Black Ice Read online

  “I ain’t sending you to no psychiatrist. There ain’t nothing wrong with you.” She shook her head in disgust. “Depressed? The world hasn’t knocked you down yet, Sage Parker. And when it does then you can be depressed.”

  I nervously played with my fingers and looked out the window. Beneath my jacket my arms were burning. If there was nothing wrong with me, then why do I do this to myself? If I told her about the cutting, would she listen? Would it make her believe me when I tell her that I don’t feel right?

  “Auntie…Yuri says it would be good for me to talk to mom—,”

  “Yuri? Of course. I should have known.” She had said like the light bulb just went off in her head. “You’re not depressed. You’re upset because I won’t let you run around with that boy. That’s you’re problem. He’s four years older than you and if he is looking at you, it’s for one thing.”

  My heart hammers into the wall of my chest. “That’s not true. He’s my friend.” My only friend.

  Whenever I’ve needed him Yuri has always been just a phone call away. He’s the big brother I didn’t know I needed. I can’t be without him.

  “Oh Sage, please. He is not your friend. He wants to use you. That’s how men do when you’re pretty and naïve. NO! I won’t have it. You’re starting birth control. That’s the only pill you need, with your little fast ass.”

  I hugged myself. Afraid that anything else I said would make the situation worse. I didn’t want to lose Yuri. I didn’t want to be made to feel so pathetic. So I hushed up and let her have her way.

  “Get your head out of the clouds. You have so much going for yourself. So much that I didn’t have. That your mother doesn’t have. So, don’t start with this depressed nonsense. You can’t afford to be depressed. That’s that White in you talking that bullshit. White people can be depressed and be successful. Not Black people. You are representing this family and I’m not going to accept that. Do understand?”

  I gulped a load of air, trying to suffocate the pain I felt burning in my chest.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  That was it. The only conversation we ever had about my depression. As I grew up, I realized many things about mental illness and being a Black woman. The main thing was, I couldn’t be both. We live in a society where you’re either one of three versions of the black woman. I could be the strong black woman, the angry black woman or the Video Vixen—the hoe. What I couldn’t be is the depressed black woman. And my aunt made sure that I understood that.

  ##

  I pick an area that has the least amount of scars. Relapsing after two solid good weeks is disappointing. I tell myself that it will be just this one time and then I’ll be okay. And even though I know it’s a lie, I still hope it might be true, somehow.

  I’ve gotten good at spacing the cuts out. I wear large bracelets for special occasions. Most times I wear long sleeves. And during competitions I wear special tattoo coverup make up. It’s thick and when I apply it the right way you don’t notice a thing.

  The initial cut is euphoric. It’s like a high without the drug. It’s like spiraling out of control, but the second that blade pierces my skin, the entire world stops. And. I. Can. Breathe. One cut is never enough. Usually by my third I’ve been put back together again. I can function. I wrap my arm with gauze that I carry in my backpack. I wash my hands and smile at one of the girls I have anatomy class with. Then I go to my favorite spot by the window, take out my laptop and order the best salad in the world. I work on homework. I update all of my social media accounts. I call Kacee and I blend back in.

  Chapter 4.

  Yuri

  She steps onto the ice wearing black leggings and a lightweight black and pink fleece jacket. Her focus is off. I can see it. She loops around the ice with her head down. A small crowd gathers near the rink. Spectators who adore her and enjoy seeing her skate. They call out to her. They wish her well but she doesn’t hear them. She’s in her head and she’s alone in there with a voice that isn’t her own.

  To my right, Dean watches her as well. His focus is on her every movement and execution. She’s his most prize possession. And that is all she is to him. But to me, she’s the reason my heart never maintains a steady beat. She’s everything that I could ever want but she is hurting.

  Sage needs help. I have to get her out. I need to set her free. And the best way to do that is to help her get away from this place. Take her away from these people and the cage they keep her in.

  Sage

  “Pick up pace, Sage.” Yuri shouts, as I come smoothly out of my jump. In his thick Russian accent, he continues to “encourage” me as I swivel my hips and push my body backward.

