by E. L. Shen
I roll my eyes and tug on her arm, pulling her toward her coach.
“At least you don’t have to live in Russia!” I tease.
Hollie sticks out her tongue at me and dutifully skates over to Viktor.
Even if she won’t stop complaining about the freezing Lake Placid air, I can tell she’s happier today. Her eyes are clear and bright. But her sniffles and tearstained cheeks replay in my memory. We never talked about it. Not that we’ve had much time—with sectionals closing in, we’ve spent every spare moment on the ice, together but silent, the only sound our toe picks kicking up snow. I wish we could talk for a moment, for real, even though I’m not sure what I would say or how I could help.
Everyone on the rink has already started running their routines. I twizzle down the ice and admire my neat circles: one, two, three. Meghana really paid off.
Even under the stress of competition season, even with my lack of triple-double combinations, the slick ice feels like heaven. The night seems to drift on forever as I skate, and skate, and skate. Eventually, Judy says that she’ll see me tomorrow and heads for home. I peer up at the giant digital clock hanging in the center of the rink. Thirty minutes left on the ice until Mom comes to pick me up. I look around. Only Hollie and I and a handful of other girls are still here. Even Viktor has left. I skate over to Hollie. She’s finishing a scratch spin, her body turning so quickly, she’s just a blurry shadow of freckles and hair. She slows to a stop.
“That was really beautiful,” I admit, pointing at the etchings her blades have carved into the ice. “You barely moved an inch.”
When spinning, you never want to travel too far. It’s a sign of poor balance and not using your core. I touch my abs. While I’ve been doing crunches every day, I’m still not as steady as Hollie.
She blushes. “Thanks.”
“Come on,” I say, grabbing her hand, “let’s do sit spins together.”
Hollie laughs. She knows I’m mesmerized by the pair skaters; the fact that they know each other’s minds and bodies so well that they can land jumps at the exact same time is legitimately incredible. I barely know what my body is going to do on the ice, much less someone else’s.
We extend our legs and kneel to the ground, spinning beside each other, panting, and gulping the empty rink air.
“That was awesome!” I shout, wiping sweat off the nape of my neck.
“Yeah,” Hollie replies, “we could give Sui and Han a run for their money.”
She’s grinning but her smile droops, her eyes glassy, like she’s working really hard to show that she’s happy, that she’s okay.
I inch toward her. “Hollie,” I say, trying to channel Mom’s voice when she’s coaxing me to tell her something, “what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she quickly replies.
I look at her. She looks back at me. Then down at the ground. She motions to the far side of the rink, and we drift to the boards.
“It’s just,” she says, “I’ve always gotten super nervous before competitions. And now, Mom’s on my back more than ever and Viktor’s, well, Viktor, and everything just feels like my normal nerves times ten.” She gestures to the locker room. “And on top of that, I have loads of workbooks to do.”
I rest a hand on her shoulder. “Yeah,” I say, “that seems like a lot of pressure.”
Hollie’s eyes dart around the ice. She tugs on her pullover and leans in.
“Sometimes,” she whispers, “I don’t even know if I want to keep skating.” Her bottom lip quivers when she speaks. “I mean, I love it, but I just don’t know. The thought of being judged on the ice in front of all those people, all the time, well, it just … it feels exhausting. And it makes me kind of want to throw up.” Hollie picks at her fingernails before glancing up at me, worry filling her eyes. “Sorry,” she says, “I didn’t mean to dump all that on you.”
I freeze. Hollie? Not skating? But she’s working on triple Lutz, double toe combinations. She was first at regionals. How could someone that good quit? I want to say all this to her, to shake her and tell her that girls would give anything to be in her skates, to be the best one in the arena. But then I look at the hollow lines of her cheeks, the way her eyes seem scared. Terrified, even.
“Don’t apologize.” I pat her back. “That’s what friends are for.”
Her lips turn up at the corners just a little. “Yeah.”
“Have you thought about talking to your mom about how you feel?”
Hollie shrugs. “Not really. I don’t think she’d understand.”
