That gets me thinking. Tamar’s got an opinion on everything. Maybe she’ll have some thoughts about my new choreography.
“Hey.” I hop up. “How does this look?”
I rise onto my toes, arms out and rounded in front of me. I imagine Faith’s graceful posture.
My ankles wobble. I shoot an arm out to the edge of Tamar’s desk to avoid toppling over.
“That needs some work.” Tamar giggles from her bed. “But I bet it’ll look great when you get the hang of it.”
“Faith made this look so easy yesterday,” I mutter. If I can’t do this on the ground, how will I ever manage on less than an inch of steel blade?
“Who?” Tamar tilts her head.
It takes me a second to remember what I said. “Oh, Faith Park. She’s another skater who just started taking lessons with Alex. We ride to the rink together.”
My calves ache as I hold the position again.
Tamar sits up, watching me carefully.
I drop onto my heels. “What?”
“You just never mentioned her before.” She looks down at her lap for a second. “Never mind. Maybe you’re trying too hard. Do it again, but make sure to breathe.”
I rise one more time. My breaths get faster as I start to tip over.
“Ana, nooo!” Tamar starts laughing. “You look like you’re hyperventilating.” She heads over and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Again.”
I take my time, lifting my arms, then rising to my toes.
Tamar steps back. I hold the position for one, two, three more seconds, eyes drifting back to her bulletin board. All those synchro skaters and their glittery costumes. My eyelids flutter closed as I try to imagine myself performing in a dress like that.
I lose my balance again.
“Not bad.” Tamar drops onto her bed. “Although I’d suggest keeping your eyes open next time.”
I trudge back to Tamar’s armchair and let myself sink into the plush cushion. I tuck my knees to my chest and hug them, thoughts still on flowing skirts and bedazzled dresses.
“So, what’s the catch?” Tamar finally asks.
“Hmm?”
“With the free ice.”
I didn’t realize we were done talking about my opening pose, but I’m happy to move on if it takes my mind off skating costumes. “I’m helping with the rink’s skate-school classes.”
She wrinkles her nose.
“It’s actually kind of fun. I get to help people and demonstrate moves, and I’m pretty sure half the girls already have a crush on Alex.”
“Oh my gosh.” Tamar sits up. “I wish I could see their faces when Myles stops by the rink to pick him up.”
I try to smile, but my thoughts shift to Hayden. I want to tell her there’s a skate-school student who used to have a girl’s name and now uses boy pronouns, but that feels private. I also wouldn’t know how to explain why it even matters to me.
“Are you still bummed about that skirt rule? I bet you looked fine. More than.” I don’t say anything, but Tamar doesn’t seem to notice. “Maybe Lydia wants to get you to try something new. Show the judges a different side of you?”
Alex did say something about the judges wanting to see a skater’s artistic range between the short program and the free skate. “I mean, it’s fine. I’d just rather wear leggings.”
“I never would’ve guessed. I totally didn’t see your costume at Nationals.”
I narrow my eyes but know Tamar’s teasing.
“How much longer are you working with her?”
“My final lesson’s next Tuesday. Then Mom said Miss Lydia will email Alex a document with all my steps and arm positions in case I forget something after she leaves.”
“Okay,” Tamar says. “You’ve got, like, four more lessons. Then you’ll have an awesome program choreographed by someone who’s basically famous, and you won’t have to practice in a skirt anymore.”
When she puts it that way, I guess that doesn’t sound so terrible.
“You’ve got this, no problem.” Tamar throws me a thumbs-up. “It’s a piece of cake, just like landing a triple toe. For you, not me, obviously. Hey, want to see a video of my synchro team’s new intersection?”
She waves me over. I flop down beside her, eyes fixed on her phone as two lines of girls in identical warm-up jackets glide toward one another, connected at the shoulders. Dropping their arms at the last possible second, they twirl and pass through the spaces that open up between them.
“That’s cool,” I say, but my mind’s still on lessons with Miss Lydia.
Like Tamar said, it’s only four lessons. I can do this. Piece of cake.
No, bite of bao.
I smile to myself. That’s more my style.
Chapter Nine
When I enter the rink today, I can’t find Miss Lydia—she’s not behind the boards in her usual spot.
“Ana-Marie! Come.”
Ugh. Now I see her. She’s by the music box.
“Listen,” Miss Lydia says when I arrive.
All I hear is rink noise at first. Skaters greet each other by the boards. Coaches call out technique critiques. The crunch-chrip from a deep-edged step sequence filters in, followed by the shicka-shicka-shicka of a tightly centered spin.
Then, a clue: an airy lilt of a flute. There’s something familiar about the soft thrum of string instruments that soon joins in. I imagine songbirds, can almost see cotton-candy clouds floating past a dazzling castle. A minute later, I’m still waiting for a tempo change or swell in the song’s volume.
When the music stays soft, I wring my mittened fingers.
That’s when the singing starts. A sleepy chorus. The track ends as drowsily as it began. No flair whatsoever.
Miss Lydia looks at me, arms crossed. “Now you see the graceful edges, the dainty arm movements, how they come together.”
I try to visualize my opening pose to this music, arms rounded beautifully. An image of Faith appears instead. Faith balanced on her blades, gazing over one shoulder. Faith performing a lovely, deep-edged spiral while Miss Lydia looks on and nods.
Miss Lydia steps onto the ice, marshmallow coat, snow boots, and all.
As she shuffles her way to center ice, I finally remember where I’ve heard this music
