The next few days pass in a blur.

I go to Joya’s play rehearsal Monday evening and confirm that she makes a great Maria, no matter what insecurities she has. I eat a lot of leftovers from Luciano’s and catch up with the staff while I wait for my mother to finish her shifts. I talk on the phone a couple more times with Hunter, who gives me pointers on my quads. I get absolutely no homework done. I do not see Danny Morrison, nor am I forced to do embarrassing press with him — which I have to admit makes me slightly relieved but also slightly disappointed.

I practice twice a day with Coach, like always. I master my new spins like a pro and land those triple axels like always.

But the quad sal still eludes me.

In fact, I seems to be getting worse, not better, with Hunter’s advice. I might still be the Princess of Spin, but I am definitely not becoming the Quad Queen to his Quad King. Plus, I feel a twinge of guilt each time I go sprawling across the ice, like somehow I’m being punished for telling Hunter about a move that is supposed to be a secret.

“Esperanza!” Coach Chen calls out to me.

“Hmmm?” I answer absentmindedly. I am in the final pose of my short program, staring up into the wooden rafters of the rink’s ceiling. I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing like this, but my music stopped more than a few seconds ago. I come out of the pose and roll my head left, then right, to stretch the back of my neck.

Coach skates toward me. “You need to focus! Where is your brain today?”

“It left the building, I think.”

“Well, go get it and bring it back.”

“Easier said than done.”

She looks me up and down. “What is eating you? I’ve never seen you like this. You’re usually so unflappable. Is it your new costume? Are you being superstitious again?”

I shrug, looking down at my Vera Wang that arrived yesterday. I give it a little swivel and swirl by twisting my torso back and forth. “Not really,” I answer. “It’s beautiful. I love it.”

This is true. I do love it. The red isn’t a bright candy-apple type red. It’s a darker, more romantic hue, and it’s the softest thing I’ve ever put on my body. Some of the ruffles down the side and on the skirt are structured, so they always stay the same wavy shape, and there aren’t any beads or rhinestones to make it scratchy. Yet the entire thing glitters.

Coach skates around me in a circle. “It is beautiful on you.”

“Thanks,” I say, but only halfheartedly. My love for the dress does not alleviate my superstitions. Perhaps it’s Vera Wang’s fault I’m not landing my quads more consistently. But then I think about the other thing that’s really eating me. “My mother’s visa still hasn’t come through.”

Coach smiles sadly. “I’m working on it, Espi. Don’t lose hope.” She sighs. “Let’s run through your long program one last time and then we’ll call it a day, okay?”

“ ’Kay.” I skate over to the other side of the rink to the place where my program begins, and get into my pose.

Soon salsa music comes on over the speakers and I try to let myself be moved by the rhythm. “Dominican girls are born to dance salsa,” my mother always says, and Coach took that belief and transformed it into a program that only someone who can feel the sound in her hips can get away with. It makes me stand out among the other figure skaters with more traditional music. Between the fun upbeat footwork and the experience of gliding across the ice at near-blinding speed, skating this program usually makes me feel like some strange otherworldly creature that can do things — leaps and jumps and spins — that aren’t quite human.

But this doesn’t happen today. It’s like I’m made of lead.

The music cuts off a full minute from the end of my program and I’m left spinning in silence. I haven’t even gotten to the quad sal yet.

“Esperanza!”

I open up and the revolutions slow until they come to a stop. Coach’s skates scratch across the ice as she approaches. “What is with you? Is it more than superstition? Your mother? Is it plain old nerves?” She shifts since I’m avoiding staring directly at her. “Or is it about our Boston practice weekend? Meredith and Stacie?” She crosses her arms. Takes a deep breath. “Is this about a … about a boy?” Coach’s voice goes really high and disbelieving on the word boy.

I finally look at her. “What if it’s all of the above?”

“Then I’d say it’s time to call it a day.”

“On that bad a program?”

