Chapter Twenty-Three
When I was little I had a pre-competition plan: Instead of anxiously waiting in the locker room for my event to begin, I’d make a beeline for the bathroom. My competitors would fill the locker room, sizing one another up with narrowed eyes and serious faces under layers of makeup. But safe inside the bathroom, I’d put the finishing touches on my hair and makeup, then chew a tab of ginger to calm my nerves.
Now that it’s almost time to perform my free program, I pause in front of the competition rink’s bathrooms. I don’t want to use the girls’ room, but the boys’ isn’t an option, either. I tug down the hem of my dress and decide to skip it. I don’t want to see myself in the mirror, looking like someone I’m not.
I head for the locker room, but that’s also sorted by gender. There’s no avoiding it.
Inside, two girls sit on a bench, removing their skates across from Faith, who has her headphones on. She looks up when I enter.
“Hi,” I mouth as I sit and spread out my supplies nearby. Across the room, one girl recaps her program for the other while she wipes slush from her blades. I try to ignore them. My only job is to visualize a clean program.
I close my eyes and run through every element, imagining each controlled takeoff, fast rotation, and solid landing. In my mind, I’m skating in silence. No music. Leggings instead of a dress and tights.
The girls change topics to which famous skaters they’ve spotted coaching up-and-comers. Normally, I love talking to other skaters, especially those I haven’t met before. But today is different. I need to stay completely focused if I want to score high.
I look down. Flesh-colored over-the-boot tights cover my feet instead of yesterday’s glossy black fabric. One side of my leg glitters with a sprinkle of crystals. Everything I’m wearing right now screams “girl.”
“Hellooooo!”
Hope appears with a flourish of sparkles and bouncy curls. The Pre-Juvenile girls skated hours ago, but her competition dress peeks out from under her jacket. She’s still wearing a yellow ribbon that displays her fourth-place medal. Two large fake flowers rest in her arms, the floral equivalent of stuffed animals.
Hope tosses Faith an oversize fabric rose, then skips her way to my bench.
“Milady.” Hope bows, offering me a blue flower. The word echoes in my head. I accept the gift but look away fast.
“You know we haven’t skated yet, right?” Faith’s headphones rest on her shoulders now.
“Duh.” Hope rolls her eyes. “But now you won’t have to wonder which one is from me when people throw them after your program, because you’ll already have it. You’re welcome.”
The two girls stand, eyeing Hope like she’s an alien before exiting the room. Hope whirls back to me, a tiny hurricane of glitter and hairspray. “Anyway. I just wanted to say good luck. Go, Team SF!”
Faith exchanges a look with me. “Team what?” she asks.
“SF! San Francisco. Alex said we’re a team, remember? We never picked out a name.”
“We’ve been a little busy with training,” Faith points out.
“So, I picked one for us. Unless you have a better idea.”
We both stay silent.
“Thought so.” Hope grins. “Have a great skate. Smile, sparkle, shine!”
She flits off, and a flurry of nerves shoots into my stomach. I lean down and pop a tab of ginger into my mouth. A spicy jolt tickles the back of my throat when I swallow.
When I look back up, Faith’s eyes are on me.
“Want one?” I hold out my supply.
“What is it?”
“Ginger tabs. They help settle your stomach when you’re nervous.”
Faith nods, then comes and sits beside me on my bench. “I feel like I need a whole bag of those today.”
“Me too.” I stand. “Let’s warm up. Maybe that’ll help.”
For the next ten minutes, we run in place, then move on to stretches. Faith leans forward, extending her leg into a spiral position. I reach for it, raising it high behind her. We switch, and I stretch while Faith lifts.
With only five minutes left before our on-ice warm-up, we sit down again and tie our skates. I wrap special tape around the top of my boots so my laces don’t come undone on the ice, while Faith does the same with her own roll.
“You ready?” she asks.
I nod. My skirt sways as I stand and I tug at it again.
We make our way from the locker area to the rink, where Alex waits. I check in with a volunteer, then take the ice.
Background music plays over the speakers, but I tune it out. Six minutes isn’t a long time to get my feet under me.
I turn backward and launch into a big, airy waltz jump. Faith and I whiz past each other as I run through my double jumps, then triples.
“Skaters,” the announcer’s voice booms over the speaker. “You have one minute remaining in your warm-up.”
I head back to Alex, who offers small corrections. Chin up. Right side strong. Check my left arm as I land each jump.
The warm-up ends. Skaters file off the ice.
“You look good.” Alex offers me water. “Calm.”
I am. This is the one part of my routine that’s always the same. The taste of ginger lingers in my mouth. My stomach no longer flip-flops.
The announcer welcomes the first skater. Keeping my back to the ice, I bounce my knees to keep limber.
I shrug out of my warm-up jacket and hand it to Alex as the girl finishes. A volunteer nods at me to take the ice. Gliding in little half circles by the door, I wait for the announcer to introduce me. Cold air prickles up my bare arms.
“She comes to us from San Francisco, California. Please give a warm welcome to Ana-Marie Jin.”
Between the “she” and “Marie,” two parts of that introduction feel wrong, but I paste on a wide smile. I head for center ice, arms raised to acknowledge the judges, then the audience.
I take my opening pose.
