The commentators drift into a mesmerized hush. Calliope isn’t just landing the jumps, she’s performing them. Her body ripples with intensity and emotion. I imagine young girls across America dreaming of becoming her someday like I once did. A gorgeous spiral sequence leads into a dazzling combination spin. And soon Calliope is punching her arms in triumph, and it’s over.
A flawless long program.
The camera pans across the celebrating crowd. It cuts to her family. The Bell parents are hugging and laughing and crying. And beside them, Calliope’s crazy-haired twin is whooping at the top of his lungs. My heart sings. The camera returns to Calliope, who hollers and fist-pumps the air.
No! Go back to her brother!
The commentators laugh. “Exquisite,” the man says. “Her positions, her extensions. There’s no one like Calliope Bell when she’s on fire.”
“Yes, but will this be enough to overcome her disastrous short program?”
“Well, the curse remains,” he replies. “She couldn’t pull off two clean programs, but talk about redemption. Calliope can hold her head high. This was the best performance of her career.”
She puts on her skate guards and walks to the kiss-and-cry, the appropriately nicknamed area where scores are announced. People are throwing flowers and teddy bears, and she high-fives several people’s hands. Petro puts his arm around her shoulders, and they laugh happily and nervously as they wait for her scores.
They’re announced, and Calliope’s eyes grow as large as saucers.
Calliope Bell is in second place.
And she’s ecstatic to be there.
Chapter thirty-three
The wig comes on, and I’m . . . almost happy.
There’s something wrong with my reflection.
It’s not my costume, which would make Marie Antoinette proud. The pale blue gown is girly and outrageous and gigantic. There are skirts and overskirts, ribbons and trim, beads and lace. The bodice is lovely, and the stays fit snugly underneath, giving me a flattering figure—the correct body parts are either more slender or more round. My neck is draped in a crystalline necklace like diamonds, and my ears in shimmery earrings like chandeliers. I sparkle with reflected light.
Is it the makeup?
I’m wearing white face powder, red blush, and clear red lip gloss. Marie Antoinette didn’t have mascara, so I felt compelled to cheat there. I’ve brushed on quite a bit over a pair of false eyelashes. My gaze travels upward. The white wig towers at two feet tall, and it’s adorned with blue ribbons and pink roses and pink feathers and a single blue songbird. It’s beautiful. A work of art. I spent a really long time making it.
And . . . it’s not right.
“I don’t see me,” I say. “I’m gone.”
Andy is unlacing my buckled platform combat boots, preparing to help me step inside of them. He gestures in a wide circle. “What do you mean? ALL I can see is you.”
“No.” I swallow. “There’s too much Marie, not enough Lola.”
His brow furrows. “I thought that was the point.”
“I thought so, too, but . . . I’m lost. I’m hidden. I look like a Halloween costume.”
“When don’t you look like a Halloween costume?”
“Dad! I’m serious.” My panic rapidly intensifies. “I can’t go to the dance like this, it’s too much. Way too much.”
“Honey,” he shouts to Nathan. “You’d better get in here. Lola is using new words.”
Nathan appears in my doorway, and he grins when he sees me.
“Our daughter said”—Andy pauses for dramatic effect—“it’s too much.”
They burst into laughter.
“IT’S NOT FUNNY.” And then I gasp. My stays crush my rib cage, making the outburst labored and painful.