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Greg turns his head to study me.
    What does he mean, do I like it? “I suppose so.” I’m not sure if that’s the right answer.
    â€œDo you feel connected to it, like you’re leaving a piece of yourself on the ice when you skate it?” Greg’s eyes burrow into mine, as if he’s trying to see into my soul.
    I cast my gaze down and pull on the fingers of my black-and-purple-striped glove. “Um . . . I guess? I love skating.” It feels like he’s giving me a test I haven’t studied for. Hildy never asked stuff like this. Her questions were more like, “Did you count the revolutions in that camel spin?” and “Why didn’t you do the bit of choreography before the footwork?” Things I knew the answers to.
    â€œI guess?” Greg repeats.
    I shrug and sneak a look at the clock on the hockey scoreboard. It’s 5:57. Only three minutes left in this ­session. I can’t get away from Greg and his weird questions fast enough. Mom’s right about first impressions. I obviously blew this one.
    â€œKaitlin,” Greg says.
    I snap my eyes back to him.
    â€œYou’ll never skate a memorable, winning program until you put your whole self into it. Not just physically, but emotionally. You need to feel something in order to make the judges and the audience fall in love with you. Your personality has to shine through.”
    I blink at him. The program has expressive choreography. What about that part at the beginning where I’m arched sideways? And the footwork, where I point my toes and make balletic movements with my arms?
    â€œShowing personality and emotion is more than just waving your arms around and imitating movements someone else has come up with,” Greg says as if he read my mind. “What was your program components score at Praterville?”
    â€œNine point six five,” I whisper. My throat is prickling.
    â€œHmm.” Greg rubs his chin with his hand. “Seems like the judges agreed with me. I haven’t seen your protocols, butI’m guessing they docked you on interpretation, choreography, and performance.”
    That’s exactly what the score sheet said. I only stared at it for hours last week, trying to figure out what went so wrong. I bite my lip. The prickling intensifies, and my eyes get watery. I can’t cry in front of Greg. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.
    â€œSession’s over,” the ice monitor calls from the entrance. A few skaters, the ones not staying for the second morning session, move toward the ice entrance.
    â€œI think I know just what you need.” Greg thumps his mittened hand against the top of the boards. “I’ll bring it this afternoon.”
    Addison skids to a stop a foot away, spraying ice all over me. I look down at my snow-covered pants and resist the urge to wipe them dry.
    â€œIsn’t it time for my lesson?” she asks Greg without even looking at me.
    â€œIt is,” Greg says. “See you this afternoon, Kaitlin. And remember, you can’t be a star without twinkling.” He leads Addison out toward center ice.
    I stare after him. What does that mean? And, more importantly, does he really think I’m as boring as the Praterville judges thought? It’s like he didn’t even see how difficultmy program is. Didn’t notice how Hildy chose every single element to show off my soaring jumps and fast spins. My eyes prick again, and I squeeze them shut. I can’t think about that now, or I’ll start crying in front of everyone.
    I go through the motions of practice for the next hour, but my mind is on whatever it is Greg’s bringing this afternoon.
    At least it is until Swishy Hair comes to a stop next to me while I’m sipping water at the boards. I didn’t realize how tall he was yesterday. Now he’s towering over me, although he doesn’t look like he’s very much older.
    â€œI saw what