The Comeback

by E. L. Shen

  Hollie starts telling me about her days—stretches of alone time on the ice, just her and the music, her skates slicing this way and that across the frozen surface. She says that she tries to sneak in reading between sessions. Her eyes light up when she talks about fantasy novels filled with long-lost queens: girls who travel through imaginary worlds and giant monsters with scales and long, bloody fangs. In Virginia, she used to climb up and hide in the oak tree in her backyard and read until her mom found her. Now she huddles in a window seat flanked by bay windows, looking out onto Mirror Lake.

  “That sounds really nice,” I tell her, and I mean it. Stealing time to do anything extra like read or paint is rare. When I’m not skating, I’m at school, or crouched in the corner of Bob’s Skate Shop, rushing to finish problem sets before practice begins.

  “Yeah,” she says, “sometimes it is. But what about you? What’s school like?” She leans forward, like I’m going to tell her about another magical world from one of her books.

  My mind immediately swirls with memories of Alex’s sneer, his neck craned toward me in the library, bold black letters on white, white, white: chink. His laughter. I try to fight the tears pricking my eyes, but they dot my lashes anyway. Great. Now I’m officially a wuss in front of my former-archnemesis-maybe-friend who barely knows me, much less wants to see me cry about a dumb boy.

  Hollie’s shoulders straighten. “Are you okay?”

  “Oh,” I say, my voice tight and squeaky, “yeah.”

  Geez. Good thing I’m a skater, not an actor. I’d be a total failure.

  Hollie’s hair whips across her face as she shakes her head.

  “I’m not buying it.”

  She stares at me, green eyes so wide I worry they’ll explode if I don’t say something. So I tell her.

  “It’s just this boy at school,” I say. My eyes drift to the floor, fingers now mimicking Hollie’s as I trace the rug’s flowers, back and forth, back and forth.

  “Ooh, like a crush?”

  “No. NO.” I pause, inhaling sharply. “His name is Alex. And he’s kind of a jerk. A big jerk. Well, it’s stupid that I even care, but he … he always makes fun of me and, like, well, he says things about me being Asian, or Chinese to be exact, I guess, and it makes me … it makes me feel really awful.”

  Hollie is still looking at me, but she’s quiet.

  I close my eyes. I’ve made a terrible mistake.

  I can already hear her glossed lips whispering through the rink’s walls: Not only did Maxine barely make sectionals, but she’s also a total loser at school. What a joke.

  I wish I could leave, but this is my own freaking room. I look up at the ceiling. Nathan stares back at me, utterly useless. I guess floppy hair can’t help me now.

  Hollie pulls her feet from underneath her thighs and sits cross-legged, mirroring me.

  “I’m really sorry, Maxine,” she says. “He sounds terrible.”

  I glance up at her still-wide eyes. I think she genuinely feels sorry for me.

  “Could you say something to him? To make him shut up?”

  I shake my head. “I try, but I freeze every time.”

  “But you’re so confident,” Hollie says, her arms now flailing in my face, “like when I see you on the rink or at ballet or whatever, you look so powerful and awesome—and cool.” Patches of pink crawl up her cheeks. “I really admire that about you.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah!” Hollie grins.

  Huh. I never really thought about the way I appear to everyone else at the rink. But Hollie’s right—I am confident on the ice, much more than at school. After all, I practice so much that skating becomes second nature to me.

  A megawatt lightbulb flashes in my brain and I jump to my feet. Hollie’s eyes trail upward, concerned.

  “Wait, maybe I can practice saying things back to Alex, and that way the next time he’s being terrible, I’ll be prepared.”

  Hollie holds her chin in her hands, like she’s really considering my idea.

  “That makes sense,” she finally answers, “like you could write up some comebacks.”

  I smile, for real this time. “Exactly.”

  I find an old history work sheet on my desk and flip it over, pen poised.

  “Okay,” I say, “we need to come up with insults.”

  “Maybe first you should write down what he’s said to you”—Hollie crosses her arms over her chest, cradling her elbows—“so you know exactly what to say back.”

