Music shatters the silence, and I practically fall out of bed onto the floor. The majestic trumpets of the Olympic anthem are blaring from my iPhone, a gift from Coach Chen for my first national competition. Libby and Joya must have changed the ringtone last night. If I were more awake, I’d appreciate the gesture, but those horns could kill a person at this hour.
I grab for it, my eyes still heavy with sleep. Coach Chen’s picture looks at me from the screen. When I pick up, for a moment there is blissful silence.
“Good morning, sunshine,” she says, her voice almost as familiar as my mother’s.
My eyes try to adjust to the darkness. “What time is it?”
There is a pause, then an intake of breath. “Time for all Olympians to get out of bed for their press conference.”
“You’re not serious.” I look at her picture on my phone, as though I can read her expression live.
“Would I kid about this?” The excitement in her voice is plain.
“Ohmigosh.”
“You bet. I got the call from John Peterson this morning. Jennifer is officially out.”
John Peterson is the head of US Figure Skating and the committee that decides who goes to the Games and who doesn’t. I turn on the lamp next to my bed. Try to remember to breathe. “What else did he say?”
“Just the news we’ve been hoping for ever since you shocked everyone at Worlds — that you’ve got the third spot.”
“I can’t believe this.”
“Well, you’d better. We’re off to the Olympics in two weeks.”
I get out of bed and turn on all the lights now. The familiar hues of purple, lilac, and violet on every surface are suddenly bright. “Wow, wow, wow!” I open the door and call down the hall, “Mamá! Ma! Come here quick!”
“Get dressed and make sure you do your hair nicely,” Coach Chen is saying, but I can barely hear her. I’m still taking this in. “Leave it down. I’ll be there in thirty minutes to pick you up.”
My mother’s face peeks out of her bedroom. “Esperanza? Is everything okay?”
With my free hand, I beckon for her to come, then I put the phone on speaker. “Tell Mamá,” I say to Coach Chen.
“Espi’s going to the Olympics, Marta.”
My mother’s eyes pop wide, losing all signs of sleep. Her mouth opens and closes. Then she throws her arms around me with such force that my phone flies out of my hand and onto the carpet. “¡Dios mío!” she shouts again and again.
“We’re going to the Olympics!” I yell back at my mother.
“Hello?” Coach Chen calls from the floor. “Espi?”
“Ma,” I say, peeling myself out of her grip to retrieve the phone. “Hold the hugs one more sec.” When it’s in my hand again, I explain to Coach Chen, “Sorry I dropped you. We’re a little excited at the Flores house right now.”
“You should be. Now get in the shower and I’ll be there at six thirty. You’ve got a press interview for the morning shows at eight, and you need to be in Cranston at the studio all made up and camera-ready by seven thirty. Apparently, Rhode Island’s got two Olympians headed to the Winter Games, and you know how this state is about everything.”
I can almost see Coach Chen roll her eyes while standing in her gleaming kitchen. She is always talking about how Rhode Island is so “provincial,” meaning the whole state is like a giant small town. “Two? Who else?” I ask. There have been years when Rhode Island hasn’t had any athletes in the Games, so it’s a big deal whenever someone goes. Two people is practically a miracle.
“I don’t know yet, but there will be a lot of fawning over the Little Rhody Olympians, so be prepared. And no going online to check that person out! I need you to stay focused.”
“Yes, Coach,” I say with a little sigh. Coach Chen bans me from the Internet during and around major competitions so I don’t psych myself out by reading mean comments about my programs, my costumes, or even my face, and whether people think I’m too fat or too thin or too a million other things. Sometimes the comments are even racist. Of course, I’m only mentioning the negative part. There’s generally plenty of love too. But the hate is constant, and I imagine it will get even worse now that I’ve got Jennifer Madison’s spot on the team. I bet Stacie’s and Meredith’s fansites are already working overtime to say I don’t deserve to go to the Games.
But now is not the time to think about that.
Because regardless of what they’re saying, I’m still going!
“Promise me you’ll stick to our Internet ban,” Coach says.
“I promise.”
“Good. See you soon,” she adds, and her face disappears from the screen.
I look up from the phone. My mother has a goofy grin on her face. “This is a dream come true, mi vida.”
“I know,” I say, but it still hasn’t sunk in.
The Olympics? Me? Seriously?
“I’m so proud of you.” She runs a hand through her thick, short hair. “So proud.” She looks me up and down. “Now, start getting ready. As Betty would say, we’ve got to get you all gussied up.”
I laugh. “All right. I’ll be out of the bathroom in ten.”
“Five, Espi. Your hair is long and thick and takes forever to dry.”
“Five, then, Mamá.”
“I love you,” she says, still with the goofy grin.
“Love you too.” I give her a peck on the cheek before racing into the bathroom and getting into the shower before the water is even lukewarm.
Big mistake.
It’s winter after all.
The winter of the Olympics, to be precise.
Coach Chen pulls up in front of our little house in her sleek black Mercedes at 6:29 a.m. With the motor still running, all five feet of her comes flying out of the car for a congratulatory hug.
“Good morning, Marta and Espi,” she cries. She’s wearing a long winter-white wool coat and a gorgeous matching suit underneath. She rocks the winter white like very few people can. She looks me up and down in the pool of light spilling from the front of the house. “Nice job with the hair,” she says to my mother with an approving nod. “It’s too bad she can’t wear it down on the ice.”
“I know,” my mother says. “But it would get in her face, her eyes. Her mouth.”
