The ice whispers against my blades. I stroke, faster and faster. I turn and glide as I ready myself for the jump just seconds away. And... I empower myself into the air, climbing up. I snap into position, trying to count my rotations but I'm spinning so fast in the air that I can't. And I land! I land... holding the double flip triumphantly. My coach smiles, beckons me. "Do it again," she says, with the barest hint of a laugh in her voice. I look over at the side of the rink, smiling, where my eight year old sister, Claire, hangs gaping over the wall and my dad holds a videotape in his hands, ushering me to do it again. Coach Hark dismisses me a few minutes later, turning her attention to a small girl trying her crossovers for the first time. I try again and catch my toe on the ice, tripping but I manage to land. I recount everything I did wrong: my pull in was rather fast, I closed in rather slowly, and my hip was open. I scribble them down in my 12 page long double flip tips, and try again. It just occurs to me-I'm going to have soaked pants after this.
I change pants, grimacing behind a locked bathroom stall. It feels good to have dry pants. I come out to meet my dad and my sister, who are hugging and dancing and smiling, smiling, smiling. "Your first time! Double flip! We can add that into your program, too!" My program... Oh, I almost forgot. My program for my competition. My mom chooses that moment to come back from Starbucks. Claire rushes up and blurts out everything in five seconds. My mom, looking crestfallen, says, "why do I always miss your jumps?" "I have the video!" My dad says, showing her the jump over and over and over again. I'm overwhelmed. A year... A year of hard work. And today, January 17, is the day.
Coach Hark is working on my program today. Time flies by and before I know it, I'm performing my program. One day, I'm doing double flips- the next, I'm rehearsing my program. "It's about time to learn your choreography, Melissa. Let's hear your music again..." We practice and dance for the next half hour until 4:30, then the skaters file off the ice, cramming through the door. My mom drives me home, where my dad is cooking. Not many dads can cook, but my dad can. It smells savory and I can't help but let my mind wander, wandering to books, comics, movies, ice skating. Ice skating. How many times have I thought that word? Said it? It means so much to me. I've been skating for six years, ever since I was five. I wonder and wonder until my hand, moving on it's own, completes its easy work. I replace my homework and go upstairs to find a book to read. I read Rangers Apprentice-9-Halt's Peril until dinner and go downstairs to eat. Tomorrow... another morning, another skate.
Turn. And glide. And tap. And cross. And spin.... And then my heart races for the double flip coming up. I gain speed, race for the end of the rink, hear the wind whooshing past... I jump and fail, instead landing hard on the ice. I get up and start skating again- no time to brush off. I dance and spin until the music stops, and a little wearily, I play it again.
Coach Hark frowns for the sixteenth time and says impatiently, "Melissa, you just landed your double flip the day before yesterday! If you landed it then, you should be able to land it now. Your hip is opening- see you're like this..." I'm not listening. Well, I am, but only halfheartedly. I'm thinking about why I can't land the double flip anymore and how I can't and maybe next time I can land it. Coach Hark tells me to repeat the jump and I do, falling down hard. Coach Hark frowns for the seventeenth time, and I think maybe I am losing hope. Which is crazy, since I landed it only yesterday, but...still.
"Competition day in a month, Melissa," my mother calls. What?! A month is not long, considering all the scrapes and scratches on my program. "Claire! Could you-" whatever my mom was going to ask my sister, was interrupted by the phone ringing and my mom answering it, nodding, saying this, that, blah, blah, blah. After awhile she hops into her car and drives away. I turn back to my drawings and doodle, but my thoughts are elsewhere. Competition. Going against everybody your level..that was pretty hard, considering all the talented people out there. And we were going to Regionals, for goodness sake! I look down at my picture to find little skates and medals decorating it, people skating and skating dresses. I smile and stand up, the paper sliding into my bin where I keep all my drawings.
This flip problem was getting serious. The next day I tried one again and ended up bruising my ankle. Can you believe it?! It was slight, though, and I was back on the ice in no time...but to Coach Hark, it was an eternity. "We need to get caught up on your program!" She gasps, and hurries me away.
"Yes...no...sure..." I mutter as my mom flips through pictures of ice skating dresses. My mind is not on the dress for the competition, but on the competition. Tomorrow we're going skating and I'm excited. I can fix all the things that are wrong, practice more, and...practice more, I guess. "Melissa!" My mom says sharply. "Is this dress good? If you're a peacock, you need to have a dress with feathers...hmmm... Cutouts may work too..." And within minutes my mind drifts away again.
