I sigh too. “Mine was also full of right angles.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Tomorrow is another day. Right? That’s what your wife said at least.”
“It sure is, Espi.”
The doorbell chimes. Before Mr. Chen can extract himself from the couch cushions, I jump up. “I got it.”
Libby and Joya are standing there when I open the door. Joya walks in before she’s invited. “This place is insane.”
Libby waits there politely. “She always says that.”
“She does. Come on in.”
“That’s because it is,” Joya calls back over her shoulder.
“I know. I’m just used to it.” I close the door behind Libby.
The thing about Coach’s house is that it’s basically made of glass. Floor to ceiling windows on all sides, surrounded by solid forest, especially birch trees that the Chens planted everywhere. Between the snow on the ground and the white peeling bark and the branches naked of their leaves, the view is pretty much classic winter wonderland.
As we head through the living room toward the kitchen, Mr. Chen is still sunk into the same spot on the sofa, but now he’s reading the newspaper. He lowers it. “Hi, ladies.”
“Hi, Mr. Baxter,” Joya says.
Mr. Chen makes his wacky mad mathematician face. “Did you ladies know that your friend Esperanza is America’s Hope for Gold?”
I roll my eyes. “I told you to lay off the cheese!”
But Joya giggles. “I think everyone knows Espi’s nicknames by now.”
I grab her arm and drag her toward the kitchen. Libby follows us, laughing the entire time. Joya hops up onto one of the stools at the countertop and looks around, taking in the various snowy views. “Like I said, totally insane.”
“We know,” Libby says.
“Where’s your mom?” Joya asks me.
“On her way, I guess.”
“So where’s the Wang?” she asks next. “I want to see it immediately.”
This makes me laugh. “Do you mean the Vera Wang dress?”
“What other Wang could there be?”
“I want to see it too,” Libby says, climbing up onto the stool next to mine.
“I’ll go get it,” I say. “Back in a sec.” I leave the kitchen and go to the downstairs bathroom, where the costume is hanging on the back of the door. Even though it needs to be cleaned, I couldn’t bear to rumple it up with my other laundry. It’s too pretty. I take it down, the glittery part sparkling, and bring it to the kitchen, holding it up for Libby and Joya to get a good look.
Libby’s eyes widen and Joya’s face lights up. “That, my dear Spiñorita, is what you call a winning skating costume,” she says.
“It is,” Libby seconds.
I run my fingers across the skirt. “It is nice.”
“So nice, I’m tempted to try it on even though you’ve been wearing it all day.”
“Eww, Joya,” Libby says.
“On that note, I’m going to put it away again,” I say. When I return to the kitchen, my friends are discussing my hesitation about what they have officially have dubbed “The Wang.”
Joya studies me. “The Wang is beautiful, Espi. What’s the problem?”
I shrug, like I don’t know, when of course I do.
Libby twirls her blond hair around one of her fingers, while studying me. “You’re superstitious about not wearing one of your coach’s former costumes for the first time, and doing so at the Olympic Games, of all places.”
I sigh. “Yes, exactly. You know me well, Lib.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Joya says. “Everything will be fine. Better than fine probably.”
“Like you should talk,” I say to her. “Miss Drama Queen.”
The door to the garage opens and in walks Coach Chen, followed by my mother, both of them carrying copious brown bags stamped CHEN’S on the side.
“Hi, Mamá,” I say, going over to give her a kiss and taking the bags from her.
“Hola, mija.”
Coach Chen passes the rest of the food to Joy and Libby, then the five of us start unpacking it. Before we sit down to eat, the front door bell rings and Mr. Chen goes to answer it, returning with a surprise seventh dinner guest.
“Hello, everyone,” Luca says, setting a big bakery box on the kitchen counter.
“Hi, Luca,” I say, going over to give him a hug. I peek in the box and it’s just like I thought: heaping individual servings of tiramisu. “Hmmm. I’m glad you’re here.”
