“And yet you kept on with your lessons,” she said, studying me. “Why?”

  “Because…” I hesitated and then the words came out on their own, “even if he never said so, every now and then I knew I had done something right. And when that happened, I felt so good, so light…like…I was special.” I cringed, getting ready for her to laugh at me.

  She was nodding her head approvingly. “It’d be easy to choose hockey because it’s so familiar, but it won’t let you grow as a person as much as figure skating does. Hockey’s a great sport, but it sounds as if it doesn’t challenge you in the same way.”

  “I guess,” I said uncertainly. And I guess that I should have made my own escape then, but I’m stubborn. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

  “You have to earn it first,” the coach said. “See you early tomorrow.”

  Saturday morning, I woke at 6 A.M., as I always do, to the morning music of our house. In the basement, two floors below, our old furnace was rattling to life, and I could hear Mom in the kitchen grinding coffee beans. I left my pajamas on my bed and reached for the clothes I’d laid out the night before. After I was dressed, I checked myself in the mirror. Thanks to Mom’s part-time job at a boutique in town that caters to wealthy college kids, I manage to dress as nicely as anyone else at the rink.

  Tiptoeing out of my room, I paused in the hallway to listen to the odd music Dad and my brothers make when they are sleeping. Dad’s snores were syncopated by the rumblings of my three brothers. From the boys’ room, my brothers sounded as if they were sawing wood at three different pitches.

  By the time I walked into the warm kitchen, Mom was sitting at the computer reviewing her skate club newsletter while she sipped her coffee. She’s the volunteer editor.

  “Good morning, honey,” she said with a drowsy smile. “Did you sleep all right?”

  “Okay, except I’m pretty nervous about my first lesson with the new coach,” I said, between gulps of the orange juice and toast she’d set out for me.

  “Oh, Mia, how can she help but like you?” Mom asked. “You’re a strong skater, you’re a hard worker, and you don’t give up.”

  I didn’t bother to mention that I’d already met Coach Schubert, or what had happened. Instead, I just thanked Mom for her moral support with a kiss and said, “Well, I’d better go. I don’t want to be late.” I put my plate into the sink and said, “See you tonight.”

  Mom put down her coffee cup. “I can throw on my coat and run you over quick.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll walk. It’s already light out, and there’s all that nice new snow.”

  “Okay, then. Good luck!” called Mom as I left the kitchen.

  My skate bag was by the front door, where I’d put it last night, packed and ready to go. I tugged my cap snug over my head, I zipped up my jacket, and around my mouth I wound the scarf Mom had knitted for me last Christmas—there’s never much money for Christmas presents, so we usually make all our gifts for one another. It’s a St. Clair family tradition.

  I tried to pull on one of my boots but could only get my foot halfway in. When I stuck my hand into the boot, I found a plug of wadded-up newspaper. It had to be Perry’s handiwork. He may be the oldest brother, but he’s the biggest jokester in the family.

  Once I’d cleared both my boots and pulled them on, I stepped outside and paused in the pale early-morning light. Partly it was the shock of the cold after the warmth of our house. Partly it was to check for patches of ice. But mainly it was just to look around me and enjoy the dawn. Last night’s snowfall had transformed houses and bushes into sugar-coated pastries. Beyond the frosted rooftops, the sun was just starting to rise across the frozen lake. Up and down the block, I could hear the sound of snow shovels scraping across concrete. A few houses away the paperboy was struggling through huge snowdrifts. He was one of my brothers’ friends, and he called out a greeting to me after he tossed a paper. Then the Matteos gave me a friendly toot as they drove by with their matching snowmobiles on a trailer.

  I waved back and went down the steps, listening to the new snow grunt as it compacted beneath my boots. My breath rose in little white ribbons from behind my scarf.

  We live only three blocks from the Lucerne, but the snow was deep and the going was slow because the roots of the trees along the sidewalk have pushed up the slabs into little tilted hills. In winter, melted snow fills the depressions, creating icy patches, and each new snowfall hides them. It’s easy to slip and sprain an ankle—and I wasn’t going to let that happen before my first lesson with Coach Schubert!

