I check in with the monitor, peeking at her list while she puts a check mark beside my name. The cost of the practice ice is listed at the top. Fifteen dollars per hour. That adds up fast when I skate four sessions a day.
I tuck my necklace under my warm-up jacket’s collar, then pull off my blade guards and make my way to the boards. I set my tissue box and water bottle on the top ledge. My eyes scan the ice as I glide toward Alex.
This rink is a very different type of city. Even the skaters behave differently here. No one stops to chat or sneak in a cartwheel behind their coach’s back.
Alex stands in front of a white woman in a puffy pink jacket that looks like it’s half swallowing her. She rests her elbows on the ledge that separates the ice from a long bench behind the boards.
“Ah, Alex,” she says as I skid to a stop. “This must be your little prodigy, yes?”
Her heavy accent makes me think of fur-lined coats and castles capped in snow.
“Indeed.” Alex turns to me. “Ana, this is world-renowned choreographer Lydia Marinova. Lydia is visiting for the next—”
“Miss.” Lydia interrupts Alex, but her eyes stay on me like a hawk.
“Of course.” Alex recovers fast. “Miss Lydia will be choreographing several skaters’ programs and offering costume consults while she’s here over the next week. You’ll have your first lesson together tomorrow.”
When I was little, Mom wanted me to say “Mister” before Alex’s name. But Tamar never called him Mr. Alex, so after a while I stopped, too.
Miss Lydia’s title seems a whole lot less optional.
“Yes,” Miss Lydia says. “Tomorrow you will work hard.”
“Great,” Alex says. He smiles and I copy him, even though I can’t tell if her comment is a promise or a threat. “I hate to cut this short, but I’ve got to start my first lesson.”
As Alex skates off, Miss Lydia turns back to me. The playful bounce of her tightly wound, dyed-blond curls doesn’t match her frown.
“Your skirt.”
“My skirt?” I look down at my leggings, confused.
“Yes.” The word cuts through the air like a skate blade, a deep edge into soft ice. “Wear it tomorrow.”
“Um. Okay.”
I don’t have a skirt, not in my duffel bag or at home. It’s been years since I even wore one at a competition.
Miss Lydia dismisses me. A lump forms in my throat as I glide away. Where am I going to get a skirt on such short notice? Besides, it’s not like I’ll ever wear it after Miss Lydia’s gone.
I spot Faith nearby, working on quick-twisting rocker turns. I skate past, not quite sure I’m ready to talk to her yet. Darting around slower skaters, I pick up speed. Arms out and shoulders down, I focus on strong edges and posture.
After one full circuit around the ice, I hop backward. The air feels colder than I’m used to, the ice harder. It crunches under my blades each time I shift my weight between the inside and outside edges of my feet. One more circuit of alternating backward edges, then I move on to basic turns and twizzles. The moves loosen my joints and warm my muscles.
I notice Hope watching me. Alex says something that snaps her to attention, but her gaze shifts back to me after a second. I raise my eyebrows, like Alex does when he catches me daydreaming. Hope grins, then refocuses on her lesson.
“Hope’s been talking about meeting you for, like, two whole weeks.”
I whirl around, surprised to see Faith behind me. She looks down, sliding the cuffs of her warm-up coat sleeves over her hands.
“Really?”
“Ever since she found out we were all going to be Alex’s students.”
“Team Alex.” She looks up at my comment, and I shake my head. “Never mind.”
“You don’t think he’d like us calling it that?”
We’re skating together now, gliding slowly side by side.
“I think he’d probably tell me I can be more creative. Or that it should be about us, not him, or something.”
“That make sense, I guess.”
We both go quiet, keeping our eyes on other skaters. Some wear official Team USA jackets. Most have on the same stretchy leggings as Faith and me, but my gaze keeps drifting to an older girl. She stands in front of Miss Lydia for a lesson, wearing tights, a leotard, and a flowery wraparound skirt.
My stomach twists. I force myself to look up at Faith instead.
Alex mentioned jump exercises, but I don’t want Faith thinking I’m a know-it-all, demonstrating things before Alex teaches them to her. I have another idea, one that seems safer. “Do you want to run through jumps together? Like, singles, then doubles, and combos and stuff?”
“Okay.” She nods. “Start with a waltz jump, then I’ll do mine.”
We fly across the ice, performing simple single-rotation jumps with legs extended behind us to practice strong landings. We move on to doubles next, which require better focus and timing.
My doubles spring off the ice, explosive with tight, fast rotation. Faith’s are precise but slower, gracefully arcing through the air. The longer I skate with Faith, the easier it is to learn my new rink’s unspoken rules. When to avoid crossing another skater’s path. Who’s in a lesson. Which skater is practicing their program to music.
By the time Alex calls Faith over for her lesson, we’ve gotten through most of our jump combos. She waves to me, then skates off as an instrumental version of a pop song plays over the speakers. With nothing else to do, I perform a series of bunny hop jumps in time with the song, then a one-foot turn into an edgy power pull to pick up speed.
If Tamar were here, she’d probably join in, making up choreography with me. Today, I’m alone, letting the music guide my movements. Deep edges. Quick turns. A rapid blur of twizzles. I step forward and leap