  “Right.” I touch my pen to paper. My hand shakes when I write out the words NERDY CHINK slowly, and in big letters at the top of the page. I hate that I remember every insult, every sneer. They flow out of me like water and I write them all down: Your eyes are too big in your painting. But you people are good at math. Can’t you just be useful? I add a couple more Alex would probably say. Hollie peers over my shoulder as I scribble furiously.

  “Man,” she says, “this dude is a total blockhead.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, he is.”

  Hollie points at the math insult. “You could say something like: I’ll make myself useful when you add up to something more than useless.”

  “Okay,” I say, “that was pretty good.”

  “If he says your eyes are too small, you should say: Well, they’re big enough to see that you’re an idiot!” She giggles.

  I snicker and write it down. But as I stare at the page, the word CHINK glares at me, unwilling to disappear.

  “What about this?” I say, pointing to the word I dare not repeat: “It rhymes with THINK, which is more than a loser like you can do.”

  Hollie excitedly clasps her hands together. “Your jokes are so dumb because your IQ is so low.”

  “Nice! Maybe: Where am I really from? Well, where are you from? The corner of Ugly Street and Racist Alley?”

  Now we’re whipping up a sweet batch of comebacks, faster than I can write them down. Our back and forth gets louder and sillier and sillier, until we are doubled over, laughing so hard that our ribs hurt. Hollie is pretty much rolling around on my rug.

  There’s a knock at the door. Mom peers inside, holding a steaming plate of dòu shā bāo—pillowy-soft red bean buns. She looks shocked.

  “You girls good in here?”

  I nod, happily snatching the buns from her hands.

  “Couldn’t be better.”

  Dance It Out

  Is it just me, or is the ice gleaming? The Zamboni guy must have done an excellent job today because I swear I can see glitter beneath my feet. As I zoom down the ice, I imagine my skates leaving behind a trail of sparks. I can’t wait to use our new strategy for fighting back against Porcupine Head. The comebacks from yesterday wrap around me like armor. With the sweeping of my blades across the ice, I imagine swinging chain mail gauntlets at Alex, each counter more biting than the last. The next time he sneers, I’ll be ready.

  “Lookin’ good, Max.” Fleur sidles up to me, blowing loose strands of hair from her face.

  I T-stop as she leans her arm against my shoulder. “Thanks, girl.” I grin, glad she’s no longer moping. When Fleur’s upset, the rink becomes a scary episode of Don’t Talk to Fleur, She’ll Murder You: The Reality Show. But with regionals in the past, she’s back to her chipper, gossipy self.

  “Maxine!” Judy waves to me from the boards.

  I squint. There’s someone standing next to her. I say good-bye to Fleur and skate closer, making out the stranger’s thick black hair. A woman in a painted-gold scarf offers me a closemouthed smile.

  “Maxine, this is Meghana,” Judy says, “your new ice dance coach.”

  “New coach?” I squeak.

  Judy laughs. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.” She fishes around in her pockets, emerging with a crumpled score chart that she promptly waves in my face. “Your program components were not exactly where we wanted them, so your parents and I decided you could use a couple of ice dance sessions.”

  I gulp. Are my edges really
that bad that I need an ice dance coach? How much did Mom and Dad shell out for this? As if Judy can read my mind, she whispers in my ear: “You’re in the big leagues now, Maxine. Time to step up your game.”

  My head bobs up and down, my mind running with mirages of Karen Chen and Jennie Kim with a cat eye so sharp it could slice the ice. Each girl on the brink of success, ready to flap their own eagle wings. I think of Alex and his pink mouth wide with laughter. Hollie and I had scrawled “Master Chen” on our comeback list. I inhale. Time to prove it.

  “Okay,” I say, my eyes moving from Judy to Meghana, “let’s do this.”

  Meghana takes off her skate guards and follows me out to the center of the rink, Judy in her shadow. She cues up some peppy jazz on her phone and places it in her pocket so we have some music to work with.

  Ice dance is more than just footwork and flowy movements; it’s tight turns and twisting your body to the beats of the music. Meghana pushes her hair behind her ears and holds my arms out.

  “Let’s start with a basic chassé,” she instructs.

