Gold Medal Winter

by Donna Freitas

  “Gotta go,” I say with another smile, and the press starts moving away, heading toward the best place to film the podium, I suppose.

  “Good luck, Esperanza,” a few of them say as they leave.

  “Great job, you made them laugh,” Coach Chen says. “Now give me that jacket.”

  I shrug it off into her hands. “I’m so nervous.”

  “Just enjoy this,” she says. “It’s the best part!”

  I nod. Then I run over to where my mom, my friends, and Mr. Chen are still waiting at the edge of the stands. “Thank you for being here. I love you guys.”

  “You can pay us back later at the party,” Joya says with a smirk.

  “Does payback include stuffing your stomachs with Luca’s cooking?”

  “That’ll do,” she says.

  I turn to my mother. “I love you, Mamá.” She doesn’t respond, because she can’t. She’s crying too hard. “Oh, Mamá,” I say, and lean over the rail to give her a kiss on the cheek.

  Coach Chen crosses her arms. “Espi …” she warns me.

  Stacie Grant and Meredith Park are already waiting by the gate to go out on the ice. I’m the only one missing, so I head off toward the door that the USFS handler is holding open for us, removing my skate guards one by one as I go. Just before I reach Stacie and Meredith at the edge of the rink, I stop, take a deep breath, and look all around the stadium, savoring this moment.

  I am always aware that this may not happen again. This medal could be my last. Judges can love you one day and not the next. There are injuries, like with Jennifer Madison, and then there is the simple reality that bodies change and grow in unpredictable ways, sometimes in ones that can end a career almost overnight. The Olympics may stay only a dream.

  But nothing is standing in the way of me and that podium right now.

  Nothing but a little ice.

  The moment I join Stacie and Meredith, the lights in the arena dim. The medal ceremony is starting. The announcer calls out Stacie’s name as this year’s national champion, and when she steps through the gate, the audience is cheering wildly. I turn to Meredith. I almost want to grab her hand, give her a hug, do something to mark this momentous occasion we are sharing, but she won’t look back at me.

  Oh well. If we end up going to the Olympics together, there will be time for us to become friends — I hope.

  Then, suddenly, the announcer is talking about me and it’s my turn to get out there. As I’m skating toward the podium at the center of the ice, where I’m about to become the silver medalist at the US Championships, I hear someone in the crowd yell my name: “Esperanza Flores!” But it’s what they add afterward that makes me smile and wave.

  “America’s hope for gold at the Olympics!”

  Congratulations ESPERANZA says the banner hanging across the entrance of Luciano’s, the Italian restaurant where my mother has worked as long as I can remember. She’s been doing double shifts ever since figure skating went from a dream to a reality, complete with Coach Chen, championship competitions, and sparkly custom costumes.

  “Luca must have had the banner made special,” my mother says, shaking her head and smiling as we get out of her tiny powder-blue Honda, which didn’t take the hour drive south home from the TD Garden too well. One final clack and clank comes from underneath the car, followed by a shudder. “He didn’t tell me a thing. Violet letters, no less. That man loves you like his own daughter.”

  “And he loves you too,” I say, but not loud enough that my mother hears.

  Luca — short for Luciano — is the owner of the restaurant, and he is as Italian-American as it gets in Rhode Island, which is very. If Luca didn’t have to be in the kitchen for the Sunday lunch shift, which is one of their busiest, he would have come to Boston. And if the rest of his longtime wait staff wasn’t covering for my mother, they would have been there too.

  His face appears in the window. “They’re here,” he shouts to everyone else inside, loud enough that we can hear him through the glass.

  Luca is like a father to me, and the other waiters and waitresses are the family of aunts and uncles I would have if my mom had stayed in the Dominican Republic. She met my real father and they fell in love and married while he was on an academic fellowship in Santo Domingo. They moved to the United States because of his teaching position at Brown University in Providence. He died just after my first birthday, but my mother decided to stay. The American Dream bug bit her pretty hard.

  So here we are today.

  My mother grabs my gloved hand. “Are you ready to celebrate?”

