“Was that from the Sleeping Beauty movie?”
“Yes. A classic composition based on the Russian ballet. Tchaikovsky.” Miss Lydia seems to expect me to say something, but all I can do is swallow hard. She clucks her tongue, then continues her slow shuffle.
“First, arms,” Miss Lydia says when we reach the center circle. She plays the music again, this time from her phone.
Arms out, I look over one shoulder and rise onto my toe picks, just like I’ve practiced at home all week.
“Arrogance,” Miss Lydia calls over the music. “You are a princess, the world at your fingertips.”
I hop sideways to keep myself upright, feeling ridiculous. The song fades out, then loops back to the opening notes.
“Again,” orders Miss Lydia. “Again, again.”
The more I attempt my starting pose, the harder it is to stay balanced. Skate boots are stiff. They don’t make it easy to point your feet.
We move on. Miss Lydia’s lips are a thin line, her words clipped as she maps out the next forty-five seconds of my music. This takes almost an hour, through the end of my lesson.
Then I’m dismissed. Miss Lydia moves on to her next victim.
I head for the boards, grabbing my water bottle before rushing into the hockey penalty box. Normally it’s a big no-no to leave the ice in the middle of a freestyle session, but I need a minute.
That music was bad. Alex said Miss Lydia would evaluate my strengths based on how I skated last week. She must think I’m slow and boring if this is the song she chose for me.
“Hey, Bean.” Alex glides up to me. “How’s your new program coming along?”
“It’s okay,” I say automatically. As Alex attaches his phone to an aux cord snaking out of the music box nearby, I scoot closer. “What do you think about the music?”
“It was a little quiet.”
I nod eagerly, waiting for him to continue, but his eyes are fixed on Hope at center ice, standing in her opening pose. “We might have to adjust the volume on the digital file, but that shouldn’t be too much trouble.”
My heart sinks. Hope’s program begins and Alex skates off.
Sighing, I slouch on the bench and take a sip of water, letting my eyes travel across the ice. I pick at the bow on Hope’s purple skirt.
Two more days of this. Then Miss Lydia goes home.
But I’ll still be stuck with this program.
Skaters whip by, blurs of black stretch pants and jackets. Someone runs their program to a selection of Carmen music. I remember creating choreography for that song only a few days ago. It’s not my favorite, but I’d take it over my no-energy music.
I rock on the bench, trying to figure out what to do next. I thought working with a famous choreographer would take my skating to the next level. Maybe the judges will love Miss Lydia’s music and my new flowery arm movements, but I don’t.
Nearby, blades click together. I refocus in time to see Faith push herself back to standing. She brushes snow off her leggings, then circles the ice to set up another jump.
I stop rocking. I’ve seen Faith skate lots of times, even before I started training in Oakland. Her competition programs were always artistic, but she’d score lower on the technical portion. This is the first time I’ve seen her try a triple jump. She turns backward, bends, and taps.
She falls again, half a revolution short on her triple toe loop.
She gets up and attempts the jump a third time. Same result.
I watch, transfixed. It’s weird to see someone as graceful as Faith struggling on a part of skating I’ve always found easy.
She keeps trying—and falling, falling, falling. I wouldn’t be happy taking that many spills, either, but Faith looks totally over it, like she doesn’t want to be here.
I look around, but Alex is across the rink working with Hope. Faith’s on her own.
I get up before I can second-guess myself and glide over.
“Hey.” I offer her my hand. “Are you okay?”
She lets me help her up. “Yeah. My timing just feels off.”
“And your head,” I say, then clamp my mouth shut. She didn’t ask for help.
She wipes a clump of snow off her thigh. “What about my head?”
“It’s just, you’re turning it in the wrong direction when you take off.”
She puts her hands on her hips. I brace myself for an argument, but all she does is sigh and drop her arms to her sides. “Like how?”
“Like”—I reach my leg back like I would right before a takeoff, then turn my head over my left shoulder—“this.”
“Oh. I never even noticed I was doing that.”
“I used to do the same thing when I was learning the double. Alex would ask what was so interesting on the other side of the rink every time I turned my head the wrong way.”
To my surprise, Faith grins.
I’m about to make another suggestion when Alex glides past. Next to him, Hope slides to a stop and crosses her arms, pretending to look stern. “Less talk, more practice!” she calls in a low, deep voice, probably meant to mimic Alex.
Faith and I exchange a look. She turns to Alex. “Ana was helping me with my triple toe.”
“I totally was.” I nod. “I was about to show her your toe loop takeoff exercise, too, if she wants.”
Alex nods back. “Ten minutes, you two. Then back to work on your programs. You’ve only got a couple of days left to learn all the steps.” He glances toward the boards, where Miss Lydia stands watching another skater’s footwork.
We glide toward an open part of the ice.
“This looks simple, but it might take a second to get,” I tell Faith. “It’s three back outside edges into your toe loop takeoff, but instead of pulling in your ankles right away, you do a split jump and then snap your legs together to finish rotating.”
She practices the edges in front of me, hesitating when she’s supposed to tap in
