Excerpt:

By the time they arrived in Sequeirah, the sun was behind the harbor, the masts in the marina spiky silhouettes, and the sky was a dusky purple. Kristyna would have been content to check into the hotel and order from the room service menu, but her mother was eager to attack the local sights, swooping in like some kind of predatory bird. The town was turning in, however, and the towns 720,000 citizens were locking their desks and closing the doors to the ministries and museums, shutting the gates to the parks and zoos, making their way home by the main arterial road, the white headlights and red tail lights of their cars twinkling against the purple sky. So it was that Kristyna and her mother pulled of the highway and into a family restaurant with a Cuban menu.

The first sight to greet them when they entered through the heavy wooden door was a signed and framed picture of Midori Ito on the ice, striking an arabesque, in a melon colored costume. Kristyna glanced at her mother and caught her glancing back; they broke into warm smiles, and just like that they were friends again. All the tension, from the last few weeks before the move to the torturous drive across the country, vanished for the time being.

They also noticed, precisely in sync, the skate bags under a table at the booth in the corner where two girls and two boys around Kristyna's age were sharing a plate of nachos and teasing each other in the way that only old, old friends do. Or at least Kristyna imagined. She wouldn't know.

“I guess this is where skaters hang out,” her mother said, and Kristyna could see that behind the smiling eyes, gears were turning. Always working – she never quit. Normally, Kristyna would have called her on it, but for now she wanted to enjoy the armistice.

She was relieved when the hostess seated them on the opposite side of the room from the skaters; the thought of them overhearing her mother speak sparked anxiety in her gut. But after they got comfortable in their booth, she realized that she couldn't hear them speak, either, and she was dying to know what skaters talked about over nachos. Skaters her own age, old enough to drive a used car and maybe even old enough for a fake ID. One of the guys had sandy blond hair and sideburns that went past his ears. The other had dark hair and dimples. They were both slender and their macho slouching did not betray their immaculate posture. The girls had slippery dark hair, like Kristyna. One wore a black cotton shirt with a neckline that fell off her shoulders and sleeves that swallowed her hands, and black jeans; the other was had a silk scarf tied around her columnar neck. Kristyna made a mental note to get rid of her sloppy t-shirts and track suits. Get some nicer jeans. Maybe invest in a few scarves.

“Okay with you?” said her mother, and Kristyna realized she had missed something. How long had her mother been talking? “Sorry,” Kristyna shook her head. “What did you say? About practice in the morning?”

Now her mother was silent. She stared out the window, at their car parked outside, the back seat piled high with their belongings. Kristyna sensed that a heaping of guilt would be handed to her, but instead her mother suddenly put on a smile as if she weren't at all irritated. “I said I don't see much on this menu that fits your diet, so what if we share the chicken ceasar salad, and then pick up some groceries on the way to the hotel. But don't let me decide for you. It's up to you. Honey.”

“That sounds good,” Kristyna said, and she meant it. She looked around the restaurant, examining each table of guests. Except for the four friends, nobody seemed to fit the profile of a figure skater. An obese couple silently eating steaks, a family with four ginger children, a lanky man with a beard reading some kind of spiral-bound textbook, a group of rowdy Greek pledges. Kristyna concluded that the Cafe Havana was not an oasis for ice dancers. The table of friends and the picture of Midori Ito were just coincidences, promising ones that helped Kristyna feel a little more hopeful about the move. She sipped the Diet Coke that had been placed in front of her, and watched the friends, wondering whether she should try to introduce herself, whether they inevitably would meet, whether she could even say the right thing. One of the girls, the girl in the scarf, was reaching across the table to grip the blond boy's index finger and push it up his nostril, while he resisted. They had evenly matched grace and strength, and clearly were comfortable touching each other. A waitress began to clear the platter from their table, but the other girl, the one with the sleeves, cried out, “No, no!” and scrambled, wide-eyed, to pluck the remaining cheese and toppings from the plate and shove them into her mouth. The others aped her display of panic. Their laughter was enough to draw looks from the other clientele, but only for a moment, because a sudden slamming of a beer bottle onto the table of rush pledges made Kristyna, and everybody around her, jump. The screech of a heavy chair being pushed back from the table. Raised tones.

A busty blonde in a pink sorority sweatshirt was standing over one of her companions, pointing her finger in the her face, and when she told her what she thought, she made sure everybody else in the room heard it.

“She was powerful, she was technically excellent, and to be a champion was her destiny. It was taken. From. Her. If you can be so catty about it, that's because you'll never be the skater she was. You will never, ever pull off the elements she did. And you know it.”

The blonde turned on her heel and headed for the door, but then she stopped and returned to her table. Without sitting, she picked up her beer bottle and gulped the last few ounces, set the bottle on the table, and then, more calmly this time, walked though the restaurant and out the door, stopping first at the coat check window to claim an electric green skateboard. Through the window, Kristyna could see the blonde coasting away from the restaurant, with all the grace and poise of a prima ballerina.

Again, Kristyna and her mother made eye contact. Together with the other guests, they felt a little awkward for a moment, but when her mother huffed, “What was all THAT about?” they both started giggling at the absurdity of the scene.

No sooner was the blonde out the door, than in walked eight girls in their twenties, in matching t-shirts with gothic style text that identified them as a local roller derby team.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In the cold room on the second floor of the hotel, Kristyna relished her time alone while her mother bathed. She opened the closet doors, looking for a full length mirror, and found none. She opened the curtains and practiced yoga for a few minutes, checking the correctness of her positions in the reflection from the window, not caring whether she could be seen from outside. Her ghostly reflection wore a six-inch ponytail and a white velour tracksuit, and could hold a picture perfect Natarajasana pose.

By the time her mother finished her bath, Kristyna was in Balasana pose, her head empty of cares. Sooner or later, they would have to talk about what happened in the car on the way to Sequeirah. But not tonight. From now until early morning, say four o'clock, they'd exchange no words, creating an artificial citadel out of the silence. There was just one queen sized bed in the room, and two chairs next to a small round table. If Kristyna had been alone in the room, she would have switched on the television to try to catch the end of the Stars game she knew to be in play. But her mother couldn't stand the sport of hockey, and Kristyna didn't want to give her any reason to state an opinion – about anything. No matter. She'd catch the game online.

Her face still on the carpet, she opened her eyes. There was a cigarette burn on the floor, about one inch from her face. The longer she looked at the carpet, the more unpleasant details she would notice, so she pushed herself off the floor and readied for bed. Her mother lay curled up on one half of the bed, her pillow between her knees and her arms wrapped around her legs like a cat, or a small child. She wore a silk mask over her eyes. When she slept, the corners of her mouth turned down, like a bass or some other fish. Kristyna turned off the lamp and joined her mother in bed.