“She might!”
I think about my own mom, pacing back and forth in the locker room, glancing at me in the rearview mirror, a permanent crease nestled between her brows. How many times has she asked me if I need a break? But I guess all moms aren’t like that.
“Just think about it,” I say softly. “Maybe she’ll surprise you.”
“Maybe.”
I fold my arms around Hollie. She smiles, hugging me back.
When we release, she peeks out at the ice. I can see the wheels turning in her brain.
“Double loops,” she challenges me, “at the same time.”
“You’re on.”
We skate into backward crossovers, our arms like compasses as we get ready to fly.
“One,” she says.
“Two,” I answer.
“Three!”
We take off.
The Field Trip
The Fort Ticonderoga Reenactment Society is located on acres of rolling grass, yellowed from the crisp air. A large stone wall encircles the fort, manned by old-fashioned artillery guns and a winding driveway. In the distance sits Lake Champlain and a rippling American flag.
Mr. Warren leads our class from the school bus to the visitors’ entrance, where he makes us write down our names on stickers and press them to our shirts. Alex draws a tiny thumbs-down on the corner of his name tag. He’s actually a pretty gifted artist. Too bad he’s also so gifted at having a terrible personality.
Mr. Warren lays down the ground rules, repeating them three times in case we all collectively have amnesia or something. 1) Stay with the class. 2) Be polite to the actors. 3) Don’t act stupid. Mitchell is flipping his eyelids so that you can see the pink skin underneath. I think he’s already broken rule number three.
We traipse to the first building where half a dozen dudes in ponytailed wigs are waiting for us. They’re all in navy-blue coattails with brass buttons, standing straight in a row. Three of them are mannequins. A chandelier with candlelight bulbs flickers above the scene. A man in the center of the creepy group steps forward.
“Why hello, Mirror Lake middle schoolers! It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Ethan Allen.” His voice is stilted and overly cheery.
Elisa squints. “Well, that’s definitely not my uncle.”
Mr. Warren pushes us closer to fake Ethan Allen as the reenactor talks about the colonists, the Green Mountain Boys, and their decision to raid and capture Fort Ticonderoga back in 1775.
My mind hovers on the word Boys. Are there any Green Mountain Girls?
Ethan Allen introduces the other two. I don’t think Benedict Arnold or William Delaplace would be able to give me a straight answer—they’re too busy going on and on about military tactics. They don’t even get to the good stuff: the fact that Benedict was a traitor. I start drifting off, squeezing dirt under the soles of my sneakers and wondering if I close my eyes, I can transport myself to bed.
“Class?” Mr. Warren prods, eyeing the work sheets crumpled between our fingers. “Does anyone have any questions?”
“Yeah,” Alex says, waving his hand high in the sky. “Boxers or briefs?”
A bunch of kids start giggling. Mr. Warren might murder Alex with his eyes.
“This is your first warning, Mr. Macreesy,” he hisses.
Ethan Allen does not miss a beat. He smooths down his jacket and smiles at Alex, who is still fist-bumping his friends.
“I’d be h
appy to tell you a little bit more about fashion nowadays if you’d like. You see, these breeches…”
Eventually, we leave the Ethan Allen room and move to an artillery tent, where one man sits on a fake horse and tells us about Revolutionary War cavalry while another does a show-and-tell with a Pennsylvania Rifle, supposedly a favorite of the American soldiers. It’s not nearly as cool as Mary Ludwig Hays’s cannon. But I guess it’ll have to do.
In another building, colonists wearing white puffy pants and little hats talk about sewing and shoemaking at Fort Ticonderoga. Later, in the old-time kitchen next door, we take turns churning butter and then spreading it onto salty crackers. It’s smooth and delicious—way better than the mushy goop they serve at the cafeteria. Even Alex asks for seconds.
Maybe this field trip is kind of cool, after all. As I crunch through the grass, I breathe in the fresh air and the tangy taste of fall. The world feels peaceful. I’m holding a quill and ink that I bought at the gift shop during our lunch break. Elisa is chattering in my ear about who knows what, but I don’t mind.