I can't do the jump. Don't ask why. I just-can't. Because what if I bruise my ankle again or hurt myself or reopen a wound? What if I break a leg or an arm or something? Perhaps it's because I'm scared of what will happen. So scared I almost want to fall. And I know that I will fail when I try the jump again because I am convinced I will fail, and so I will. And of course, I do.
I'm so jumpy. Two weeks until the most important competition of my life. That double flip was in my grasp and slid right out. My music is up. I start it and dance, hoping as I always do, that this time, this one time, everything would be right.
Whenever I have to do the jump, I don't jump. I underotate. I don't try to land. I open up. I avoid it at all costs. I really have given up hope.
It seems like everything is about the competition; at school, my teacher asks me to write a two page long journal about it, my mom constantly urges me to do my program off the ice, my dad does the countdown, and Catherine is always assuring me that I will do great. I wish time would hurry up and get this over with.
I never thought that this moment would actually happen-
the competition is staring me in the face now, and there's no way I can deny it. The competition- tomorrow. In Seattle... I hope, hope, hope that this one time will go right.
"Melissa," my mother says, and looks me deep into my eyes, "you will land your double flip tomorrow. Ok? Say yes." "Yes," I mutter, wanting to believe her but knowing I can't.
The bright lights are blazing down ferociously and it takes a moment to adjust to them. It all feels like a dream...the crowds roaring their approval, the cameras all trained at me, the announcers booming words, the rink, the light from outside, everything. I strike my beginning pose and hold my breath as I recount as much as I can in a matter of minutes. Double flip, I thought, here I come. Don't disappoint me.
The excitement and nerves and everything jumpy hits me the moment I start and I almost stumble with the impact. And then the dream pops like a bubble and I finally realize that I'm competing in the most important competition of my life.
It's so...awkward, retracing the steps that I have dug so deep in my memory on a foreign ice. But then that thought vanishes as the double flip looms closer and I consider not doing it at all. But then I chide myself for thinking that as a possibility when the flip is upon me. Believe, I say in my mind. Believe you can. I force myself to concentrate and I turn, jump, rotate, force the landing to come out. Just because I landed the jump before doesn't mean I could land it now. When that thought stole into my mind, I nearly choke and want to come down as I had previously but my leg forces its way out and I land. I land. I land.
I feel like crying but of course there's no time. I know I'm safe now, and I can hear an enormous cheer from the bottom left stands. I jump and spin with renewed vigor instead of postponed dread, and I end with a triumphant smile on my face and my arms splayed out in a confident way. I clear the ice and I am engulfed by many arms and legs hugging me, embracing me, congratulating me.
I bounce about like a frog who's clearly had too much sugar, but that seems mild compared to my sister. She's jumping here and there, squealing and running about like a wild baby pig. You would've thought that it was her who landed a double flip and completed a perfect program. My parents are more contained, but parents always are contained. Otherwise they would be bad role models. But they couldn't resist from beaming and hugging me, words forgotten. Me neither. This day would be remembered forever, emblazoned like a name plate in my mind.
The scores are up and my heart is hammering, though my program is long over. I've draped a jacket over my shaking shoulders and untied my skates. I reach the poster where a rather out-of-breath runner posted it, then ran off again. A crowd has gathered around it and their voices carry clearly across the short distance to my ears. "Look! Ok, Tiffany, you got second...' 'Smile, Grace!' 'Oh look, Melissa Flocker is first... " I can't believe my ears. Is it true? My dad stands to the side, grinning. Probably because he just got a cup of coffee. And I'm first, there, in big letters and clear as day, though it's trying hard to reach me through the thick fog of uncertainty and disbelief. And then it hits me like it hits me when I do my program: I'm first. I've won. And my dad is grinning huger than before. I run into his arms, my wide-open mouth curving up at the corners. It wasn't the coffee, I think. He knew.
Wearing my medal, I admire it, turning it in the sunlight. It glints and sparkles like a jewel. I was right to believe, wrong to not believe. It pays well to believe in yourself, I think. The sun shines down in blinding rays, like it agrees with me. I smile for the millionth time and hurry after my family.