The first quiet notes tell me the music technician fixed the volume. This should calm me, but my legs still shake as I perform my opening choreography. Air whips against my thin tights as I pick up speed. People are watching.
This never used to bother me.
I take a deep breath in through my nose. Release it out of my mouth. Three-turn with shoulders in position. Chin up. Ride my blade to a straight takeoff.
One, two, three rotations—
My left arm flies back on my landing. I flip forward, salchow over-rotated.
Tiny mistake. Keep going.
I sit low in my first spin. Glancing at the ice when I’m done, I spot the tight, coiled mark.
Good. Now, ankles loose on the step sequence.
I bend my knees, blades carving deep edges. My turns are crisp and controlled.
The violins fade out. For the last ninety seconds, it’s just me and my mortal enemies, the choir.
In the stands, a flash of short blond hair snags my gaze. It’s probably someone’s brother, maybe a competitor from one of the men’s events. But my mind transforms him into Hayden as I turn backward for my triple toe.
Hayden in the stands, watching. Hayden seeing me in a dress, discovering my lie.
There’s no time to second-guess my technique as my blade taps into the ice.
It’s only a split-second hesitation, but I tilt in the air, one shoulder higher than the other. I come down sideways, hip smacking against the unforgiving ice. The sting travels down the rest of my leg.
I push up, rushing to get back on time with my music. My double flip comes next. Simple. Steady inside edge. Right leg behind my left before vaulting off my toe.
Thoughts of Hayden linger as I launch into the air. I pull in too tight for a double, too loose for a triple. Landing forward after two and a half rotations, I stumble onto my knees.
My breath hitches, the wind knocked out of me. The crystals on my dress twinkle under the overhead lights as the audience watches. A few offer claps of encouragement, but I know what they see: a princess, dethroned and weak.
I rise again and throw myself into a double axel. My landing leg quivers, and I turn into my final spin, finishing with a stiff arm position.
The audience applauds politely. No one stands up for me like they did at Nationals or throws stuffed animals.
I give the judges a quick bow, then leave the ice, neck hot. There’s a wet spot on my hip from one failed jump. My knees throb from my over-rotated flip. I brush past Alex before he can say anything. He has to stay for Faith’s program, anyway. I don’t bother grabbing my blade guards or stopping for a sip of water.
Mom appears, just as I pass the stairs that lead up into the stands. I pause and we lock eyes. Then I pick up my pace.
“Wait.” The rubber soles of Mom’s shoes squeak against the floor, but I don’t slow down. “Please, Ana-Marie—”
It’s all too much. My dress. Hope’s comment. My full name feels like a slap in the face. I whirl around.
“Don’t call me that.” The words burst out before I can stop myself.
Mom freezes, mouth half-open. I turn away fast, rushing into the locker room.
I drop onto my bench and wrap my arms around myself. Time passes by the changing of my competitors’ program music, first a dramatic ballad, then Faith’s elegant violin piece. The announcer calls the end of my event, but I don’t get up, not even when the Zamboni rumbles to life to resurface the ice.
When the door creaks open, I look up, expecting Mom.
“Ana?” Faith peeks in. “You forgot your blade guards. And your warm-up jacket.” She makes her way over and hands them to me.
“Thanks.” As Faith heads to the bench where she left her roller bag, I ask, “How’d you skate?”
“Okay, I think.” She doesn’t ask how my program went, probably because she saw how bad it was. “We should go. The scores will be posted soon.”
I want to get this dress off as fast as possible, but I push myself up. Faith and I head out of the rink and into the lobby, where a podium is set up. Printer paper flutters on the wall. At big competitions like Sectionals and Nationals, the announcer calls out your score in the Kiss and Cry area. At other events like this one, they get posted in writing. Faith and I squeeze through a crowd of skaters, coaches, and parents.
“Look.” Faith points as a volunteer tapes a new sheet to the wall. We inch closer.
“Congrats,” Faith says before I even spot my name. I scan the results.
Third. I dropped two places from the short program to my free skate. Faith moved up one, from sixth to fifth, just off the podium.
“Ana! Faith!” I turn and see Alex waving as he heads our way. Mrs. Park, Hope, and Mom follow him.
They read the results. Mom turns my way, but she doesn’t pull me into a hug like she usually does. “Are you all right?” She keeps her voice low, meant only for me. Her face pinches with concern.
“I’m fine.” I look away, cheeks burning, as Alex turns to Faith.
“Great job. I’m so proud of how much improvement you’ve shown this summer.
“And Ana.” He turns to me. “I know this wasn’t the performance you wanted, but you rotated your jumps and fought through your stumbles. A bronze at a new level during preseason is a fantastic accomplishment.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mom nod.
I don’t say anything, because I know they’re wrong.
“Congrats, Ana!” Hope skips with us as Alex guides me toward the medal podium. “Now we’ll both have medals.”
I glance back at Faith, but she doesn’t seem bothered by Hope’s comment. Stepping up onto my spot at the podium beside the girls in glittery dresses, I accept my award with a strained smile. For the second day in a row, my eyes water.
There’s no way my score will hold up and let me qualify directly for Sectionals. That means there’s not enough time to change my program, because I’m going to have to work twice as hard to get it ready for Regionals.
The camera flashes. I blink and find Mom in the crowd. She claps along with everyone else, but her jaw looks tight. I can relate. My jaw hurts, too, from all my fake smiles.