Page 32 of Fire on the Ice

Yep, that’s my dad. I can see his crinkly forehead and his pinched mouth, sure signs he doesn’t know what to say.How about congratulations and let’s leave it at that?

I know, though, that’s far too much to hope for.

“You won a silver.”

“Yes, I did.” The grin that splits my face isn’t for him.

“That’s . . . very good.”

“Yes, it is.”

Wait for it . . .

“But if you had done the program you were supposed to do—”

Maisy of a few days ago would apologize. I would tell him I was sorry to let him and my mother down, and that if I get another chance, I won’t do it again. I’m not that Maisy anymore, though, and new me is not having any of that.

“If I had done the program I was supposed to, I would have finished out of medal contention.”

He harrumphs, and if he were here in front of me, I don’t know that I could stand firm. He’s not, though, he’s just a disembodied, disappointed voice who’s never been satisfied with me in my whole life. Too much, too little. Which is basically what he’s saying about my performance. Too much because skating should be elegance incarnate, I should look pretty and effortless and graceful. Not what I actually looked like and how I felt: like a warrior. Someone who is strong and capable and proud of what my body can accomplish with the skills and muscles I’ve spent most of my life developing. And too little, because where’s my gold medal?

“It was disrespectful and . . . ugly.”

I hear my mother clucking in the background, and I can’t tell if she’s agreeing with him or if she’s merely telling him he shouldn’t say those things—not, of course, that he’s wrong, because she probably agrees. Perhaps if I ignore him, he’ll stop talking about this. Enough about his dissatisfying daughter, let’s talk about how the men’s hockey team is doing. No such luck.

“Is this that woman’s fault?”

“What—? Are you talking about Blaze?”

“Is that the woman you were kissing on the computer?”

I swear my parents don’t know how the internet works.

“Why would this be her fault?”

“She’s not a good influence on you.”

What am I, twelve? “She isn’t an influence on me at all.”

That’s not exactly the truth. I don’t think I would’ve had the courage to do my exhibition program as my free skate had it not been for Blaze. She’s been an influence on me for sure, but I don’t mean that in the way my parents do. I think she’s changed me for the better, and they would beg to differ.

“I thought you were over this . . .” I can picture him waving a hand, referencing my sexuality in the air as if it has a bad smell. No.

“Queer thing? No, really not.”

More tsking, probably some denial head-shaking, because I apparently don’t know any better. “You’re not—”

“Queer? Yes, I am. If I haven’t dated a woman for a long time, it’s because I haven’t dated anyone at all. Because I didn’t want you to disapprove of me and tell me I love who I love to get attention.”

Would I have chosen to kiss Blaze at the snowboard cross finals and end up plastered all over the gossip blogs? No, absolutely not, and I will make that very clear to her. But the thing is, I think she’s genuinely sorry, and she’ll be better about it in the future. Whereas when I’ve tried to explain myself to my parents, all they’ve ever done is tried to steamroll me into this narrow ribbon of exactly who they wanted me to be. I may be flexible and lithe, but not to that extent. All they’ve done is crush me.

“I do like women, and I’m proud of the performance I gave today. I’m proud of the medal it won me. Yes, Blaze is a little much sometimes, and I wasn’t happy about that picture, either, but she’s also kind and supportive and funny and generous, and she likes me for who I am, not for the person she wants me to be. If you think you can do that, too, that would be great, otherwise . . . I think we need to take a little break.”

There’s murmuring on the other end, as though my dad’s tucked the phone into his shoulder and is whispering with my mother about their volatile, ill-mannered daughter, and where did they go wrong? Clearly they took a turn somewhere because I’m just a SIG-silver-medal-winning lesbian.

“We’ll talk to you later.”

Okay.

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