Finally, we reach the last building on our trip. Betsy Ross beckons us in, donning a muddy green dress with a lace collar and one of those classic white bonnets. She sits in a rocking chair, stitching something. As we get closer, I realize it’s a version of the American flag, with thirteen five-pointed stars arranged in a circle in the left-hand corner.
“Betsy Ross “definitely wasn’t at Fort Ticonderoga,” Elisa whispers.
Mr. Warren shushes her.
“I was just a simple seamstress,” Betsy says, “until I became something far greater.”
We lean in as she talks about the Union and the significance of the first flag, and what it meant for the United States they were trying to create. The reenactor’s voice is lyrical and gentle, like a familiar lullaby.
“You know,” Betsy says, “I wasn’t the only woman fighting for the colonists. There were many who played pivotal roles in American history. Can anyone tell me some of their names?”
Elisa’s hand shoots up. “Deborah Champion!”
“Ah yes,” Betsy says, applauding, “she delivered urgent messages to George Washington in secret.”
“Mary Ludwig Hays!” I shout, lifting my quill above my head. “She shot a cannon when her husband couldn’t anymore.”
“That’s exactly right.” Betsy Ross offers me a huge smile and I can’t help but stand taller. “Do you remember what battle that was?”
I sure do.
“Yes, the Battle of Monmouth!” And for extra credit, I add: “1778.”
“Well, well, well,” Betsy Ross cheers, “don’t we have a little historian in our midst.”
“She’s an excellent student,” Mr. Warren says, winking at me.
I’m beaming. There is no chance on Earth that I’m going to be a historian, but it does feel good to excel at something other than skating. Wait ’til Mom and Dad hear. They’ll be so pumped. Except then Mom will get excited and make me watch those boring documentaries with her. On second thought, maybe I won’t tell them.
Betsy Ross continues while I do a little happy dance in my head. I’m still on cloud nine when I hear someone’s loud breath inching closer and closer.
“I have a question,” Alex says, but this time, not loud enough for Betsy Ross to hear, or even Mr. Warren. This one is just for me.
“Why are you even here?” he asks, his breath slimy and warm against my ear.
What? I think, my mind racing. In this room? In this class? In this school? Where does he want me to go?
“You don’t belong.”
His voice is louder now. Elisa and a few others around us can hear. Alex gestures to the crowd, and we both look at the pale, pale faces, and the hazel-eyed woman in her bonnet, and the blue-and-red-and-white flag sitting on her lap. I think my feet are glued to the floor. I try to recall comebacks or words, or anything, but I can’t. I just can’t. My brain is totally empty. And then it hits me.
Here, I realize. He means here like America.
And then he confirms it, his voice tight and ugly.
“You should just go back to where you came from, Maxine.”
Now his words are loud, piercing, and everyone hears him. Betsy Ross has stopped talking. Mitchell is staring from under his mop of hair.
The world is silent but roaring in my head. I think pieces of me are falling apart. They’re scattered everywhere, flying out of this room and into the afternoon air, somewhere far, somewhere terrible. Mr. Warren is swiftly shouldering through the students, barreling toward Alex.
Before I can even process my movements, I’m running into the open fields, as fast as I can go. My feet pummel through a flower garden as I sprint. I find myself heading toward the visitor center. I double over in the lobby, where a concerned woman with a badge that says FORT TICONDEROGA REENACTMENT SOCIETY starts speaking rapidly into a phone. Time feels like it’s going on forever and like it doesn’t exist at all.
Finally, a hand touches my shoulder.
“Maxine?”
I turn. Mr. Warren is crouched behind me. I glance around, but none of the other kids are with him.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”
I try to control myself, and act like the Maxine I desperately want to be—smart and calm and totally unafraid. Full of comebacks and witty responses.
But I am tired. Really, really tired.
So my head falls against Mr. Warren’s shirt and my body heaves. At last, the tears come, and I let them flow down,
down,
down.
