What if everyone hates me?
What if that’s what Joya’s afraid to tell me?
Thinking about this makes me feel stifled in my warm rink attire. I take off my scarf and then my gloves, trying to remember to breathe. The national anthem ends and we sit back down.
“Does everybody online hate me?” I ask Joya. “Is that why you won’t tell me anything?”
She looks at me like I must be crazy. “What? No. Are you nuts?”
I study her face, getting a good look at each of her hazel eyes.
She leans back. “What are you doing?”
“Performing a lie detector test.”
“I didn’t know getting an inch from my eye could detect lies.”
“It’s my personal secret method.”
“It’s unnecessary.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I’m not lying!”
I grab my scarf from the bench and begin wrapping it around my neck again since now I’m starting to get chilled. “You’re really not?”
Joya takes a big breath, in and out. Very dramatic, like everything she does. “I promise I’m not. In fact,” she goes on, looking both ways, as though Coach Chen might be lurking nearby, “when you go online after all of this is over, I bet you will be psyched. People are excited for you and about you. Really, really, really. There is a lot of love for Esperanza Flores going around.”
I put my mittens back on, feeling reassured. “Okay. I believe you. I won’t ask any more.”
“Good, because I don’t want to tell you any more. Coach Chen may be small, but I don’t want to cross her.”
This makes me laugh. The two hockey teams skate out onto the ice. The game is about to start, and they face each other. “If only Libby didn’t feel cross.”
“She’ll calm down. Again: not your fault what happened. We’ll go talk to Libby between periods and get everything cleared up.”
I am about to respond when the lights dim and an announcement comes over the loudspeaker that almost makes me fall through the hole between the bleachers.
“Playing tonight for the Jays, in his last game before the Winter Olympics, is Rhode Island’s own Danny Morrison!”
The crowd jumps to their feet, cheering. There is actually a spotlight that shines down on the place where Danny Morrison is standing on the ice underneath all his gear and padding. He raises a hand, though it seems somewhat reluctant.
Joya leans in. “Did you know your Olympic buddy was going to be here tonight?”
“Of course not,” I say, perhaps a bit too defensively. “I had no idea. And he’s not my Olympic buddy!”
“Yes he is.”
“Is not.”
“Totally is. Just be grateful that no one has connected you with him tonight.”
But Joya speaks too soon.
Suddenly, a second spotlight shines on the place where we sit and I’m blinded. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. While this is happening, the announcer goes on, “And here to cheer on her fellow Olympian is Rhode Island’s own Esperanza Flores, who is off to the Winter Olympics for ladies’ figure skating!”
My cheeks burn like they might be trying to cook something. This might be the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to me. The announcer is making it seem like we are boyfriend-girlfriend! Like I am here to cheer on Danny and not Libby!
The crowd around us is going wild.
Dios mío.
“Smile and wave, smile and wave,” Joya is hissing next to me while smiling hugely like the great actress she is and waving herself. She actually lifts up my arm for me, then shakes it a little. It flops around like a dead fish.
I finally remember myself and smile and wave all on my own, which prompts Joya to mutter, “Thank you,” next to me.
While I continue to smile and wave, my eyes adjust enough to the spotlight to see Danny Morrison looking my way. And all I can think is: Oh no! He probably thinks I came here to see him just like the announcer says! He has no idea that I came here to see Libby cheer!
And then: Oh no! Libby! What will she think? This night is becoming all about me!
I seek her out down by the cheerleaders. She is not clapping with the rest of them. Her big blue eyes are narrowed. Her ponytail is suspiciously higher up on her head. She takes it down and puts it back up when she is nervous. Or annoyed.
Then mercifully, the spotlights go off, the lights go back up on the rink, the crowd’s attention shifts to the ice, and the ref drops the puck to start the game.
“That was really intense,” Joya says.
“Libby is going to doubly hate me.”
“Again, not your fault. You didn’t plan this.”
