Black Ice

Chapter Seven

"We swallow greedily any lie that flatters us, but we sip only little by little at a truth we find bitter." 

~Denis Diderot 

*****

I got my license a month ago, but I take our limousine to the football field anyways. I spend the ride reading the article about the Russian Dancer. She dances for the Kirov Ballet. She's a Prima Ballerina...or she was. I look her up online after I finish the article and discover that she died a few years after the article was written. She was only twenty-four when she died. 

Twenty-four...

She died four years after she retired for unknown reasons. 

She looks eerily like me...same facial structure, same wide eyes, same dimples. 

The timing is perfect. It can't be a coincidence. 

This woman is my Mother. My real Mother. 

But how is that even possible? Mum said my biological mother lived with her parents, who disowned her once they found out she was planning to marry my father. They warned her that he was a deadbeat, but she didn't listen. Mum told me my biological grandparents died before I was born, and that my mother scrubbed floors and worked late hours after that to support us both without a husband. 

She wasn't a dancer. 

I go on YouTube and look her up. I find only one result, and it's for the ballet 'Swan Lake'. Kristina is the lead dancer. The video only lasts about five minutes, but it's definitely her. This makes absolutely no sense. 

"We're here, Miss Walker," The chauffeur informs me. I start; we're at the football field. I check my watch. We're late, but it's still quite early in the morning. The sun isn't even up. I can't suss out why Carter would expect me to come at this hour. 

I shut my phone off and get out of the car. "Wait here," I tell him. He nods. Hopefully this won't take long. It's cold and rainy, and I'm not dressed for this weather - a thin pair of jeans, black flats, and a green top. Not even a windbreaker. I shiver as I cross the road. 

The last time I went and crossed roads, it didn't end well. 

I shudder.

The football field pitch black and more than a little frightening. I turn to leave. There's no sign on Carter, and I'm freezing. 

Suddenly, the lights turn on with a blinding flash in the darkness. I blink rapidly and turn around. 

Oh, Carter. 

He's standing in the middle of the Football Field with a microphone, surrounded by four or five other guys. I spot maracas, an electric piano, and another random selection of instruments that wouldn't suit any song from this century. 

And sure enough, he breaks into David Soul's 'Don't Give Up On Us'. His speaker system blares the music throughout the stadium. 

"Don't give up on us, Baby. Don't make the wrong seem right." 

I can't help but laugh. This is so ridiculous, especially since they sound absolutely nothing like the original song. Carter's vocals are a bit off-key, but otherwise surprisingly good for a boy in nothing but a blue button down, fringe vest, and bell-bottom jeans. He's even strapped a fake-mustache just above his upper lip. 

"We can still come throooooouuuuuggggggghhhhhhh!" 

I clap as they hit the final line. Carter drops his microphone, rips off his mustache, and falls to his knees. I laugh even harder as I walk over to them.