Page 24 of Wonderstruck

Well, Rory, why don’t you just go to the rink with everyone else, or the one inCentral Park? You know, like the rest of the world does?

The idea had crossed my mind, but I’d vetoed it pretty quickly.

The first time Iskated again couldn’t be some casual group outing. No, it needed to be private. Not because I was hoping for some dramatic moment where I’d step onto the ice and violins would swell in the background like I was in a movie montage.

Okay, maybe a tiny part of me had imagined that. I’m just a girl.

But mostly, I wanted it to be quiet. Peaceful. Just me, the ice, and the chance tosee if this part of me still existed without any distractions—or an audience. Especially if all my skating skills didn’t miraculously return and I ended up with my ass in the air.

Yeah, no witnesses forthat,please.

“Just one,” I whispered, more tomyself than my empty room, scrolling like my life depended on it. “Just one of these websites needs to say, ‘Hey! Want an ice rink all to yourself? Well, come to us; we won’t charge you a thing!’”

A few more fruitless clicks later, I felt my body give up, my shoulders sagging as I closed the laptop with a defeated sigh. My arms folded into a pillow on the desk, my hair spilling over them as I let my head drop.

Maybe this was the universe’s way of telling me I wasn’t ready to skate again. Maybe it was just trying to protect me for once.

My head turned just enough for my eyes to land on the skates resting on mybed, the satin sheets making them look like royalty.

No. I could do this. Just five moreminutes.

But as I scrolled through the same unhelpful links, my heart sinking a little further with each one, I gave up again.

Abandoning my laptop, I pulled out my phone and headed for Instagram. My thumbs flew across the search bar, plugging in keywords: rink, lessons, hire. Within seconds the explore page loaded with a blur of icy images, glittering costumes, and skaters mid-spin.

My thumbs cranked back into gear, searching faster now, almost frantically.

Then I stopped. A square in the middle of the feed caught my eye.

I blinked, pulling my screen closer.

I know her.

The picture filled my screen—a woman in a sleek navy tracksuit, a gleamingmedal around her neck, and a warm, pretty smile. Her face stirred something familiar, tugging at a memory I couldn’t quite reach.

My gaze wandered down to the caption:Calling all competition skaters, a newcoach just dropped. Aspen English, a four-time Olympic gold medalist, is hanging up her costumes for her coach’s uniform, training the future greats like the one and only Aurelia Greene trained her.

My heart stopped.

Mom’s name.

I stared at it, the letters blurring slightly as tears pricked the corners of my eyes. There it was. Proof that she wasn’t just a memory in my heart but a part ofsomething bigger—a legacy.

I blinked away the tears threatening to fall, knowing full well that once Istarted, I’d never get to sleep. Instead, I focused on the screen, skimming over the caption again.

Simply fill in the form in our bio, and we’ll get back to you. Happy skating!

Atthe bottom of the caption was the signature:Everglades Ice Rink: NYC.

A quick map search showed me it was only a few subway stops away from thehouse. I scrolled back up to the picture, letting my eyes linger on Aspen English, taking in how much she’d changed—and stayed the same. Her once long auburn hair, which I used to envy more than words could describe, was now a sleek, professional bob. It suited her. Her sharp green eyes were still striking, though softer now.

Without thinking, I clicked on the rink’s profile and followed the link to theirform. It loaded quickly, but the more I read, the heavier my heart felt.

References. Competition figures. Test levels. USFSA membership details.

The list went on and on, like a checklist for someone I wasn’t anymore. I slumped back in my chair, the hopelessness bubbling up again.

My eyes darted back to the post, reading it for the third time.

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