The Comeback

by E. L. Shen

  “Hollie?” My voice is tiny and hollow, and feels like a million miles away.

  Hollie looks up. Her cheeks are streaked with tears.

  “Ugh,” she says, wiping her face with the back of her hand, “this is so embarrassing.”

  “No it’s not,” I tell her. “It’s just us.”

  For real—there’s no one else in the locker room since most girls go out to watch the competition or escape into the depths of the rink to find some peace and quiet.

  “I fell,” she says, her voice garbled with tears. She pulls her knees to her chest and dramatically throws down her head.

  Geez, if I didn’t know it, I’d think we swapped brains last night. And maybe we did, because the next thing that comes out of my mouth doesn’t sound like me at all—it sounds like my mom.

  “It’s okay,” I tell her, “it was just one jump. You have an entire free skate to go.”

  Hollie groans even louder as I come sit next to her, squeezing into the corner.

  “I have so many points to make up,” she says. For the first time, I can hear her worry press against her throat like a monster. Fat water droplets now fall down her shirt.

  “Yeah,” I admit, “you do. But you’re one of the only girls attempting triple combinations, and you’ve landed them consistently at practice. The free skate can change everything.”

  As I’m dishing out advice, I try to believe what I’m saying. My daughter is a fighter, Mom said. And I know Hollie is, too.

  Right now, she needs to know more than I do. So I make the ultimate best friend sacrifice, the true seal of devotion. I walk across the room, rummage through my skate bag, and emerge with the one thing I wanted all for myself but am offering to Hollie instead: a gooey, delicious chocolate fudge brownie. It’s neatly wrapped in cellophane, still warm.

  Hollie’s face lights up as I place the brownie in her open hands.

  “Where’d you get this?” she asks, as if brownies don’t exist outside Lake Placid.

  “The bakery next door,” I tell her. “It’s right next to the rink.”

  She meticulously unwraps the cellophane and takes a large bite, her eyes closed like she’s being transported to some chocolate utopia.

  We sit in silence as she chews, her tear stains drying against her skin.

  And then, with wide-open eyes, she looks right at me. Her voice is hushed but sure.

  “This is the best brownie I’ve ever had,” she proclaims. “Thank you.”

  I grin, rolling my eyes as she takes another big bite.

  Let’s Do This

  I’m staring at my name on the laptop screen, right below five others, bold letters on a white background. No matter how many times I refresh the page, the short program results are not going to change. I’m in sixth place. Hollie trails close behind, in seventh. I didn’t make any major errors—my double Axel and triple toe were fine and my step sequence was sharp. But I guess my double Lutz, double toe was kind of wonky, and I didn’t get full credit on my Biellman. This is not some small-town competition—this is Eastern Sectionals. The field is deep.

  Masha Stepanov is now competing for the United States because making the nationals team in Russia was too difficult. She’s doing Tanos (a move made famous by figure skater Brian Boitano) with her arm looped over her head; these make her jumps twice as difficult and give her extra points. And you know how Jesus walked on water? Well, Lucy Yeh might just give him a run for his money. She can basically levitate. Seriously. Her skating is so light and graceful that I secretly think she’s an angel sent from heaven simply to spin around in skates. And then, of course, there’s DaMonique Sanders. The powerhouse. She may also sneak a triple combination in her free skate—I wouldn’t be surprised.

  Only four girls go to nationals. I’m so close I could stretch my arm and graze the podium. All I have to do is touch it. Or just as easily, my grasp could slip and my season could stop here. End of the road.

  Mom comes up behind me and hugs my shoulders, encrusted in silver beading and black velvet for my free program. She gently closes her computer and unfolds her hand, her palm brimming with with bobby pins. We stand together at the desk in our hotel room, shadows of each other as she pins my bun.

  “Focus on yourself,” she says. “None of those other girls matter.”

  I nod, although bees are still zooming through my insides.

  Mom sticks so many pins in my hair that my bun wouldn’t move if an earthquake hit it. She smooths down flyaways with the tips of her fingers.