As she drifted off to sleep, Kristyna made a mental list of skaters who may have been the sorority blonde's focus of indignation. She could think of plenty.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She dreamt.

She was in a tropical climate, floating on a river in a small boat made for just four or five people. It had a canopy over it that resembled a pagoda or other ornate roof, and was painted red. The banks of the river were red, too, with rust in the soil. She sat in the front of the boat, unable to see who shared the vessel with her. She should know the place, but she doesn't, and she sweeps her gaze back and forth, back and forth across the landscape, searching for familiarity.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The sky had not begun to lighten, but Kristyna recognized the new morning by the gleeful song of a bird and even the occasional crowing of a rooster. In the dark, she listened to all the sounds that introduced the day – a car starting up, a far away horn blare of a semi truck, the air conditioning units outside with their spinning fan blades and humming motors. She was in Sequeirah. She lived here now, but she was lying on a squeaky mattress with her snoozing mother.

Realizing her mother might wake up any moment now, and break the blessed silence, Kristyna presently slipped out of bed and into the bathroom. She took a long, hot shower, grateful for the giant unseen tanks that heated enough showers for the rows and rows of rooms, wanting never to step out of the steam. As she became more and more alert, she began to get excited. Today was her first real lesson with her new coach, Anabel, and her second time to skate on Sequeirah's biggest ice rink.

When she turned off the water, she could hear her mother rummaging around in the room. Hangers squeaking along the rod in the closet, the lid of the suitcase falling shut with a foomp, her footsteps thudding quietly on the carpet. Kristyna towel dried her hair, steeling herself for another long day, donned the white terry cloth robe that hung from a hook on the bathroom door, and walked out into the chilly room. The curtains were open, letting in the bluish light of the rising sun. All the lights and lamps in the room were on, making the room a terrarium with the mother and daughter on display.

“Brr,” she said, flicking off the air conditioner. “Hey, what are you doing?” Her mother was repacking her duffel bag. The practice clothes Kristyna and folded and placed in her bag had been unfolded and then sloppily refolded, and were lying on the bed.

“Let's practice in your pink lycra dress today,” her mother turned to her with a smile. “Want to make a good impression on your first day, don't we?”

“It's a practice, not a competition,” Kristyna protested, knowing that her eyebrows were knitting together and betraying her exasperation, but doing nothing to hide it. “I don't want to be wearing pink lycra if everybody else here wears sweatpants.”

A woman walking past their window glanced into their room on her way to the the stairs. A few moments later, a boy in Heeley's slid past, not quite tall enough to peer inside.

“Would you rather be wearing black leggings and then find that everybody else is in pink lycra?” her mother said, picking up the leggings with her fingertips and shaking gently, like she was shaking off their ugliness or plainness or unsuitability. Kristyna swiped them from her mother's hands and lay them on the bed, smoothed them, and refolded them. Then she did the same with the thin black sweater, and placed the clothes back into her duffel. “If everybody else is wearing pink lycra,” she conceded, “then I'll wear pink lycra.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~

Tiny Tia Martinez was not wearing pink lycra. She wore black leggings, in fact, and a t-shirt she got at a Muse concert. With fifteen minutes left until her coach was due to arrive, she threw her blade covers onto the top of her skate bag and launched herself over the wide wooden railing, onto the virgin ice. Speed skating was a guilty pleasure she couldn't indulge when her coach was around, or when others were doing their patches, or when sessions were in progress. She was low, she was fast, and she was getting faster. She was a bit of a prankster, too, and giggled uncontrollably on her third lap, seeing what the first two laps had done to the ice before anybody else had a go on it.

But it was about time for her coach to show up, so after another two laps, she noisily skidded into the center of the Olympic sized rink, and then struck an elegant pose, her arms high. A comedian inside and out, she didn't care if nobody was around to get the joke.

From her statuesque pose, she pushed her small, tight frame into an upright spin, arms high, wrists crooked and making a lotus flower shape with her hands. Then she transitioned into backward crossovers, soaring around the rink in reverse, a smooth and easy way to warm up without the need, yet, to pull her head out of the clouds. She was greeting the ice, her old friend, with the balls of her feet, with the edges of her blades, feeling the slippery slickness of the unmarred ice and (with satisfaction) the rough grooves she had torn during her first few laps.

On her next pass, she noticed a girl she'd never seen before.

The girl was sitting in the same section of seats where Tia had left her stuff. Tia couldn't see the girl's face, because she was bending down and adjusting her skates. All she could see was that the girl was very thin, with a long back and a small waist, like a ballerina.

Tia continued her backward strokes around the rink, picking up momentum. When she reached the section where the girl was sitting, she executed a 180 degree toe jump, landing her rear end on the wide wooden railing and sliding another meter to rest, sitting there on the wall, in front of the girl.

“Hola!” Tia sang, and the already startled girl's eyes widened.

“Uh, hi,” the girl said quietly, smiling. She was very pale, with black hair and blue eyes and sharp cheekbones which were dusted with a lot of blusher. She was wearing a lot of makeup for someone her age. Tia guessed she was around eighteen.

“Are you here for Anabel?” Tia asked. “I've never seen you before.”

“Yes. We, I, just moved here.”

“Anabel is good. You must be really good, too, if she took you on. She's... busy. Her time is always occupied. Way to go, ballerina.”

“My name is Kristyna,” the girl extended her hand.

“Kristyna, ballerina,” Tia shrugged. “What's your discipline?”

“Singles,” Kristyna said.

“I could have guessed that,” said Tia without explanation. “I do pairs, but my partner just had appendicitis and he still can't skate. Here, go ahead and warm up on the entire rink. I'm going to get a Pepsi anyway.” When she mentioned warming up, she saw the girl glance at the time... or did she glance at the time when Tia mentioned drinking Pepsi? So what? Was there a right time and a wrong time for soft drinks? Kristyna ducked her head, smiling, a sort of Japanese bow of gratitude, and went toward the ice. Unlike Tia, she went around the wall, not over it.

The concession stand wouldn't open until eight, so Tia popped the blade guards back onto her skates to walk to the mom-and-pop store next door to the rink. When she looked up again, she saw Kristyna doing a Biellmann spin in the center of the rink. “Christ on a cracker,” Tia muttered. “That's what she calls warming up?” She fished her cell phone out of her jacket, which she'd hung on the back of a seat, and texted her oldest and dearest friend, Nathan.

She wrote: “Get out of the hospital, like, yesterday. You have to see this new girl. We're the only ones here, and she WHOA! CHRIST! She just did a triple axle!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Tia was still watching Kristyna Ballerina when her coach arrived. Dammit! She still wanted a cold drink! “Hi!” she waved at her coach. “Hey, if I go next door to get a drink, do you want something?”