  She pulls my body left and right, mimicking my strokes as we dance across the ice. With her face inches away, I study her dark skin and deep brown eyes. I’ve never seen an Indian figure skater before, much less a coach. In fact, I could probably count on one hand the number of South Asians living in Lake Placid right now. Our little country town of shopkeepers is as white as the stars on the American flag. I hate that it makes people like Meghana and me feel like outsiders. But Meghana’s focused on other things. She shakes her head at me.

  “Point your foot,” she says.

  Ugh. She sounds just like Winona without the tiny claps and oozing pep.

  “Good, now let’s do it with your program music.”

  The song warbles from her phone as I swing my leg in circles, my hands flitting out by my sides.

  We work on Choctaw turns next, followed by twizzles. I keep tilting and losing my balance, my foot twisting as I catch my fall and create little skid marks, piled with snow.

  Judy sighs. Snow is a bad sign, I know. Meghana pushes on my skate, reminding me to put pressure on the center and heels of my feet, rather than the balls.

  “Stay centered,” she says.

  Stay centered, I repeat to myself, running through comebacks until they spin upward, poised in my voice box, just waiting to escape. Turn, turn, bunny hop, twizzle, tell Alex off. My shoulders straighten with determination.

  “Much better!” Meghana says.

  We practice until the giant stadium seats are empty and darkness folds through the narrow line of windows tipping down from the ceiling. When we finally finish, my limbs feel like wooden puppet legs. I can’t wait to crawl into bed.

  That’s when I see Hollie, just getting on the ice. I pull my phone out of my parka. It’s almost nine p.m.

  “Hey!” I call to her.

  Hollie enthusiastically waves back. “Hi!”

  She’s strapped to a harness that’s attached to a long pole, clutched by Viktor. He pushes her onto the ice. Harnesses are training tools that help skaters learn jumps beyond their skill level. I bite my lip. Hollie already has a triple Salchow and a triple toe under her belt. What is she doing next? Triple loops? Triple Lutzes? In combination? That would be wild. I inhale slowly. Stay centered.

  Lo and behold, Viktor is yelling as Hollie skates on a back outside edge into a lopsided triple Lutz, followed by a messy double toe. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her mom pacing along the rink’s edge, lips pursed, trained on Hollie’s every move. I think about what Hollie said about pressure. My heart sinks.

  Outside, my mom is waiting in the car, headlights flashing in the darkness. I buckle my seat belt and turn to her. She tucks a finger under my chin.

  “So Meghana, huh? Was she helpful?”

  I don’t say anything, instead wrapping my arms around her waist in a tight hug. Mom’s mouth parts into a tiny O.

  “I’m going to take that as a yes.”

  I smile as the night sky blankets our windows. We drive forward.

  America, America

  MARY LUDWIG HAYS: Here’s a jug of water to clean your rifles.

  SOLDIER: Thanks, Mary!

  [The battle is beginning. The British are shooting!]

  MARY: Oh dear!

  [She rushes to the sidelines.]

  WILLIAM HAYS: Mary, stay out of the way!

  [He is hit by a bullet and tumbles backward.]

  MARY: William!

  [She rushes to his side and wraps his wound tightly in gauze. His cannon is left unattended.]

  [Mary makes a snap decision: She begins to swab and load William’s cannon.]

  SOLDIER: Mary, what are you doing?

  ANOTHER SOLDIER: You can’t be doing that! It is not a woman’s job!

  [Mary ignores them. A cannonball flies between her legs, ripping part of her skirt.]

  SOLDIER: Mary!

  MARY: [Grins, dusting her hands off.] Well, that could have been worse.

  In the dim light of my bedroom, I put my pencil down with a groan. It’s Halloween. I should be prancing around the neighborhood in a witch’s costume, collecting cauldrons of candy. Instead, I’m here writing this terrible skit. I had practice all day today, so this is the only time I can work on it.

  The doorbell rings.

  “I’ll get it!” Dad shouts.

