CHAPTER 4
Ana
IT’S TOO EARLY to be up, but this is the third time this week I can’t sleep.
While yawning, I weigh the options: get ready for practice two hours earlier or try to fall back asleep even though by the time I’ll start to drift off, I’ll be interrupted by my alarm. Scrolling on my phone is the least productive option, of course the one I opt for.
The stark glow of light in the dark room burns my eyes, forcing them to stay open, as I take in the flood of notifications pouring into my screen. Instagram, TikTok, messages from Naomi and my coach, and the latest headlines.
Figure skating wasn’t known to be the focus on sports news, but ever since The Academy’s rise in prestige over the past decade of collecting the most talented skaters in the nation and even internationally, people started talking.
And everyone always has something to say.
First I check my DMs:
@1anapetrovh8ter: Violet is way better than you, can’t wait til you quit skating
@sportsarelyfe45sstars: you could really lose a few
@_ faerieladleskatingfan543: the next time you fall I hope you break the rest of your bones
That familiar, suffocating anchor presses against my stomach, drowning me in anger, sadness, and nausea.
Yes, people will tell you anything they want and expect you to take it.
Three more accounts to block.
I press my pillow over my face, hoping it washes away any memory of my most recent fan mail.
_________
Naomi and I carpooled to the rink today. Unlike Rina Yamamoto, Naomi Yamamoto has no affiliation with The Academy.
I was twelve when Coach first saw me practice at Lake Faerieladle, the same day Rina was teaching her granddaughter, who was just six-years-old at the time, how to skate.
And when I saw that the Rina Yamamoto was just a few feet away from me, I could barely function for the rest of that session, though somehow must have held my own a tad because immediately after my final layback spin for the day, she came up to me and asked if I had a coach and what rink I skated for.
I didn’t have a coach and skated at a small rink in Wisteria just outside of town and at the Lake.
And the next day I had a coach, the coach I was still too starstruck to believe selected me to train, never forgetting the thrilling high I felt at the (extremely) unexpected offer, equally remembering the sheer look of relief that swept over Naomi’s tiny face when she realized her grandmother wasn’t going to interfere with her very important weekend activities.
No, seriously, those were the exact words she said to me, along with a high-five so exuberant I broke into a major chuckle.
It turned out Naomi would join our practices for my first year of training since her parents were swamped with work, the time we spent on that ice together bringing us as close as sisters.
Naomi always wanted a sister, and I always wanted a sibling.
We both wound up with what we wanted and also a best friend for life.
And to this day, we’re both probably at the Larsson Ice Rink 24/7, with my practices and her hours at the rink’s skate shop.
When we arrive at the rink’s lobby this morning at just a quarter to six, as early as it is, the place is already packed.
Skaters fill the navy-painted halls from left to right, and it’s officially the first day of training season at The Academy.
Chloe and Isabella are lacing up their skates on the glossy wooden bench outside the main rink.
Emi, Sasha, and Katya are stretching on the matte charcoal floor, in split position.
Dylan, Max, Peter, and Scott have begun warming up at the adjacent rink, currently on leg swings, while Haru, Marc, Nathan, and Antonio alternate between power pulls and twizzles.
Yet, to my surprise, no trace of Violet or Ethan.
Violet’s minions, however, have already graced the premises. Natalia, Sheerin, and Tatiana.
And that’s just the top figure skating pairs at the senior level at our academy. The rest of the skaters have practices scheduled throughout the day at varying times, depending on the week.
Naomi and I make our way toward the women’s locker room, and at first, I think I’m imagining it, but feeling a collection of eyes on us, I swing around to find the entire room chattering amongst their own smaller cliques whilst watching us.
You’d think we’d committed a crime by the abhorrent look mirroring their glances, but I guess pairing with the guy who has all the female figure skaters and some male skaters lusting after him, is about to make me an even bigger target.
Half-expecting it already, I postponed the inevitable by avoiding last night’s latest campus podcast airing.
Not knowing how Violet’ spun the truth this time, unfavourability toward me is almost guaranteed.
Ana stole Troy right out from under me.
Or
Ana manipulated Troy into leaving me.
Or even
Ana’s hopped from Ethan’s dick right onto Troy’s.
