating dresses underneath, we each wore a silver rabbit pin—our personal good luck charms for every event.
I nodded. “Just … nerves.” I wanted to tell her about what I’d found, what I suspected, but when I thought of my mother, stopping her ironing to inspect the offending item and then whisking it into the dark of the dresser drawer, my insides burned.
Kara gave me another squeeze. “Don’t worry, Hud. You’ll rock this place tonight. Just ignore the cameras and breathe.” With her free hand she rubbed my back, her palm soft and warm through the nylon dress. I’d almost forgotten about the cameras. Tonight’s Empire Games was just a recreational competition, but the sponsor had invited the media to spotlight me since I was the favorite for next month’s North Atlantic regionals—the gateway to everything I’d ever trained for. Tonight would be my big public debut—I’d show off my signature moves on live TV, turn more than a few heads, and fire a warning shot to my upcoming regional competition.
Ladies and gentlemen, Hudson Avery! Remember this night, and you’ll be able to tell your kids that you knew her when!
“Hudson?” Kara frowned in the mirror, her hand still warm on my back. I took a deep breath as instructed and flashed her a tight smile—the same kind Mom had given me in her bedroom earlier. The same one she’d given my dad as she shuffled me to the front seat and arranged herself in the back. The same one she was probably giving him then, all the way up in the stands.
As the announcer called our names, we glided onto the ice like a long red-and-gray snake. I found my parents in their seats and waved. Mom had the video camera trained on the rink, but she was turned away, looking at the side doors where the event officials had gathered. There were directors from all the regional rinks, and most of the girls had private coaches, too; mine was there with the others, chatting up the CEO of Empire Icehouse, Western New York’s largest pro shop. He was an honorary judge.
I looked back at the stands as Dad gave me a small wave. His leg was bouncing up and down like he’d had too much coffee. My parents were sitting right next to each other, shoulders almost touching, but for all the miles between them, they might as well have been in different arenas.
After the parade of skaters, we settled into our reserved seats. Alternating with girls from eight other local clubs, we slid out one at a time to perform our programs—first round. Just as my club predicted, I owned it.
Hours later, seven of us remained in the final round to compete for the big prize: five thousand dollars cash, plus new equipment and upgrades for the entire club—an invaluable sponsorship courtesy of Empire Icehouse.
I was the only one left from the Buffalo club. The last shot. The sure thing.
As the opening chords of my music floated onto the ice, I felt the cameras zoom in on my face, and I forced a smile. My skating friends and coaches were counting on me. I was counting on me. The whole city was counting on me, its lone Bisonette, twirling like a ballerina in the spotlight.
By this time next year, I’d be famous, and everyone would know where I’d come from.
I skated over the smooth, white rink and sped up for the first jump. Nailed it. Slid into a long, leaning glide, sailing across the ice on one skate and picking up speed for my double axel. Nailed that one, too. After months of intense workouts with my coach and choreographer, I’d learned my program impossibly well—memorized it until it was absolutely error-proof. Maybe that’s why, as my feet glided across the ice like poured water, my thoughts had the space to stretch and wander. With four minutes to spare, my mind walked home, straight into the muffled arguments that had splintered our family like cracks in the ice—We can’t afford this. She needs to stay in school. I’m not selling the diner. What about Max? We can’t just move. It found Dad in the family room on the couch. It took notice of his late nights at the office and Mom’s at Hurley’s. It cataloged all the uncorrelated evidence, all the way up to tonight. Mom knew that bra wasn’t mine the second she found it in the laundry, but she’d folded it and put it in my room anyway, as if burying it between my girlishly straight jeans and baggy sweatshirt would change the inevitable truth.
I leaned in for my next combination, and suddenly I could see into our future—it was all there, right before me. Dad would leave. Mom would get stuck with me and Max, who was only five and wouldn’t understand. We’d probably have to move anyway—downsize, sacrifice, change. All because of … what? Who? My father, who’d given me my first pair of ice skates when I was just four years old? My father, who’d worked hard to pay for the lessons, the equipment, the private coach, the entry fees? My father, who’d never missed a practice or competition, always cheering from the sidelines, encouraging but never overbearing, loving but never smothering?
Something kicked me then, right in the chest. I fought to breathe, to keep the sting from my eyes, the shake from my limbs. I looked at my parents sitting in the stands, my father like he’d rather be anywhere but next to the woman he married. I looked at him not looking at me, not looking at her, and for the first time in the history of my competitions, I didn’t want to win. I didn’t want the money or the Icehouse gear for the club or the TV interviews they’d lined up for me. I didn’t want to go to regionals in Lake Placid or sectionals after that. I didn’t want any more lessons or competitions or all the big, impossible dreams that came with them. If the ice beneath my feet was the reason for the cracks in my parents’ marriage, I didn’t want any of it.