  Ahead of me, the rising sun reflected off the Lucerne’s big windows so that it seemed to blaze a welcome just for me. The skating rink is all that’s left of a large, fancy resort that failed years ago. The Lucerne hotel has long since been torn down and replaced by houses like ours, but the Lucerne ice rink has remained. The owner built it to look like a Swiss chalet. When I was small, I thought it was wonderful because it seemed like a piece of Europe had been magically transported here. Then I overheard Vanessa, who’s actually been to Switzerland, dismiss it as an amusement park fake. I don’t care—authentic or not, it’s my Lucerne.

  I rushed through the front door and hurried past the huge cuckoo clock and into the locker room. When I opened my bag to change, I found that Mom had slipped in a sack of cinnamon buns and a note: “Bet you’ll be ready for something sweet and sticky after your lesson. Good luck with the new coach. XOX.”

  I pretended that the buns were still warm, though it would be impossible after the walk through the cold. Mom must have baked them before I got up. She likes doing little things like this so that even when our busy schedules mean we don’t see a lot of each other, she can show me that she’s still taking care of me.

  As I took a small bite, I glanced at my watch and saw that I didn’t have a moment to spare. Stuffing the sack and note back into my bag, I changed into my practice clothes, put on my skates and gloves, and went out to the rink.

  I feel about ice the way I imagine a sailor feels about the sea. I love looking at the bare white sheet of ice, gleaming and sparkling under the lights. When I first sniff the chill air, my nostrils tingle and I feel alive. Mom says that maybe I’m part polar bear.

  Coach Schubert was already out on the rink, wearing a blue fleece jacket and nylon pants. As I did my warm-up exercises, I watched her glide across the ice in a slow, dreamy fashion. She looked relaxed, at ease, especially compared with yesterday.

  As the cuckoo sounded, I took the guards from my blades and stepped onto the ice—and left gravity behind. One moment, you’re slogging along the floor, feeling as slow and heavy as a turtle, and the next you’re gliding, the ice hissing beneath your blades, as if it were lisping out a song.

  The coach turned in a lazy arc so that she could skate next to me. In her hand was a clipboard with a thick folder. “I’ve been reading what Coach Nelson had to say about you, Mia.”

  My shoulders sagged. “He wrote that much about me?” According to Coach Nelson, I couldn’t even lace my boots right, so I was afraid most of the folder was negative.

  She slid away. “Let’s start with your footwork.”

  Here it comes, I thought nervously. I could feel my palms sweating and turning instantly clammy in the cold. I’d be lucky if I wasn’t busted back to the Twinkles, which is the beginners’ class.

  I did some basic footwork across the ice, and when the coach didn’t make any comment, I started to feel anxious. My old coach had told me only what I wasn’t doing, never what I should do. Did the new coach think I was so hopeless that I wasn’t even worth correcting?

  She had me do a scratch spin, where I turned rapidly as I stood up straight. As I came out of it, all she said was, “When you spin, you’re leaning too far forward on your left foot, and that’s slowing you down. And keep your head up more.”

  She worked with me on my posture and then had me run through my jumps, giving me advice several times.

  After consulting the file, she said, “Let’s see your double lutz next. Coach Nelson’s notes say you’re having trouble with it.”

  Half the time I botched it—which I’m sure he’d recorded faithfully. Feeling as if my doom were chasing me like a rolling boulder, I tried my best but wound up landing on my backside on ice that felt as hard as concrete. I skidded to a stop a few feet away, and she skated over to me. “Want to try again, or do you want to show me your camel spin?”

  Her question seemed straightforward enough, but until now she’d never given me a choice. It made me feel as if Coach Schubert was giving me a skating exam—but one whose requirements I didn’t know.