“Tomorrow will be different.”

“Can I ask you something?”

Worry wrinkles Coach Chen’s brow. “Of course.”

“It doesn’t matter if someone else knows I’m trying for a quad sal if it’s not going to end up in my program because I can’t land it, right? I mean, it’s not a secret weapon if we’re not using it….”

“Espi,” Coach says in a warning voice. “Who did you tell?”

“Um.”

“Espi. Spill.”

“Just Hunter Wills,” I say in a small voice.

Coach takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Why Hunter?”

“Because he’s the Quad King and I thought he’d have some good advice. It turns out not so much. At least his boy-quad advice doesn’t seem to transfer.”

“Is that the only reason you told him?”

“Why else would I?”

“Oh, Espi.” She sighs again. “Because you were trying to impress a good-looking boy — who also happens to be famous and share your love of figure skating.”

My cheeks get hot. Talking to Coach about this is kind of embarrassing. She’s not my mother, but she’s a little like a second mom. “We were talking on the phone and it just sort of … came out.”

“Can you trust him not to tell anyone else?”

“I think so.”

Coach is searching my face like it holds some clues about Hunter’s reliability. “Let’s hope you can. We don’t want it getting out that a quad is even a possibility, because we don’t want someone like Mai Ling going for one on the off chance she can get it in time for the Games. We definitely don’t want Stacie trying for one either.”

“But … I thought … shouldn’t I be doing one by the time we practice together in Boston? Won’t it matter for getting chosen as the alternate for the Team Event? I thought you wanted me to put it in my free skate so I have a shot.”

Coach shakes her head. “We’re going to add a triple axel where the quad should be — which should seal it for you. Then the quad will be the great surprise of the Olympics for all involved.” She leans forward, studying me again. “Well, except for Hunter. I hope he’s worthy of you.”

“There’s nothing going on,” I protest. “Really. It’s just a few phone calls.”

“Hmm.” Coach glances at the clock on the back wall of the rink. “Bax is going to be home any minute, and we need to get dinner ready.”

This perks me up. “Fancy Chinese?”

She nods and smiles a little. “Yep. Your favorite. Now go on to the house and change. I’ll close up here. And don’t tell anyone else about our secret weapon!”

“I won’t,” I say with a laugh. “And thanks, Coach,” I add with meaning before skating off the ice, grateful that she knows sometimes skaters have an off day too.

And today was just one of those for me.

I hope it turns out to be only one and not, like, twenty-five.

“Esperanza Flores,” Mr. Chen booms when he comes through the front door and sees me sitting on one of the plush white living room couches. He plops down on the sofa across from me, kicks off his shoes, and puts his feet up on the ottoman. “Where’s my wife?”

“She went to get the Chinese.”

“Ah, excellent. There’s nothing like a little Chen’s brought to you by a Chen. Chen’s is good for the soul. I love a little Chen’s,” he says with a big laugh, clearly pleased with himself.

I wrinkle my nose. “Please stop now before I lose my appetite.”

The best Chinese in Rhode Island comes from this little hole in the wall called Chen’s. Coach likes to joke that she makes it herself because the take-out boxes say CHEN’S on the side. Mr. Chen likes to talk about it because it’s a cheesy way of complimenting his wife.

“I’ll stop, Esperanza Flores….” He gives me a grin. “America’s Hope for Gold!”

I groan. “Oh, come on!”

“But it’s what everyone is talking about.” His grin gets bigger. “Esperanza Flores: The Flying Dominican Spiñorita!”

“Stop torturing me.”

“You love it.”

“I don’t.”

“Do too. Admit it.”

I crack a smile. “Maybe a little.”

“I knew it,” he says.

“Tough day at school?”

“Not tough. Just a lot of right angles.” This is Mr. Chen’s way of saying that his day did not go smoothly, like a circle is smooth. He talks in shapes and math, I suppose because he’s a math teacher. He crosses his arms over his middle. “You?”