  “If you don’t get enough momentum on that jump you’ll land on your ass or worse, that pretty little face.”

  Gliding across the ice, I roll my gaze up toward the lights above the rink. Then I place my hands on my hips, absolutely confused by his advice. Was I a little slow leading in? Yes. But I pushed through and it was near perfect. Besides it was just my warm up. I haven’t been on the ice five minutes. He can’t expect perfection less than five minutes into the—

  “Don’t roll your eyes at me, little bird” He booms. “You’re being lazy. Now do it again.”

  I huff. Of course, he can expect perfection the moment I hit the ice. He’s an unreasonable ice tyrant. If the ice began to melt beneath his feet, I’d swear he was the Devil.

  “Sage,” Dean shouts. “Feel where your body is. Don’t think too much. You’re doing great!”

  I look over at the him and smile. Dean always has my back. Unlike Meshkov, he knows that ruling with an iron fist, never got anyone anywhere on the ice. Before his encouragement can make me feel too good, Meshkov’s voice cuts across the rink.

  “I said again! Or get off the ice. I need a partner who can keep up.”

  “Fine.” I grumble. “I’m going at it again.”

  I circle half the rink in preparation to redo the jump. Cool air whips past my cheeks. It ruffles my curls, pinned in a bun on top of my head. I feel it for only a second longer. Then the lights, the dots of faces around the rink, my muddled mind and the chill on my fingers, all cease to exist. But my heart, I can always feel that. It drums in my chest. It carries me through the moment. Even when my mind is cloudy my heart sees clear.

  Feel where you are. Dean’s words echo along the inside of my skull. Where am I? Halfway down the ice. On the rink. I’m where I used to love to be… With Yuri…No. Where am I really? Where am I…What’s wrong with me? Ugh. I can’t think straight.

  “Feel!” Dean shouts to me, pulling me out of my head.

  I nod. Feel. My hips shift slightly as I begin to balance my speed. I think that it is starting to feel right, and I pull my torso inward. From the back inside edge of my skate, I push off my left foot. Within two seconds I’m flying. This. This is what I live for. The part my thoughts separate into nothing and not even my doubts can weigh me down.

  In rotation, I hold my arms in place, the way I’ve always been taught. One. Two. Three turns. Then down on just my right foot. At the same time, my wings open gracefully. A perfect Triple Salchow.

  YES!!!

  All at once my senses are assaulted by reality. I look for my friend, Kacee. As promised, she is there with her boyfriend giving me two gloved thumbs all the way up. Her smile makes me grin. Then I glance at Dean. He’s smiling, nodding his head and clapping. I should stop there because everything in me is screaming for me to not care. It doesn’t matter what he thinks.

  He’s got a chip on his shoulder and he wants the world to know it. But I’m already looking for him. I turn back to Yuri only to be yanked into his disappointed, ice blue stare. He can’t be serious. I gave my all to that jump.

  “What’s wrong now?”

  “That right leg looks lazy, Sage.” He looks me up and down. “Leg needs to be higher. Try again.”

  “It was perfect.” I contest, clenching my fist at my sides.

  “Perfect?”<
br />
  Yuri scoffs, looking at Dean for confirmation. He doesn’t need it from him. I’m telling him everything he needs to know. He used to listen to me but that was a long time ago.

  With my toe-pick dug in the ice, and my hands gripping my hips, that’s how I take on the Ice King. I’m twenty-three years old and I’ve been doing this since I was three. There is no way on this planet that what I did was wrong. So, what is he getting at? Why is he even here?

  “That was perfect and you know it.”

  Yuri deviously rises to the occasion. Not withholding a centimeter of his height as he bares down on me.

  “Little bird, you do not know what perfection is.”

  “I am an adult; I suggest you stop calling me that. That jump was perfect.”

  “No.” He replies. “It was very slow. Very sloppy.”

  “Sloppy? Are you blind?”

  “I saw what I saw. And I’ve seen better jumps.”

  “Right.” I scoff. “God you’re impossible.”

  He steps forward with a scowl and his finger pointing at me. I take my own step, more than determined to put him in his place.