  If I flubbed the double jump again, the coach might decide she didn’t want to waste any more time with me and assign me instead to one of the assistant coaches. And that would mean the humiliation of explaining the demotion to my family.

  However, skipping a second attempt would be like running away, so I said, “I’d like to try again.”

  “Good,” she said. She took me through it step by step and then had me do it. When I fell again, she told me as she made a note in my file, “You’re taking too long to pull in your arms.” She spoke as calmly as if she were telling me how to bake an apple pie. No scolding. No insults.

  I tried my double lutz a third time but fell once more. The coach, though, had said that I would be my biggest competition, so I tried five more times, and with each failure I landed on a different part of my body. Finally, I just lay on the ice, tired and aching. This morning I just couldn’t land that double jump.

  “Do you want to take a break?” she asked.

  Part of me would have loved to rest, but the other part of me wanted to do that double lutz at least once more before I die.

  “No,” I said, heaving myself up from the ice.

  After three more flubs, though, I sat up and slapped the ice in frustration. “Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today. I just can’t seem to get it right.”

  “Never apologize for trying,” she said. “If it’s any consolation, you’re already getting better.”

  “You could have fooled me,” I said as I got to my feet, more determined than ever.

  I spent the rest of the session trying to land my axel–double toe loop combination and landing hard on the ice each time. I might not ever master that jump combination either, but I was certainly widening my repertoire of falls.

  I kept trying, but I botched it again and again. But then, just before the end of the session, things clicked—more or less. I had to put my hand down on the ice to steady myself, but I stayed upright.

  I pumped a fist as I glided away.

  “Good,” she said, making a note in the file. “I was waiting for you to stop a long time ago.”

  “My brothers called me the human hockey puck when I was small,” I explained. “I kept playing them and getting creamed until I could hold my own with a hockey stick.”

  She smiled. “Well, I didn’t expect you to perfect that combination after just one session. What I really wanted to see was if you’d give up. That was the real test.” She put a hand on my shoulder as we glided toward the opening in the wall. “You asked me a question yesterday and you’ve earned an answer this morning. I was trying to land a triple axel at the Olympics, which, up until then, no female skater had done in an official competition. My coach didn’t want me to do it because I was leading after the short program, but a real champion would rather try to top herself than play it safe. If safety were important to me, I would have become an accountant rather than a skater. Life should be full of challenges.”

  I was afraid to ask just how big those challenges were going to be. Coach Schubert was nicer than my old coach, but she also expected a lot more, and I didn’t know if I was up to it.

  “So should I come at the same time Thursday?” I asked cautiously.

  She looked at me, puzzled. “Why wouldn’t you?”

  I felt relief flood through me. She was going to keep me as a student. “Just curious,” I said.

  When I was off the ice and had slipped the guards back onto my blades, I saw that the next pupil waiting her turn was Anya.

  “How did it go?” she asked. “What’s she like?”

  “So far so good—” I shrugged cautiously and then crossed my fingers and said, “—I hope!”

  After I changed back into my regular clothes, I started my chores. Saturday is always the busiest day at the rink. Not only are there group lessons, but there’re skating sessions open to the public and hockey games—one of my brothers would be playing here today.

  I swept the lobby, emptied trash cans, straightened the rental skates on their shelves behind the counter, and then stocked the snack bar with candy bars, bags of nuts, and bottled water. Finally, I’d done everything I could do to get the Lucerne ready for the day’s invading horde. Nearly everyone in town owns skates, and almost every weekend they wind up here for a little while. Even though we have a big lake and lots of ponds everywhere, snowy ice is hard to skate on, so indoor rinks are big in this area. Between here and Lake Placid, there are about a million skate clubs.

  Anya was still on the ice, though her session was over and the coach had left. The hockey teams had the rink booked next but they weren’t here yet.

  “Come on,” Anya called, beckoning to me.

  With a grin, I waved back, went into the locker room to put on my skates, and then joined her.

