Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
I watch for Maude’s reaction through the mirror. “So, I was thinking a skirt.”
She looks up from her binder, a pair of readers at the edge of her nose. “Absolutely not.”
Mrs. Mims, a goblin woman, stands on a stool to measure my torso. My body shifts to face Maude and Mrs. Mims hisses, warning me to stay still. I mean mug Maude through the mirror.
“This is homophobic.”
She’s already back to reading the binder, tapping the tip of her finger against her tongue before flipping the page. “I don’t disagree. If this was for an exhibition skate, I’d support you 100%, but seeing as it’s for your Olympic free program, and I’m paying for it, I’m going to veto the skirt.”
Mrs. Mims trills. “I just love your current short program.” Her jagged, toothy grin is softened by her big yellow eyes and oversized ears. “Pisses me off, it's not one of my costumes.”
Maude mutters, “Give us a discount then.”
She throws her tape measure over her shoulder like a diva in an old Hollywood movie. “You see these hands?” She extends her tiny, gnarled fingers with dulled claws. “I have arthritis, you know! And you’re demanding I discount my work?”
I zone out. The last time I witnessed this bartering routine, I almost had a panic attack.
It was the first, and, up until now the only time I’d gotten a Mim’s custom costume.
All over the walls, hidden between fabric spools and mirrors, are photos of Olympians and Grand Prix winners.
Some photos are framed, accompanied by a stylized sketch of the costume.
I didn’t have much say in my costume for my senior debut.
My coach back then was a lot more controlling—plus I was fifteen, constantly teetering between my desperate need to be seen as cool and my true desire to be as bright and sparkly as possible.
I was mortified, and secretly delighted, when my costume had pink accents.
As much as I wish I still had my first costume by Mims, it was designed for my fifteen year old body.
Much to everyone’s horror, I grew out of the pants by the end of the year.
Still, I clung to that thing like a security blanket.
Eventually, I resold it to help pay for the car I currently have. Mims’ work is that renowned.
Maude and Mims keep playing chicken on the price when the bell at the front of the shop dings. Even past the oversized sunglasses, I’d recognize that thick head of red hair and twiggish figure anywhere. I’ve taken maybe two steps forward when Alex spots me—and lets out a shriek of delight.
I harmonize with her as we embrace, both trying our best to squeeze the life out of each other. “Girl, what are you doing here? I thought you were in Russia.”
Alex responds with a laugh, keeping one arm around me as she pushes up her sunglasses.
“I missed your ass too much, clearly.” She gives me a wink.
Her skin has a faint greenish tint, like there’s algae just beneath her pale skin.
The collar of her white puffer coat hides the gills on her neck and the scales that decorate her shoulders.
Alexsandra Ozerskiy is peak Ice Princess.
Her parents were pairs partners in Russia before immigrating to the United States.
They did alright for themselves, but it’s clear Alex is their biggest achievement.
We started skating around the same time, me the Pittsburg Prince and her the Princess of Philly.
Even though we never competed against each other, we always compared our scores. Which was brutal when we hit puberty.
While my voice was cracking, Alex was cracking the ice in Junior Words.
She secured a spot at the 2022 Beijing Olympics back when they still let seventeen-year olds compete.
She snagged bronze, and I will never forget watching the medal ceremony.
I’ve seen Alex’s winning smile, and the face she made on that podium was not it.
Two years ago, she moved to Russia to work with a new coach.
It’s been hard to keep up since then, what with the time difference and the reality that she practices around the clock. As we hold each other, bouncing up and down on our toes, it’s like she never left the states.
“We have so much—”
“To talk about—” Her joyous smile shifts to something more devious. “Like where we need to shop once we’re in Milan."
Maude clears her throat. She’s gotten up from her chair and now blocks Mims’ tiny, shriveled body. “We can’t keep Mims waiting.”
Mims’ crochet voice croaks. “I’m gonna die back here if you don’t hurry up!”
Alex squeezes my hand. “There’s a coffee shop on the corner. Once you’ve got your measurements, meet me there? I’m just picking something up.”
“I know you’re busy—”
“Not too busy for you.” She gives me another hug. This one is gentle, like I’m a baby bird resting in her slender palm. She shouts over my shoulder,“Measure him quick Mimsy!”