My mother is blushing. “It was Luca’s night off,” she explains.
Coach Chen looks at her. “I told you we can always fit one more.”
Everyone starts to claim seats near their favorite Chinese entrée, Libby and I jockeying for the chairs closest to the moo shu vegetables, and Joya challenging my mother for proximity to the pineapple fried rice. It isn’t long before we have scarfed down every last bit, and only a few lonely grains of rice stuck to their boxes remain. When everyone is in a food coma, almost too full to talk and trying to digest, Coach Chen starts clearing things for dessert.
But Mr. Chen stops her. “I’ll do it. You sit, hon. You’ve been working all day.”
“So have you,” she protests.
He smiles proudly at her, while piling my mother’s plate on top of his. “You’re training Olympians, though. It’s far more glamorous than math.”
She sits back down. “Thanks, Bax.”
One of the things I love about the Chens’ relationship is that even though Coach Chen had a wildly successful and public career, first as a skater and now as an Olympic-level trainer, and it’s her money that pays for this huge glittery house, Mr. Chen never seems emasculated by his wife’s success and money. In fact, he seems to enjoy its benefits greatly.
As any liberated man (or boy) today should.
Libby, Joya, and I learned about the term emasculation in last year’s American Lit class, and the mysterious world of boys suddenly made so much more sense. Emasculation is something a boy (or man) feels when he thinks his masculinity is threatened by a girl (or woman). This happens basically any time someone of the female species is perceived as successful in something outside of domestic activities like vacuuming, washing clothes, or raising children, because she steps into territory previously and nearly exclusively occupied by boys (or men) — territory like politics, or like being a doctor or a lawyer or the CEO of a major corporation, or just being smart at math.
Another prime example would be sports. Before 1972, when Title IX was passed by Congress, requiring equal opportunities for girls and boys to play sports during school and college, all sports were pretty exclusively male territory. But ever since, girls have grown up playing sports like it is the most normal and natural thing for a girl to do — because it is, obviously.
What doesn’t make any sense to the three of us about this whole emasculation drama is why some boys (and some men) are still potentially threatened by our awesome selves. Even if we act girly (because we like to act girly), whenever we’re a little publicly successful, they might run away from us all emasculated and stuff.
Not all boys (and men), obviously.
But some.
Which is a really dumb thing, if you ask me.
“Would you like a big piece or a small one, Esperanza?” Luca asks, because he is now serving everyone tiramisu, while Mr. Chen is doing the dishes.
I look around. No emasculation anywhere around here.
“Small,” I say, despite the urge to ask for a heaping plate. “I’m already stuffed.”
Luca is also a good example of a liberated man. Even though technically he’s my mother’s boss, my mother could totally beat him in a cooking contest, and he would be happy if she did, I think.
All this reflection makes me wonder something: Would Hunter Wills still be calling me if he was the underdog and I was the star? If our roles were reversed?
Hmmm. Something to think on.
To
my chagrin, the night and our dinner is over all too quickly. Good-byes are said, and soon my mother and I arrive at our house.
My mother gives me a hug good night. “You get some rest tonight, mi cielo.”
I notice she has a distinct glow in her cheeks, and I wonder if it’s from hanging out with Luca outside the restaurant.
“Things are going to happen fast from now on,” I tell her, trying not to think too much about having to say good-bye to her so soon. “We’re not going to have any more quiet dinners with the people we care about again. Not until after I come back from the Games, at least.”
“Yes, but I bet you are going to make some nice new Olympic friends in the next few days. What about that Hunter Wills?”
“Sure, Mamá,” I say, turning red at the mention of his name, and feeling slightly uneasy, though I’m not sure why. “I’m sure that’s true. Sleep well.”
My mother laughs. “You’ll see, mi amor. It will turn out okay no matter what.”
“Hmmm,” I respond noncommittally. Then I head down the hall to get into my pajamas, hoping all the way that my mother is right.
