by E. L. Shen
“That’s not true,” I whisper.
Dad takes a deep breath. “We never wanted you to suffer. All we wanted was to shield you from hate. But clearly, we couldn’t. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry that we failed.”
I think he’s crying now, too. My parents—pillars of strength—reduced to tears over a twelve-year-old boy. It makes me so angry.
“You didn’t fail,” I tell them, my voice louder than I anticipated. This is so stupid. Alex is so stupid. I want to punch him in the face. I want to throw him in the lake. I want to—
Mom sits up.
“Maxine,” she says, “I want you to know that we are proud to be Chinese. Just as your grandparents were, and just as you should be, too. It’s hard to feel this way when others want to tear you down. I think we all realize now that people like Alex are always going to exist.” She pauses, like she wants to word everything exactly right. “They’re always going to want to make you feel bad so they don’t have to think about their own problems.”
I don’t say anything. All I can think about is a million Alex Macreesys forever and ever and ever. That sounds like a living nightmare.
Mom is no longer crying. She lifts my face in her palms.
“But there is one thing I know,” she says, “that Alex certainly doesn’t. That maybe you don’t even know.”
“What?” I whisper.
Mom smiles. “That no matter what, my daughter is a fighter. On and off the ice.”
She kisses my forehead. A fighter, I repeat to myself, letting the words rest on my tongue.
Mom and Dad envelop me in a giant family hug. As they suffocate me with their embrace, I have to wonder if Mom’s right. My comebacks didn’t work, I sobbed on a class field trip, and I ended up in the principal’s office even though I desperately tried to stay out of it. But at the end of the day, I guess I’m still here.
I lean into my parents. This time, I don’t let them go.
Last Melody
Inhale, exhale.
It’s our last day of off-ice training before sectionals. And although I still hate ballet, I do like this breathing exercise we’re doing for the first few minutes of class. Winona has us standing at the barre, our backs arched, eyes closed, breathing to the beat of a ragtime melody.
Inhale.
Alex was only suspended for a day. And apparently he has to attend biweekly sessions with Ms. Callahan, our guidance counselor. I don’t know if it’ll change anything—or even if he can change—but Mom and Dad seem mildly satisfied. And no one says anything to me anymore; Mitchell hides behind his hair and the rest of the boys have scattered like flies. Elisa and I eat lunch together, sharing turkey sandwiches and pita chips. Thankfully she doesn’t ever talk about the field trip—she’s too busy rambling about black holes and whatever the heck gravity vacuums are.
Exhale.
Yesterday, Victoria waved to me in the hall. I don’t think we’re going to be friends again, but that’s okay. I try to remember what Mom said about trees, and not just in relation to Victoria. There are ways in which I’m growing, too, inch by inch, reaching for the mountains.
“Sorry I’m late!”
Hollie comes running in, clumsily shoving her feet into ballet shoes. She stands behind me at the barre, wiping sweat off her hairline.
“Hey,” I say.
I know she’s smiling even though I can’t see her face. “Hey,” she replies.
The pianist spins up the octave into a lively carnival tune. Hollie sighs behind me.
“Man, now I want cotton candy.”
“Mmm,” I say, imagining the pink sugar melting against my tongue, “and kettle corn.”
“Blech, kettle corn is gross.”
““You’re gross,” I tease.
Hollie snorts. “At least I don’t butt people when I plié.”
For a moment, we stand in silence, and then I can’t help but let out a giant laugh. Soon, we’re both cracking up, bending over the barre, bellies bloated. The ballerinas are shooting glares so icy, they could turn us into giant Popsicles. Winona tiptoes over to Hollie and me like she’s sneaking into a private sleepover.
“Girls,” she hisses, “your glutes!”
I bite my lip to hold in the tremor of laughter still hanging in my throat.
“Sorry,” Hollie says.
“Yeah, sorry,” I echo.
We wait until Winona walks away before we whisper at the same time, giggling between words: Girls, your glutes.
