Chapter Two Ana #2
She left the two women and stepped into the hallway, in search of the girls, the other Orphans.
Two had stopped by the window at the end, one leaning against the ledge, the tall skinny one with broad shoulders and long legs.
She had an enormous mischievous smile that spread clear across her face, framed by a pile of auburn curls.
The other one, small by comparison, had hair so black it had to be dyed, short and blunt, and her eyes were caked with thick eyeliner.
Her demeanor would have made Ana steer clear on her way to her locker at school.
She lifted herself onto the ledge and sat down.
“Who are you?” the tall one asked.
Ana opened her mouth only to stumble on the words. Two simple words.
“I’m Ana.”
“Cool,” the girl said. “I’m Jolene.” Then she nodded toward the other girl.
“This is Kayla,” she said. “She would have told you herself, but she doesn’t say much, and she can also be extremely rude.”
But then Kayla did speak. “Fuck off, Jo,” she said, like none of this was remotely interesting. Like she was bored even by her own thoughts about it.
Jolene laughed, nudging her with her shoulder. Then she turned back to Ana.
“There’s one more of us.” Jolene pointed inside the room next to them.
Through that door, Ana saw a petite, fair-haired girl with a long braid, sitting on a paisley comforter and talking on her phone.
“That’s Indy,” Jolene said.
And then, louder, “Indy! She’s here! The new girl.”
That name—Indy. There could only be one.
Indy Cunningham had just gotten fifth at Nationals at age fourteen. She’d had eight triples in her free skate. Each one in combination. It was unreal, and now she was here, training on the same ice as Ana.
Indy looked up and waved, then turned her back to the open door. Her eyes were red, her face wet with tears, and Jolene was quick to explain.
“She’s talking to her old coach. She’s homesick. You’re not gonna be homesick, are you?”
Ana shook her head. “No. No way,” she said emphatically.
“Indy’s here to get the triple Axel,” Kayla said, as if that somehow mitigated the awesomeness of it.
Jolene echoed her thoughts. “She needs it to beat the Russians. And Mio.”
“Yeah—your roommate.” Kayla placed her hands on the end of the ledge and rocked back and forth, her legs not reaching the floor but kicking the wall with each swing.
“Indy’s from Minnesota,” Jolene continued. “Her mom is Patrice Cunningham—do you remember her? She beat Dawn that year when she fell twice at Nationals and missed the Olympic team.” Jolene’s eyes got wide. “By two-tenths of a point!”
Kayla motioned toward the open door. “Maybe you’ll cheer her up.”
“Oh my God!” Jolene had a sudden thought. “Indy and Ana—IndyAna! It’s perfect!”
Jolene smiled, then gave her that same shoulder bump she’d given Kayla. Ana shuffled her feet to hold her balance and took a deep breath to calm her brain—jolted by what appeared to be a sign of affection but felt like a field tackle.
Kayla started to tell her something about sneaking in after curfew, “which isn’t hard because the window downstairs won’t lock . . .”
But just then, Connie and Edie walked out of the room. Ana’s room. Mio’s room.
“Shhh,” Jolene said to Kayla, who zipped her lips and changed her face.
The adults were suddenly in the hall, looking their way.
Connie started to walk toward them but stopped. “I’ll be downstairs filling out some paperwork,” she said. “Find me when you’re ready so I can say goodbye.” The last word emerged like a tremble. Like she might cry as she said it.
And then, suddenly, Ana thought she might cry, too, as she listened to the sound of her mother’s heels—clip-clop, clip-clop—fade away.
Realizing that her life had pieces apart from skating—Connie, Carl, Tim, the only house she’d ever lived in—and all of that would now be replaced by this beige box that needed shutters and some boxwoods, and these two girls, plus Indy Cunningham, crying on her bed.
But no matter. The second they were out of earshot, Jolene started in about Edie’s cooking, the shitty coffee in the snack bar, the unfairness of this place because the boys’ wing had a Ping-Pong table, and theirs didn’t.
“Have you met Coach Emile?” Kayla asked when Jolene stopped talking.
Ana’s head was spinning with the new information, trying to assess what part of it was important to her and what was just important to Jolene and Kayla, and for what reasons, all the while swallowing tears.
When Ana didn’t answer, Jolene gave her another shoulder bump, this one sending her a step to the right.
“Emile Dresiér is a former Canadian and world champion. Dawn’s head assistant coach.”
Kayla rolled her eyes, but Ana also saw a little smile in them as Jolene finished her thought.
“You’ll want to know Emile. He dries the tears Dawn makes you cry.”
Kayla, shaking her head, said, “Wow, Jo—that’s so poetic.”
Jolene shrugged. “Just wait, Orphan Number Four. You’ll see.”
Ana nodded robotically—“okay . . . okay . . . okay”—as each new piece of information was conferred, though her conviction faded in lockstep with her mother’s disappearing footsteps.