A Girl Named Ellie

By MaryBeth Edmundson

My figure skates take only a minute or so to lace up, and, taking a deep breath, I glide out onto the ice. With each stroke I take, my anxiety lessens its grip around my heart.

Ellie Hollander wears many hats: foster kid, figure skater, nervous wreck

• Language: English
• Publisher: New Degree Press
• Release date: Dec 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781637309858

Book preview

Author’s Note

This is a story about a girl named Ellie. It wasn’t always this way, though. Originally, it was a story about me, about the way I skate, about the reason I skated for so many years. I came up with this idea while actually on the ice, right after a lesson with my coach. I began crafting a scene about me, but it quickly evolved into something completely separate from my own being. I met Ellie, to whom the story really belongs. Once I met Ellie, the story took on its own life and fluidity. A skating program unique unto itself. 

A question that may come about from this is understandable: What makes me qualified to tell Ellie’s tale? In a way, Ellie is a heightened version of myself. Ellie is me, but much, much more. She is a hurricane with no eye, wrapped up in her thoughts, tangled in a web with few ways out. She escapes through the ice, where she knows with certainty she is free. She does not need to put on a face or pretend she’s fine when she’s not. The ice is her happy place. 

In general, a negative stigma surrounds anxiety and OCD. People make many assumptions about what anxiety should and shouldn’t look like. It isn’t fair to anyone if a judgment is passed based on anxiety manifesting differently in everyone. Because that’s the truth: anxiety is different for everyone. My anxiety looks different than yours. The inside of my anxious brain and where my anxiety starts and stops are different from anyone else’s. Ellie’s journey, Ellie’s brain, is no different. I wanted to give readers a glimpse into Ellie’s brain to understand the manifestation of anxiety is much more nuanced than people tend to understand, believe, or comprehend.

I wrote this book for several reasons and several people, but mainly, I wrote this book for Ellie. She is kind, gentle, yet tormented. Her anxiety is a sort of counterargument within her very soul. Her voice needed to be out there, heard, and recognized because there are people who may feel as Ellie does. They may think they’re alone. I want this book to show no one is alone. This young adult book is written for skating fans, naturally, but also for those who feel as Ellie does: anxious and occasionally alone.

In this book, I hope I’m able to convey many things. I hope the reader learns it’s okay to live in a state of brokenness. We can always work toward getting and being better. I hope they learn vulnerability is valid and beautiful. When this occurs in a community, it almost mirrors a mosaic, when a thousand broken shards come together to reflect the most beautiful light. 

You can’t make assumptions about what another’s brain looks like. No two flowers are the same, and, through reading this book, I want readers to embrace their own blooming, lovely, broken flower.

Prologue

My name is Evelyn.

I prefer to be called Ellie.

Because of this, most people presume my name is Eleanor. When I tell them Eleanor is not my name, it is, in fact, Evelyn, they give me this confused look, almost as if to say, What? That nickname doesn’t really match your name. Why not Evie or Linny?

Truth be told, I was called Linny at one point. When I was very little, Linny was my nickname. But I couldn’t stand being called that.

One day, a long time ago, when I was still called Linny, I asked my mom why everyone called me that. She only laughed. 

I loved to listen to the beautiful notes of her lighthearted birdsong laugh.

All she said was, Your name is Evelyn, sweetheart. Linny is a shorter version of that. It’s cute.

I did not think it was cute.

I remember really, really not liking the way the name Linny sounded. It tasted bad to my young ears. Like if mushrooms had a sound.

My name is Ellie, I whined. I wanted to be Ellie. Like Ellie from Up. That movie Mom and I saw. I wanted to be like that—like Ellie. 

Mom smiled.

It was the last time I saw her smile.

You’ll always be Little Linny to me, she said, gathering me in her arms and holding me tight.

I didn’t ask her, or anyone else, to call me Ellie for a while after that.

There were more pressing matters for six-year-old me to deal with.

Chapter 1

Our beat-up old truck sputters along the road, clanking and banging so much, quite frankly, I’m surprised it’s still alive. The radio and air-conditioning died long ago. 

We have the windows rolled all the way down and hot summer air flies around our heads, making it difficult to breathe. Andrew, my oldest brother, pats the dashboard, muttering soft, encouraging words to the truck. You’re all right, girl. You’re gonna make it. Just a few more miles.

I check my watch. We’re not going to make it. Time-wise, at least, although I’m not sure how much longer the truck will actually last. My lesson starts at 11:30, which means I have to be on the ice by eleven. This means I will have no time to warm up because it’s 10:48. I’m going to have no time to warm up. We should have left earlier. My hand finds my collarbone, which I rapidly begin tapping.

Andrew, being Andrew, shrugs off my anxiously made point. We’ll get there in plenty of time. You’ll still be able to do, like, a little bit of stuff, and that should be fine.