The Truth
A woman is pacing outside Principal Perry’s office. I know before she even enters the room—cushioning herself between Mr. Warren and me—that it’s Mom, with her black bob and face filled with murderous rage.
“Mrs. Chen,” Principal Perry says, smoothing her skirt as she stands, “thank you for coming in on such short notice.”
It’s only been three hours since our field trip was officially declared dead in the water. Whispers filled the bus as we rode back to school; I tried to ignore the sound of my name breathed through a game of Telephone. As soon as we arrived, Mr. Warren sent everyone to their next class and ushered me into the principal’s office. Mom soon followed.
Now she straightens her shoulders, a classic Chen confidence booster, as if she’s about to wage war against Principal Perry.
Mom is calm but her eyes are constantly darting to mine. I don’t dare look back. Mine are still puffy from my last cry.
“Mr. Warren and I have already discussed the incident, but from what little Maxine has told us this afternoon, this apparently has been an ongoing issue,” Principal Perry continues.
The three grown-ups turn to me. I sink into the leather chair. I know Alex is sitting outside with his own parents. I know the kids are still chattering in the halls. I know I’m front-page news for sixth-grade gossip. There’s no turning back now.
So I tell them. I tell them everything. The self-portrait in art class, the eyelid tape, the math quiz, the library comments, the skit, and the field trip. I recall every smirk, every hushed insult—the words pour out of me, quiet and steady, in streams. When I’m finished, I exhale, staring at the floor as if my confession is a dark puddle seeping into the carpet. This is no comeback. This is surrender.
The office is thick with silence and squirms. Mom inhales, a slice of anger catching in her throat.
“Thank you for sharing, Maxine,” Principal Perry says. “I’m sorry you experienced this, and I’m sorry that the administration could not step in sooner.”
She pauses to scribble something on her notepad, her head shaking back and forth as she writes. “I want to reiterate that our school policy prohibits discrimination of any kind.” She looks up at me. “There will be consequences for Alex’s actions.”
It’s the first time today that anyone’s said his name out loud.
Principal Perry tells Mom and me that she’ll follow up with us
shortly. Mom uses her telemarketer “I’m so grateful for your help” voice, her mouth in one of those canned smiles. I wait for her to switch into Scary Mom Mode, to wag her finger and tell everyone what’s what.
But she doesn’t say anything at all. Not in the office, or in the empty hallway, or in the car on the way back home. We drive past the rink where Hollie and the others are probably skating away, oblivious. I press my cheek against the sweaty passenger side window. Mom turns on some podcast about politics. She’s still totally silent. I can’t tell what she’s thinking, and I can’t look at her. For some reason, I feel more ashamed than ever.
When we finally arrive home, Dad’s Buick is sitting in the garage. My head snaps toward Mom.
“Why is Dad home? It’s not even three.”
At last, Mom turns toward me.
“We wanted to have this conversation together, Maxine,” she says.
We get out of the car.
Dad is sitting in the living room. “Hey, kiddo,” he says, but his voice sounds strange, like it’s lost in a long tunnel.
He pats the couch, motioning for us to sit beside him. I curl my feet under my thighs and wait for the lecture. I can just imagine it: How come you never told us? How could you hide this for so long? Maxine, you know you can come to us for anything.
But they don’t say any of that. Instead, tears slide down Mom’s cheeks and she quickly wipes them away with the back of her hand. I can’t believe it. The last time Mom cried was when Nai Nai died seven years ago.
“Mom?” My voice is small and childish.
Dad rubs Mom’s back and wraps an arm around me.
“Maxine,” he says, “when your grandparents came to America, they were treated very poorly. They couldn’t speak English. People were cruel.”
Dad glances at Mom, who is sniffling but nodding at him to keep talking.
“When your mom and I got married and moved here, we thought that was all over. We were a little naive,” he admits. “We didn’t realize that pharmacy school was a bubble and that here, we’d be anomalies. We’d be treated differently. But we always believed that with each generation, people would be kinder, smarter. I mean, look at you, kid, you’re so smart. Smarter than the two of us ever were.”