Mims waddles over, holding a staff twice her size with a hook on the end carrying an opaque garment bag. “I’d have him done by now if you weren’t being so clingy.”
Alex leaves a wad of cash on the counter and grabs the garment bag, slinging it over her shoulder. “Dasvidaniya.” She makes a little kissy noise against my cheek. Pushing her sunglasses down, she steps back out into the streets of South Philly.
It takes Mims maybe fifteen minutes to finish up my measurements. I’d already given her some inspo photos so she and Maude give me the okay to go while she does some mock-up sketches. Sure enough, there’s a cute little cafe down the block and Alex has found a seat right at the window.
We greet each other again with a hug, but with less screaming this time around. We both open our mouths to speak but I get there first. “Russia? What happened?”
Alex gags and rolls her eyes. “They had me training with the junior girls.”
“Oh noooo,” I match her, rolling my eyes as hard as possible. “Not the thirteen-year-olds landing quads. How terrible.”
“It was terrible. They treated me like a junior too. Talked down to me, had me training ridiculous hours—” The corner of her lip snarls and her brows knit together.
Finally she makes a gagging sound with her tongue out.
“So not worth it.” She reaches across the table to touch my hand.
“But that’s the past and we are all about the future. Milan. Are you excited?”
“I haven’t secured my spot yet.”
Her delicate hand balls into a fist, delivering a swift but soft punch to my shoulder. I rub my imaginary bruise while she scolds me. “You can’t think like that! You think when I was seventeen, I was thinking in ‘what ifs’?”
“No.” Like her parents would ever let her treat the Olympics as an option and not her future by divine right. “I am excited.” We finally sit down. “But you’ve got to give me some tips.”
“Have fun and be yourself?” She lifts a mug of black coffee to her lips. “Whatever you’re doing right now is working.” I must make a face because she sets down her mug and leans forward. “I’m serious! Something about your last two programs… It’s like watching you when we were kids.”
I lift a brow. “Are you saying my boyish charm is winning over the judges.”
“Ew, no. You don’t look boyish at all. Especially not with that dye job.” She takes a strand of my golden bangs before pushing them back. “What I mean is you have this new drive, that’s what the judges are responding too. Like when you did that program to some guitar solo forever ago.”
My first real competition—I’d just turned six and was elated I could land a toe loop.
Not an impressive routine even for my age group.
Without that routine, I wouldn’t be sitting here fifteen years later.
I understand what Alex’s refers to in that baby routine, the first spark that builds into a blaze.
Something is causing my embers to burn super bright.
“I want to go all the way,” I think aloud. “Olympics are the one thing normal people understand.”
Alex nods in silence. If I asked the barista what their favorite Grand Prix routine is, or even when this year’s Grand Prix even is, I’d get a blank stare.
Sure, there are devoted skating fans, but this sport doesn’t offer fame and fortune like hockey or football.
People only really care about it once every four years—and that has way more to do with national pride than athleticism.
“Not that I’m going to relax for the Grand Prix.”
“You got bronze last year, right?”
I throw my head back, “Don’t remind me.”
“Oh wah! Third out of hundreds of international skating stars.”
“Sorry, what did you place last year?”
Alexs hums, playing coy. “I don’t remember.”
“Bullshit—do you melt your medals down or something?”
Her nose scrunches. “Bronze isn’t worth much on the market.”
“Bronze is still—”
“Anyway, I don’t just want to talk about skating.” She twirls her deep-red hair around her finger. “How’s life otherwise?”
“You think I have a life outside of skating? Please,” I place my elbows on the table, wringing my interlocked hands in desperation. “Teach me your ways, show me the path to a work-life balance.”
“Aren’t you getting a degree?”
I let my head fall to the table with a satisfying thunk.
Alex laughs. “Sorry I asked. I have a boyfriend now.”
I lift my head so my chin sits on the table’s edge.
“Anyone I know?”
Not that dating within your sport is easy, especially a sport as political as figure skating, but at least you don’t have to explain diets, rehearsals, and why your feet are so damn blistered to a fellow skater.
She purses her lips, doing a poor job of hiding a smile. “You’ve heard of him…” She reaches for her coat pocket but stops. “But we’re on the down low right now. So, you have to promise me not to tell anyone.”
I sit up, making a little X across my heart.