Breaking the Ice

by Gail Nall

  I arch my arms over my head and lean slightly to the right. Addison’s watching me even as she runs through some footwork. I close my eyes for a second. Focus. Stop thinking about her and just skate. The first notes of the music sound over the speakers, and I move my arms out and down.

  I follow the movement of my left hand with my eyes and see something weird.

  My hand is shaking.

  “No one is watching,” I whisper to myself. As I take my first steps, I clench and unclench my hands to make them behave. I know this program. There’s no reason for me to be nervous at all. I need to think about what I’m doing—one thing at a time.

  Stroke, turn, arms out. Spiral. I stretch my right leg out behind me as high as it will go. I arch my back until I feel the muscles pulling, and hold that position for five counts.

  Hildy put the double flip at the very beginning of the program. Turn backward. Reach back with right arm. Extend right foot behind me. Toe into ice. Vault into air and pull arms in hard. The two rotations happen almost too fast to count. I land solidly on my right foot. A smile covers my face as I thrust my arms out and stretch my left leg behind me.

  The music continues, and I think my way through the jumps and spins and steps of the program. I turn and set up the hardest jump in the program—the double axel. No one else at Praterville even tried one. I glide backward on my right foot, ready to step forward and launch myself into the air, when someone shouts.

  “Watch out!”

  Chapter Seven

  I rise up on my toe pick and screech to a stop.

  Addison’s right behind me. Adrenaline rushes through my body as I realize what might’ve just happened.

  “Oops, sorry,” she says in a sickly-sweet voice as I maneuver around her and try to catch up to my music.

  My heart is thumping overtime and my legs feel like spaghetti, but I push on. One thing at a time. Double lutz. It’s just like a double flip, except I’m gliding into the jump on the outside edge of my blade instead of the inside edge. That tiny little change of edge makes all the difference. I pick my other toe into the ice and start to turn hard into the air. My body leans off to the side as I rotate. I land—just barely—but don’t have nearly enough speed or balance for the double loop that comes right after. I try it anyway, pulling my legs together as I twist up and off my right foot. My blade hits the ice too early, and I fall hard on my side.

  I scramble up and hear giggling over the music. Addison stands not five feet away at the entrance to the ice, smiling with the blond woman who’s been sitting on the bleachers through the whole session. They look so much alike, the woman has to be Addison’s mother.

  I force myself back into the program. My hands are shaking again, and it takes all my willpower to finish. As the last notes of Swan Lake fade, I arch my arms over my head in the same pose I started with.

  Breathing hard, I grab my water bottle from the boards where Greg is waiting. I gulp the freezing water as I wait for his judgment. It really wasn’t bad—except for the missed double axel and the fall. And he had to see how Addison messed those up.

  Greg shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He’s looking across the ice. I turn my head to see who he’s watching, but there’s no one in his line of vision.

  “How do you feel about that program?” he asks out of nowhere.

  I take a deep breath. “I missed the double axel. I know I messed up the combination jump, but my timing was off,” I say as fast as possible. Greg’s quiet, so I add, “I think I rushed the flying camel, too.” I’d jumped too fast from one foot to the other to start the flying camel, so when I stretched my left leg out behind me in the spin, I wobbled a little bit. But only for a second. The rest of the spin was fine.

  “The jumps and spins were good. But I’m not talking about that particular run-through. The program as a whole—do you like it?” Greg turns his head to study me.

  What does he mean, do I like it? “I suppose so.” I’m not sure if that’s the right answer.

  “Do you feel connected to it, like you’re leaving a piece of yourself on the ice when you skate it?” Greg’s eyes burrow into mine, as if he’s trying to see into my soul.

  I cast my gaze down and pull on the fingers of my black-and-purple-striped glove. “Um . . . I guess? I love skating.” It feels like he’s giving me a test I haven’t studied for. Hildy never asked stuff like this. Her questions were more like, “Did you count the revolutions in that camel spin?” and “Why didn’t you do the bit of choreography before the footwork?” Things I knew the answers to.