“Nice try,” her coach said. She nodded toward the ice. “I guess that's Kristyna. Would you look at that control? The strength through her center?” She stared at the girl, her lips parted, still carrying three laden bags over her shoulders.

“Don't tell her how good she is,” Tia offered, with a straight face. “Or she'll think she doesn't have to try. We don't want her resting on her laurels.”

Tia's coach raised an eyebrow at her. “Would you like to teach her? Can you teach me? I'm sure I could learn a few things from you.”

“I'm sure you could, too!” Tia said playfully. “Look, I'm sure you want to get settled in here, prepare for the lesson and everything. Take your time, and I'll just pop next door and get us some rations.”

“I've already prepared,” said her coach, taking a cold can of Pepsi out of her duffel bag and handing it to her. Tia squealed and opened the the can, spraying them both with sticky mist, and slurped the sugary drink noisily. “This stuff will kill you before your time,” her coach said, “so start thinking about what you want me to say in your eulogy.”

“'Tiny Martinez was very, very nice,'” said Tia. “'Everybody liked her.'”

“'It was a shame she left us so soon,'” her coach finished, nudging her toward the ice.

Tia set her can of Pepsi on the floor, and her blade covers next to it, and climbed over the wall around the rink, onto the ice.

~ ~ ~ ~

Tia's coach, Mel, had begun to frost her long hair with blonde highlights after she turned forty. She had two sons in high school and she drove a Volvo, but she was anything but a frumpy housewife. When she went out to do the most mundane of chores, like picking up apples and butter from the supermarket or returning books to the library, she would notice the heads turning. People thought they knew her from somewhere, and maybe they did. She towered over other women, her confidence outshined them, her colorful and artistic outfits made them fade into the background. She had a natural celebrity look.

But she'd never been famous, although when she was Tia's age, she was sure she would be. When she traveled to competitions to face other skaters, she always thought they'd have nothing on her. But it wasn't about who was the best skater, in those smaller competitions. Technical errors would merit deductions of a fixed and objective amount, but those deductions came off of scores that Mel always felt were totally arbitrary. The skater with the prettiest smile or the trendiest costume could beat a strong technical program, no matter how artistically refined, even if she fell once or twice. And when it came to contracts and sponsorships, it wasn't always the winner who got the offers. It was the one who was perceived to be the prettiest.

In Mel's case, she often was considered the prettiest, and she was even offered a couple of contracts, but she turned them down. She would have loved the chance to earn more money for lessons and costumes and competitions and travel, but skating professionally would have meant giving away a shot at the Olympics. An Olympic medal – or a championship! - would earn her all the contracts she'd ever need.

She never made it to the Olympics, but she tried not to think of it as a regret in her life. She had tried her hardest, done her best. And there were downsides to being in the public eye, even as an artist or Olympian. She didn't know whether she, as a female, would have been strong enough to stand the cutthroat cattiness of other skaters, or the ruthless attacks by armchair critics.

So it was bake sales and garage sales and car washes that paid for Mel's expensive hobby. She'd become very good at devising and improvising new ways to solicit cash from the public. And with several upcoming events her students would love to participate in, she had a few new ideas to help them out.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“When is Nate going to be fit to skate again?” Mel asked Tia after the lesson, as they packed away their things. “I'm afraid I'll have to teach you two everything all over again. But I don't want him lifting you until his doctor gives him the all clear.”

“Four weeks, he thinks,” Tia pouted. “I'm going to see him today. He's going crazy in the hospital. Can you imagine Nate sitting still, in one place? He can walk around the hospital, but he has to notify somebody every time and... it's like house arrest or something. At least you can only get appendicitis once, right?”

“That is one bright side, yes,” Mel agreed with a smirk. “Why are you holding your skate bag like that?”

“Like what? How am I holding it?”

“Like it weighs a ton! What do you have in there?”

Tia looked at her bag hanging on her left shoulder. “I have no idea what you're talking about. But I have some DVD's for Nathan. Of the championship qualifying rounds.”

“DVD's are weighty, yes,” said Mel, unconvinced.

“These are! Real heavy stuff!” Tia chirped. Mel shook her head, giving up.

“Tia, look after yourself. Be careful.”

“I promise. Bye-eeee!” She waved and skipped out of the ice arena.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Tia couldn't stand the feeling of removing her skates. It was like standing in a hole. Standing in the hole and being a leprechaun. And having glue on her feet. Or tar, or marshmallows.

When she was far enough from the rink that she was sure Mel wouldn't spot her, she sat on the edge of a tree planter and opened her skate bag. She dug out her Scorpion Quadlines and strapped them to her shoes. She wanted to bring her K2 inline speed skates, but even when she made them fit in the bag with her ice skates, the bag was outrageously heavy. And looked like it was overstuffed with too many skates.

Quadlines made her feel like she had two skateboards strapped to her feet, but they didn't take up much room at all in her bag. She tightened the Quadlines, grabbed her skate bag and duffel, and pushed off down the sidewalk.

Except that her skate bag was way, way heavier than her duffel. She T-stopped next to another tree planter, sat on its edge, and rearranged her bag contents to be balanced. Then, with a bag in each hand, she once again pushed off toward the hospital.

She had to resist the urge to do tricks. She wasn't on the ice, she was surrounded by pedestrians who were only just starting the day, and she had a bag in each hand. While crossing one intersection, she did turn to skate backwards, then forwards again, but she wasn't showing off. It was something she did when her mind wandered and she forgot to pay attention to her skating.

And she'd forgotten to bring an mp3 player, so she sang while she skated. She liked to skate to Spanish music, so that's what she sang as every person she passed gave her some kind of look. Some people were amused by the sight of the tiny figure skater wearing the clunky old man skates, weighed down by two big bags. Some were startled, if their heads were in the clouds and they didn't see her approaching until she was passing them. And some people just looked mad. Like she had less of a right to be there than they did. Sheeple, she thought, but she didn't say it out loud, even though she really, really wanted to.

The yellow morning sunshine jumped out from behind the trees on the street and the old brick buildings of the town, to flash across her skin and eyes as she sailed up the boulevard. The morning was perfect for Cuban music, and she sang a recent pop song of that culture as she lost herself in the rhythm.

She came back to earth under a huge shadow cast by the new hospital. It was ten stories high, four stories higher than any of the buildings around it, and had a sprawling parking lot in front. When the hospital was under construction, skateboarders used to sneak through the perimeter fence to skate on that parking lot. Now the place was so busy that to do any kind of skating here would necessitate the services of the hospital's orthopedic unit. Tia kept to the sidewalk, skating casually toward the main entrance.

“May I please sign up for a visitor pass to see patient Nathan Li in room 527?” she asked at the reception counter.