  The air is so cold my breath puffs white clouds. I nod, tighten my thick wool coat around me, and huddle down into my lilac scarf.

  “Don’t be nervous, mi cielo. The competition is over.”

  The reminder not to be nervous makes my heart thump. “I know, but we haven’t heard —”

  She puts a finger to my lips. “None of that tonight. I want you to enjoy this accomplishment, at least for a little while. And what an accomplishment it is! A silver medal!”

  Another car pulls up with Libby and Joya inside, and Joya’s dad, Mr. Jackson, in the driver’s seat. As my friends get out, Mr. Jackson rolls down the window, despite the freezing temperature outside. “Nice job today,” he calls out to me. “Go, Espi!” he adds, pumping his fist.

  I laugh. “Thanks, Mr. J.”

  “I’ll be back to get you girls in a couple of hours,” he says to his daughter and Libby.

  “Bye, Daddy.” Joya waves as he backs out.

  Libby’s pale skin is red with the cold. “Um, is the party outside or is there another reason why we’re waiting in the parking lot?”

  I shrug and look around at the snow-covered shrubs and the icicles dripping from the one spindly tree by the door. The parking lot is empty except for the staff cars in the corner and the giant patch of ice in the center that won’t melt until spring. “It’s kind of like being at the rink, don’t you think?”

  She grabs my arm. “No, it’s not,” she says, and pulls me toward the entrance. Joya and my mother follow behind us.

  “Esperanza!” Luca cries out when I walk inside. Everyone else is clapping and cheering our arrival.

  My cheeks flush from all the attention. “Thanks, guys!” The restaurant looks the same as it has all my life — the same dark wood paneling everywhere, white linen tablecloths, the walls lined with fine Italian wines. But violet-colored balloons are tied to all the chairs, and off to the side I see a huge cake, which I’m sure Marcela, the pastry chef, spent all day making. I bet it’s red velvet, my favorite. There is a giant television too, which Luca must have had brought in just for today so they could watch me skate. “I can’t believe all this. You didn’t have to —”

  But I can’t finish my sentence, since Luca swoops me up into a hug and twirls me around. “Little Espi,” he says, setting me back onto the floor. His big brown eyes are glassy with tears. “You made us so proud today.”

  Even though I’m trying hard not to cry, I wipe tears from my own cheeks. I’m a regular water fountain today. “I can’t believe the banner. My favorite color and everything. But all that trouble and I could have lost and then —”

  “Nonsense, sweetheart. Just getting to that fancy competition deserves a celebration. Never mind winning a medal!”

  My mother puts a hand on his arm. “Luca, this is wonderful. Thank you.”

  “Of course, of course!” He smiles at her before turning to Libby and Joya. “Welcome, ladies. You must be hungry.”

  “Definitely,” Joya says, already on her way to the back of the restaurant, where the banquet table is laden with food. She pulls Libby along behind her. I bet they’re headed straight for the chicken parm. Which is probably right next to the eggplant parm. Which is probably next to the meatballs. Just thinking about it makes my mouth water.

  Meanwhile, the rest of the staff crowd around me. “Hi, Betty,” I say, hugging the tall waitress with curler-set blond hair that’s l
ike a frothy bowl on her head. She and my mom like to have coffee in the morning together before their shifts start.

  “Hi, baby girl,” she says in that Georgia drawl of hers.

  Then comes Marco, who can clear and reset a table with utter perfection in under two minutes. “Espi, those jumps! I held my breath. Luca had to take away my glass of wine because I was drinking it too fast. Nerves,” he adds with a dramatic sigh.

  This makes me laugh. “I’m glad you survived,” I tell him. “I only did barely.”

  Next is Angela, Marco’s wife of thirty years; Anthony, the head waiter since before I was born, I think; Anthony’s wife, Maggie; then Gino, the only other cook aside from Luca; and Connie, the hostess. When Marcela leans in for a hug, she says, “The frosting is cream cheese, just how you like it.”

  “You’re the best, Marcie,” I say, glancing back at the food table again. Libby and Joya are hovering next to it, picking at the various bowls filled with salads and antipasti, despite the fact that they already have heaping plates in their hands.