  “I guess?” Greg repeats.

  I shrug and sneak a look at the clock on the hockey scoreboard. It’s 5:57. Only three minutes left in this ­session. I can’t get away from Greg and his weird questions fast enough. Mom’s right about first impressions. I obviously blew this one.

  “Kaitlin,” Greg says.

  I snap my eyes back to him.

  “You’ll never skate a memorable, winning program until you put your whole self into it. Not just physically, but emotionally. You need to feel something in order to make the judges and the audience fall in love with you. Your personality has to shine through.”

  I blink at him. The program has expressive choreography. What about that part at the beginning where I’m arched sideways? And the footwork, where I point my toes and make balletic movements with my arms?

  “Showing personality and emotion is more than just waving your arms around and imitating movements someone else has come up with,” Greg says as if he read my mind. “What was your program components score at Praterville?”

  “Nine point six five,” I whisper. My throat is prickling.

  “Hmm.” Greg rubs his chin with his hand. “Seems like the judges agreed with me. I haven’t seen your protocols, but I’m guessing they docked you on interpretation, choreography, and performance.”

  That’s exactly what the score sheet said. I only stared at it for hours last week, trying to figure out what went so wrong. I bite my lip. The prickling intensifies, and my eyes get watery. I can’t cry in front of Greg. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

  “Session’s over,” the ice monitor calls from the entrance. A few skaters, the ones not staying for the second morning session, move toward the ice entrance.

  “I think I know just what you need.” Greg thumps his mittened hand against the top of the boards. “I’ll bring it this afternoon.”

  Addison skids to a stop a foot away, spraying ice all over me. I look down at my snow-covered pants and resist the urge to wipe them dry.

  “Isn’t it time for my lesson?” she asks Greg without even looking at me.

  “It is,” Greg says. “See you this afternoon, Kaitlin. And remember, you can’t be a star without twinkling.” He leads Addison out toward center ice.

  I stare after him. What does that mean? And, more importantly, does he really think I’m as boring as the Praterville judges thought? It’s like he didn’t even see how difficult my program is. Didn’t notice how Hildy chose every single element to show off my soaring jumps and fast spins. My eyes prick again, and I squeeze them shut. I can’t think about that now, or I’ll start crying in front of everyone.

  I go through the motions of practice for the next hour, but my mind is on whatever it is Greg’s bringing this afternoon.

  At least it is until Swishy Hair comes to a stop next to me while I’m sipping water at the boards. I didn’t realize how tall he was yesterday. Now he’s towering over me, although he doesn’t look like he’s very much older.

  “I saw what happened with your program,” he says. “Don’t worry about Addison. She’s just really competitive, especially with those at her level. We tune her out.”

  “Oh. So . . . everyone just puts up with her?”

  “And her mom.”

  I’m dying to ask why. I mean, the fact that I go
t kicked out of my old club for saying what I thought to the judges and accidentally knocking over a bunch of medals—but Addison doesn’t for being awful all the time—hardly seems fair.

  “You’re dying to know why, right?”

  I shake my head, but he just laughs.

  “Yes, you are. It’s in your eyes.”

  I look away from him, like I’m suddenly really interested in watching everyone else skate. How can he read my eyes, anyway? They’re just eyes.

  “Come on, admit it, Double Axel,” he says.

  I watch a pair of ice dancers maneuver around the rink. The guy flips the girl into a crazy lift. Her head is just inches from the ice. Just as I’m sure she’s going to slip from his grasp and hit her head, he grabs her waist and pulls her into a standing position. Then they separate and move into some strange dance, flailing their arms over their heads and leaning forward. It doesn’t look like any ice dance I’ve ever seen.

  I take a deep breath and turn back toward Swishy Hair. “Okay, fine. Why is Addison allowed to skate here if she’s so awful?”

  “Why are you here?” he asks in return.

  “I was kind of kicked out of my old club.”

  “Everyone here has a story.” He sweeps his arm around, taking in everyone on the ice. “Look around.”

  I do, but all I see are people skating. “What do you mean?”