  “Skate your best. That’s all anyone can ask of you,” she tells me, kissing the top of my head.

  “Okay,” I say, “I will.”

  I turn around and Mom reaches out her hand to touch my chin. She pauses, her fingers hovering before my face.

  “Your makeup,” she says, “it looks lovely.”

  So she noticed! I’ve been practicing for weeks. I’ve got a long way to go until I’m as skilled as Jennie, but I am relatively competent at sweeping bronze eye shadow on my lids and flicking liquid eyeliner above my lash line. When I examined my handiwork in the mirror this morning, my eyes shined like bright, brown almonds. They looked pretty.

  Mom shakes her head. “Maybe you should be giving “me makeup tips.” She laughs.

  My grin feels wider than my face.

  An hour later, Hollie and I are doing squats by the boards, like that’s going to suddenly turn us into world-class champions. We skate one after the other: our shots at the podium are just moments away. The crowd is sparse, but energized. A few parents carry giant, handmade signs with their children’s names on them in fat marker and poster paint. Hollie’s mom cranes her neck from the stands, but Hollie isn’t looking at her. As her name is called for the free skate, she stares straight ahead, focused on the ice.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  Hollie rolls her shoulders. “Let’s do this,” she says.

  I smile. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her more determined. That chocolate must be working wonders.

  The crowd hushes and Hollie begins her routine, the echo of Celine Dion’s sugary voice enveloping the rink. Her blades scratch the ice. I find myself holding my breath as she extends her leg, flying backward at an impossibly fast rate. And then she’s in the air. Triple Lutz. Double loop. Double toe. My jaw drops. A three-jump combination at the intermediate level—impossible.

  I expect jealousy to fill my veins, but strangely, I don’t feel that at all.

  Instead, I find myself clapping as my best friend delivers a near-perfect routine.

  The Final Skate

  “Our next skater is Maxine Chen, representing Lake Placid Skating Club.”

  Picture this: You’re standing in the center of the world. You can see only your reflection, delicate and beautiful below your feet. The air feels cool on your tongue. You are rooted. You are steady. And then, with a rush of piano keys, the music begins.

  My arms are flower petals, blooming open as I dance across the ice, making use of all those Choctaws Meghana ingrained in my brain. I swerve into backward crossovers, hands turning like windmills to accelerate. Three-turning so I’m facing forward, I charge for the boards. You have to just go for it, I tell myself, don’t hesitate. You got this, Mirai Nagasu whispers. Michelle Kwan nods from the other side.

  The earth blurs. And then—I jump. Two and a half double Axel rotations sprung high in the sky. I’m moving faster than I can think. Finally, everything slows, and my blade hits the ground, perfectly angled on the ice. I can’t see her, but I know Judy is yelling my name. Dad is tracking me through his dinosaur-age video camera and is zooming in way too close.

  I land my triple toe without even thinking. Soon enough, I’m twisting into a layback spin, watching the ceiling coil. The Gershwin melody embraces my skin. There’s something so magical about turning faster than seemingly humanly possible. For a moment, the rink, the scattered audience, and the judges melt away. No one else exists. I find myself smiling. I could stay here for
ever.

  I can’t, though, of course. And before I know it, I’m striking my final pose. Mom and Dad rise to their feet in the stands. Judy whoops from the boards, a loud “Yes!” escaping her lips. Hollie jumps up and down, her hair flying into her face. And I, gasping for air, take a bow.

  I don’t know what’s going to happen next. I don’t know who will win. But for this singular moment, I’m happy with the rush of adrenaline racing through my veins. I’m happy with the way the music swallows me whole.

  The Beginning and the End

  It’s the best routine I’ve ever completed. The monitor confirms it with a small red box next to my score reading SB—Season’s Best. Judy shakes my shoulders, and Hollie rushes toward me when I emerge from the Kiss and Cry. But then DaMonique Sanders steps into the arena, and I know it’s over. The scoreboard flashes the current standings:

  MASHA STEPANOV—119.63

  HOLLIE WESTERMANN—115.21

  LUCY YEH—110.07

  MAXINE CHEN—108.90

  If DaMonique places anywhere above me, then the podium slips away.

