Frozen Barriers

by Sara Shirley

  Copyright © 2014 by Angela Page

  All rights reserved

  Cover Design by LU Ann

  Formatting by Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing

  Editing by Paige Maroney Smith

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual personas, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.

  For my husband RLP

  You told me to write…..

  …..I hope I made you proud

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  Hidden Barriers Teaser

  Songs That Inspired Frozen Barriers

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  2001

  It was time for my skating club’s annual showcase. I had just celebrated my eleventh birthday the week before, and Mother insisted we not have a huge party for fear that my showcase outfit might not fit. Instead, I was forced to listen to my parents, Victoria and Charles Cameron, argue over ridiculous nonsense that I couldn’t understand at such a young age. My mother, the always-perfect image in the public eye, was nothing more than a closet Cruella Deville. She saw I was visibly affected by the argument and assured me that my father was just trying to make her understand what was best for his family. I shook my head as though I didn’t understand completely, and in all honesty, I didn’t. Why couldn’t I have a normal birthday party like every other kid my age? While everyone else at my private school had their own fair share of family issues, at least their parents didn’t have issues celebrating birthdays. Most of my friends at school stopped inviting me to their own birthday parties simply because Mother said it was not a healthy environment for an upcoming star figure skater to be involved in. At eleven, who was I to say otherwise? She was my mother; I assumed she knew what she was doing. Man, was I ever wrong! It was times like this that I wished they would have had another child, so I would at least have had someone else around to endure some of the constant alone time.

  The showcase dress rehearsal always fell on a Friday afternoon. Mother would have me released early from school because she said dress rehearsal or not I was still going to spend the extra time getting hair and makeup done just in case something didn’t look right with one of the four group outfits I was forced to wear. Heaven forbid I looked like an eleven-year-old instead of some freak show from those pageants on television. She constantly told me, “Appearances, Emily— always remember you must not embarrass the family.” Thank you, Mother. I’ll try not to forget the oversized mansion you and Daddy reside in on the cul-de-sac in Andover, Massachusetts. I was but a mere doll Mother played dress up with all to keep face and make sure everyone else in the skating club knew she had money and prestige and some of the other girls’ families in my group did not.

  Yes, even at eleven, I realized my life was going to be lonely and controlled, or rather, dictated, until I was actually able to make my own decisions as an adult.

  Once my mother carefully placed all my skating outfits, skates, and grooming kits into the Mercedes, we were ready to go to rehearsal. Mid March in New England was never a pretty time of year. Snow started melting, leaving a muddy mess around every corner. Puddles formed, and the ugly brown snow that looked pretty in December was showing again. I somehow always related the layers of snow to my mother. No matter how many fresh coats of snow we received over the winter, if you kept peeling back each layer, the first layer was still the ugliest. Yeah, that was my mother. Fresh and pristine on the outside, but inside, she was still hideous.

  At the rink, I was usually always quite happy. This was the only time I was able to socialize with girls my own age, and they had shared the same interest as me, skating. I had a few girls whom I actually considered close friends, even if they were only friends at the rink. Lily, Suzanne, and Morgan were my only chance each week to have a normal life of an eleven- year-old, even if it was just for the times we were training at the rink.

  Mother dropped me off with my skate bag and told me to go inside while she brought in the remainder of my gear to the dressing room. I laughed as I walked into the rink. Dressing room? Clearly, she was delusional. Figure skaters didn’t get dressing rooms at rinks; we got the stinky sweat-smelling hockey locker room still reeking from the stick practice that cleared out five minutes before we set up shop. I hated those hockey players. They always smelled, and they looked like mini transformers in their padding, waddling around like they owned the place. They ruined the ice every time we had skate practice after them because the Zamboni could never grind down their divots enough, and we’d catch toe picks and edges on all the holes in the ice. If I even so much as hit one of those holes and fell, Mother made sure I knew what was at stake. “Appearances, Emily.” I swear, if I was ever admitted into a loony bin, it was because I just kept saying “appearances” over and over again.

  Just as I was about to round the corner to go into the dressing room to change into my skates, a hockey player came barreling around the blind corner, knocking me on my rear. As I gathered my thoughts and glanced up, I scowled at the boy who looked no more than thirteen and stared at me with his mouth gaped open and his hair all disheveled from his hockey helmet.

  He reached out his gloved hand to me and said, “Sorry, Barbie, didn’t see you. Here, let me help you up.”

  I looked at his outstretched, wet gloved hand and back to his smirking face and said, “Eww, get your smelly glove away from me. I can help myself up, you jerk! My mother is going to be livid if you messed up my hair and dress.” I quickly stood and inspected my first costume, and it looked okay. As I felt around my hair, nothing appeared out of place, so I glanced back over at the overstuffed Michelin kid seething as I remembered his comment just a moment before. “Where do you get off calling me Barbie? Who do you think you are?!”

