ChapterOne
Morgan
Three Years Later
Ipeek into the oven—the garlic bread is just about done; the sauce has been simmering for a while, and the rotini is al dente.Now I just need my kid to show up.I shut off the burners, drain the pasta, dump it back into the pot, and add the sauce while the bread finishes.
I hear a car door open and close, and the garage door close again.Mallory's footsteps squeak on the floor, and I hear thethud-thudof her backpack and gear bag hitting the floor.
"I know you're not about to leave those there, Mal," I shout without looking.
"Ohmigod, whatever."This is under her breath, but I also hear the bags get put away properly in the mudroom, so I let it go.
Her feet pound up the stairs, and she comes back down a couple of minutes later in her favorite chill-at-home outfit: baggy gray sweatpants she stole from her ex-boyfriend and a men's XXL Seattle Skyhawks hoodie.She's scraped her long black hair into a messy topknot, washed off her makeup, and has her fuzzy Bugs Bunny slippers on her feet.
She enters the kitchen and plops down at the island, tugging her hood up when she spots me at the stove…which immediately triggers Mom Suspicion, because she's not typically a hood-up sort of girl.
"Mal?"I ask, tone level as I finish plating our food.
"Mom?"She returns in the same tone.
"You good?"
“Yeah, why?"She's got her head down, phone on the island in front of her, one hand curled in front of her face, scrolling with the other hand.
Ping…ping…ping…ping: my radar is going off."Look at me, Mal."
"What?”Still not looking at me.
"Mal."Firmer tone.
“God, fine.”A huff."It's not a big deal, Mom."She looks up at me, and I gasp.
Huge black eye, green and purple.
"What thehell, Mallory?”I zip over to her, grab her head, and examine it.I sigh."Let me guess…you skipped skating practice to play hockey again."
"Mom, I'ma better skater than Ms.Bennet, and we all know it.”
"Doesn't mean you don't need to practice.You haven't nailed the triple yet, have you?"
She huffs."Almost," she grumbles.
"Almost doesn't count," I tell her.
She yanks her head away and goes back to scrolling."I'vealmostgot the triple, Mom.My program is tight, and we both know it.I've spent likeeight hoursthis week practicing the stupid program, and it’s only Wednesday!Sue for me takingonefreaking afternoon to do something fun."
"I get that, Mal, and I don't begrudge the time away from practice."
"Just not hockey."
I strive for calm as we rehash the argument we've been having for what feels like half her life."Mal, what if you break something?What if you get a concussion?"
She whirls around on the stool, snags her phone, and hops off the stool, tugging her hood back up, stopping with a hand on the railing as she glares at me."Youdorealize figure skating isn't exactlysafe, right, Mom?Like, every single time I practice the stupid fucking triple you'resoinsistent I learn, I could break a bone or get a concussion!In fact, I'd argue that I'm atmorerisk of injury trying to launch myself into the air while skating as fast as I can than I amstaying on the iceand getting knocked around a little."
"But Mal—"
"Not to mention, in hockey, I get to wear protective gear—a mouth guard, shoulder pads, a helmet.You know how idiotic it is that I have to prance about the ice wearing a goddamnbathingsuitand tights while hockey players get to wear literalarmorand helmets?And yet there you are whining and whining andwhiningabout how I’m gonna get hurt playing hockey?Sure, I get knocked around, maybe I'll get bumps and bruises, a black eye, sore wrist, banged-up knees, or whatever.But with the harder programs you have me learning in this obsession you have with me going to the Olympics, my chances of breaking an ankle or a wrist because I biffed a landing arewayhigher than any comparable injury from hockey."