  On the ice, she lifts her chin, arms raised in a diamond above her head, showcasing her sheer sleeves and bejeweled burgundy dress. She looks like a queen. Probably because she’s about to be crowned. I’m sure the second the Romeo and Juliet selection begins. I’m sure when she spins into an effortless layback. I’m sure when she completes a successful triple flip, double toe. And I’m sure when she finishes her error-free program, toe pick in the ice, triumphant.

  My body feels numb. I won’t taste the medal. My photo won’t be featured in some fancy East Coast newspaper. My costumes will go back in my closet, wrapped in plastic, saved for the next city competition or recital. We’ll drive back to New York, and I’ll just be me, Maxine. The skater. But not the girl going to nationals. The announcer confirms DaMonique’s astronomic final score, 126.05, and she soars into first place.

  On the bench by the boards, Judy wraps a puffy sleeve around my back.

  “Maxine Chen,” she says.

  My pulse quickens at my full name, but when I look up, she’s smiling. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

  “You just skated your personal best,” she says. Her voice is heavy with pride.

  She’s right, I know. I fold my head into the crook of her neck. Mom and Dad jog down the bleachers, their gloved hands outstretched to reach mine.

  I swallow the lump tugging at my throat. So I’m not going to nationals just yet. But it’s okay. I’m going to be okay. I feel both sweet and strange.

  Lifting my head from her shoulder, I look back at Judy, staring right at her with wide, unflinching eyes. If I’ve learned anything from sectionals, it’s that I’ve got so much to learn and so much more to grow.

  A burst of excitement cracks through my disappointment.

  Today, I skated my season’s best. And my personal best.

  This is just the beginning.

  Home

  It’s my favorite part of every competition. The short period of time right after it wraps up, before the next batch of junior ladies or senior men are about to make new scratches on the ice. The rink is still. You can no longer hear the booming loudspeaker or the crowd stomping their feet, or a skater’s gasp as she receives her score. Now there’s a clean slate.

  Usually, I go out here by myself to collect my thoughts. But this time, I have a slightly different plan.

  “Are you sure we should be doing this?” Hollie whispers as we tiptoe down the hallway and into the empty arena. Her eyes dart left and right like Viktor’s going to pop out from underneath the bleachers.

  “It’s fine,” I assure her. “Just for a couple of minutes.”

  I unzip my jacket pocket and take out my phone, placing it on the ridge of the boards.

  “Besides,” I say, a mischievous glint in my eye, “we deserve to celebrate.”

  What I don’t say is that this could be the last time we get to do this at all. Since I finished in fifth place, I’m the first alternate for nationals. I won’t go to San Jose. Instead, I’ll cheer on Hollie from home as she skates circles around the other competitors. And when she returns, I’m not sure if she will even have any more medal ceremonies. Yesterday, Hollie admitted that this might be her final year competing. She’s going to keep talking about it with her mom, but the pressure of performing day in and day out may be too much for her. I can understand that.

  Hollie eyes my phone with great suspicion.

  “Ready?” I say.

  “Definitely not,” she replies, but a small smile creeps onto her lips.

  I press PLAY. “No Diggity” blares from the tiny speaker. We wiggle onto the ice. I do the sprinkler because that’s Dad’s go-to dance move, and Hollie pretends to swim underwater, plugging her nose and shimmying down to her knees. We try to rap the first part of the song, but fail miserably—skating and singing at the same time is really difficult. I make a show of doing a very poor butt plié. Hollie laughs so hard, tears wet the rims of her eyes. We dance all the way through two choruses, twirling down the ice until the rink door bangs open and Mom comes barreling down the hallway.

  Hollie freezes in place, but I keep dancing.

  “Did Maxine talk you into this?”

