My mind erases Miss Lydia’s scowling face. The skirt request feels like a distant memory.
This is what I love about skating.
I slip into character as the music changes to a selection from Carmen, adding sharp arm movements to my landings. Right hand on my hip. Left arm arched over my head. I step forward, preparing to spin, but stop when I spot Alex.
“Looks like you’ve managed to settle in some.” He glides closer to me. “Session’s done. Grab your stuff. I want to run something by you.”
We pass the benches, then walk through the door I saw Alex exit into before the session started. I immediately recognize it as a coaches’ lounge.
“Have a seat,” Alex says, gesturing to a chair, “and let’s get down to—”
Bzzzrr!
“Just a sec.” Alex pulls out his vibrating phone. “It’s Myles.”
While Alex and his husband discuss weekend plans, I slide my duffel bag off my shoulder, drop into the chair, and unlace my skates partway. Now that I’m off the ice, the whole morning comes back to me, from my pre-alarm jitters to Miss Lydia’s skirt request.
I take a deep breath and let it out fast.
As Alex talks, I fish through my bag for my phone. Tamar’s sent even more texts.
11:38 a.m.: The suspense is killing me… How’s everything going?? (Answer when u can, no pressure)
11:39 a.m.: OK some pressure. I’m bored and you’ve only been gone like 3 hours
12:07 p.m.: At the rink. Twizzles still scratchy and trying to kill me
Where do I start? There’s so much to tell her.
“Ana?” Alex points to his phone. “Want to say hi?”
“Oh, sure!”
Alex rotates the screen, and Myles’s smiling face greets me. His head is completely shaved, brown skin contrasting with the collar on his light pink shirt.
“Hi, Bean. How’s it going?” His southern accent makes each vowel sound long and special.
“Good.” I flex my ankles in my skates.
“You must be real excited about—”
“Hold that thought.” Alex cuts in. “I haven’t had a chance to tell her yet.”
“Ah, my mistake!” Myles shoots me a wink. “My lips are sealed, too, then.”
After a quick goodbye, Alex ends the call. “All right, let’s talk skating.” I drop my phone into my lap, leaning forward in my seat.
“I’ll work on revamping your old Juvenile program later this week to make sure it’s competitive for Intermediate. Your mom said you’d be fine keeping last year’s costume.” I nod but keep quiet. I want him to explain what Mom and Myles both know that I don’t. “Now, remember when I said things would be changing in the qualifying competition pipeline this season?”
“You said there’s a training camp instead of Nationals.”
“I did, indeed. But there’s more.” Alex leans back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Starting this year, skaters have a chance to skip Regionals and go straight to Sectionals based on their scores at select summer competitions.”
I sit up straighter.
“Regionals will remain the same, with the top four skaters qualifying for Sectionals,” Alex explains. “But I wanted to make you aware that they’ll be tracking scores at your first competition this summer in Los Angeles.”
I stare at him, eyes wide. “You mean if I skate well there, I could automatically qualify for Sectionals?”
Alex nods. “I want to be clear, though, Ana. Your mom and I aren’t having you compete in Los Angeles with that as a goal, not so soon after moving up a level and giving you a new program. If you qualify for Sectionals, great, but the main objective is to develop endurance and consistency in your new programs this summer. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Good. That’s settled. And one more thing…”
I barely hear him. I know Alex said we won’t be focusing on trying to skip Regionals in October, but I can’t help thinking that Mom wouldn’t have to take as much time off from work if I did. She also wouldn’t have to buy another set of plane tickets if I advanced straight to Sectionals this November.
“Your mom and I had a talk a few weeks back, while we were discussing the move to Oakland. As much as she wants you to focus solely on skating, we know you’re aware of the high cost of your training. The rink manager has offered to help offset some of these expenses by covering your ice-time.”
“Free ice?” My thoughts about skipping Regionals grind to a halt.
“Yeah.” Alex gives me a small smile. “Here’s the deal: Rink management will offer you ice-time in exchange for your help with their Tuesday night skate-school classes. You’d be my assistant, working with kids who need individual attention and demonstrating skills.”
He pauses just long enough to confirm that, yes, I’m listening. I really am—as if he couldn’t already tell from my mouth hanging open.
“The summer semester starts tomorrow. One of the skate-school instructors who lives in San Francisco will drive you home in the evening since the Parks will be gone by then. Her name’s Jen. You’ll get to meet her tomorrow. Any questions?”
I do some quick math. At fifteen dollars an hour and four hours on the ice every weekday, that’d save Mom three hundred dollars a week—over a thousand each month!
“I just have to help out one night a week? For all the freestyle ice I want?”
Alex nods. “They may have other requests, but management knows they have to work around your training schedule.” He looks at me straight on. “Can I assume that poorly concealed grin means you’ll accept their offer?”
I am this close to rolling my eyes at him.
“Yes!”
He mouths the word excellent, rubbing his hands together like a cartoon villain.
I roll my eyes for real this time, pull my lunchbox out of my duffel bag, and look inside. This day keeps getting better! Mom packed bao. A steamed bun filled with bean paste, the bao is technically my dessert. But since I’m old enough