  I go to my mother, who’s standing next to Luca. “Mamá, this is too much. They didn’t have to do all of this.”

  “Espi, they’ve known you since you were this big,” she says, cradling her arms like she’s holding a baby. “And you know how they love to celebrate. They’re happy to do it. They’re ecstatic, really.” She points toward the big-screen TV where some of the staff are replaying my free skate and oohing and aahing. Marco’s got a glass of wine in his hand again and he keeps taking big gulps.

  “It’s so nice of them,” I say, “I just —”

  But Luca leans down, cutting me off. “Nonsense, Espi. Go get yourself some chicken parm. You must be starving.”

  Before I can take his advice, a rush of cold air swooshes by as the door opens. Coach Chen walks in, followed by her husband. Another cheer goes up around Luciano’s for her, then a second round of hugs from the staff begins. Coach Chen is popular here at the restaurant, mostly because of how she single-handedly out of nowhere made the dream of competitive figure skating a reality in my life. Even if my mother was pulling quadruple shifts at Luciano’s instead of doubles and I bussed tables all night, we never could have afforded the kind of skating career that gets a girl to the Olympics.

  My obsession with figure skating goes all the way back to my fifth birthday. Ice-skating parties were a big thing for kids in our town. Elsewhere, people celebrated at Chuck E. Cheese, but for us, there was nothing better than skating in circles to the latest pop music over the crackly sound system. My mother gave me my first pair of ice skates so I could go to the rink with everyone else in my class.

  By the time I turned eight I was going every single day, hitting the free ice time every afternoon before the high school hockey practice started. At night when I got home, in between doing homework and helping my mother around the house, I would watch videos online of all my favorite skaters — Sarah Hughes when I was really little, Sasha Cohen after the 2006 Olympics. I was a big fan of Irina Slutskaya from Russia too, despite her unfortunate last name, and Rachael Flatt, who won the 2010 US Championships with one of the highest scores ever. Sometimes I liked to study the programs of Katarina Witt, the East German gold medalist from the 1984 and 1988 Olympics. Even though she competed way before I was born, she was a maven of style like no other skater before or afterward, in my opinion. Well, except for Michelle Kwan maybe. And, of course, I watched Lucy Chen. She was a legend, so how could I not? Twenty years ago she won gold for the US at the Winter Olympics.

  I would learn their programs as best I could from seeing them online, and then — with the help of some good instructional videos on YouTube — I would try to repeat them during my time on the ice. The jumps, the choreography, everything. Sometimes I’d mix things up, taking my favorite parts from one program and putting them together with my favorite parts of another. It got to the point where the people who worked at the rink would let me have the ice all to myself for a full thirty minutes after the free ice time ended each day so I could practice. And they would cheer me on. Clap. The whole thing.

  My ten-year-old self loved it.

  Then one day, the mother of a big-deal high school hockey player had this crazy idea that I should have a real audience for my programs. She pulled some strings, and the very next Friday night, I was the between-periods entertainment for the sold-out crowd at the hockey game. I wore a home-sewn violet skating costume my mother and I had spent the previous four evenings conjuring from a basic body suit and a trip to the fabric store for some cheap chiffon and sequins.

  None other than Lucy Chen happened to be there.

  She’d just moved to town that fall. Her husband had gotten a job as a math teacher at the local high school, and they’d come to the hockey game to cheer on his students. Even more serendipitously — if that is even possible — I happened to be skating one of her old programs that night.

  It was like all the stars aligned in the sky.

  As I was coming off the ice, smiling giddily from all the applause around the rink and the thrill of performing in front of a crowd, Lucy Chen was standing there, waiting for me.

  “You have talent,” she said before I even had a chance to realize who she was.

  “Thank you,” I said, still in a dreamy haze.

  “What’s your name?” she fired off next.

  “Esperanza Flores.”