When class is finally over, Hollie and I swing our backpacks over our shoulders and step out into the silent night air. The empty parking lot feels peaceful. And then, the headlights on her blue minivan blink once, twice. A woman waves from the car.
Hollie hesitates. I can see the worry scrawled onto her forehead in big, fat letters. The competition is only two days away, and the pressure is mounting—for Hollie most of all. She looks like she could choke on it.
“Hey,” I say, poking her shoulder, “have you talked to your mom yet?”
Hollie thumbs the sleeve of her leotard.
“About what?”
“About how you feel,” I tell her, “about skating.”
Hollie’s shoulders droop. “No, I haven’t mentioned it,” she says. “With sectionals coming up … it just feels like the wrong time.”
I kick my feet against the gravel. Tiny stones fly into the air, like they’re trying to make themselves heard. The sky seems to close in on us.
“Or it’s the perfect time,” I say.
We both stare into the darkness, the stars blanketing our heads. Suddenly, Hollie takes my hand, her palm cold in mine.
She squeezes. I squeeze back.
The Comeback
It’s official—I have a dire medical problem: the ice has seeped into my veins. Seriously. After ballet yesterday, I managed to convince Mom and Dad to go back to the rink so I could run through my programs three more times. I’ve memorized the exact crunch of my blade after each jump landing—I know just how the wind feels on my shoulders as I zip around the rink.
This morning, with the sky still dark, I stretched my arms like a snow angel and pretended I was Michelle Kwan in her final pose at the 2003 World Championships. That was her fifth world championship win (seriously, she’s a legend), so she didn’t have to prove anything to anyone anymore. She just performed. At sectionals tomorrow, that’s what I want to do. Enjoy the ice, and own every second of it. And hopefully medal. I really want to medal.
Now at school, as light begins to break through the clouds, I glance around the hallway. There’s no one here—Mr. Warren and the others are still in the teachers’ lounge. I got to school early today because we’re going to pile into Dad’s Buick and head to sectionals at noon. Mom says I might as well pick up my homework from my teachers first thing this morning. Instead, I do a three-turn hop in my sneakers and bounce across the tile, pulling my arms into a double flip.
And then … my foot hits someone’s knee.
I spin around. Alex Macreesy is on the ground, grasping his leg in pain. His face is ashen and he’s clutching a packet of papers that says Growing and Understanding Each Other. Of course—he’s here for his guidance counselor sessions.
Time seems to move slowly. I can hear the squeak of my sneakers as I tower above him. Look who’s a loser now. The words want to spring out of my mouth. Pathetic. It would be so easy to say, so perfect. At the same time, I can’t help but study Alex’s tired eyes, his white knuckles clamped around the packet. A twinge of sadness punctures my anger.
I slowly bend down until we are face-to-face. Alex looks up at me. Reaching out my hand, I pull him to his feet. Now we are on equal footing. Alex’s mouth parts and then closes and then opens again, but he says nothing. He doesn’t move, either—he just stands there, papers to his chest.
I take a deep breath and remind myself that I, too, am standing. And for a moment, brief and warm, I don’t feel alone.
Michelle Kwan is beside me, skates planted, si
newy arms firmly on her hips.
Mirai Nagasu is right behind, screaming triumphantly, her mouth open in a glorious roar.
Nathan Chen keeps close, with quads bundled like grenades, tossing them forward until they cause an explosion.
Jennie is holding a mirror to my face, hers painted with a killer cat eye, bold and unafraid to be exactly who she is.
And then Mom and Dad emerge, hands on my shoulders, determined to lift me up—even when I’m ashamed, even when I’m scared.
My daughter is a fighter. Mom’s voice reverberates in my ears.
There are a million Alex Macreesys out there. But I think I’ll survive.
I brush past him, and my heroes follow.
I’m Maxine Chen. And this time, I don’t think I need a comeback. I’ve got something far greater.
Singing Along
“Those summer … “NIIIIIIIIIGHTS.”
