Blindsided

30

My entire life, I've been surrounded by noise. Some of my first memories are with my grandparents, sitting on a picnic blanket on their front lawn in Burton, chasing birds while they played a game of checkers. The first time I went to one of my dad's hockey games, I fell in love the second I heard the crowds pour into the arena. Dad had let me come with him and stay with one of his teammates' wife, so I was standing on the second floor of the arena when they opened the doors for the rest of the fans.

I think the noise is what pulled me into the game. From the second I could hear the fans to the very last second before I left the arena, I could feel my heart pumping to that noise. Eventually, when I got to play the game myself and I was the one on the ice, surrounded by the noise of the crowd and the cut of the skates in the ice, by the voices of my team calling out plays and my coach trying to tell me what to do from the bench.

The puck makes a beautiful noise when it hits the ice. Almost like a clap, but also like the snap of your fingers. Maybe it's because I associate it so well with the adrenaline of what comes next, but I know that when I hear that noise, I'm home. When I'm not on the ice, the noise is softer, as if being on the ice is like standing next to a waterfall, the real world is like standing next to a stream.

My entire life, I've always associated noise with my own emotions. When I'm on the ice, I feel euphoric; there's nothing that can pull me down from the cloud that I'm soaring on. When I'm off the ice, I'm calm; I have a constant need to feel the adrenaline in my veins again, but I'm collected. But there's other times, like this one, when I can hear my blood pounding in my ears, and the noise feels like it could drown me.

~~~

"Would you stop it? You look beautiful! Now get your butt downstairs before your grandmother comes up here and the both of us get in trouble," my mother laughed. I pulled at the skirt on my short, yellow dress and frowned.

"I don't get why I have to wear this," I mumbled, fighting to rip the seam so that I would get to change. Mom saw what I was trying to do and pulled my hands away. Taking my small hands in her larger ones, she kneeled in front of me and turned away from the mirror.

"Because your grandma worked very hard to make something nice for you to wear to church. It'll make her very happy to see you wearing it," my mother explained. I let out another frustrated huff and wandered over to my suitcase. I pulled out a long pair of jean shorts, and started to pull them on underneath my dress. "You stop right there young lady!"

I whipped around when I heard my mom scold me, but my leg was already caught in the hole of the shorts. I started to fall backwards into my suitcase before she was there, holding me up.

"Paige, you can't wear shorts," she insisted. I crossed my arms as she pulled them back down from where they were lopsided on my knees. I stepped out of them, but my arms remained crossed to show that I wasn't happy about it.

"Why not," I whined.

She laughed a bit, but didn't seem fazed by my reaction. "For a few hours, you can act like a lady. I'm sure Grandpa would love to take you riding right after you get back."

I perked up at that, but I still wasn't happy about wearing the dress for three hours while we went to church in town. The only reason I didn't rip it off and put something more comfortable on was the look on my mom's face. She had always had to deal with my tomboy ways; this was the least I could do for her.

So we went to church, I sat nicely in my dress with my legs crossed and my hands in my lap. Grandpa would pull on the hem of it to make me laugh and Grandma would scowl at the both of us when we were too loud. We went out for ice cream after, which was nearly a punishment. I was dying to get out of this dress and the sooner we got home, the better.