Introduction
Mirai Nagasu
This story, in many ways, captures my childhood. Back then, skating was my future, my dream, and my escape. From the age of five, I prioritized skating over everything, which meant my schedule was full of activities, like ballet, that were meant to help me qualify for national championships. I guess it worked, since that’s what happened. But much like Maxine, I considered ballet a medicine that I knew was good for me even though it didn’t always taste good.
In third grade, I was placed in ESL, English as a second language, because I used to be unbearably shy and wasn’t very vocal. Similar to Maxine, math was not my strongest subject, and language arts became one of my favorites. Like her, I am proud to be Asian American, although I don’t recall ever having a talk about it with my parents like she does, where they explain their pride for their cultural roots. It was so refreshing to be able to read about it in Maxine’s story.
This story not only captures the microaggressions that many Asian Americans face in the US, but also, importantly, the pressures young skaters face in competition. Whether it is the unending cycle of jumps and other moves we’re expected to execute under terrific stress or the fact that we’re expected to be beautiful while performing on ice with burning leg muscles and knives on our feet, it can become overwhelming. As competitors, we’re taught that there is no room for vulnerability, so it is inspiring to read about Maxine’s struggle to be both a great competitor and a great friend.
At one point in the story, Maxine says she considers me one of her role models. This is so surreal. It’s also a huge coincidence, because if I had been able to read this book as a young person, I know that Maxine would have been a role model for me.
Like she might be for you.
Mornings
Girls who skate always think they’re the next Olympians: If I just nail that Axel and tweak that three-turn, I’ll win gold. I’ll become a star. I’ll be on TV. I’ll make America proud. You have to be fifteen to be eligible for the Olympics. I’ve got three more years to go. But I don’t just think I’ll get there. I promise I will.
“Maxine Chen! Arms up!”
Coach Judy only uses my full name when she’s annoyed at me. Pulling me out of my 6:00 a.m. daydreams, she points at my twiggy arms, which have lowered to my sides as I skate around the rink. An eagle, she always reminds me, that’s what you should look like. I grin, wildly flapping my arms as I drift across the ice. Judy rolls her eyes.
Morning curves through the thin line of windows tracing the rink’s walls. Outside, shopkeepers on Main Street will soon unlock their doors, offering tourists refrigerator magnets and hooded Adirondack sweatshirts. Kayakers will take out their boats for a final paddle before the lake freezes over. The mountains will stretch from the shadows and graze the horizon. Life will begin. But for now, I only hear the skid of my skates as they power down the ice. This is my favorite form of silence. This is where the magic happens.
I flap my eagle wings all the way to Judy, who is simultaneously scowling and chugging a thermos of black coffee. She may be the greatest skating coach in all of Lake Placid, but she is the worst morning person.
“I can fly higher than an eaaaaaagle,” I sing to her. “Oh, you are the wind beneath my wiiiiiiiiiiiiiings.”
I end my serenade with a toe pick in the ice, arms out, head thrown back. I close my eyes for dramatic effect.
“I think this is how I should end my free skate.”
Even though I can’t see her, I can tell she’s smirking at me.
“If you start cawing, I will take you off the ice,” she says.
I swing my head back to her, flipping my ponytail over my shoulder.
“Why, Coach, I would never.”
Judy sets down her thermos and shakes her head.
“You’re ridiculous,” she tells me, but a hint of a smile appears on her lips. “Now let’s see that double Axel.”
I groan. The double Axel is my worst jump. It’s the only one where you have to take off facing forward. Then you pull your whole weight into the air and rotate around not once, but two and a half times, until somehow you manage to land on your right foot, arms out, left leg extended, triumphant. Honestly, I don’t see why figure skaters aren’t considered superheroes.
I take a deep breath and start my backward crossovers. I know without looking that Judy is practically boring holes into my skates, waiting for them to push off. I envision her face as nine middle-age judges squinting at me, glasses sliding down their noses, parkas zipped up to their necks, writing down scores that could make or break my entire skating career.
You got this, I tell myself. I imagine Mirai Nagasu before me—she’s one of my favorite skaters, partly because we’re both Asian American. But what makes her really special is that she’s the first American woman to land a triple Axel at the Olympics (that’s three and a half rotations in the air, which lends her true superhero status). I think of her fist pumped in the sky as she finished her flawless routine, her coach jumping up and down by the boards, the crowd screaming, the tears on her face as she finally delivered.
I push off.
My body feels heavy in the air.
And then it feels like nothing at all, like I’m on one of those teacups from Magic Island Park that’s just turning and turning until it comes to a rest.
Before I know it, I’m back on the ice, arms out, leg perfectly stretched. I slow to a stop and look up at Judy.
She’s beaming.
“If you do exactly that at regionals,” she says, “you’ll definitely medal.”
It’s my turn to pump my fist in the air. I may not be Mirai Nagasu yet, but just you wait.
Self-Portrait
Victoria is mad at me again. I know because she’s peering around the side of my open locker door, a massive pout plastered on her face.
“You’ve got lip gloss on your chin,” I tell her.
She sniffs, rubbing at her skin and streaking her finger with sticky pink.
“And you never answered my text,” she accuses. Her eyes narrow.
I crouch to stuff my skate bag into my locker.
“No.” I shake my head. “I didn’t get a text.”
Victoria’s messages are hard to miss. She put her name in my phone with five heart emojis, six dancing ladies, and three snowflakes so that my notifications explode with a confetti of color. We’ve been friends since we were eight, mostly because our moms work at the same pharmacy and thought we’d have fun building castles in the makeshift sandpit by the lake. Now, though, she’s busy with drama club and softball while I’m permanently stuck on the ice until my thighs burn and my hands are numb. The sand dunes from our childhood have long washed away.
Victoria jabs my shoulder. “You did,” she says. “Go look.”
“Fine.”
I dig out my phone from the bottom of my backpack. Sure enough, buried under four texts from my mom (How was practice? Do you have enough lunch money? What time should I pick you up from the rink? Hello??) is a note from Victoria alongside a bajillion smiley faces: Come over after school 2morrow?
My shoulders droop. “Ugh, Vic, I’m sorry I didn’t see this.”
“Whatever,” she says. She adjusts her headband and sniffs. “It’s fine. Can you come, though? My sister bought me face masks for my birthday that we can try.”
I want to. I really do. But regionals are only three and a half weeks away. I need to head straight to the rink once the final bell rings. Luckily, it’s right next to school, so Mom and Dad let me walk there by myself (although they insist on picking me up after practice because I’m not allowed to walk home in the dark). That’s the beauty of living in a place that prides itself on being a former Olympic Village. The multi-acre arena isn’t just the center of my world—it’s the center of our entire town. The huge stone building is flanked with international flags and pressed green grass. It symbolizes the excellence of our facilities and our athletes. All the more pressure to nail my routines.
“I can’t,” I finally say. I look down, fumbling with my backpack strap. “I have practice.”
Victoria groans. “Practice, practice, blah, blah, blah.”
She takes her hand and forms a talking mouth that almost jabs me in the eyeballs. I can’t help but laugh, dodging her fingernails before slamming my locker shut to face her.
My jaw hangs open. Victoria, who usually sports flat-ironed hair and fashion-forward turtlenecks, looks like a giant blueberry. Her sweatshirt bubbles over her thighs and curls around her hands. On one side of the chest is the school mascot, a dragon. Embroidered in white cursive on the other is the name Macreesy.
“What are you wearing?”
“Oh, this?”
Victoria smirks, holding out her arms like she’s modeling for a fashion show and not for the role of Violet from Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory.
Text copyright © 2021 by E. L. Shen
