“Bad practice?” he asks.
“It was okay. I landed most of my jumps. It’s just…” I fidget and reach for my necklace. “I’m not sure.… I mean, I don’t know how I feel about my program.”
Alex offers me a small smile. “It’s certainly a change from your last one, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” That’s exactly it. I think? It doesn’t feel right. I open my mouth to explain, but Alex winces. “Are you okay?”
“I can’t seem to shake this headache.” He rubs his temples. “I’m going to head home before this turns into a migraine. I texted Corinne, and she confirmed one of the older assistants can take over my classes. She’ll have you help Jen, just for this week. Is that okay?”
What else can I do except nod?
As I trudge toward the bathroom to change into warmer clothes, I remember that Hayden’s in Jen’s first class. Maybe I’ll get to meet him.
I change, then find a seat at one of the front lobby tables and pull out my notebook. Miss Lydia’s bill is a good reminder that I have to write everything down. I can’t afford to waste time repeating something I’ve already learned when my training costs Mom so much.
I write triple flip in big letters, underlining it twice.
I stare at the header, wishing my practice notes would write themselves. When they don’t, I grab my phone out of my duffel. I don’t really feel like talking to anyone, but maybe a text or two will make me feel better.
Tamar responds almost immediately.
5:08 p.m.: Heyyy what’s up
Lots of stuff, that’s what. But first things first.
5:10 p.m.: I’m bored and don’t want to finish my practice notes.
I can imagine her laugh when she sends back her next message in all caps.
5:11 p.m.: LOL
5:11 p.m.: Miss u
I miss her, too. Tomorrow is the day we usually hang out, but Mom’s Mandarin student canceled so we’ll probably stay home.
Before I can respond, Tamar texts again.
5:12 p.m.: Hey want to hang out Saturday after I get back from ship?
5:12 p.m.: ship
5:13 p.m.: SHUL!
5:13 p.m.: Autocorrect faaaaail
I grin. She could’ve just typed temple. Usually I’d be at our synagogue on Saturday morning, too, but Mom and I have both been so tired from work and skating that Saturday’s become our sleep-in day lately.
An ellipsis appears. Tamar texts faster than I spin.
5:13 p.m.: Brb, dinner
5:13 p.m.: Talk more later???
The rink’s front doors open and a pair of hockey players file in, rolling huge bags behind them. They head toward the other side of the building.
Maybe I need a change of scenery.
I follow the stream of hockey players into the second rink, where a dozen kids warm up on the ice. I take a seat halfway up in the stands and pull out the sandwich Mom packed for me.
Helmets and thick padding make it hard to tell whether these players are girls or boys. A pang of jealousy shoots through me. People will think I’m a girl the second my free-skate program begins.
I freeze, sandwich halfway to my mouth.
Why would that bother me? I am a girl.
What else could I be?
Pap, pap!
Two hockey sticks clash. I try to relax as I take a bite of my sandwich. My eyes stay glued to the players tearing circuits around the rink, but my mind is a million miles away.
If I’m not a girl, then… what?
I hunch forward, elbows digging into my thighs. I take a bite of my sandwich, then another and another. By the time it’s gone, I still don’t have an answer.
Hrrnnng!
I check the large digital clock above the goal net. It flickers from 00:00 back to the actual time: 5:56.
Skate-school starts in less than five minutes!
I tear downstairs to the coaches’ lounge in record time.
“There you are.” Corinne looks up as I burst through the door. “I was wondering if you’d gone home, too.”
“I’m here,” I pant. “Sorry!”
I swipe my coat from the rack and lace up my first skate, fingers flying.
“Did Alex explain that you’ll be assisting Jen tonight?”
I look up long enough to nod.
“Wonderful. See you on the ice, then.” Corinne and the other instructors file out. I shove my foot into my second skate. After fastening my boot covers in place, I dash toward the door, only to come to a stuttering stop.
Name tag. Duh!
I sprint to the pumpkin bowl. Peer in and scan the labels. Different instructors teach classes on other nights, so there are several still inside.
WHITNEY. SANDRA. KYOKO. FINN.
KATHLEEN. E-something I can’t read the rest of. CHRIS.
Finally, I spot one that starts with an A. I’m out the door lightning fast, hopping on the ice where students have already started their warm-up. I pin the name tag to my coat and skid to a stop behind Jen and her students.
Jen glides backward, calling out instructions while her students practice scooter pushes in a row. She doesn’t introduce me, probably because I was late, but we catch each other’s gaze for a second and she winks.
I move to one side of the line, prepared to offer tips, but my stomach jumps when I spot the boy I saw last week. He’s skating on the far side of the line. The row of girls partially blocks my view, but I’ll find out for sure if this boy is Hayden soon.
First, one-foot glides.
The students march forward, then lift one foot for as long as they can. I follow behind, eyes on their feet. “Too high,” I tell one girl with strawberry-blond hair. “Try lifting your skate just to your ankle.” She lowers her free foot like I suggested and holds her glide for twice as long.
I move on. The other students seem to be doing all right on this skill.
Except one. The boy struggles to balance. His ankles sink inward, knees knocking.
I skate over to him.
“I think your skates are loose. They might also be a