  His smile quickly turned into shock. “I …uhh…sorry. I really didn’t see you.”

  “Whatever!” I stormed my way back into the locker room and started to get ready for the longest weekend of the skating season, not giving a second glance to the boy who almost ruined my appearance.

  2001

&
nbsp; My mom rushed home from her part-time job to ensure I was able to make it to hockey practice at the Valley Forum just south of the New Hampshire border. We lived over the border in a small Boston suburb called Tewksbury. On a good day without traffic, it was about a half-hour drive, which meant Mom had to leave her job early on Fridays since my little sister, Courtney, needed to be picked up from school, too. My older brother, Josh, at sixteen, was considered more responsible and was allowed to take the bus home alone or go to his friend’s house after school.

  My father, Travis Page, worked long, hard hours at a chemical distribution company in an industrial park. The pay was just enough to ensure we had a roof over our heads and a happy family environment to come home to. My mom, Grace, worked at the local grocery store bakery in order to pay for my hockey training. I could have chosen a less pricey sport, but once Dad gave me my first pair of skates and stick for my ninth birthday, I knew hockey was the sport for me.

  Four years later, I was still going strong and moving up each year with my youth hockey team. I always guaranteed this was the right decision when I had my entire family cheering me on in the bleachers at all my games. Dad may have shown up late, but he was always there hitting me hard on my shoulder pads after every game saying, “Hell of a game, Jeremy! You keep getting better every fuckin’ game!” Yeah, that was my dad, the proud one, with a mouth like a sailor. I think he showed everyone at work my hockey stat cards at least fifteen times each year when they came out.

  Practice was finished, and a tournament was scheduled against another youth hockey team in the area. I was just about to start removing my gear in the locker room when I realized I’d left my stick in the player booth by the ice. I quickly turned around and sprinted back out to the ice area. It was not easy trying to speed walk in hockey skates and full gear. I was pretty tall for my age, but I still resembled that kid from the movie A Christmas Story.

  As I turned the square corner to the hallway, my chest face planted right into this skinny blonde girl who dropped to the wet cushioned floor like a sack of potatoes. Shit! She quickly glanced up at me, and I immediately went speechless. She had the most amazing blue eyes I’d ever seen. She could seriously have passed as a cross between Princess Barbie and Cinderella with that sparkly fru fru dress and makeup thing she had going on. She couldn’t have been more than ten, and yet, looked like a teenager with all that makeup. And, no, I had a little sister, so clearly I’d been forced to suffer through some Barbie playtime. That was the only reason I knew what Barbie looked like. I had a hockey image to maintain. If the guys at school found out I was forced to have Barbie playtime with Courtney on weekends, I would have never heard the end of it.

  I quickly realized this girl was staring up at me scowling, no, seething at me. I reached out my gloved hand and said, “Sorry, Barbie, didn’t see you. Here, let me help you up.”

  Her little nose squinted up, and she shook her head, swiftly standing on her own and boldly stating, “Eww, get your smelly glove away from me. I can help myself up, you jerk! My mother is going to be livid if you messed up my hair and dress!” Well, that was about right. I must have bumped into the Ice Queen instead of Princess Barbie. She briefly inspected her costume and hair and turned back to me. “Where do you get off calling me Barbie? Who do you think you are?!” I was completely speechless. I apologized nicely and offered to help, and yet, she was still mad at me for bumping into her. Was it really that bad? She didn’t look hurt. No sooner did I apologize again, did she storm off shouting, “Whatever!”

  I turned and continued walking back to grab my stick, almost getting run over myself this time by an older woman dressed in a business suit and moving with determination. Her arms were full of costumes, and she was wheeling in a suitcase. She offered no apology or acknowledgement of her little bump into me. If I had to take one guess, I could probably guess whose mom that was.

  I grabbed my stick and hurried back to the locker room to change. After packing up my gear, I made my way out through the rink area to the front doors. On the way, I saw what could only be described as a guy’s worst nightmare. Hundreds of girls of all ages dressed in sparkly spandex and God-awful glittery, sequined costumes screeching and crying. I tried to maneuver my way through all the girls waiting to take the ice, but most of them just rolled their eyes at me and started whispering. Once I saw Suzanne Dunn, I couldn’t make my way to the exit fast enough. Suzanne and I attended Tewksbury Middle School together, and she was the craziest chick I knew. It also didn’t help that she was smitten with my older brother. Once he went off to high school, she thought if she made friends with me, she would be able to hang out with me to get to him. Little did Suzanne know, my brother, Josh, thought she was certifiably nuts!