  “Yuri,” Dean warns, holding his hand up between us. “Both of you, cut it out.”

  “I carried myself through each rotation neatly.” I plead my case to Dean. “I felt my position and I was on target. It. Was. Perfect. Wasn’t it?”

  Dean gives me a half smile and grips my shoulder. Damn it. I really thought he was on my side with this.

  “Sage listen to me. The jump is more than the composition it’s—"

  “The technique.” Meshkov interjects. His words drip with frustration. “It’s grace. Your hips, your thighs all of it doesn’t fit. You don’t look like a figure skater.”

  My jaw drops. In the background, I hear Dean having it out with Meshkov. Everything gets drowned out by my heart pounding in my ears. My vision blurs but I can see his smile clear as day. And it burns me. I don’t care that his groupies around the rink heard him. They serve the purpose of feeding his oversize ego. What hurts is that my friends heard that.

  Thoughts that echo in my brain each time, I take to the ice. I’m not made for this. I’m not good enough. I don’t look the part. I thought Yuri Meshkov and I had that common. Similar doubts and pressures. It’s why I’ve looked up to him for so long. Tears sting my eyes and I feel foolish standing in the rink, like a circus act on display.

  Wide hips. Thick thighs…

  Haunting words for a young woman like me, trying to compete in a world where America’s sweetheart isn’t what I see when I look in the mirror. One glance at me and you know; I don’t fit the Ice Princess mold. Sure, my waist yields in the way you’d expect a female athlete’s tiny frame would. But apart from that, I’m built like my mother’s side of the family. I’ve got more thighs and breast than a KFC bucket. An hour glass figure may score you points in the real world, but on the ice, it’s a distraction. It gives the judges a reason to whisper. Then there’s my skin.

  It’s the color of English toffee. I love it. I’m the perfect mix of my Caucasian father and African-American mother. In the summer, it darkens to a rich pecan when the sun kisses it just right. But like everything else in my life, it sets me apart from the other skaters and serves as another reminder of what I am not; what I will never be. And Yuri he knows…he knows what buttons to push and how hard to push because he knows me.

  “Go, Sage.” Kacee yells from the stands. “You’re a champion! Remember whose got the medals!”

  My friend. She’s got my back no matter what.

  “Sage.” Dean backs away. “You got this!”

  I do. I really do. One. More. Time. Only when I lead into my takeoff again, there is a fire in my belly. It’s fueled by all the naysayers, the critics and my impossible coach. People who think an African-American girl has no place on the ice.

  Ten seconds is all it takes. In mid-air, I count my rotations. Three tight turns, then down into a landing that’s so smooth, you might think that I’m part swan. It’s that graceful and that clean. I manage to get a round of applause from the groupies. Even Kennedy’s jaw hangs slightly open. That was perfection and they all know it. I smile to myself, feeling accomplished, feeling—

  “Again.” Yuri states stoically. “And little less smile. You look smug. Not a good look for you.”

  So, this is why he came back. To treat me like shit. Tease me and make a mockery out of me in front of everyone I know. No. I didn’t hurt him all those months ago. He hurt me.

  “Watch my ice!” he shouts when I bend my knees into a stop that shoots snow everywhere.

  I shout back at him, staring him down. “Screw your ice! Smile less? Are you for real!?”

  “Yes. I am “for real”, as you say.” Unbothered, he looks away from me.

  I’ve never hit him before but I rear back and shove Yuri with everything that I have. “Fuck you! I’m done.”

  Sage…beautiful…little bird…isn’t that what he used to call me? We were friends before. We could have been more before…everything changed. Before he changed. Now those once softly spoken words are a memory. A memory from the past, still haunting me in the present.

  Off the ice, Dean comes to my side. “Where are you going? Practice isn’t over.”

  “You heard how he spoke to me. I’m not sticking around for more of his bullshit.”

  “Sage just wait a minute.”

  “No.” I shove him away. “I hate this. I hate feeling like this. I don’t want him as my partner. If I have to do pairs then I will find someone else. Anyone else .”