Dad is belting the entire soundtrack of Grease like he’s auditioning for Broadway. Except—judging from his truly horrendous rendition from the driver’s seat of our car—he’s not going to make it through the first round of cuts. Mom stirs beside him, rubbing her eyes as she awakens from her rudely disrupted nap.
“Do we really have to do that now?” she grumbles.
“Yes,” he says, “where’s your spirit? Where’s your greased lightnin’?”
Mom and I simultaneously roll our eyes. Did I mention that I have the dorkiest dad ever?
He’s moved on to “Hopelessly Devoted to You,” crooning as we cruise down the highway.
We’ve almost reached Cheshire, Massachusetts. Toasted red hills roll past us as we drive, parted only by farmland and a smattering of truly gigantic horses. We really are in fairy-tale land.
Tucked away in our trunk is all my skating gear—my dresses, and my fleece, five hundred bobby pins, and probably ten pounds of makeup. I could enter a beauty pageant with all this stuff. Spread out in the back seat, I dig my palms into my thighs, trying to keep the blood flowing. I’m pretty sure I’m not actually doing anything useful, but it keeps my mind busy.
Dad is now singing in a super high-pitched voice to re-create all of Sandy’s parts. The more Mom glares at him, the louder he wails. I don’t know if I’m going to win gold, but I definitely deserve an award for having the weirdest family ever.
My phone buzzes in the back pocket of my jeans. Hollie’s name flickers onto my screen.
Hi! We are on our way. U?
I chuckle, thinking about how different our trips must be right now.
Yep, same! My dad is treating us to a *truly* great car ride concert …
Oh nooooo. Wicked?
Nope, even worse. Grease.
Yikes
Yupppppp
I watch the road blur past us. I wish Hollie was with us right now. We could play Twenty Questions or talk about books. Even though both of us barely have time to read, Hollie could spend hours reciting a novel she’s memorized. It’s her favorite thing to do when she’s procrastinating. Ninjas and pirate queens dot her fantasy world and make us both feel less stressed about skating.
Hollie’s name flashes once more on my screen.
Speaking of parents, I talked to Mom yesterday
I sit forward in my seat.
You did? How’d it go??!!
Idk, good I think? I said that I was feeling a lot of pressure and stuff and that competing was hard for me
I’m proud of you for saying that
Yeah. She didn’t really get it at first but we talked for a loooooong time and I think she gets it a little more now.
That’s good, right?
I think so? Anyway, we’re gonna talk more about it after sectionals
Yay I’m happy 4 u
Thanks And thanks for being such a good friend
She keeps typing.
Even if you really suck at pliés
RUDE
Hehehehehe
I grin, sliding my phone into the cup holder.
Mom sighs loudly. “All right,” she says, eyeing Dad, “if you’re gonna sing, it’s got to be something good.”
She scrolls through his phone and pauses on a song, her fingers hovering as she offers a sly smile. She presses PLAY.
A familiar melody twinkles through the speakers. Teresa Teng’s smooth voice envelops our car. Of course. Mom’s favorite.
Dad sways along to the silvery tune. As we speed past wheat fields and deserted barns, Mom closes her eyes and starts singing along in Mandarin. The chorus builds.
This is the only Mandarin song I can sing. Mom used to lull me to sleep with it when I was a toddler, tucking me in and whispering words I didn’t know but could feel on the tip of my tongue. It’s been stuck in my memory ever since. I listen as my parents’ voices swell with the music. And then I join in.
Wǒ de ài bú biàn,
yuè liang dài biǎo wǒ de xīn.
My love will not change.
The moon represents my heart.
Sectionals
Everyone is buzzing. You can feel it through the rink’s padded blue walls and in the bleachers, where the scattered crowds of overeager parents and random old ladies from town enthusiastically wave every time you pass them during warm-up. I practice landing positions on the mat by the boards, pushing my arms out and pulling them in again and again. The first heat of intermediate ladies is warming up. Just a couple feet away, Mom and Dad are nervously stuffing their faces with nachos. Guess that’s where my craving comes from.