I take in a slow, shaky, deep breath, releasing it in much the same manner. Andrew, we are not going to make it in time for me to even get through half of my warm-up routine. I’m going to be stiff, tight, and clumsy, and it’s going to be bad.

Just do what you can and calm down. Oh, look, he hurries on before I have time to explain why that statement is extremely problematic, we’re here. He pulls up to the drop-off zone, puts the truck in park, and smiles sardonically. You’re welcome. 

I’m not going to thank you, I say as I hop out and hurry to grab my bag from the bed of the trunk, because we are very, very late.

Hey!

One hand tapping my collar bone, one hand on my skating bag, I pause before I head through the rink doors. Turning to see what on earth Andrew could possibly want now, I snap, What?

Bye!

I humor him by waving, and off he drives.

The rink manager and I exchange a nod before I park my bag near a bench and dash up the stairs to the warm-up area. I don’t have time to do more than run a few laps and a rotation or two, so I do my best to settle for that. 

My figure skates take only a minute or so to lace up, and, taking a deep breath, I glide out onto the ice. With each stroke I take, my anxiety lessens its grip around my heart.

One, two, one, two, one, two.

The rhythmic, graceful motion of my blades against the ice soothes my heaving heart. It evens out to a steady drum beat, echoing within me, in tune with my movements. By the time my coach, Sergei, skates out to begin my lesson, I’m as calm and collected as I’ve ever been.

Hello, Sergei barks, his flawless English only broken by his thick Russian accent. He was a talented figure skater in Russia, but he never made it to the Olympics for reasons no one, least of all me, understands and now is a coach here, in Ohio of all places. A few years back, he had a student whose name I can never remember, who almost made it all the way. Their names appeared in the media more often than not, although I was too young to really remember anything about the whole ordeal. One day, Sergei’s student just disappeared. Their names stopped appearing in the media. They no longer competed. They were just gone. Sergei never told me what happened. I never ask.

What have you done so far? he asks as he wipes his glasses on the little white cloth he carries, repositioning the glasses on the bridge of his nose and squinting at me quizzically.

I fill him in on the past half hour, conveniently leaving out the part about me being late because Andrew always has been and always will be a mess, earning a rare nod of approval.

We begin with spins then, yes? My head bobs up and down. Good. Start with the scratch. Let’s get to it. He raises his bushy eyebrows. The hat that rests on the top of his head moves up in perfect unison. He claps his gloved hands, sending me away with a bemused smile. I swear, his hat is a character of its own.

So we begin, filling the hour with combination spins, senior moves in the field, and ending with jumps. I have two tests scheduled for the end of the summer so I can move up a level. Sergei works me ragged in preparation, despite still having about three months before I need to perform. By the forty-five-minute mark, I’ve run through my programs three times each and have done so many double and triple jump combinations I feel a bit like Raggedy Ann.

After landing another combination flawlessly, I earn an approving smile from my coach. Well done, he says. Your double lutz was beautiful. He punctuates his words with a single clap. Now, show me your triple loop.

Dang.

I had been hoping I would have made it through this lesson without having to attempt my triple loop. It’s the most difficult jump I have right now, and I have yet to land it. Ask me to land it off the ice, and I can land it in my sleep. Heck, ask me to do any triple jump off the ice. I’ll nail it. But an on-ice triple loop? Skating backward, gathering speed, and launching myself into the air, spinning around three times, then landing, moving backward still, no less, on a blade that’s a quarter of an inch wide? No, thank you. That option isn’t currently available. Please try again later.

And yet here we are, Sergei staring at me with his eyebrows raised in such a way that makes him somehow resemble Robert De Nero. His mouth set with a grim line stretched across his face.

So.

I begin with a few back-crossovers to gather speed, set up the jump, and throw myself into the air. And I nearly land it, too. My toepick catches the ice, and I stumble. I’m not on my backside, however, and in my book, this is a win. Yet when I glance at Sergei for some sign of approval, I’m met with the opposite. 

Again.

That sinking feeling begins to creep back into the pit of my stomach, working its way up to my heart. I take a deep breath, clenching my shaking hands, and launch into the jump for the second time.

I land flat on my back.

Sergei shakes his head.

Why can’t I get this right?

This is the only part of figure skating I can’t stand. Because of my anxiety and OCD, every time I fail, my thoughts turn into a hurricane, leaving me stuck in the middle of the storm.

With each loop I attempt, I fail more and more miserably. I fall three more times, only managing to pull off something remotely close to a landing once. By the time Sergei calls it quits, I’m a wreck, physically and emotionally.

I know I’m a good skater. I know that. So why can’t I get this? Why can’t I land this triple jump? Perhaps the simplest explanation is the correct one. I’m not as talented as I had thought or hoped. Maybe I should cut my losses and stay home from now on.

But I can’t. It has to be perfect. Even if I really should just stay home, I can’t leave my loop like that. Because surprise! I’m a perfectionist. Instead of skating over to where Sergei stands against the wall, I do four back crossovers, set up my loop, and jump.