I sigh too. “Mine was also full of right angles.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Tomorrow is another day. Right? That’s what your wife said at least.”

“It sure is, Espi.”

The doorbell chimes. Before Mr. Chen can extract himself from the couch cushions, I jump up. “I got it.”

Libby and Joya are standing there when I open the door. Joya walks in before she’s invited. “This place is insane.”

Libby waits there politely. “She always says that.”

“She does. Come on in.”

“That’s because it is,” Joya calls back over her shoulder.

“I know. I’m just used to it.” I close the door behind Libby.

The thing about Coach’s house is that it’s basically made of glass. Floor to ceiling windows on all sides, surrounded by solid forest, especially birch trees that the Chens planted everywhere. Between the snow on the ground and the white peeling bark and the branches naked of their leaves, the view is pretty much classic winter wonderland.

As we head through the living room toward the kitchen, Mr. Chen is still sunk into the same spot on the sofa, but now he’s reading the newspaper. He lowers it. “Hi, ladies.”

“Hi, Mr. Baxter,” Joya says.

Mr. Chen makes his wacky mad mathematician face. “Did you ladies know that your friend Esperanza is America’s Hope for Gold?”

I roll my eyes. “I told you to lay off the cheese!”

But Joya giggles. “I think everyone knows Espi’s nicknames by now.”

I grab her arm and drag her toward the kitchen. Libby follows us, laughing the entire time. Joya hops up onto one of the stools at the countertop and looks around, taking in the various snowy views. “Like I said, totally insane.”

“We know,” Libby says.

“Where’s your mom?” Joya asks me.

“On her way, I guess.”

“So where’s the Wang?” she asks next. “I want to see it immediately.”

This makes me laugh. “Do you mean the Vera Wang dress?”

“What other Wang could there be?”

“I want to see it too,” Libby says, climbing up onto the stool next to mine.

“I’ll go get it,” I say. “Back in a sec.” I leave the kitchen and go to the downstairs bathroom, where the costume is hanging on the back of the door. Even though it needs to be cleaned, I couldn’t bear to rumple it up with my other laundry. It’s too pretty. I take it down, the glittery part sparkling, and bring it to the kitchen, holding it up for Libby and Joya to get a good look.

Libby’s eyes widen and Joya’s face lights up. “That, my dear Spiñorita, is what you call a winning skating costume,” she says.

“It is,” Libby seconds.

I run my fingers across the skirt. “It is nice.”

“So nice, I’m tempted to try it on even though you’ve been wearing it all day.”

“Eww, Joya,” Libby says.

“On that note, I’m going to put it away again,” I say. When I return to the kitchen, my friends are discussing my hesitation about what they have officially have dubbed “The Wang.”

Joya studies me. “The Wang is beautiful, Espi. What’s the problem?”

I shrug, like I don’t know, when of course I do.

Libby twirls her blond hair around one of her fingers, while studying me. “You’re superstitious about not wearing one of your coach’s former costumes for the first time, and doing so at the Olympic Games, of all places.”

I sigh. “Yes, exactly. You know me well, Lib.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Joya says. “Everything will be fine. Better than fine probably.”

“Like you should talk,” I say to her. “Miss Drama Queen.”

The door to the garage opens and in walks Coach Chen, followed by my mother, both of them carrying copious brown bags stamped CHEN’S on the side.

“Hi, Mamá,” I say, going over to give her a kiss and taking the bags from her.

“Hola, mija.”

Coach Chen passes the rest of the food to Joy and Libby, then the five of us start unpacking it. Before we sit down to eat, the front door bell rings and Mr. Chen goes to answer it, returning with a surprise seventh dinner guest.

“Hello, everyone,” Luca says, setting a big bakery box on the kitchen counter.

“Hi, Luca,” I say, going over to give him a hug. I peek in the box and it’s just like I thought: heaping individual servings of tiramisu. “Hmmm. I’m glad you’re here.”