“Are you going to take your skates off first?” asked the thin blonde girl behind the counter, who looked about Tia's age. She had a swingy looking blunt haircut and wore glasses and had big eyes and full lips, kind of like a model, but a silly model. Like, she could model silly things, like Halloween costumes.

“You could model si – wait, nevermind. Are you in college?” Tia asked her.

The girl rolled her eyes but she was trying to suppress a laugh. “You can't wear your skates in here!”

“Oh, I forgot I was wearing them!” Tia said, almost truthfully. She started to bend down to unstrap them, but then she asked, “Not even if I'm really careful?”

“No!” said the girl. She was laughing, but Tia thought she seemed like she was on the verge of losing it. Delirious. Like she'd been admitting visitors, casualties, and assorted weirdos all through the night and was now covering a shift for somebody else.

Tia swiftly popped open the straps and pulled the Quadlines off her feet. Standing at the counter with her skates in her hands, three inches shorter, she repeated her polite query. When she was in the elevator up to Nathan's floor, she tucked the Quadlines into her duffel bag.

Nathan was awake and playing a DS game when she opened the door to his private room. He flopped backwards with his arms outstretched when he saw her.

“Wow, it's great to see you. This is great. How are you? You're looking great.”

“Great?” Tia laughed. Nathan was looking more like himself than he had over the last week, but he'd lost a little bit of weight. “Good grief,” said Tia, “I didn't know it was possible for you to get any skinnier than you already were.”

“Thanks, so much,” said Nathan. “I appreciate that so, so much.”

“The new girl at the rink this morning - “

“Oh, right. The one you texted me about. What's her story?”

“I don't know, she's really shy. Like, totally introverted. Anyway, she's so skinny. She must weigh, like, four pounds. But she's tall. Like, two of me. I wanted to skate over to her patch and just lift her. Wouldn't that be funny? If I just lifted her? I wonder if she's ever been lifted.”

“And she's that good?”

“Oh, I could have watched her all day! No, that sounds facetious, but I'm not making it up. She's like a tall, Russian Michelle Kwan.”

“She's Russian?”

“I don't know whether she is, in fact, Russian. She's probably American, but she didn't say very much, so I didn't really hear her accent. But she has that Eastern European look. Tall.”

“And was she tall, by any chance?” Nathan teased her.

“Yes. And one other thing? She was quite tall. Hey, when you come back to practice, can I try lifting you?”

He laughed. “I'd let you try it right now, but I'm afraid you'd open my stitches!”

“Can I just pretend to lift you? Show me how to do it, and I'll practice that, and when you come back, I'll do it for real.”

He threw off his covers. He was wearing silky black pajamas with parachute style bottoms – that is, some elastic in the ankles or something, so they ballooned out. Tia appraised his look. “Those are kinda hot,” she said with sincerity.

“Thanks!” he grinned. They shifted over to the most open part of the cramped room and he struck a pose, wincing a little as he did. Tia also assumed a pose, the one that he usually held on a standard lift, and put her hands in place to lift him.

“Like this?”

“Exactly like that,” he said. “I guess you've been picked up enough times to know where my hands go. Oof! Hey, you got me. Ha, I'm laughing.” Tia had dropped her body weight suddenly, as if she had tried to lift him, though she didn't transfer any of her strength to his body.

“I'm wearing this heart rate monitor,” he said, indicating a box clipped to his waistband. “I think an alarm just went off somewhere. Jeez, didn't you take a shower after your practice this morning?”

“Nope,” Tia admitted, sniffing her pits. “And then I skated over here.”

“Wait, you did?” Nathan perked up. “You have skates with you, now?”

“Yes...”

“Can I borrow them? Please, please say yes. I've been trying to get my parents to bring me my beaters, but they won't do it.”

“They're Quadlines, but sure, I can leave them here. I can walk on my feet, for a change.”

“Quadlines are fine, I don't mind! Oh, man, now I'm dying to do a lap around the ward. Do you think I can get away with it?”

Tia shrugged. “I fully support this shenanigan. Wait, are there any actual laws about skating in hospitals?”

“Um. Laws like that usually grow from precedents. Do you think anybody has tried it before?”

“Why on earth wouldn't they? Nah, you're right. I don't think it would make criminals out of us.” She was already getting her Quadlines out to give Nathan. “Anyway, I have a better idea. You're left footed, and I'm right footed...”

Before she could explain her idea, Nathan was laughing. “I like it!” he said. “Which part of the routine?”

“The middle part,” Tia said.

“With the hip lift?” Nathan said incredulously. “I don't think I'm strong enough!”

“Oh, fine. No lift. But the part just before it – you're on your left blade, I'm on my right, and we aren't making any wide spirals or anything. We can do that in the hallway there. I was checking out the floor on my way in.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Nobody noticed the two teenagers slipping out of the private room and getting into position at one end of the long hallway until the moment they pushed off. They faced each other, with Tia skating backwards and Nathan skating forwards, Nathan holding Tia's left hand with both of his hands while she caught her left foot behind her with her right hand. Then she freed her left and switched hands, bringing them face to face. Nathan smiled and nodded, and with some quick thinking, they pulled off the lift, a triumphant and elegant sculpture, two perfect people on one Quadline skate.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Tonya Keller was nine years old when she wrote her first story, and by then she'd been skating for a year. The story was a fantasy she had, about her beloved and unattainable object of affection. In the story, she was friends with her idol, the would-be champion figure skater who wanted to take her under her wing and teach her to skate the way she did. Her idol gave her lessons for free because she saw such potential, and sometimes before or after the lessons, they would go somewhere to be alone, away from the world that didn't understand them. Her idol felt so grateful to be admired so unconditionally that she would hold her hand, kiss her on the cheek, and hug her close. One day, they discovered that if they switched the laces on their skates, their minds would jump into each others' bodies. So she could be her idol, using her body to skate, or merely to look in the mirror.

The morning after she wrote the story, Tonya (who was still called Jessica at the time) discovered that she had left her spiral notebook in the living room, where her parents might already have seen it. She felt ashamed; to her, the story was deeply intimate. After that day, she was very careful to guard her writing. The stories she wrote became more and more erotic as she matured.

The first item in her collection was a page cut from a magazine. Tonya Harding had given an interview in 1993, and ten years later, eleven year old Jessica found the magazine in the city library, using the research skills she'd learned in school that week. Making very certain that nobody was watching, she quietly cut the article out of the magazine and hid it in a school folder, wishing she were brave enough to steal the whole thing.