  “Yes,” we say simultaneously. There’s no point in denying it now.

  “Why am I not surprised?” She waves us off the rink. “Come on.”

  Hollie leaves first, chattering about how sorry she is to Mom, who is rolling her eyes and trying not to smile. But I take a moment to peek back at the ice, still smooth and glossy, still waiting for me to make my mark. I decide that I will, even if it’s messy, even if it takes time. Three years may not be enough and that’s okay. I’ve got a village to keep me going, to remind me that no matter what:

  This is where I belong.

  Author’s Note

  I first started skating after watching Ice Princess and immediately begged my parents to give me lessons. I remember giggling with my friends on the rink, convinced that one day we were going to be on television. I was a pretty terrible skater, though, so that was never a real possibility. What happened instead was so much greater—this book. While I did my absolute best to convey the reality of figure skating today, I did take a couple of artistic liberties. For example, as of 2020, intermediate skaters like Hollie and Maxine would no longer attend nationals should they qualify. Instead, the top skaters are named to the National High Performance Development Team and participate in a training camp. For American skaters to remain competitive, the rules and regulations must be adjusted all the time to reflect developments in the sport. In competitions across the globe, skaters are pushing themselves to new heights and achieving incredible feats. It’s as exciting as it is groundbreaking. In this story, I’m honored to celebrate the history of figure skating and the journey of young, vibrant skaters like Maxine now and to come.

  Acknowledgments

  I wish I could hand out gold medals to each and every person who helped make this dream a reality.

  Wes Adams, thank you for encouraging me to tell this story; your patience, keen eye, and abundant wisdom have made me the writer I am today. Melissa Warten, a true queen, thank you for championing Maxine, and for always answering my three hundred questions. Cassie Gonzales, you are an unparalleled designer and friend. I am shouting your name from the rooftops. My publicist extraordinaire, Madison Furr, thank you for sending Maxine out to the best events. Thank you, Taylor Pitts, Celeste Cass, Jessica White, Diane Joao, and Kiffin Steurer for your rigor and precision. Finally, to my entire FSG and MCPG family, but especially Joy Peskin, Grace Kendall, Janine O’Malley, and Trisha de Guzman, you are seriously rockstars. I am one lucky girl.

  Dung Ho, your art is stunning. Thank you for bringing The Comeback to life. And a million thanks to Alice Min for being the wisest pseudo–skating coach, friend, and reader a writer could ask for.

  To my incredible agent, Marietta Zacker, thank you for cheering on Maxi
ne from the stands; I’m so lucky to have you on my team.

  Sarah and Norah at The Bookstore Plus, thank you for your enthusiasm and excellent notes. The best Lake Placid bookstore of all time!

  To my Instagram skaters: Masha, Grace, and Caroline, thank you for offering your insight into the current competitive skating world. Good luck out there—as Maxine would say: You got this.

  Thank you to my Barnard babes, my Albany crew, and Emily Pratt for listening to me complain about writing, talk forever about skating, and then actually finish a book! I love you all so, so much.

  Laura Schreiber and Tanusri Prasanna, thank you for your advice and constant faith in me. And Mini-Mouse, thank you for letting me use your name.

  To all the teachers and librarians who cheered me on along the way: Sara LePore, Kimberly Murray, Hope Dils, Siobhan Matrose, Timea Szell, Jenny Boylan, and Mary Gordon—thank you for your inspiration, intelligence, and craft.

  Thank you to the Asian American icons who paved the path, who were bold and brave in an unjust world.

  Lastly, I would be nothing without my family. Grandma, thank you for loving and supporting me unconditionally. Mom and Diana, thank you for being my #1 fans, the Olympians of my heart. You are in everything I do, and in everything I am.

  And Dad, thank you, always. I love you, I miss you, and I hope I’ve made you proud.

  About the Author

  E. L. Shen is the author of The Comeback. She is a writer, editor, and former figure skater. Originally from upstate New York, she currently resides in Manhattan. You can sign up for email updates here.

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