My mother is blushing. “It was Luca’s night off,” she explains.

Coach Chen looks at her. “I told you we can always fit one more.”

Everyone starts to claim seats near their favorite Chinese entrée, Libby and I jockeying for the chairs closest to the moo shu vegetables, and Joya challenging my mother for proximity to the pineapple fried rice. It isn’t long before we have scarfed down every last bit, and only a few lonely grains of rice stuck to their boxes remain. When everyone is in a food coma, almost too full to talk and trying to digest, Coach Chen starts clearing things for dessert.

But Mr. Chen stops her. “I’ll do it. You sit, hon. You’ve been working all day.”

“So have you,” she protests.

He smiles proudly at her, while piling my mother’s plate on top of his. “You’re training Olympians, though. It’s far more glamorous than math.”

She sits back down. “Thanks, Bax.”

One of the things I love about the Chens’ relationship is that even though Coach Chen had a wildly successful and public career, first as a skater and now as an Olympic-level trainer, and it’s her money that pays for this huge glittery house, Mr. Chen never seems emasculated by his wife’s success and money. In fact, he seems to enjoy its benefits greatly.

As any liberated man (or boy) today should.

Libby, Joya, and I learned about the term emasculation in last year’s American Lit class, and the mysterious world of boys suddenly made so much more sense. Emasculation is something a boy (or man) feels when he thinks his masculinity is threatened by a girl (or woman). This happens basically any time someone of the female species is perceived as successful in something outside of domestic activities like vacuuming, washing clothes, or raising children, because she steps into territory previously and nearly exclusively occupied by boys (or men) — territory like politics, or like being a doctor or a lawyer or the CEO of a major corporation, or just being smart at math.

Another prime example would be sports. Before 1972, when Title IX was passed by Congress, requiring equal opportunities for girls and boys to play sports during school and college, all sports were pretty exclusively male territory. But ever since, girls have grown up playing sports like it is the most normal and natural thing for a girl to do — because it is, obviously.

What doesn’t make any sense to the three of us about this whole emasculation drama is why some boys (and some men) are still potentially threatened by our awesome selves. Even if we act girly (because we like to act girly), whenever we’re a little publicly successful, they might run away from us all emasculated and stuff.

Not all boys (and men), obviously.

But some.

Which is a really dumb thing, if you ask me.

“Would you like a big piece or a small one, Esperanza?” Luca asks, because he is now serving everyone tiramisu, while Mr. Chen is doing the dishes.

I look around. No emasculation anywhere around here.

“Small,” I say, despite the urge to ask for a heaping plate. “I’m already stuffed.”

Luca is also a good example of a liberated man. Even though technically he’s my mother’s boss, my mother could totally beat him in a cooking contest, and he would be happy if she did, I think.

All this reflection makes me wonder something: Would Hunter Wills still be calling me if he was the underdog and I was the star? If our roles were reversed?

Hmmm. Something to think on.

To my chagrin, the night and our dinner is over all too quickly. Good-byes are said, and soon my mother and I arrive at our house.

My mother gives me a hug good night. “You get some rest tonight, mi cielo.”

I notice she has a distinct glow in her cheeks, and I wonder if it’s from hanging out with Luca outside the restaurant.

“Things are going to happen fast from now on,” I tell her, trying not to think too much about having to say good-bye to her so soon. “We’re not going to have any more quiet dinners with the people we care about again. Not until after I come back from the Games, at least.”

“Yes, but I bet you are going to make some nice new Olympic friends in the next few days. What about that Hunter Wills?”

“Sure, Mamá,” I say, turning red at the mention of his name, and feeling slightly uneasy, though I’m not sure why. “I’m sure that’s true. Sleep well.”

My mother laughs. “You’ll see, mi amor. It will turn out okay no matter what.”

“Hmmm,” I respond noncommittally. Then I head down the hall to get into my pajamas, hoping all the way that my mother is right.