It has to be perfect. There’s no other option.

It’s close to perfect, but that doesn’t cut it. My left toepick catches on my exit, causing me to stumble. But I don’t fall. I nearly did it. Sergei makes note of my accomplishment.

That last one was the best you’ve done! He pats my back, a smile stretching across both our faces, his because of my progress, my own because of my relief. The knot in my stomach begins to ease. My anxiety was for nothing, as it usually is. However, Sergei continues on a more serious, worrisome note. There is something I wish to discuss with you. He pauses, giving me just enough time to send my toepick tapping into the ice rapidly. I cannot mince words, so I will not. You are fired.

Fired? What? I blink, unsure if I heard my coach correctly. Fired? That doesn’t make sense. He can’t fire me. I’m paying him!

Sergei shrugs at my confusion. I can no longer work with you. You don’t know if you will be competing any time soon. And after last time, at the competition, when you had an attack… I can no longer work with you. He gives me a look brimming with meaning. I lower my eyes. I remember that competition vividly. After watching how well the other girls skated, I lost my nerve and forced Sergei to withdraw my name from the competition. I thought I sensed a change in him after that, but everyone just told me I was imagining things.

This proves them wrong.

But… but why? I ask, completely bewildered. The embarrassed blush creeping across my cheeks grows larger and deeper with every passing second. How did I get to this point?

Sergei lets out a long, deep sigh. It’s a sigh that has been building up for more months than I could know, perhaps even years. I will be honest with you. You are too old to make it anywhere if you ever decided you want to compete. You are not as good as the other girls. Competent at best, you are. And, you let your nervous head get the better of you. You are not cut out for this. So you are fired. With that harsh statement still ringing in the air, he skates off, leaving me in the center of the ice, my mouth hanging open, looking and feeling like an idiot.

You… you can’t fire me! I finally burst, almost tripping as I chased my coach (or former coach) off the ice and into the lobby. I’m paying you! And you just gave me a lesson!

Well, then, I quit. And the lesson, consider it a parting gift. He nods his farewell before walking to a young girl, no more than five years old, wearing new pearly white skates and a pink tutu. Her mother catches me glaring and quickly looks away. My scowl deepens. Naturally, Sergei would find a new victim. A new star pupil. His new star. He’ll act kind. Then when she doesn’t fit his idea of the next World Champion, he’ll get rid of her. That’s how it goes. I know. I have a crazy desire to shout all of that at the mother and daughter, to scare them off before they even begin, but I hold my tongue. For a moment, I’m so furious I could spit. What right does he have to toss me aside like that? It’s not his choice.

He fired me. He fired me because I’m not a talented enough skater. I’m not good enough. And that’s it? Is that even a valid reason for him to stop being my coach? 

What?

I suddenly can’t breathe. My skates are too tight against my ankles, my gloves too close to my skin, my jacket zipped up too high. And just like that, I’m not the sixteen-year-old Ellie anymore. I’m the six-year-old who failed her spelling test because she got too worked up the night before to study. The six-year-old whose father was in an angry rage, as usual, that carried over to the next day when he saw the test in question.

What’s this? He had snapped. You failed? Why did you fail? I just stood there, my head hanging, willing tears not to roll down my face. "What are you, stupid? Why did you fail this? It’s easy enough. Cat. Dog. You should have gotten that."

I just shrug. Hey. That’s not an answer. Are you that worthless?

Leave her alone. She’s still little, Mom said. She glared at my father, putting two protective hands on my shoulders. 

You stay out of this, my father snapped.

Oh, shut up, Mom fired back. My father stood up, sending his chair flying backward to the wall. Mommy squeezed my shoulders. Go to your room, honey, she whispered against my ear.

She didn’t need to tell me twice.

I locked my bedroom door as the echo of the first plate shattering against a wall rang through the house. I could picture it exploding into thousands of tiny shards, littering the wooden floors.

Sergei fired me for the same reason my father always yelled at me.

One word remains etched in my brain from that moment, one word that resurfaces, one word I’ve been running from for ten years, one word that haunts my every thought, pushes me to do better, be more, even if I hurt myself in the process.

Worthless.

Worthless.

Worthless.

Are you okay?

My head snaps up. From across the way, a guy, who looks to be a few years younger than Robbie, in hockey skates with a whistle hanging around his neck, is staring at me, concerned. I recognize him after a moment. His name is Patrick, Patrick Anderson. He’s my brother Brandon’s hockey coach. He doesn’t seem to recognize me, however, and I would be surprised if he would. I’ve only had limited interactions with him; still, his presence sends me into a tizzy of nerves. I don’t know him as anyone other than my brother’s hockey coach. How am I supposed to act around him? According to my natural reactions, awkward, I guess. My fingers, which were already shaking, tremble with a new intensity as I undo my laces. I wish he would stop trying to talk to me. I know he thinks he’s being nice, but I have no idea how to talk to him.

Um, yeah. Yeah, I’m all right, I say, taking a