“I know. But still. Imagine if something like that happened just before one of your plays.”
“I would be happy to share the spotlight.” She laughs. “Literally.”
“No you wouldn’t.”
“Would too.”
I tilt my head and look at her skeptically. “Come on.”
“Okay. Maybe I’d be the tiniest bit annoyed.”
“Or more than a tiny bit.”
“Hey, pay attention to your boyfriend down on the ice. He’s pretty good.”
“Joya.”
“Espi.”
We go back and forth like this through most of the first period, while alternately and obediently doing whatever the cheerleaders ask of us. We give them an R, an A, a V, an E, an N, and an S, yelling out “RAVENS!” at the top of our lungs when asked what it spells. We show serious spirit when it is requested. And we watch as the cold shoulder Libby was giving us starts to thaw until she seems to be enjoying herself again.
With our attention so focused on the cheerleaders, I mostly forget that Danny Morrison is playing down on the ice. Mostly and not entirely, because during the first period he scores twice, which makes people freak out, even all the people from my high school.
“What was that all about?” Libby wants to know during the break between first and second periods. We are in the ladies’ room, and Libby and Joya are touching up their makeup. “The autographing and the spotlight thing. Did you plan that?”
I can tell she’s trying to be all, No big deal, nothing to see here, but there’s an edge to her voice. At least her ponytail hasn’t gotten any higher, which I take as a positive sign.
“People just started lining up,” Joya says. “It was totally out of Espi’s control.”
Libby eyes me suspiciously. “Did you come here tonight because you wanted to see Danny Morrison play?”
“No! No way! Absolutely not! Who do you think I am?” She’s doing that eye-narrowing thing again, so I continue babbling before she can ask more questions. “I came here to see you and you only. I didn’t even know what team we were playing tonight, and I didn’t know which team Danny Morrison played for either, because when I was on TV with him that first day, I was so nervous I tuned out all of his answers. And then because of Coach’s Internet ban, I didn’t have the chance to look him up.”
“Protest much?” she says.
“It’s true, Lib,” Joya says. “Espi was in total shock. And majorly embarrassed by the attention and the association with the hockey hottie.”
“Okay,” Libby sighs.
“Hockey hottie?” I say to Joya.
“Don’t deny that he’s cute, Espi,” Libby says.
“Fine. But more interestingly,” I go on, in an attempt to shift the focus away from Danny, “Hunter Wills and I talked on the phone yesterday for, like an hour.”
Libby’s eyes widen to their normal state, which is very big. Relief floods through me. The feeling is short-lived, however, since I now need to answer all of Joya’s and Libby’s questions about my conversation with Hunter.
When I feel I’ve endured enough inquiries, I turn the tables back on Libby. “Let’s talk about you flirting with Marty O’Connor before the game started. I saw it happening with my own two eyes, so don’t try and deny it.”
; Of course she doesn’t. She’s Libby. We stay inside the ladies’ room until the break is over, mostly because I think we are all aware that if we go back outside, we might face the autographing issue again. We do the same thing between periods two and three and manage to make it through the game without further incident.
When the game is over, Danny’s team is victorious, and I tell Joya that I want to wait outside while Libby changes into her street clothes.
“You want to wait in the ten-degree air?” Joya asks.
“I love the cold,” I say.
Joya eyes me. “You want to avoid running into Danny Morrison doing his victory lap through the crowd.”
“That is a distinct possibility.”
“All right, fine,” she says.
We explain our plan to Libby, who rolls her eyes.
“It’s your funeral,” she says.
Aside from a few random autographs as people leave the arena, everything is calm and normal again, as though people forgot everything that happened at the start of the game or that I’m going to the Olympics. While the vast majority of me is relieved, a teensy part is a little disappointed we didn’t run into Danny Morrison before the night ended. Or that he didn’t run into us.
The next few days pass in a blur.
