‘Girl of My Dreams’ by Jodi MacAulay

I don’t polish the furniture much anymore. I hardly ever mop the floor, either. I’ve always preferred gardening, so the cat determines the housekeeping schedule. When he starts playing with dust bunnies under the dining table, I stay indoors and clean.

The divorce will be final soon. What a relief. Who would have thought twenty-five years of love and trust could end like an untied balloon, blatting around overhead in a manic circle before shrivelling to the floor?

When my husband left, he shouted, “There is no Ice Capades.” 

It’s true. The company went bankrupt back in the nineties. The general public didn’t want to see Las Vegas–style chorus girls on skates anymore. 

But I did. That’s all I ever wanted. 

When I was little, my dream was to be an Ice Capette — a member of the precision team in the ice show. Being a soloist was out of the question. My family couldn’t afford skating lessons. There was no one to teach me to hop, jump, or spin, so I taught myself to glide, stop, and turn. An Ice Capette’s job was to keep her line straight. To kick. To smile. I knew I could do it if I got the chance.

And the costumes. Oh, the costumes. Ice Capettes wore spangled confections cut high at the thigh, with fishnet tights stretching down their legs. They put covers over their skates to match their outfits, but the headpieces were my favourite. Sometimes they had feathers, sometimes sparkles. They elevated the Ice Capettes from a cluster of hometown pretties to a constellation of cultivated wonder. I couldn’t imagine growing up to be anything else, but by the time I was old enough for a tryout, Ice Capades was taking its final bow.