  She was racing across the rink and, as I watched, she leapt into the air. Landing on one leg, she began to whirl, spine arched backwards as her ponytail swung about like a rippling veil. She looked so elegant that I ached inside because I would never look that nice in a million years.

  But I didn’t care as I slipped onto the ice, feeling as if I’d gone from caterpillar to butterfly—maybe not one as lovely as Anya, but that didn’t matter as long as I could just glide along, no coach, no spectators, just me and my best friend and the ice. Suddenly I saw Anya jump into the air for the sheer joy of it—like a dolphin leaping out of the water.

  The sight made me so happy that I rose into the air, too, and even if the landing wasn’t as light as Anya’s, I didn’t care. I was feeling as if I could do anything, so I thought, Why not try that double lutz that has been giving me so much trouble? I sped across the ice faster and faster, and then as I began to turn, I extended my right leg behind me, placed my toe pick in the ice, and vaulted up into the air. The double lutz itself was great, but I landed sort of heavily and had to bend my knee too much, so I went crashing onto the ice.

  “Try again,” Anya urged as she curled past me.

  The coach was right—my biggest competition was myself.

  Getting up, I carved a curve in the ice, building up speed, and leapt into the air again. This time, everything felt right when I crossed my ankles and clasped my hands against my chest. I was starting to whirl counterclockwise like a top when I saw my middle brother, Skip, in his bright blue-and-red uniform, watching me.

  To my brothers, real skaters—both boys and girls—play hockey. Figure skaters don’t have to worry about hitting other bodies or boards, or dodging sticks, so we rank somewhere below those who do curling.

  I was so distracted by Skip that I landed off balance. I brought down my other foot, but it was too late and I went sprawling, body and limbs spreading out like a squished bug.

  Oh no, I moaned to myself. I’ve just given him the ammo for a month’s worth of teasing.

  I always seem to fall whenever any of my brothers is watching me figure skate. I’ve gone down so often in front of them that I’ve swept as much ice as the Beast has.

  Anya slid over to me quickly. “Are you okay?”

  I sat up, wiping ice flakes from my face and clothes. “At least I’ve got a matched set of bruises now. I’ll get that jump if it kills me.” And from all my aches and pains, I thought it just might.

  Skip and his hockey teammates were streaming onto the ice. In his goalie’s gear, my brother looked twice as wide as he normally does. “That was some fall, Sis,” he said as he grinned down at me.

  His blond hair was tangled as usual in a rat’s nest. He is fourteen, and he’s the kind of guy who can comb his hair and have it messed up in five minutes. His real name is René, after one of Dad’s favorite hockey players, but my brother prefers his nickname, Skip.

  I just gave a grunt and tried to get up, but I was so tired and upset that I fell again—as Skip and his team watched and laughed.

  Clacking and clinking, Skip skated over smoothly and held out a hand. “You wouldn’t get so many bruises if you wore hockey gear.”

  I took Anya’s hand instead. “Who wants to look like a tank?” I grumbled and got up. But then I added, “Good luck with your game.”

  “No guts, no glory,” Skip said with a shrug. My family says that so often before a game that it has become the family motto—almost like a good-luck charm, in fact.

  When I heard his stomach grumble, I shook my head. “Did you eat anything before you left the house?”

  He grinned sheepishly. “Naw, I overslept.”

  “Mom made something,” I said. “I’ll get it.”

  By the time I had changed out of my skates and split my snack with Skip, I was behind in my chores, so I had to double-time it.

  When I could, I stopped and loudly encouraged Skip, who squatted in the mouth of the goal. With three noisy boys—four if you include Dad—I’ve had to learn to bellow or no one would ever hear me.

  Quite a few of Skip’s schoolmates had come to watch, but they were just sitting on their hands. So, cupping my hands around my mouth like a megaphone, I let loose a whoop and started cheering Skip’s team on. His schoolmates joined in and kept on even when I had to leave to do another chore. Skip’s team eventually won, three to nothing, and I like to think I helped Skip a little in beating his opponents.