  But he’s already gone. I spot him headed toward Jessa Hernandez, who’s also taking a water break on the other side of the rink. Jessa, the National champion who completely lost it at Worlds two years ago and could barely land a single jump in her free program. Everyone thought for sure she’d given up when she didn’t even show for ­Nationals the next year.

  Nearby, Karilee’s hugging one of her students.

  Wait. The ice dancers with the crazy moves. Jessa, the meltdown queen. Mean Addison and her over-the-top stage mom. Miyu, who’s super nice, not super good, and who left Pound Lake for some mysterious reason. Karilee, the touchy-feely coach. Greg, who seems just a little hung up on his former ice show. The Russian coach who stared me down.

  Everyone here is just a little bit . . . weird. Was Ellery right? Am I weird too? Or maybe I’m just stuck here, like the Swishy Hair guy, who couldn’t be weird if he tried.

  And what’s his story?

  Chapter Eight

  I’ve spent the day staring down the clock and dreading Greg’s big surprise. At Ridgeline, I would’ve hung around at the rink all day, doing schoolwork on my laptop between practice sessions and having lunch at the lobby café. But since hardly anyone homeschools at Fallton, and there isn’t any skating in the middle of the day, Mom and I went home after the morning sessions.

  But I couldn’t stop thinking about what Greg has planned. I had to read my chapter for science three times because I couldn’t pay attention. And I’m pretty sure the ­personal trainer at my new gym thinks I’m a flake, since I kept zoning out during reps on the leg-lift machine.

  Mom’s positive Greg’s just going to record me or make me skate with a hockey stick in both hands for better posture. I’m not so sure. Those seem really tame for Mr. Skating Sensation.

  So now I’m back at the rink, and about to find out. After the off-ice Movement and Interpretation class, anyway.

  Mom gives me a nudge toward the far end of the lobby. “The class is about ready to start. At least it’ll take your mind off your lesson.”

  Somehow I doubt it.

  Everyone’s gathered in a bunch, talking and waiting for the class to begin. I find a spot between Miyu and Jessa. And try not to get all starstruck over the fact that I’m standing right next to Jessa Hernandez.

  “What do you think Greg’s surprise is?” I ask Miyu. I told her about it before we left this morning.

  “Probably some whacked-out costume from his ice show days. He’ll make you put it on and act out the character,” she says as she bends down to retie one of her shoes.

  “No way. Are you serious? I’d die of embarrassment.” I still can’t get over how easy it is to talk to Miyu. Even though we just met, I can say things to her I never would’ve said to Ellery.

  Miyu flashes me a smile. “You’re making me glad I have Karilee as a coach instead of Greg.”

  “Maybe it’s just a video camera, so I can see . . . whatever it is he sees.”

  “I vote for the crazy costume. Maybe you’ll have to be a monkey. Or a clown. Ooh! Or an elephant!” Miyu cracks up.

  I force a laugh. The idea is funny, as long as it doesn’t actually happen. There’s no way I’ll skate at my new rink in front of everyone dressed as an elephant. I’d never live it down.

  Karilee wafts into the group. She doesn’t look anything like a skating coach right now. Instead of the tie-dyed jacket, she’s wearing a long, flowy skirt and flower-printed top. Her long hair hangs loose around her face. I can’t believe she’s going to show us off-ice exercises in that outfit. Mom’s eyes are probably bugging out of her head from across the lobby. I look around to see if anyone else is confused. They’re all looking straight ahead at Karilee, even Jessa. I guess this is normal for Karilee.

  “Good afternoon, everyone,” she says in a singsong voice that reminds me of my kindergarten teacher. “Today we’re going to focus on rhythm and flow and music. Something a little different.” She reaches down and hits a button on the CD player. Some kind of weird, chanting music—like monks in a church—erupts from the speakers.

  “Everyone please take a seat.” Karilee sinks to the ­rubber-matted floor and tucks her feet underneath her. The long skirt billows out and slowly drifts down.