  I put on my skate guards and hobble to the locker room. A few spectators rush over to say how amazing that was and that I’m a shoe in for PyeongChang 2018. I smile and politely nod, knowing that ending practice early is a sure-fire way to piss off my Aunt and Uncle. No matter the reason, I’m going to get drilled for this stunt. I don’t care how much money my Uncle spent on my lessons. I’m sure he didn’t mean to hire someone who was going to spend most of it berating me in front of his little fan club.

  In the locker room, I have nowhere to put all my emotions. It’s like dropping freshly lit fireworks in a tin box and sealing it closed. I feel like I’m going to implode. The only good thing about it is, no one gets hurt except me. It’s better this way. I resist the urge to roll up my sleeve and stare down at my wrist. There’s a scream burning in my lungs, but I keep fighting it down. Why am I doing this? Why the hell am I putting myself through this torture?

  My head hurts. My body aches from training. All I want now is to go home and soak in the bath. I need to get the hell out of here. I need to run. I’m good for that. Always have been. If running from your pain was an Olympic game, I’d be biting into gold right now.

  But the truth is, I love figure skating. Despite the ups and downs, the ice is my domain. I live to be in the rink. I won’t let anyone take that away from me. So my head is a mess and my ankle is killing me; I’ll go home, get some rest and start another day.

  Just go. That’s the plan. My fingers spin the correct combination around the lock. My locker pops open with a slight pull. A piece of paper floats down. At first I think it’s notes from my class but when I unfold it bright red letters greet me.

  BITCH

  Hot tears sting my eyes. And I drop the paper praying and hoping that my one valuable item still remains. It does. Tucked beneath my Anatomy book is my Mom’s picture. I see her face and like always, I ache for her. She’s both the storm and the shelter. She’s my mother. My friend and the reason for all of this. I move the magnet and fall back onto the bench. I love this picture of her. A sports photographer captured her in the middle of a Russian split jump. As if the position wasn’t perfect enough, she is smiling. I always knew where I got my love of jumps from.

  That was my mother, taking on the figure skating world in the eighties. It took guts and thick skin. Mom had it all and it still wasn’t enough in the end. She got sick. My father left us. And she died after a long
battle with cancer.

  Damn it. I don’t want to cry. I’m so sick of crying. I’m sick of hurting. Everyone thinks I’m stronger than I am. But my shell broke a long time ago. What’s left is weak, and vulnerable. I yank my sleeve up my arm. And there it is. My constant shame. The reminder of how lost I really am. And with it, the urge persists. Cut the pain away. As stupid as that sounds, that’s what my brain is telling me to do.

  “Where are you going?” Yuri questions, appearing in front of me suddenly.

  Without following his voice, I quickly pull my sleeve down and shove the picture of my mother into my bag. I ignore him as I remove my skates and carefully pack them away. I work on gathering my things because I don’t want to see anyone right now. But if I had to, Yuri wouldn’t be anywhere near the top of the list.

  “Sage look at me.”

  I keep my chin down. He isn’t having it. He takes the box from my hands and drags me to my feet.

  “I said look at me.”

  “What do you want from me!?” I shout at him. “Why are you here? What could you possibly be trying to prove by doing this to me?”

  “I’m trying to help you.”

  “Help me?”

  “Yes. You used to like when I challenged you.”

  “But you’re not challenging me are you? You’re attacking me. Singling me out. Making me feel…fuck.”

  My eyes have a mind of their own. Whenever I really get angry, I cry. I hate it but it’s my body’s natural response. I could be cursing you out till kingdom come with smoke coming out of my ears. It wouldn’t matter, because I would be crying the entire time.

  “You know how hard this is for me. You know how much it takes out of me just to go out there and you—” I drive my trembling fist into the rock wall of his chest. “Does it make you feel good to make me feel less than them?”

  “Sage—,”

  “You want to make me feel ashamed of my body?”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “That’s not what I want.”

  “You want me to hate myself then.”

  “Never that.”

  “Well I do! I hate myself. I hate who I am, Yuri. I hate my life.”