“I can’t say, ‘It doesn’t matter if you win or lose.’
It’s not true. You go in to win.”
— KATARINA WITT,
Olympic gold medalist 1984 and 1988
“Esperanza?”
Coach Chen enters the rink just as I come out of one of my spins. I skate toward the edge.
“We need to leave for the welcome party ASAP,” she calls out.
I look back longingly at the ice. “Do I have to go?”
“Of course you do.”
“Just checking.”
“I’m going up to the house now.”
“Okay.”
“You’re coming soon, right?”
“Yes.”
“See you in five minutes. I’ll warm up the car.”
Silence.
“Right, Espi?”
“Um.” Pause. “I suppose.”
Coach narrows her eyes. “See you, Espi, and that’s an order.”
I take a deep breath. Take one last glance around the blissfully empty rink. Sometimes, when I stand on the ice all alone, it feels like I am meant to be here, like I was born to skate on frozen water even more than walking the earth. I am tiny and big at once — a small person, sure, but strong and skilled enough to know how to make the most of who I am when I’m out here.
On the ice, I’m special.
I’ve known this to my core since I was a little girl.
If only I can remember it over the next few days as I share a rink with Stacie and Meredith and the rest of Team USA, all of whom are more experienced than I am at this next part — the one where you show what you’re made of to a crowd and a panel of judges, and the entire world watches you while holding its breath. The part where you deal with the competition all around you, lobbying to knock you out of contention. Which is also the part where it’s no longer just you and your love of skating, but where everything can become one big mind game, and your job is to try to block this out and remember who you really are and what you came to do.
Which is win.
Gold, ideally.
I really hope I can get all these parts right. It’s like having to be a one-girl show. Perhaps I need to consult Joya for pointers.
I get off the ice and head up toward the house to meet Coach.
By the time we arrive at the Boston restaurant that is hosting the Team USA welcome party, people are already happily partaking in the beverage options, which mostly consist of healthy smoothies, juices, and other nonalcoholic drinks. There are healthy snacks too, the kind where you can hear the crunch in someone’s mouth practically all the way on the other side of the room.
We’re not at Luciano’s anymore.
There is also a whole slew of skater types everywhere: the pairs and ice dancers, coaches for all possible permutations, and, of course, the men and the ladies. This last group includes Stacie and Meredith, both of whom are off in a corner of the room whispering to each other.
I stand on the perimeter, watching all of this as though I’m at a competition, waiting on the edge of the rink for someone to call my name so I can step onto the ice.
“Esperanza!”
Hunter Wills is standing at the center of everything, beckoning me to cross that line between being on the outside and being in the middle of it all. I take a big breath and join him.
“Hi, Hunter,” I say. Even though we’ve talked on the phone — especially because we’ve talked on the phone — seeing him in person is nerve-wracking. What does it all mean? Does it mean anything? How’s a girl with no boy-type experience who spends all her time skating supposed to know these things?
Answer to all of the above: I have absolutely no idea.
Hunter has an icy juicy-looking drink in his hand. “So that’s the great Lucy Chen over there. How long have you been working with her?”
“Six years. Since I was ten,” I say. “How was the trip here?” Hunter came in from Colorado like most everyone else, since that’s where a ton of Olympic skaters train and live.
“Longer than I like. Busy. Cramped.”
“I hate flying.”
He laughs knowingly. “You’re going to enjoy the trip to the Games, then. Get ready to clock a lot of airplane hours.”
“I know. My stomach feels queasy just thinking about it.”
Hunter gestures at the buffet spread against the wall. “You should eat something.”
I hesitate. Is he trying to ditch me? “I guess I should,” I say.
“Let’s go see what’s on the menu,” he says, then grabs my hand and drags me along behind him. He doesn’t let go until we both have plates and we’re piling them with various healthy salads.