I go to Joya’s play rehearsal Monday evening and confirm that she makes a great Maria, no matter what insecurities she has. I eat a lot of leftovers from Luciano’s and catch up with the staff while I wait for my mother to finish her shifts. I talk on the phone a couple more times with Hunter, who gives me pointers on my quads. I get absolutely no homework done. I do not see Danny Morrison, nor am I forced to do embarrassing press with him — which I have to admit makes me slightly relieved but also slightly disappointed.
I practice twice a day with Coach, like always. I master my new spins like a pro and land those triple axels like always.
But the quad sal still eludes me.
In fact, I seems to be getting worse, not better, with Hunter’s advice. I might still be the Princess of Spin, but I am definitely not becoming the Quad Queen to his Quad King. Plus, I feel a twinge of guilt each time I go sprawling across the ice, like somehow I’m being punished for telling Hunter about a move that is supposed to be a secret.
“Esperanza!” Coach Chen calls out to me.
“Hmmm?” I answer absentmindedly. I am in the final pose of my short program, staring up into the wooden rafters of the rink’s ceiling. I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing like this, but my music stopped more than a few seconds ago. I come out of the pose and roll my head left, then right, to stretch the back of my neck.
Coach skates toward me. “You need to focus! Where is your brain today?”
“It left the building, I think.”
“Well, go get it and bring it back.”
“Easier said than done.”
She looks me up and down. “What is eating you? I’ve never seen you like this. You’re usually so unflappable. Is it your new costume? Are you being superstitious again?”
I shrug, looking down at my Vera Wang that arrived yesterday. I give it a little swivel and swirl by twisting my torso back and forth. “Not really,” I answer. “It’s beautiful. I love it.”
This is true. I do love it. The red isn’t a bright candy-apple type red. It’s a darker, more romantic hue, and it’s the softest thing I’ve ever put on my body. Some of the ruffles down the side and on the skirt are structured, so they always stay the same wavy shape, and there aren’t any beads or rhinestones to make it scratchy. Yet the entire thing glitters.
Coach skates around me in a circle. “It is beautiful on you.”
“Thanks,” I say, but only halfheartedly. My love for the dress does not alleviate my superstitions. Perhaps it’s Vera Wang’s fault I’m not landing my quads more consistently. But then I think about the other thing that’s really eating me. “My mother’s visa still hasn’t come through.”
Coach smiles sadly. “I’m working on it, Espi. Don’t lose hope.” She sighs. “Let’s run through your long program one last time and then we’ll call it a day, okay?”
“ ’Kay.” I skate over to the other side of the rink to the place where my program begins, and get into my pose.
Soon salsa music comes on over the speakers and I try to let myself be moved by the rhythm. “Dominican girls are born to dance salsa,” my mother always says, and Coach took that belief and transformed it into a program that only someone who can feel the sound in her hips can get away with. It makes me stand out among the other figure skaters with more traditional music. Between the fun upbeat footwork and the experience of gliding across the ice at near-blinding speed, skating this program usually makes me feel like some strange otherworldly creature that can do things — leaps and jumps and spins — that aren’t quite human.
But this doesn’t happen today. It’s like I’m made of lead.
The music cuts off a full minute from the end of my program and I’m left spinning in silence. I haven’t even gotten to the quad sal yet.
“Esperanza!”
I open up and the revolutions slow until they come to a stop. Coach’s skates scratch across the ice as she approaches. “What is with you? Is it more than superstition? Your mother? Is it plain old nerves?” She shifts since I’m avoiding staring directly at her. “Or is it about our Boston practice weekend? Meredith and Stacie?” She crosses her arms. Takes a deep breath. “Is this about a … about a boy?” Coach’s voice goes really high and disbelieving on the word boy.
I finally look at her. “What if it’s all of the above?”
“Then I’d say it’s time to call it a day.”
“On that bad a program?”
“Tomorrow will be different.”
“Can I ask you something?”