  I eye the floor. It’s covered in grit and damp in places from melted ice. Miyu’s already sitting, despite the unidentified dirt. I sneak a glance at Jessa. She wrinkles her face a little, takes a deep breath, and sits.

  I do the same, trying not to think of the shiny, wooden-­floored room with yoga mats at my old rink. Do Olympic champions learn stretching exercises on dirty rink floors?

  “Forgot to bring my towel,” Jessa whispers.

  It takes me a second to realize she’s talking to me. “Me too,” I finally say. I look around and realize everyone else—except Miyu and Karilee—is sitting on a towel or a mat.

  “Listen to the music,” Karilee says. “Then do what feels natural—just with your upper body.” She closes her eyes, and then begins to sway back and forth. She raises her arms over her head and waves them in time to the chanting. She looks absolutely insane.

  A giggle rises in my throat, and I cough to cover it up. Jessa’s not so lucky. She laughs, and a few others join her. Not Miyu, though. She’s totally into it, rocking from side to side with her eyes closed.

  Karilee’s eyes fly open. “Yes, we may look funny. But how do you expect to figure out what looks good unless you’re willing to risk looking silly? I want to see everyone moving to the music. Close your eyes if you feel self-conscious.”

  I shut my eyes and move back and forth like Miyu. I raise my arms at the elbows and wave my hands. At least Swishy Hair isn’t here to see me look like this.

  “Extend your arms. Reach out as far as you can, then reach even farther. Stretch out your fingertips.”

  I do what she says and remind myself that everyone else is doing the same thing. We all look stupid together. And—hopefully—we all have our eyes closed.

  “Move your arms back and forth. Find your rhythm.”

  I move my arms farther to the side. “Sorry,” Miyu and I whisper to each other when our hands smack together.

  “Now try forward and back. Lean down to the floor. Then arch backward, as far as you can go.”

  I reach forward, my nose inches from the disgusting rubber mats. As the smell of feet and dirty water enters my nostrils, I move back up. And try not to think of how many hockey players have spit on the floor.

  “Now arch yo
ur back. Tummy to the ceiling!”

  I bend back as far as I can.

  And fall over.

  But I don’t just land on the gritty, damp floor. My arms, stretched over my head, connect with a pair of standing legs. I didn’t think anyone was behind me. My eyes pop open.

  A face tilts down and grins at me. It’s Swishy Hair.

  “Hey, there, Double Axel. I know you missed me, but you don’t have to hug my legs,” he says.

  I jerk back into a sitting position. Everyone has their eyes open now, even Karilee. My face goes warm, and I wish we could just get back to waving our arms with our eyes closed.

  “How nice of you to join us, Mr. Walker,” Karilee says. “Ten minutes late, as usual.”

  “Sorry,” he says offhandedly. He plops himself onto the floor on the other side of Miyu, no towel or mat, and stretches out his long legs. His hair falls into his face, but he doesn’t bother pushing it out of the way.

  Miyu turns to me and rolls her eyes. I kind of wish he’d been able to sit next to me, even though I’m totally mortified at having accidentally grabbed his legs.

  “All right, let’s stand up. Now we’re going to do full-body movement. Try walking or jumping or doing whatever you feel interprets the music. Don’t forget to use your arms.” Karilee stands on one foot like a flamingo and waves her arms again. The class slowly moves into action. Some people are really into it, like Miyu, who’s taking giant steps in a circle with her arms raised straight overhead, while others—like me—are waiting to see what everyone else does.

  “Let’s just spin in circles until we get dizzy and fall down,” Swishy Hair says in my ear.

  “Um . . .” I don’t know if this is a good idea.

  “Or, better yet, let’s chicken dance. C’mon, Kaitlin, chicken dance with me!” He tucks his hands under his armpits and starts flapping his elbows like a chicken. He bobs his head in rhythm with the chanting, and his hair hides his eyes.

  I look around. Miyu’s staring up at her arms and is in her own world. The ice dancer guy I saw this morning is doing some crazy interpretive dance in the corner by the gumball machine.