When I was little, I would sit mesmerized as my mum dressed herself in a sari. I remember her wearing them almost every day back then. As I grew older, she began to wear them less and less. Eventually, she wore them only for special occasions. I remember wondering why she stopped—she’d always looked like some kind of precious stone or something when she had one on. Like an emerald or a ruby with glimmering hints of silver and gold.

Watching her as a kid, I’d try to follow the wraps and folds, tucks and pleats—not because I’d wanted to wear one, mind you, but because I always thought it was some kind of magic trick. Like one of those cup games where you had to follow the magician’s hands closely to see where they moved the cup with the stone beneath it. My mother was the magician and her hands wove around her body, hiding bits and pieces of herself with every twist and turn. By the time she pinned the last fold, I’d always be lost, several steps behind but still completely spellbound. She’d enfolded herself into a magical shield, and I wished I could do the same.

Chapter Seventeen

I had a hard time getting my wheels to carry me back into the rink. They seemed to take me around the outer corridor instead, wheeling me in a giant circle while I tried to gather enough of myself together to take me back inside. It’d be so easy to grab my stuff and get the hell out of here. But the stubborn part of me didn’t want to let some annoying girl push me out of this tryout. To let the others think I was weak. And some other part of me—one that I didn’t want to admit was there—knew Shanti was right. I cared about this. Mainly because it might help me to cope. But I also couldn’t help thinking about Alma and Joe, Bee, Yolanda, Kat, the rest of the Honeys… Shanti. I guess I didn’t want to walk away from all that, either. The thought surprised and scared the hell out of me.

The rest of the tryout finished without incident. Gwen the jerk was completely fine and avoided me, the remaining drills focused mainly on more individual skating skills, and most people seemed to forget or not really care about the scene I’d caused. A few kept their distance, which didn’t bother me that much. I managed to get through to the end by channeling the rest of my frustration into my skates—pushing the anger through my legs, into my wheels.