So Hunter isn’t trying to ditch me. In fact, he spends the better part of the next hour introducing me to everybody in the room, all of whom he’s known for years. I meet Janie and Johnny, the top pair on Team USA — and no, that’s not a joke. They’re brother and sister and they’re both blond and blue-eyed, in a Libby sort of way. I meet Jason Mifflin and Oliver Mason, the other two male skaters, and Tawny Jones, the willowy ice dancer, whom I happen to have loved and admired for years now. She’s really friendly to me, though her partner, Malcolm Jackson, is painfully shy. I meet the various coaches in the room and people from US Figure Skating and basically anyone who happens by with a smoothie in one hand and an hors d’oeuvre in the other.
I’m definitely the only Dominican at this party, but that’s okay. I’m used to being the only Spiñorita around for miles.
The only people Hunter doesn’t whisk me over to are Stacie and Meredith. Plus, every time I glance in their direction, they are glaring back. I wonder if they believe I not only stole the Olympic spot of their Jennifer, but I’m stealing her boyfriend too. This makes my heart race and flutter, and not in a good way.
“What?” Hunter is studying me while munching on a cucumber slice piled high with hummus.
“What, what?” I answer. Meredith is watching us, while Stacie leans in and whispers something to her. It’s possible they might both breathe fire if I get too close.
“You keep getting this strange, wide-eyed look on your face. Like something’s wrong.” Hunter turns to see whatever it is that keeps getting my attention. “Oh,” he says, as if he suddenly understands all of my behavior during the entire evening. “Don’t let those girls bother you.”
“But aren’t those girls also your friends?”
“We’re acquaintances. I don’t know that I’d call them friends.”
“Huh.”
“Huh, what?”
“Huh, I think you know exactly what I’m huh-ing about.”
Hunter laughs even though I wasn’t trying to be funny. “Enlighten me, please.”
“Really? I actually need to?”
“Yup.”
I sigh. Then I take a big sip of my strawberry-mango-banana smoothie, after which I w
orry that I have a big reddish-whitish mustache on my lip. I wipe my mouth and glance over to Stacie and Meredith, who pretty much are breathing fire in my direction now.
“Fine,” I say to Hunter. “Regarding the two other skaters across the room” — I avoid saying their names, since all I need is for them to overhear us talking — “I thought you were friends with them, not only because you go way back in competitions, but also because of Jennifer Madison.”
Hunter furrows his brow. “What about Jennifer?”
“Come on, Hunter. You know.”
“Here we go again. Just come out with it.”
“You two are a thing. Or were a thing. Maybe you still have that thing?”
“Me and Jennifer?” he asks, like this is a crazy idea.
“That’s what all the gossip magazines say.”
“There’s a reason why they’re called gossip magazines.”
My heart does the little flutter again, but this time it’s in a good way. “So it isn’t true? About you and Jennifer?”
He shrugs. “I would say that they exaggerate.”
“Oh.” The fluttering stops immediately. “So it is true.”
“I wouldn’t say that either.”
“Okay. So what is it, then, between you two?”
He shrugs again. “It’s complicated. You know.”
“Sure. Of course I do,” I say, but I totally don’t.
I wish I spoke boy.
Alas, I only speak figure skating.
So this is where I steer the conversation next.
“About that quad technique you were telling me about the other night …” I say softly. We stick to this subject until everyone at the party is all smoothied and snacked out, and tired from traveling too.
“That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?” Coach Chen asks just before we are about to get in her car and head back home. “You and Hunter were awfully cozy,” she says out of the side of her mouth as she waves good-bye in Stacie and Meredith’s direction.
They roll their eyes the second she looks away.
“We weren’t cozy,” I say.
“I don’t want to have to start worrying about you,” she says. “Being thrust into the figure skating spotlight so suddenly can really throw a person — I know from experience. But you need to maintain that excellent Esperanza concentration and focus I know you’re capable of.”
Gold Medal Winter Page 10