  Now I took her in for the first time — I mean, really took her in. All five feet nothing, dark eyes and long black hair, impeccably dressed. It was the long hair that made it difficult to immediately recognize her. I’d always seen her performing with it up in a tight bun. But when I looked beyond this difference, her face was as young and beautiful and as obviously Lucy Chen, Olympic Gold Medalist as ever.

  “Ohmigosh. You’re Lucy Chen! I love you!” My eyes widened. “I mean, um, you know what I mean? Right?”

  She smiled in that subtle but friendly way I’ve grown used to over the years. “I do,” she said. Then she laughed.

  “Can I have your autograph?” I asked, without thinking about the fact that I didn’t have a pen or paper. It’s not like there are ample pockets in skating costumes, or any pockets.

  “Sure,” she said as she beckoned me to a spot against the wall, away from the passing throngs heading to the snack bar. “But only if you tell me who your coach is. I didn’t know anyone in this town was serious about figure skating. We’re new here.”

  My cheeks flushed. I don’t know why it made me embarrassed to admit that I had no formal training, but it did. “Um,” I said — not an auspicious start to an answer. I stared down at the frayed white laces on my skates, noticing how dirty they were. “I don’t have a coach.”

  When I finally looked up, Lucy Chen was nodding her head, taking this in. Then that hint of a smile paid a visit again. “Yes, you do.”

  I shook my head. “No, really, I don’t. I’ve just been teaching my —”

  But she was scribbling something on a piece of paper, so I stopped trying to speak. She handed it to me. “This is my address. Be there tomorrow morning, nine a.m. sharp. Bring your parents.”

  “It’s just me and my mom.”

  “Bring your mom, then.”

  My eyes got wide. “You want me to come to your house with my mother?”

  “Yes,” she said. A tall blond man walked up then and handed her a hot dog. “Bax,” she said, looking up at him, “this is Esperanza Flores, my new student. Esperanza, meet my husband, John Baxter.”

  He held out his hand, and I shook it. “Hello, Esperanza,” he said to me.

  “Hello, Mr. Chen,” I said without thinking. “I mean, Mr. Baxter.” I was red-faced, but his eyes were dancing.

  So were Coach Chen’s. “You should definitely always refer to Bax as Mr. Chen from here on out. I like that.”

  “Um. Okay.”

  He turned to his wife, eyebrows raised. “I thought you were retired.”

  She swallowed a big bite o
f hot dog. “I thought I was too,” she said. “But I seem to have found a reason to come out of retirement.”

  “That was quick,” he said with a laugh.

  With her free hand, she wove her fingers through her husband’s. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Esperanza. Don’t be late.”

  “Okay,” I said, still in a daze about what this encounter meant. Then I came to my senses. “I, um, I mean we — my mom and I — don’t have any money for lessons.”

  For a second, I thought she might cry. She blinked quickly and wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. Then she smiled her big, impossible-to-miss smile. The one she used to wear on the ice that charmed all the judges. The rest of the United States too. And maybe the world on top of it. “You don’t need to worry about money. I’ll take care of things,” she said.

  I watched, my jaw hanging open, as she and John Baxter walked away.

  Just before she was out of earshot, though, she turned back and said, “Get a good night’s sleep, Esperanza. Tomorrow, we start on the road to Olympic gold.”

  That was six years ago.

  Now a Southern drawl behind me says, “Hey, hon.”

  I turn around to see Betty standing there with two heaping plates of food in her hands. She holds one out to me. “You need to eat, sugar pie. You probably burned a million calories with all that leaping and spinning. I got all your favorites on here.”

  A big piece of chicken parmesan sits like a crown on top of a pile of pasta, the rest of the plate a mountain of salad. Coach Chen lets me eat pretty much whatever I want, since she agrees with Betty that I do actually burn about a million calories from skating. My stomach growls on cue. “That looks so good. Thanks, Betty.”

  “You bet, Little Miss Silver Medalist.”

  For at least a minute, she and I eat happily in silence. Then Libby comes up to us. She’s already moved on to dessert, and is scooping up a big hunk of tiramisu. “So when do you find out?” she says with her mouth full. She swallows and goes on. “You know, about the big one.”

  “What — the Olympics?” Betty asks.