No greeting. No small talk.
I get going, wondering how Miss Lydia plans to demonstrate my choreography if she doesn’t step onto the ice.
“Go!” she shouts.
I pretend Miss Lydia is a competition judge and start my footwork. I imagine the low, subtle beats at the start of my Nationals program. Soon, it’s like I’m skating at an event, performing for an invisible crowd. I forget about the skirt and Miss Lydia’s harsh words, instead focusing on steady edges and controlled turns.
I complete the sequence with a showy stop, spraying snow a few inches in front of me.
Miss Lydia’s expression doesn’t change. “Again.”
I stare at her. I skated it just fine the first time.
She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Now. Go, go.”
The skirt flaps at my hips as I repeat my step sequence. It feels like a flag on a windy day, fluttery and distracting.
Miss Lydia doesn’t give me a chance to skate back before barking another command. She has me perform Moves in the Field patterns next, ordering me to skate the Intermediate-level spiral sequence. For almost our entire lesson, I extend my leg behind me, performing every possible variation, on inside edges and outside, skating both forward and backward.
With five minutes left, she waves me over and tells me to lift my arms in front of me, one after the other.
“Now down,” she says.
I drop my arms to my sides.
“Up.”
I comply.
She orders me to do this what feels like a frajillion times. Up fast, down slow. In reverse. Both arms forward. One behind my back, the other rising at an angle, finger pointed toward the clock on the rink wall.
“Don’t move.”
I do as I’m told, convinced people are staring. Just what I need: a choreographer who isn’t choreographing and every skater out here watching me point at nothing.
“Your lesson is done.” Miss Lydia dismisses me with a flick of her wrist.
I hesitate, but her focus has already shifted to Faith. I hop off the ice but stay by the boards, peering out through the plexiglass.
Miss Lydia walks on top of a long bench to avoid the line of skate bags stored behind the boards. In her thick bubble gum–pink coat, she totters along like an overstuffed doll.
She makes it to the music box, and soon the tluck-tlick of a string instrument plays through the overhead speakers. She calls something out. Faith turns backward and picks up speed before reaching for one skate blade with the hand on the opposite side of her body. The ties from her silver skirt flap like butterfly wings. Lifting her leg into a vertical split, Faith flies down the ice, head tilted back. No sign that the skirt is bothering her.
Faith stops in front of Miss Lydia, one arm behind her, the other lifted. It’s just like the position Miss Lydia told me to hold, except Faith is less rigid. She radiates grace, from the arch of her back to the tip of her outstretched finger.
I turn away, my face suddenly hot. Faith doesn’t seem to be struggling with Miss Lydia’s directions like I just was. Making my way toward a bench, I tug at the tie on Hope’s skirt until it unknots. Free, for now.
Sitting, I pull out my phone and text Tamar.
11:01 a.m.: I had my first choreography lesson. Tell you more when we hang out tomorrow.
I look back toward the ice in time to see Faith copy Miss Lydia’s arm movements with perfect precision. She receives a small nod, something I didn’t manage after a full hour. Faith’s been in her lesson for less than five minutes.
I untie my skates, reminding myself it was just the first day of choreography. I’m never perfect the first time Alex teaches me something new, either.
A surge of determination travels out from my chest as I grab my bag and head to the coaches’ lounge for lunch. I’ll work hard and get Miss Lydia to nod at me, too. Hard squared. By my next lesson, she’ll be just as impressed with me as she is with Faith.
Chapter Seven
After our final freestyle session, Faith and Hope head out, but I don’t leave with them. I make my way to the rink bathroom to change into thicker pants and a fleece-lined jacket.
Only a few people still sit at the tables between the two rinks when I get back—including Faith and Hope.
Hope spots me first and waves. As I get closer, I notice the pencil and paper in front of her. Faith sits across from her, an electronic pen hovering above her iPad.
“Mom’s running late,” Faith explains.
“Did you want to sit with us?” Hope asks. “We’re taking notes on stuff Alex taught us.”
It definitely wouldn’t hurt to see how much of Miss Lydia’s lesson I remember. Maybe writing it down will help me figure out how to make her happy.
“Sure.” I take a seat across from Hope, next to Faith. I pull out my notebook and flip to a blank page, then create a list of everything Miss Lydia asked me to do today, from each spiral down to the tiniest arm movement.
Beside me, Faith leans forward, pen swirling across her iPad screen, and I can’t help stealing a peek. She isn’t taking notes, at least not like Hope and I. Lots of horizontal lines and dots fill her screen.
“Is that music?”
Faith nods slowly. “It’s the intro for my free program. I’m trying to memorize what steps go with the rises and falls of the melody.”
“Whoa.” I don’t even have my program music yet. Am I even more behind than I thought? “Does Miss Lydia want everyone to do that?”
“I’m just doing it for fun. Hope definitely doesn’t do this kind of off-ice work, right?” Faith looks at her sister.
“Nope!” Hope shows me her sheet of paper. It has a line with Alex’s name on it, but it’s mostly filled with doodles. They don’t look related to skating at