Notice how the common denominator in each fabrication paints me as a villain and her as the victim.
But that’s the privilege that comes with the territory.
The Dupont last name carries weight heavier than all the medals our roster has accumulated.
Violet’s been the center of attention and respect at this rink and in the sport since we were kids.
With a commanding presence and perfectly tousled loose waves of blonde, she’s a spitting image of her grandmother, Marion.
Except, Marion at least hides her revulsion of me if she’s akin to it.
Naomi loops her arm in mine, dragging my attention back toward today’s schedule. As we fall into step with another, she coos, “When were you going to tell me you’re banging Larsson?”
So I didn’t imagine one of the three outcomes.
“Very funny, Naomi.”
She clings her forest green book bag to her chest as she takes a seat on a bench once we reach the locker room.
“Screw what they think. If I were you, I’d flaunt it in their faces.
” Her eyes jump wide open while a jumble of stationary spills from her bag.
“Like a Scarlet Letter. Strap an A over a boob and make them mope.”
“That was very motivational, Naomi. Thank you.”
“I’m serious. They’d kill to be in your skates.”
I mime back the inaudible laugh she shoots me. “Yeah, well, I’m lucky if I don’t kill him.”
Kneeling in unison, we retrieve her items from the floor. You can always count on Naomi Yamamoto to have a bag full of surprises, one that would give Mary Poppins herself a run for her money.
Today’s collection: A packet of mints, a plastic seashell covered in peach iridescence, three sleeves of fruity teas, a tube of emerald glitter glue, a kiwi, two dark chocolate granola bars, an eyelash curler, an almost empty tube of her signature clear lip gloss, tickets to the Coldplay concert we went to last month, her silver sequin wallet that Rina made her, and an aqua beach towel half the size of the entire bag.
“A seashell?” I cock a brow at her, adding the final item back into her cotton bag.
“Yeah, Leslie’s had a bunch on sale,” she shares. “Thought they’d go nicely with the new wallpaper.”
Naomi’s always been into crafts but recently has taken the hobby to a whole other level.
The leap started when she found out her crush, Will Evans, asked out her supposed friend from AP Chem to the junior prom.
In the two months since, she’s trimmed her onyx black hair to shoulder length, retired her raspberry velvet backpack that Will complimented once, and decided her room needed to be completely redone, all to kick off a fresh start.
But her latest makeover isn’t solely a response to rejection from a guy, more so a push to rearrange things the way she often does. She’s decorated her room a new theme each year since middle school, and Beach has become the unanimous choice going into her senior year at Faerieladle High.
Whether related to a guy or not, Naomi’s good at moving on. She’s always been intuitive, perceptive, and if not anything else, bold. I don’t think she’s scared of a thing. Something I’ve equally admired and envied about her since the day we met.
I’m afraid she’s also right about the situation with Troy. Skating with him could be something I use to my advantage. Opportunities it would bring up, ones I’ve been struggling to maintain since the last Winter Games.
Except, it’s also entirely hopeless, when our rift dates back to kindergarten, when Troy publicly teased my outfit on my birthday. Surprising us both, I threw a vanilla cupcake at him instead of crying. Well, I cried a little before I threw the cupcake, but that’s beside the point.
From that day, I fought against everything he’d do, and skating just became the most effective tactic for retaliation.
Retaliation for the time he teased me in front of his hockey teammates right after I had complimented him in third grade, payback for stealing my favorite spot to skate on at the Lake in fifth grade, then stealing my parking spot every chance he got in tenth grade, and my personal absolute worst, the nickname he gave me in eighth grade—Annabel.
That one stuck around all throughout high school and college and despite my many protests, only recently fizzled out.
So it’s hard to detect the silver lining in our pairing when half my energy for almost two decades has gone into ensuring his pair doesn’t place first, regardless of the title we’re competing toward.
Even the reminder streams nausea back into my stomach. Because the room smells rancid all of a sudden.
I reach my locker, and Naomi notices the foul smell of garlic the same moment I do.
Troy.
That fucker must have snuck in earlier, even before the janitors, to plant something in my locker. After all, he has the keys to the literal rink.
Naomi brings a hand to her face, plugging her nose. “What’s that smell?”
I sigh. “Don’t ask.”