  “Hey, Jeremy!” Suzanne said.

  “Shit,” I mumble. “Hey, Sue. How are you?”

  “Good, is your brother here?” I literally laughed. She looked at the smirk on my face, and you would have thought by the way she looked at me that I just told the teacher she cheated on her math exam, which technically she did last week, but I wasn’t going to get involved.

  “No, he’s over at his friend’s house tonight,” I responded and slowly tried to move away from her when I saw out of the corner of my eye that blonde beauty with hypnotizing eyes making her way onto the ice. Suzanne turned to another girl and started talking to her, pointing to the girl on the ice. She must have known her if they were in the same skating club, but I was going to try to avoid any further conversations with her if I could.

  I continued walking alongside the rink walls, noticing the perfectly put together woman who knocked into me before watching the girl on the ice. She was either her mom or coach; that was for sure. Either way, she looked like she meant business. Most skating moms sat and talked in the bleachers while their daughters trained on the ice. Not this woman, something told me she was different than the rest of them. I kept walking farther away, still studying the girl on the ice as the music flowed over the speakers and she effortlessly floated across the ice. She glided over to the end of the rink where I was walking, noting me watching her. She must have lost her train of thought, because at that moment, she caught an edge and slid right into the boards. Definitely embarrassed, she got up, brushed off the ice shavings, and skated away. The music stopped, and then I heard from the players’ bench. “Emily Beth Cameron!! What was that?! Do you have any idea how careless that fall was?!”

  Emily. My Barbie had a name. She spun around, and I saw genuine fear in her eyes. All the moms behind me started whispering, and I glanced over at Suzanne, who for the first time since I met her, did not say a word, but stared at Emily with sadness written all over her face. What the hell?! This was just figure skating, right? Hockey was full of fights, yelling, and sticks to the face. This was figure skating. It was supposed to be fun and happy, full of flair and beauty. What I was witnessing was clearly not that.

  My mom appeared from the outside doors, and I started walking away, but briefly glanced back. Suzanne gave me a wave goodbye, and then Emily took her place at the end of the ice nearest me as her mom screamed, “Again, Emily!”

  Emily turned and faced the glass, looking at me as I smiled at her. Immediately, she rolled her eyes, and our connection was gone. Her hand came up and visibly wiped away a stray tear from her eye. She shook her head as if clearing her thoughts, and then she struck a starting pose, letting out a long breath and planting a huge fake smile across her face as the music started and Gwen Stefani’s voice singing “Just a Girl” echoed through the arena. Just like that, she turned and skated away.

  It was then I heard my mom by my side ask, “Jeremy, do you know that girl?”

  “No, Mom, not really, we kind of just bumped into each other earlier.” I laughed a little.

  “Poor girl looks years beyond her actual age. It’s a shame.” I saw my mom watching her skate across the ice some more and realized she noticed the difference between Emily and me. Emily was forced to skate, and I skated be
cause I loved the game. In my game, it was as though she was in the penalty box and never coming out.

  2013

  My earliest memory in life involves figure skating. Every memory since is only of figure skating. I wake up, train, and sleep. I believe I might actually be permitted to eat and shower somewhere in there, too. I have no other friends outside of the rink walls, and I’m not allowed. For over fifteen years, this has been my life. This was never my choice; it was what Mother told me to do growing up. I’m apparently never going to be allowed anything else until the day I retire. Ha! That’s not going to happen. She’ll never allow me to retire from this life. Some days I wish for that one fall that ends my career altogether, so my life can finally change. Then, what happens with my life? I haven’t lived a normal life growing up. I don’t have friends to support me, and it’s not as though I’m hiring material for a job. I mean, seriously, I may have a college degree, which I’m pretty sure my father bought off because I spent the majority of my college years competing for the coveted gold medal. I live this nightmare every single day.

  I thought on my eighteenth birthday that I would have the final say and be able to move on from the competitions and from the daily trips to the rink for training with my overpriced coach. I wanted to begin living my life; I’d already lost my childhood and teenage years to my mother’s insane addiction to my skating career. Eighteen came and went, and I thought I had a chance when I graduated from high school and cornered my parents in Daddy’s office, explaining how I wanted to learn what it was like to be in the real world and see what other options I had outside of the skating world.

  My father sat there silent, sitting is his oversized chair, staring at me without any emotion. His eyes turned to my mother, who looked right back at me and said without waver, “Emily, your father and I have spent a fortune on your skating career, in which you have made a name for yourself on the national level. How would it look if you were to just walk away now? You have to consider how this affects your family name. It’s not a wise decision when there is so much more for you to accomplish, or should we remind you how you failed to make it on the podium to get to the World Championships last year?”