She was twelve when she finally got on the internet – that was the minimum age the library would allow unsupervised use. She was aware that one could find whatever one desired on the internet, but since it had always been off limits to her at home, she didn't have a clue how to use it. But it didn't take long to figure out search engines, and she spent the next three hours in a state of slack-jawed awe, stunned by more articles and pictures than she imagined could exist. And even videos! They were pixellated, often flickering, segments recorded to VHS from television, but they were an onslaught of amazement and agony to Jessica, who began asking people to call her Tonya around that time.

Not understanding the physical sensations she felt when she thought about Tonya, she could do nothing but throw herself into skating, skating as much and as hard as she could. She would exhaust herself, eight practices every week, until her legs felt like noodles and she could barely walk. Usually she imagined that Tonya was sitting in the stands and watching her practice, praising her and urging her to go on to do the things she had never done, to win the championships she would never again be eligible for. “I started this thing,” she imagined Tonya saying to her. “Now I want you to finish it.”

Her collection of Tonya memorabilia was growing to include more pictures, more clippings, posters, a program bill from the 1994 Winter Olympics, and even a letter she'd gotten back after writing to Tonya. The letter said, “Dear Tonya, Thank you for the nice things you said in your letter. It means a lot to me. Do keep skating and never give up your dream. All the best, Tonya Harding.” The letter was signed with a felt pen, and the envelope was stamped with a real stamp, not a bulk paid stamp. Tonya was pretty sure Tonya had licked the stamp herself.

Somehow, her parents never worried. Tonya was grateful for that. They seemed to think she simply had a funny choice for a figure skating idol, but given Tonya Harding's world record holding status, they could believe that her admiration was not unusual. They told her she was too young to remember the 1994 Olympics, but Tonya remembered. She was pretty sure it was her earliest memory, that she'd begun ice skating because of it. Sometimes she doubted the accuracy of her memories. Her parents had recorded the winter games on VHS, and she'd watched the tapes often as a child, sometimes with her parents, sometimes alone.

She discovered YouTube when she was fourteen. It was delicious, it was indulgent, and it was horrifying. Suddenly the internet was flooded with the worst videos of her Tonya. She knew the story – she liked to think she knew it better than anybody else, her Tonya excepted – but she didn't think there needed to be such an imbalance of interview videos to skating videos. Those interviews were not for public consumption. The public couldn't understand. And then there were “user comments.” Tonya yearned to protect Tonya from those judgmental jerks.

These days, Tonya was reaching out to Tonya more than ever.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It had been a mistake, coming to the state college.

Her life was full, between skating and eBay and YouTube and writing to Tonya. And then, wouldn't you know it, of all the roommates she could have been paired up with, she got the only other figure skater at the college.

Was it a coincidence? Or did the housing people match up smokers with smokers, vegetarians with vegetarians, and figure skaters with figure skaters?

The day she moved in, Tonya put up a huge poster of Tonya that she found on eBay. She'd paid a mint for it, too. A seller called “tonyafan1994” produced posters and other memorabilia of high quality. This one was a picture of Tonya looking radiant, her blue eyes like pale crystal, her fluffy blond hair looking so soft that Tonya could imagine how it felt to touch it, could imagine that it smelled like White Rain shampoo and Aquanet. When she hung the poster in her room, her new roommate burst into laughter.

“That's great!” she guffawed. “Where did you get that?”

Tonya beamed and admitted she'd paid $45 for it on eBay.

“Oh, that is great,” her roommate, Janet, repeated.

“I like it,” Tonya said, aware that the conversation was about to go one of two ways.

“What trash,” Janet continued. “Such a piece of trash. It kills me that people think of her when they think of our sport. She ruined the sport, for a long time. I feel like we're finally taking it back now.”

Waves of heat washed over Tonya, like a sauna, and she focused on not crying. “She was the first American to pull off a triple axle in competition,” she reminded Janet, without looking at her. But she could see Janet's expression changing.

“You're serious?” Janet took a step back.

“I'm serious about not being quick to judge my fellow women in sport,” Tonya said carefully.

“That's funny,” her roommate said, not laughing. “That's really funny.”

The next day, around lunch time, Tonya returned to campus after practice and found that Janet had moved her things out of the room. It stung. Worse, she didn't move far – she was in the same wing, just up the hall. Tonya heard whispers about herself, that she was a lesbian, which was probably true, but she felt it was a fabricated excuse that Janet had produced to justify the move to the housing department.

Her focus and concentration were shattered. She hated Janet for not understanding about her Tonya. She hated her for moving. But now she was alone in her dorm room, hearing the other girls come home late from the bars and keg parties,. Or returning from classes during the day and seeing that the other girls in the wing left their doors open, playing music they all seemed to agree on, popping their heads into each other's rooms to invite each other to the meal hall.

Tonya usually wrote letters to Tonya when she felt this low, but nowadays, she could only stare at the blank stationery. She needed a friend. She needed some female companionship.

So she decided to pledge a sorority.

Rush Week was approaching. Tonya looked into all the sororities on campus, and found one that seemed to suit her. It was sporty and feminist, and seemed to have the most tolerant views about alternative lifestyles.

So Tonya pledged. And wouldn't you know it? Two days later, she discovered that Janet was pledging the same one.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It was session time at the ice arena, and the Superfriends were the center of attention, as usual. And, as usual, they were oblivious to the audience that they garnered.

Session was where it all began when they were elementary school kids; Abigail, Corrinne, Austin, and Sean were blessed with parents who wanted them to get involved in as many activities as possible. Their parents used to bring them here for two hours every Saturday, as a cheap way to stay cool during the summer. They'd get into their skates and out in on the rink, and play like anyone else, almost forgetting that they were balanced atop metal blades on a sheet of ice. They made up dances to the music played over the loud speaker, weaving between each other and inventing their own fancy footwork. It was on the ice that they became friends, not at school, even though they were in the same grade.

By junior high, they had persuaded their parents to spring for season passes to the ice arena, demonstrating the cost effectiveness of such a purchase. With season passes, they could skate every day for less than they were paying to skate once a week. It would be a monetary hit at first, to make the one-time investment of a year's season pass ticket, but would mean savings in the long run.

They loved to skate after school, because weekdays were slow at the rink and they had more space to spread out. Before long, it made sense to buy their own skates, to save on rentals. Abigail and Corrinne painted their skate boots with acrylic paints; Abigail painted hers with wide yellow and green stripes, separated by thin blue stripes. Corrinne painted green bloodshot eyes on the toes, with the red veins spreading out across the white boots. Their parents were mortified, but unsurprised.

The advanced skating instructors, of course, noticed the Superfriends as they frolicked on the ice week after week, and seeing potential, approached their parents about artistic skate lessons. Their families had seen it coming – the cheap hobby they'd helped their kids get interested in was about to become very expensive.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Ice dancing” was the name of the discipline, and the Superfriends were competing before they completed just one year of training. Ballroom dance on the ice. Their coach, Young, had a blast teaching them. There was no awkwardness or politeness between them. They could change partners without hesitation. And they could take any stiff routine and make it fun.