“I’m right here,” I remind them. I’m numb and tingly at once, and not from the cold. I look at Coach Chen. “If it wasn’t six thirty a.m., I think I might have to start screaming. For joy,” I add.
“Glad you reminded me,” she says, suddenly all business. “All Olympians to the car,” she adds with one of the biggest smiles I’ve ever seen on her pretty face.
“That includes you,” I remind her.
She laughs. “I suppose you’re right.” To my mother she says, “Make sure you turn to NBC at eight a.m.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” Mamá looks at me one last time with that proud mother expression on her face, the one where tears are obviously on the way, and then gives me a big kiss on the cheek. “Go, go, go,” she sniffs. “I don’t want you to be late for your big moment.”
“Bye, Mamá,” I say, and run around to the passenger side. The first thing I do after getting in is push the button next to my seat that heats it up. Heated seats are the best thing ever, and my mother and I don’t get perks like these in our run-down little Honda. Coach Chen’s car purrs so quietly I forget we’re in it sometimes.
As I look around at the buttercream leather interior, I fantasize about being able to buy my mother one of these some day. Figure skating made Coach Chen rich. She gold medaled into endorsement deals, then invested the money so well it set her up for the future. She actually coaches me for free at the private rink she had built on the gazillion acres of land behind her secluded house. She says that it’s “her way of giving back” to the sport of figure skating, which gave her so much. But to me, it was — well, it is — a total dream.
To make sure this is not a dream, I pull up the sleeve of my coat and pinch the skin on my arm.
“Espi,” Coach Chen says as she pulls out of the driveway, “what are you doing?”
“Pinching myself so I know this is really happening.”
“Oh, it’s happening,” she says, leaning all the way forward to look right so we can cross into traffic. She turns on the classical station low as she maneuvers the streets. The sound of violins calms her nerves, she always says. Driving is not Coach Chen’s favorite activity.
“What questions do you think I should prepare for?” I ask as we pull onto Interstate 95.
Coach Chen glances over. “They just want to hear you say that you’re excited, that you’re proud to be representing the United States. That aside from Worlds, you’ve never traveled overseas or so far from home, so this whole experience is new for you. That sort of thing.”
My butt is starting to burn, so I turn the seat warmer down to low. “I have definitely never been to the Olympics, that’s for sure.”
“Espi, this will be easy. Probably the easiest thing you do for a long, long time. The hard part is ahead.”
“Which part? The Olympic part?”
“That, yes. But everything that comes with being a part of Team USA pre-Olympics too.”
“Team USA?” I whisper.
“You are Team USA now, Espi. You and Stacie Grant and Meredith Park. Along with the ice dancers, the pairs, and all the male skaters.”
The image of Hunter Wills flashes in my mind. “I’m going to get that jacket, aren’t I?” I say in awe. I’ve always fantasized about walking around in the official Team USA warm-ups and training jacket.
Coach Chen smiles as she cuts over into the right lane so we can exit. “You’re going to get that and so much more.” We pull off the highway and make a left. “Everyone will be in Boston before we leave for the meet-up and to make the final decision about who will be the alternate for the Team Event. It’s great for us, since you’ll be so close to home.”
I look at Coach. “You mean it’s not automatically Meredith?”
But she’s distracted, unsure whether to keep going or turn around. “I think I should have made a right when we got off the exit. The studio is off of Pontiac Avenue. I still can’t find my way around this state sometimes! You’d think it would be easy, it’s so small,” she adds.
Figure skating is a very individual sport where usually it’s everyone for her or himself — aside from the pairs and ice dancers. But with the Team Event, each country can medal as a group, though not everyone gets to skate for the event. One out of the three men will compete, one out of the three women, and one each of the two pairs and ice-dancing teams. Stacie, of course, will skate for it, but the coaches elect alternates in case there is an injury or some other unforeseen circumstance. I wait to press Coach further about my chances until she’s figured out where we are.
“The Team alternates haven’t been decided yet?” I say as we pull into the station’s parking lot. “I mean, I thought it would automatically be Meredith.”
She turns the car off. “Of course you have a shot! Don’t forget — you beat Meredith at Nationals.”
“I bet Stacie and Meredith are angry this isn’t decided yet. I’m sure they feel like Meredith deserves the honor more than I do.”
Coach cocks her head. “You can’t worry too much about them, Espi. And this isn’t a contest of who’s been around the longest. This is about who gives the US the best chance at Olympic gold, and ultimately, that is going to be you.”
“You sound so sure of that. Why?”
She smiles like she’s up to something. “Because we’re going to unleash our secret weapon.”
“What secret weapon?”
“Your quad sal,” she says, like this is obvious.
My jaw drops open. “But I only land it, like, maybe a third of the time.”
“No, you land it half the time. And you’ve been landing it half the time for over a year now.”
“You want me to up those odds in two weeks?”
“This is the Olympics, Espi. It’s not the time to be conservative. You’re going to give this every ounce you’ve got.”
“I’m not Miki Ando, though,” I remind her. Miki Ando is a former World Champion and the only ladies figure skater to ever land a quad in competition. She first did it in 2002 at the Junior Grand Prix Final. Men like Hunter Wills land quads all the time, but in the ladies’ competitions, virtually never. “And no American has ever landed one outside of practice and no woman has ever gone for one at the Olympics —”
“No more no’s,” Coach Chen interrupts, stopping me from my protest that I can’t and I shouldn’t and I could never. “I have faith in you, Espi. Remember? So we’ll take a leap together this time.” She smiles and gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Now let’s go get you ready for your big television appearance,” she adds, and we get out of the car into the cold quiet of the early morning.