Worry wrinkles Coach Chen’s brow. “Of course.”
“It doesn’t matter if someone else knows I’m trying for a quad sal if it’s not going to end up in my program because I can’t land it, right? I mean, it’s not a secret weapon if we’re not using it….”
“Espi,” Coach says in a warning voice. “Who did you tell?”
“Um.”
“Espi. Spill.”
“Just Hunter Wills,” I say in a small voice.
Coach takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Why Hunter?”
“Because he’s the Quad King and I thought he’d have some good advice. It turns out not so much. At least his boy-quad advice doesn’t seem to transfer.”
“Is that the only reason you told him?”
“Why else would I?”
“Oh, Espi.” She sighs again. “Because you were trying to impress a good-looking boy — who also happens to be famous and share your love of figure skating.”
My cheeks get hot. Talking to Coach about this is kind of embarrassing. She’s not my mother, but she’s a little like a second mom. “We were talking on the phone and it just sort of … came out.”
“Can you trust him not to tell anyone else?”
“I think so.”
Coach is searching my face like it holds some clues about Hunter’s reliability. “Let’s hope you can. We don’t want it getting out that a quad is even a possibility, because we don’t want someone like Mai Ling going for one on the off chance she can get it in time for the Games. We definitely don’t want Stacie trying for one either.”
“But … I thought … shouldn’t I be doing one by the time we practice together in Boston? Won’t it matter for getting chosen as the alternate for the Team Event? I thought you wanted me to put it in my free skate so I have a shot.”
Coach shakes her head. “We’re going to add a triple axel where the quad should be — which should seal it for you. Then the quad will be the great surprise of the Olympics for all involved.” She leans forward, studying me again. “Well, except for Hunter. I hope he’s worthy of you.”
“There’s nothing going on,” I protest. “Really. It’s just a few phone calls.”
&nb
sp; “Hmm.” Coach glances at the clock on the back wall of the rink. “Bax is going to be home any minute, and we need to get dinner ready.”
This perks me up. “Fancy Chinese?”
She nods and smiles a little. “Yep. Your favorite. Now go on to the house and change. I’ll close up here. And don’t tell anyone else about our secret weapon!”
“I won’t,” I say with a laugh. “And thanks, Coach,” I add with meaning before skating off the ice, grateful that she knows sometimes skaters have an off day too.
And today was just one of those for me.
I hope it turns out to be only one and not, like, twenty-five.
“Esperanza Flores,” Mr. Chen booms when he comes through the front door and sees me sitting on one of the plush white living room couches. He plops down on the sofa across from me, kicks off his shoes, and puts his feet up on the ottoman. “Where’s my wife?”
“She went to get the Chinese.”
“Ah, excellent. There’s nothing like a little Chen’s brought to you by a Chen. Chen’s is good for the soul. I love a little Chen’s,” he says with a big laugh, clearly pleased with himself.
I wrinkle my nose. “Please stop now before I lose my appetite.”
The best Chinese in Rhode Island comes from this little hole in the wall called Chen’s. Coach likes to joke that she makes it herself because the take-out boxes say CHEN’S on the side. Mr. Chen likes to talk about it because it’s a cheesy way of complimenting his wife.
“I’ll stop, Esperanza Flores….” He gives me a grin. “America’s Hope for Gold!”
I groan. “Oh, come on!”
“But it’s what everyone is talking about.” His grin gets bigger. “Esperanza Flores: The Flying Dominican Spiñorita!”
“Stop torturing me.”
“You love it.”
“I don’t.”
“Do too. Admit it.”
I crack a smile. “Maybe a little.”
“I knew it,” he says.
“Tough day at school?”
“Not tough. Just a lot of right angles.” This is Mr. Chen’s way of saying that his day did not go smoothly, like a circle is smooth. He talks in shapes and math, I suppose because he’s a math teacher. He crosses his arms over his middle. “You?”
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