  I hear muffled voices floating up to my bedroom. Very high-pitched, giggly voices. Slowly, I tiptoe across the carpet and gently crack open the door. Over the banister, I see Victoria and three others in the doorway, illuminated in the porch light. Victoria’s dressed as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, her long hair in ribboned pigtails, a plaid, puffy dress swinging against her knees. Her theater friends are the Scarecrow, Tin Man, and Lion. They hold out pillowcases and shiver in the cold.

  “Victoria,” Dad says, plopping Kit Kats into their bags, “so nice to see you.”

  “You, too, Mr. Chen,” she replies, ever so polite. “Happy Halloween.” No one would ever know that we aren’t really friends anymore—except for the fact that I’m not out there with her, dressed as Toto or something. Guess she really is a good actress.

  My fingers tighten around the doorknob.

  “Maxine is upstairs,” I hear Dad continue. “Do you want to say hi?”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” Victoria is quick to respond. “I have to get home, and I don’t want to bother her.”

  My stomach clenches tighter and tighter as she and her friends clamber down the steps.

  “Have a good night, Mr. Chen!”

  Dad closes the door. His head shifts toward my room, so I race back to my desk. Holding my breath, I listen as his footsteps get closer. A few seconds later, there’s a knock on my door.

  “Come in!”

  “Hey,” Dad says, a handful of Kit Kats in his palm. “I brought you something.”

  I can see how hard he’s trying not to ask questions, how guilty he feels that I’m doing homework instead of trick-or-treating. It’s not his fault. There’s so much I want to tell him about Victoria and Alex, and how tired I am, but I don’t know where to start. Instead, I push back my chair and let the Kit Kats fall into my hands.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  He ruffles my hair. “Good luck, kid.”

  When he leaves, I put my script to the side and try to write Mary Ludwig Hays’s biography, but I can’t focus. Victoria and her ribboned pigtails crowd my brain. I curl my knees to my chest and press on the patches of Band-Aids covering my ankles. Lately, I’ve been getting blisters all the time. It probably means my skates are too small, but I can’t risk buying new ones right now. It would take too long to break them in. Rolling my head backward, I pull out my phone. Since I’m clearly not getting any work done, I might as well look up cool 1700s hairstyles for tomorrow.

  Uh, the girl’s hair in one video is like the mane of a horse. It’s so long you could make two wigs out of it. I pull at my own shoulder-length hair. Yeah, not going to
happen. The best I think I can do is braid it and then maybe bobby-pin the tails to my head in a fake bun. I twist my hair into tight French braids. Ever since I started competing, Mom and I have had to do some sort of elaborate updo for my programs, pulling my hair this way and that to create tidy chignons that dare not move when I’m propelling my body two feet into the air. As a result, I’ve become a bit of a hair expert. Plus, I like braiding. It’s relaxing—and an excellent form of procrastination.

  I blink at my reflection in the mirror above my desk. At least I get to play a girl in my skit. Most of the “unsung heroes” are dudes. I decide to look up all the people Mr. Warren wrote on the board.

  Henry Knox: Some white guy with an unfortunate shirt collar covering his neck.

  Moses Brown: Some other white guy with a permanent frown etched onto his face.

  Roger Sherman: Yet another white guy.

  John Paul Jones: Are all the Revolutionary War heroes white guys?

  At the end of my search, I have over a dozen tabs open to old portraits I’ve found—layer upon layer of grim men staring sternly into nothingness. My bleary eyes wash over their sallow skin. If you took snapshots of everyone who lived in Lake Placid—of Victoria and her pigtails, of her theater friends, of Alex and his spiky over-gelled hair, and then pressed their images over these paintings, they would all look the same—just like the founding fathers wanted.

  I look back at my own skin, tawny and bronzed from the sun. I pull on the hollows of my cheeks, thinking about Jennie and Meghana—rubies in a sea of diamonds. Where do we fit in?

  Putting on a Show

  To think, last night I was carelessly braiding my hair like a colonist’s and Googling old white dudes. Now, with my hair pinned, I can feel every bead of sweat trickling down my neck, my script shaking in my hands. Twenty-three bored faces turn toward me. This is way worse than a skating competition. Mr. Warren tugs on the ends of his mustache and nods at me encouragingly.