Last winter, Austin and Abigail had learned a routine to Sarah Brightman's “Time To Say Goodbye.” When the number was nearly perfected, they performed it in its entirety for Young, but they switched the CD without telling her, and performed the routine to “Whatever Happened to Saturday Night,” from Rocky Horror Picture Show. Another rehearsal, Corrinne and Austin had learned each other's routines, and they surprised Young by switching partners – Abigail skated with Corrinne, and Austin skated with Sean. They didn't have to be pranksters to get a laugh. Under Young's supervision, they had learned, and later performed, a high speed routine to Tchaikovsky's “1812 Overture,” accelerated to double tempo.

As forgiving as Young was of the Superfriends' posturing childishness, she maintained a semblance of structure in the lessons. She had to – their parents were paying $150 an hour. The Superfriends could handle this, provided they had the opportunity to carry on goofing off in sessions. With the help of their parents, they negotiated complimentary season passes. After all, they were paying $150 a week to the rink. Session skating got the horsing around out of their system.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Look at this,” said Sean, trying to keep a straight face, betrayed by his dimples. He “walked downstairs” on his skates, a bouncy “walk” where he lowered himself with each step. Off the ice, it was corny and yet still difficult to pull off. On ice skates, it was hilarious, and Austin fell to the ice on his side, laughing. A rink official dressed in a referee uniform blew his whistle. Lying on the ice fell into the category of unacceptable hijinks.

Another thing the Superfriends did when they were feeling lazy was twirl. It was like amateur dancers on a dance floor, with the man twirling the woman this way and then that, for lack of knowledge of actual dance moves. The Superfriends loved this move on this ice, considering it ironic. They did it to amuse themselves, but during a public session, it was an attention grabber. A bit of trained spotting on behalf of the twirlee gave it a smart and professional appearance. Beginning skaters ran into the wall watching them. Spectators nudged each other to take notice.

Abigail was the first to notice that four skateboarders from their school were at the ice rink. She noticed Billy, and then she noticed his friends, two other guys and a girl. They were juniors – the Superfriends were seniors – but Abigail still found them intimidating. They seemed older, cooler. They didn't hang out at the skate rink... except that they were here, now. Why were they here? When would they leave?

Abigail was wearing a purple scarf, tied with the ends trailing down her back. She quickly re-tied it so that the ends hung down the front, covering her breasts.

She knew she was the weakest skater of the Superfriends. And she knew that Billy and his friends did 50-50's, ollies, grinds, and other moves that she would never do. As a girl, she had a lower center of gravity, so she'd never be able to do the jumps that he could do. And as well, she had no idea how to skate on wheels. Streets, sidewalks, cobblestones, stairs, ramps, and all the bars and rails that skateboarders liked to seek out were frightening to Abigail. She felt inferior around Billy and his ilk. Why where they here? When would they leave?

Her Superfriends hadn't seen them – they were doing some kind of square dance move, and she was doing it, too, while she looked outside the rink at the newcomers preparing to enter the ice. Corrinne caught her by the elbow and spun her around, which was funny, but Abigail practically had to force her laughter. For her insides were churning. Her high profile status on the rink struck her, all of a sudden. She wished she could sneak out unseen.

“Billy's here!” Sean said suddenly. “Hey, Abigail, Billy is here!” Abigail smiled, afraid to say anything at all. She wished she were a perfect skater. She wished she'd never been born.

Billy was climbing onto the ice. He almost fell as he stepped over the barrier between the ice and the stands - this happened to a lot of people at this rink. His guy friends followed him, and they all clung to the side rail as the moved away from the entrance. The girl friend entered last, and she sort of hopped onto the ice, pushing away from the rink entrance and coasting along next to the three nervous boys.

Abigail imagined she could read her lips. “Let go of the wall!” she was probably saying. “Come on! It's more fun if you pick up the speed!”

Abigail could see that the girl was skating backwards, urging her friends to give it some speed. Abigail was comfortable on the ice, but she knew that skating backwards was no easy feat for the amateur.

“So, do we storm them, or what?” asked Austin. Abigail became aware that all of her friends were watching the spectacle with her.

“Yeah,” said Abigail. “We go after her. The girl. Leave the guys alone.”

The four Superfriends ambushed the skater girl, forming a pack around her and interrogating her. “What's your name? Do you take skate lessons? Are you okay with my spinning you around? May I? It's alright?”

Those last questions came from Sean, a typical introvert, who had mustered the social courage to take the girl, Jenny, by the hand and twirl her the way he had been twirling Abigail and Corrinne. Abigail, at first, watched with amusement as Billy and the other two boys clung to the wall.

No one can explain what happened next. Abigail's year long infatuation with Billy suddenly dissolved, but that wasn't the amazing part. Without warning, every ounce of Abigail's self doubt vanished. A surge of confidence rushed over her, and as Sean flirted with Jenny, Abigail forgot that any obstacle or limitation could prevent her from expressing herself on the ice. Abandoning every element, maneuver and routine she had been taught, she split away from her friends and danced a magnificent dance to her own rhythm, her feet moving faster than her mind, her heart drawn over the ice, jetees and fouettes, lutzes and toe leaps, while her awestruck Superfriends looked on.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Anabel, Mel, and Young could never find the time. However, each of them having spent much of their teenage and adult lives as professional and semi-professional athletes, they knew that time was something you make. A good figure skater must excel at many things, one being the art of making time.

Young was the last of the three women to arrive at the light rail station; she found Anabel and Mel giggling over ceramic cups of lukewarm coffee at the cafe inside the station's entrance. They looked like bohemian college students, in their flowing skirts and colorful scarves and leotard tops. It was sort of their uniform at the moment. Like teenagers, they intentionally imitated each other. If one of the women decided to wear purple every day, all of the women decided to wear purple every day.

Anabel and Mel smiled brightly and waved at Young from a distance, and when she grew near, Anabel asked Young, “Pumpkin spice latte? I was going to order one for you, but you have this thing about drinking your coffee hot...”

Young sank into the hard wood and iron chair her friends had already pulled over to the table for her. “I actually wasn't going to have one because I was running late, but I don't think I can resist that.”

“You aren't late. The game doesn't start until 7:30.” Anabel stood and strode toward the counter to order Young's drink, ordering this one with soy milk, like she knew Young drank hers.

“Any new gossip?” Young asked, untying her straight hair from its severe bun and fluffing her fingers on her scalp.

Mel grinned wickedly. “Of course. It's Saturday. You know that.”

“I do,” Young said. “Did you and Anabel exchange stories already?”