I roll the balls of my feet against the floor. Outside this rink, it’s a typical November day in Massachusetts. To-do lists are written, phone calls are made, lunch is cooked. But in here, we’ll remember today as one of the most important days of our lives. I just hope I can make it count.
The girls weave in mazes on the ice, careful not to run into one another. In the center of the arena, Hollie springs upward like a rocket. A triple Lutz, double toe. So she is actually attempting the combination at sectionals. Some skaters rely on their arms to get that extra bit of rotation. But Hollie doesn’t do that; her powerful legs propel her straight up into three swift rotations in the air, followed by two and a half more, and a tight, checked, one-foot finish. Even DaMonique Sanders is casually eyeing the new competition from the sidelines.
A prickly voice announces that the warm-up is over: The short program has begun. The skate order is random, so Hollie happens to be skating third. Thankfully, I’m eleventh. Plenty of time to center my mind and stay calm. Or … to freak out. I mean, just look at the ten-foot podium perched behind the boards. It would be a nice nest for a giant. Instead, it’s filled with stony-faced judges who have mastered the art of staring soullessly at the skaters below. I can already imagine them sizing me up, squinting at the monitor with robotic precision. My heart beats faster.
As if on cue, Judy surfaces from the locker room, beckoning me toward her.
“You shouldn’t watch this,” she warns. “It’s not good for you.”
She pulls on my arm, but I pull back. “I gotta see Hollie skate,” I tell her, “and then I’ll go in.”
Judy raises an eyebrow.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she says, but she’s smirking. “Just thinking about how things have changed.”
She lets go, and I return to the boards, eyes plastered to the glass.
The first two skaters are young and tentative. You can tell by their sluggish choreography and their two-footed jumps, the way their spins feel like they’re going on forever, and not in a good way. It’s hard to break in new ice. You have to really go for it, or you’ll get lost in the shuffle.
Hollie is up next. She surveys the stands with mounting anxiety. Viktor offers her a stern nod and she moves into her opening pose. For a few seconds, she is simply a Spanish dancer, trotting down the ice to the sizzling tune of Carmen’s “Habanera.” But then she powers through backward crossovers, and I know she’s about to attempt her triple Lutz, double toe. You
always try your most difficult element at the beginning of your program because it requires the most energy.
She toe picks on a back outside edge and takes off, spinning in the air once, twice, three times. And then—
She comes down with a crash.
Her hip hits the ice, a flurry of snow erupting in her wake. I stifle a gasp. Viktor is covering his eyes. But she recovers quickly—effortlessly landing a double flip and then a triple Salchow shortly after. She shows no signs of stress as she offers the judges an air kiss with a cheeky wink. Her spins are elegant. I must admit—I get why she’s Winona’s favorite. And then, as soon as it has begun, her program is over.
When I have a bad skate, I stomp around like I’m trying to crush the ice into water. But Hollie just lowers her shoulders, cowering as she heads to the Kiss and Cry. Viktor squishes onto the bench beside her, rapidly shouting in a thick Russian accent. Hollie nods as if it’s the only movement she’s currently capable of making.
Only the skater and their coach are allowed in the Kiss and Cry, so I awkwardly pretend to stretch close by, tugging on my hamstring for the fourteenth time. Hollie sniffles. And then the mechanical loudspeaker lady is back, her measured voice betraying no emotion:
“The scores, please, for Hollie Westermann.” The audience stills to a hushed silence. “She has earned a total score of 37.78 points and is currently in first place.”
I watch Hollie’s face fall in slow motion—her eyes drooping, her chin tucking into her neck. She may be in first place now, but there are fourteen skaters to go. Only four skaters move on to nationals. With that score, she’s going to need a miracle to make it happen.
I rush after her as she slinks into the locker room, shielding her eyes with her skate guards. I swing open the door and find her curled in the corner.