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some footwork. I close my eyes for a second. Focus. Stop thinking about her and just skate . The first notes of the music sound over the speakers, and I move my arms out and down.
    I follow the movement of my left hand with my eyes and see something weird.
    My hand is shaking.
    â€œNo one is watching,” I whisper to myself. As I take my first steps, I clench and unclench my hands to make them behave. I know this program. There’s no reason for me to be nervous at all. I need to think about what I’m doing—one thing at a time.
    Stroke, turn, arms out. Spiral. I stretch my right leg out behind me as high as it will go. I arch my back until I feel the muscles pulling, and hold that position for five counts.
    Hildy put the double flip at the very beginning of the program. Turn backward. Reach back with right arm. Extend right foot behind me. Toe into ice. Vault into air and pull arms in hard. The two rotations happen almost too fast to count. I land solidly on my right foot. A smile covers my face as I thrust my arms out and stretch my left leg behind me.
    The music continues, and I think my way through the jumps and spins and steps of the program. I turn and set up the hardest jump in the program—the double axel. No one else at Praterville even tried one. I glide backward on my right foot, ready to step forward and launch myself into the air, when someone shouts.
    â€œWatch out!”

Chapter Seven

    I rise up on my toe pick and screech to a stop.
    Addison’s right behind me. Adrenaline rushes through my body as I realize what might’ve just happened.
    â€œOops, sorry,” she says in a sickly-sweet voice as I maneuver around her and try to catch up to my music.
    My heart is thumping overtime and my legs feel like spaghetti, but I push on. One thing at a time. Double lutz. It’s just like a double flip, except I’m gliding into the jump on the outside edge of my blade instead of the inside edge. That tiny little change of edge makes all the difference. I pick my other toe into the ice and start to turn hard into the air. My bodyleans off to the side as I rotate. I land—just barely—but don’t have nearly enough speed or balance for the double loop that comes right after. I try it anyway, pulling my legs together as I twist up and off my right foot. My blade hits the ice too early, and I fall hard on my side.
    I scramble up and hear giggling over the music. Addison stands not five feet away at the entrance to the ice, smiling with the blond woman who’s been sitting on the bleachers through the whole session. They look so much alike, the woman has to be Addison’s mother.
    I force myself back into the program. My hands are shaking again, and it takes all my willpower to finish. As the last notes of Swan Lake fade, I arch my arms over my head in the same pose I started with.
    Breathing hard, I grab my water bottle from the boards where Greg is waiting. I gulp the freezing water as I wait for his judgment. It really wasn’t bad—except for the missed double axel and the fall. And he had to see how Addison messed those up.
    Greg shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He’s looking across the ice. I turn my head to see who he’s watching, but there’s no one in his line of vision.
    â€œHow do you feel about that program?” he asks out of nowhere.
    I take a deep breath. “I missed the double axel. I know I messed up the combination jump, but my timing was off,” I say as fast as possible. Greg’s quiet, so I add, “I think I rushed the flying camel, too.” I’d jumped too fast from one foot to the other to start the flying camel, so when I stretched my left leg out behind me in the spin, I wobbled a little bit. But only for a second. The rest of the spin was fine.
    â€œThe jumps and spins were good. But I’m not talking about that particular run-through. The program as a whole—do you like it?”