“Nah, we were waiting for you,” said Mel. “Man, oh man. Were any of the commandments pertaining to talking behind people's backs?”

“Nope!” Young assured her. Anabel returned and placed a serviette in front of Young, and placed a mug of hot coffee on top of it. To Mel, Anabel asked, “Do you have any guesses?”

“We're supposed to guess what Tonya is trying to buy on eBay,” Mel told Young, who was sipping her coffee without waiting for it to cool even a little. “And she won't tell us until we've each made three guesses.”

“Hmmm.” Young let herself space out, sipping her coffee. “Does it have sequins?”

“This isn't twenty questions,” Anabel corrected her. “Three guesses. Each. And take your time. Mel, how was Janet today?”

Mel giggled, and then fully laughed out loud. “Preoccupied! I don't know how she manages to stay so hung up on what Tonya is doing! I told her it affects her skating, that she needs to forget about other people and concentrate on developing herself.”

“Go on...”

“Well, she is still doing this sorority nonsense. Rushing? Pledging? Whatever they call it. And they play pranks on pledges to other houses? Now, somebody keeps playing pranks on Janet. And even though Tonya is pledging the same sorority, Janet is convinced that Tonya is the one playing the pranks on her. Which doesn't sound like Tonya to me, but she's so convinced, she's trying to think of ways to get revenge. Ah, the sisterly order!”

“How do sororities operate?” asked Young. “I never joined one.”

Anabel told her, “You sort of compete to be let in. Once you're in, you have to pay dues. It's buying friends, basically. Expensive friends. And drinking is mandatory. No teetotalers.”

Mel laughed. “That's not exactly how it goes, but essentially, you're right.”

“The question you should be asking,” said Anabel, “is, what pranks exactly?”

Mel grinned even bigger, shaking her head. “Somebody threw about twenty pairs of pantyhose and tights into a load of Janet's laundry in the dorm laundry room. In the tumble dryer. So when Janet came to get her laundry, it was all tied together. She said it took about half an hour to untangle her clothes.”

“That's pretty good,” Young shrugged. “Tonya would have a lot of pantyhose and stockings, probably more than your average dormitory airhead. What else?”

“This one is kind of suspicious, but apparently the inside of the toilet bowl in her suite has been dyed yellow.”

“Huh?” said Young and Anabel in unison.

“I know. She said she scrubbed and bleached it, but she can't get this yellow stain out of her toilet bowl. What stains like that? Turmeric?”

None of the three women knew the answer to that question, as none of them had ever tried to stain a toilet bowl on purpose.

“How does she know that was a prank?” asked Young.

“You got me,” Mel showed her palms. “Janet actually wanted me to help her think of ways she could get revenge. I, um, refused to humor the notion. Anyway, I'm against her involvement with the sorority, period. It will require time and money that, frankly, I don't think she has to spare. And keg parties aren't going to help her physical condition at all.”

“Isn't it your week to buy the beers?” Anabel winked at her.

“It is, as a matter of fact,” Mel said, “and we're going to enjoy them without the help of a beer bong or casual sex.”

“Dammit!” Anabel snapped a finger in mock disappointment. “So. Do you have any guesses yet? What Tonya is trying to buy on eBay?”

“A pound of turmeric?” said Mel, and Young nearly spit out her coffee.

“I'm going to count that as one of your three, but please, serious guesses only. I really want to see if you'll get this.”

“A 12- to 14-inch club?” guessed Young.

“No, but interesting thought.”

“One of Nancy's scrunchies?” asked Mel.

“No!” said Anabel, punctuating the negative with her index finger, but you're getting warmer.”

“Something belonging to Nancy?” asked Young.

“Like I said, this isn't twenty questions. But to answer you, no, the item did not belong to Nancy.”

The three women didn't say anything for a minute. The watched the evening commuters wander in and out of the light rail station.

“The sooner you knock out your guesses, the sooner I'll tell you,” Anabel reminded them.

“Tonya Harding's wisdom teeth. All the prickly hairs from her razors,” guessed Mel.

“One of her kidneys. Or her frozen eggs,” guessed Young.

“Interesting biological twist you've both ventured there, and to tell you the truth, I wouldn't be surprised. But no. The correct answer is, Tonya Harding's defective skate lace, from her Olympic free skate program. The one that got her granted an extension.”

“Ahh!” said the other two women in unison.

After another minute of silence, Young asked Anabel, “Is Tonya... okay?”

Anabel was thoughtful. “I think so. At least, I hope so. She's skating better than ever.”

“A lot of artists perform well when they're under psychological pressure. When their lives are falling apart.”

“I know. I've been there. We all have.” The other two women nodded in agreement.

“I had an idea – forgive me for changing the subject – but I had an idea for the fund raising show in December,” Mel announced. “Figure skating is such a serious sport, and the people who do it have to be so serious so much of the time - “

Young laughed. “Have you seen my ice dancing students?”

Mel continued, “Your ice dancing students sort of inspired the idea. Tell me what you think: A comedy revue. On ice.”

“A comedy revue? I can't picture it. What do you mean?”

“It's a vague idea so far, but each performer will do a sort of comic routine. Think 'dancing frog.' Or Rick Astley's “Never Gonna Give You Up.”

“You'd rick roll our loyal supporters?” smirked Young. “Hmm. I like it!”

Anabel countered, “I don't know if any – even one – of my students would go for the idea. But I'll not speak for them; I'll run the idea by them. It's novel. I think it could attract new patrons.”

“Tia and Nathan will love it,” Mel surmised. “But they're aliens. I've never seen such motivated young talent. I don't need to push them. Have you ever heard of fifteen year olds who arrive thirty minutes early for six a.m. classes?”

The women clasped their hands over their hearts with pity, thinking of poor Nathan forced off the ice for a month.

“I just want to raise enough money to travel twice this year. We always raise money for World's, but obviously not every skater can skate in World's. I'd love to see us travel next year, purely to perform and not compete,” said Mel.

“We'd all like to see that,” agreed Anabel. “Now let's watch some roller derby!”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

After the roller derby bout, the three women took their time filing out of the rink where the game was held, finishing their bottles of MGD and chit chatting about which referee was the cutest. A derby girl was approaching them with literature about the league, but her coach interrupted.

“Glad you could make it, girls,” she said to the three figure skating coaches, and then to her team member, “They won't join. I've tried.”

“We're too busy,” Anabel shook her head. “We're big supporters, though. We come to bouts when we can and we always spread the word. We've had the poster for this bout up for the last two weeks at our workplace.”

“Thanks!” said the derby girl appreciatively.

“And we wouldn't mind help,” said Mel to the derby coach, “spreading the word in a couple of months about a fund raising event we'll be holding. Sure to be entertaining.”

