At 12:15 I am sitting on the front steps, watching the kids play, occasionally flipping through my French book, wondering how to say “Sorry I am so late” in French. Neither Mom nor Dad has called yet, and both are late. It has to be about ninety degrees outside. I take a deep breath and wish I hadn’t. Today is definitely an 8 on the Lindville Aromatic Index: Stay inside and close the windows if you can. Light a candle.
I keep trying to convince the kids we should go inside where there’s air-conditioning and better-smelling air, but they won’t. Dean is practicing kickboxing against the garage door. Torvill is swinging on the swing set, and Dorothy is constructing castles in the sandbox that actually resemble European castles. Every time she finishes one, Dean comes over and kicks it down. Then Dorothy quietly, solidly, patiently rebuilds. She doesn’t even cry. She never cries.
My father honks the horn as he finally pulls into the driveway. He gets out of the car and is wearing shiny black nylon warm-ups that fit like tights, and a red T-shirt with a cutoff bottom and arms. He has red-white-and-blue sweatbands around his wrists and forehead. His dark brown hair is standing up, styled by sweat—where he still has hair, that is. He has clogs on his feet, and his warm-up pants are three inches too short.
He looks like a refugee from a Broadway dance production. The guy who probably didn’t get a callback.
Torvill, Dean, and Dorothy run to Dad and cling to his legs. I stand up and grab my backpack.
“So how was your workout?” I ask. My dad, the three kids, and I are all piled into his car. He’s dropping me off at school, since he got home too late for me to skate there or take the bus. He’s driving really fast, but I decide not to mention this. Driving instruction from me doesn’t go over well with my parents.
“It wasn’t great,” he says. “My triple Salchow still isn’t there, and I was seriously traveling on my spins. I just could not focus today.” He is gracefully turning the wheel with one hand while he sips from a giant commuter mug of hot green tea in the other. He does everything semi-gracefully. It’s his gift.
Still, my father is the most macho male figure skater I’ve ever seen. He never wore sequins when he competed. He wore only black, white, and various shades of gray, and—when he wanted to make a statement—a hat or a cap, like the one he wore for his Mary Poppins program, when he skated to “Chim Chim Cher-ee.” Even when he was in the ice show, which had a lot of very embarrassing costumes, he got to be the tough guy—he’d play a policeman, or a dinosaur, or the Beast.
I admire my father tremendously for his athletic ability. When I watch old tapes of him, I can’t quite believe this is the same guy. He volunteers at the town rink all winter, coaching little kids, getting people to donate their old skates, and organizing mini-shows. I took lessons from him, too, of course. We used to spend hours together while he tried to make me into a great skater.
The plan was sort of working, until one junior regional competition where I missed all my jumps and was on my rear end more than my skates. I don’t like to think about it much. All I know is that I grew three inches in one year and suddenly nothing worked anymore. My dad took me to a sports psychologist for weeks afterward to try to help me deal with my “mental block,” but it didn’t work. It was like I had taken over someone else’s body when I turned twelve, and I didn’t have instructions on how to use it.
Let’s just say that I don’t spin well anymore.
“What’s new with you?” Dad asks.
“Summer school. French class. Lots of homework,” I say. “Gas station job. All very exciting.”
“Don’t worry, P. F.,” my dad says. He likes to call me P. F. because those are his initials, too. “Things will pick up.” He glances over at me and smiles. “Why don’t you come down to the rink with me tomorrow? I could use a tough critic.”
“I’m a tough critic?” I ask.
“Brutal,” he says. “Remember when you said my back flip was the generic version of Scott Hamilton’s? How everything I did was pewter-medal quality? Or wait. It could have been aluminum quality.”
“Sorry about that. I was just mad because I couldn’t do anything right that day myself. Remember?”
“I remember,” my father says. “But you know, it has been a while since you tried, and you have been in-line skating a lot, so it could be time for your comeback, too.”
“Right. Right, Dad. Sure,” I say. “Any second now it’s all going to fall into place.”
“Don’t laugh—that’s how it happens,” he says, signaling a turn. “So when can you come to the rink with me?”
“I don’t know. Maybe in a couple of days—I have to see what my work schedule is for next week.”
“I think you’re too busy this summer. You should be relaxing, hanging out,” Dad says.
This from the man who told me I had to take the job at Gas ’n Git because I had to pay him and Mom back, who asked me to take over breakfast duty so he could go skate this morning, who is now speeding into the Edison High parking lot to drop me off for French class and I have only une minute to spare.
“Well, whenever you can make it,” Dad says, and smiles at me.
I lean over and kiss his cheek before I get out of the car. Even though my dad can be annoying, I think he’s the one person on earth who still has faith in me—even after everything. “Bye, guys!” I say to my sibs. “See you this afternoon.”
“Peggy, Peggy, Peggy!” Torvill chants.
My name does not sound better when it’s chanted in threes.
I see Charlotte racing across the parking lot toward me. I stop and wait for her, figuring it’s better to be late together. I’ll make up a story about the bus breaking down or something. L’autobus était très tard. Hopefully, Monsieur LeFleur, or a reasonable facsimile, will be too busy teaching to notice my bad grammar.