“Let me know the details,” the coach said, shaking Mel's hand.

Mel felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned around and saw Tia, one of her advanced pairs students. “Tia! Very nice to see you!” She introduced her student to her friend, the derby coach. “Tia is fifteen,” Mel made it a point to say. “In case she ever tries to tell you she's old enough for roller derby. Are you here by yourself, Tia?”

“My mom and sister are over there,” said Tia, pointing vaguely. “What's the fund raising event?”

“It's still in the planning stages,” Mel told her truthfully, but Young broke in with, “Mel is talking about doing a comedy show. On the ice.”

“On the rocks,” said Tia, in her typical word association style of speaking. “Like a sketch show? Ooh, there could be a roller derby sketch, and for barrel rolls we can do salchow jumps and we could do a derby whip leading into a death spiral, and...”

“That sounds beautiful,” said Young. “Where is the comedy?”

“There could be a fight,” Tia shrugged.

“When will you be eighteen?” the derby coached teased her.

“I don't think we could get ten of our students to cooperate like that, sadly enough,” said Anabel.

Mel laughed. “I can already picture a derby cat fight between Janet and Tonya.” The other coaches guffawed. Tia pretended like she was going to take the beer out of her coach's hand.

“I'm cutting you off,” she joked. The three ice skating coaches couldn't shake their giggling fit, and Anabel was laughing so hard she looked like she'd cry. “Oh, my mom is calling me. See you on Tuesday, Mel!” And Tia jogged off toward her family.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“If I go out,” Kristyna said to her mother, “what shall I bring back for you?”

“Are you asking me if you can go out?” her mother asked her, “Or are you telling me?”

Kristyna picked up her mother's keys from atop the television. “I am doing you the courtesy of asking.”

Ten minutes later, she was parking in front of the Cafe Havana, feeling shy and nervous. She half hoped she wouldn't see anybody she knew, after all.

The hostess seated her in a booth, and Kristyna relaxed for the first time in days. She ordered a diet cola and a salad, and pulled a magazine out of her bag. She flipped through the pages without looking at them, daydreaming.

Her heart jumped when she saw the four ice dancers tumble in the door. She wondered how long she had until they noticed her, but the dark haired boy with blue eyes was pointing at her and saying something.

They were coming over to her.

“Can we sit with you?” asked the taller girl, whom Kristyna knew to be Corrinne, but the four friends were already squeezing into the booth with her.

“We came to watch the hockey game, and this booth has the best view of the TV,” said the blond boy, Austin.

“Oh!” Kristyna's hand went up to her mouth. “I forgot that was today!”

“Do you know who we are?” asked Abigail. Kristyna smiled and nodded.

“You're Young's advanced students. At the ice arena.”

“And you are Kristyna, fourth place at the 2007 World's,” said Abigail without a trace of envy. “Everybody has seen your technical program. It was incredible.”

“No, it sucked!” Kristyna protested. “I messed up my combination and busted on my axel!”

“You attempted things that nobody else did,” Abigail reminded her. Kristyna didn't know what to say, but she was feeling more comfortable around the other skaters than she thought she would.

“What do you think of the arena?” asked Abigail.

“The faculty are so professional and Anabel lets me be really picky ab”out class times and practice times.”

“Professional?” Sean said. “What's so professional about it?”

Kristyna shrugged. “Like, the ice rink back home didn't care about artistic students at all.” Her salad arrived but the Superfriends noticed she wasn't attacking it, despite looking like she'd never eaten a proper meal. “They'd oversell sessions and make no time for lessons. When I could book lessons – and my instructor was really helpful about making it happen – there'd be no staff around. Usually it was late and night and they wouldn't bother to Zamboni until morning.”

“Did you scrape the ice by hand, like Oksana Baiul?” asked Corrinne, riveted.

“No,” laughed Kristyna. “But I operated the Zamboni a few times.”

“No way!” said the four friends.

“Way,” she giggled. “You should probably learn if you've never done it. It's experience, right?” She used her knife to balance a few salad leaves on her fork, which she held by the far end away from the tines. Like a geisha with long, elegant chopsticks.

“Are you still living in a motel with your mom?” blurted out Corrinne.

“Oh!” said Kristyna. “How did you know I was in a motel?”

A waitress appeared at their table. “Veggie nachos and a pitcher of lemonade?” she asked, and the Superfriends nodded in confirmation.

“Everybody gossips around here,” Abigail sighed. “Don't you know anything about us? Or other ice skaters in Sequeirah?”

“Not really,” said Kristyna, searching to come up with something.

“Think about it,” Austin urged her. “Anything about Janet? Tonya?”

“Is Tonya the one who idolizes Tonya Harding?”

“I guess you could say that,” said Austin. You could also say she loves Tonya Harding.”

“She 's a psychotic bitch,” said Corrinne.

“I think she's nice,” said Abigail.

“She's really pretty,” said Sean, and the others looked at him, startled.

“I mean, “ said Sean, “she has a great rack.” The others relaxed again.

“How about Tia and Nathan?” asked Corrinne.

“Tia is the one who lies about her age to play roller derby?”

“What?” the four friends gasped. And Corrinne laughed, “Mel would kill her!”

“Oh,” said Kristyna. “Was that not common knowledge? Please don't tell anybody.”

“See what I mean about gossip?” said Austin.

Then Austin said, “Uh, oh. Just as I thought. If you say her name, you summon her.”

Tonya was coming through the door with a sktaeboard in her left hand. She was strolling purposefully toward a table, when the hostess chased after her to collect her skateboard and show her to her table.

“She's probably saying something like, 'I'm a figure skater, so show me some respect,'” said Austin uner his breath.

“Really?” Kristyna was in disbelief.

“She's known for that,” Sean said, sounding almost apologetic. Kristyna thought the friends seemed almost to be shrinking, making themselves invisible. Together they watched the waitress bring her a beer, watched her light a cigarette.

Kristyna's eyes widened – she looked questioningly at the Superfriends who sighed and nodded – yes, Sequeirah's prize athlete was, indeed, a smoker. For a few minutes they said nothing – just watched Tonya while pretending not to. No one joined her. She just sat alone, wring something and looking thoughtful.

Sean broke the silence and drew attention away from the lonely figure skater. “Thursday is Trivia Night here,” he said. “We always participate. Join our table anytime you like. Just show up. It starts at eight.

“Really?” The four friends noticed Kristyna brighten considerably. “Wow! I would dislike terribly to impose.”

“What are you talking about?” Austin chimed in. You could only help us. Is there some topic you know a lot about?”

Kristyna thought about it. “Hm. Figure skating? Figure skaters?”

“No kidding,” Austin rolled his eyes.

“I'm afraid that's about it,” Kristyna admitted. “I've never been expected to know anyth