Dark Night

Hello

I looked at the TV screen in shock. My big brother rammed his toe pick into the ice, jammed one fist on his hip, and threw his free hand up in the air as the music ended. His dazzling white smile only got broader as he pumped his arm in triumph. The crowd at the arena went nuts. I slapped my hand over my mouth to keep my shrieks in and rolled back against the sofa back in relief.

"Way to go, Stan!" my dad shouted, clapping. We shared a hug and went back to clapping. Of all the times to land all three of his quads and two triple axels, now was a great time, his first men's US championship competition. He'd only left junior competition last year and he hadn't been expected to do so well. But my brother thrived in the tougher environment and his free skate had been absolutely flawless. Well, pretty much flawless. His artistic score wasn't quite as good as it had been at Four Continents, but on a night where all the other men were cleaning the ice with their butts, his program was the most complete, the most difficult by an appreciable margin. Mom called and Dad put her on speaker so we could share the moment. It was amazing.

And he won. Stan actually won. He was the US national champion. I was a little stupefied as I watched the head of the skating federation drape a gold medal around Stan's neck. My brother straightened up and waved his flowers at the crowd.

The commentators were yammering, lauding the excellence of his performance, pointing out that he hadn't been expected to medal. "Look at Constantine's smile!" the woman cooed. "A star is born tonight!"

"Starry Knight!" the man quipped.

And so my brother acquired a new nickname.

The school was buzzing about Stan's big win the next day and on Monday we'd be having a special assembly in his honor. I had a hard time getting to classes on time; everybody wanted to talk about his victory. Normally I don't mind that, but some of my teachers were mad that I was tardy. Mr Davies gave me a detention even when I tried to explain, but he's perpetually stuck at the wrong end of a mood swing. And the vice principal reversed the decision when I explained what had happened, anyway.

He and mom came home from DC right after dinner, and he was still exhilarated and riding high. He told me about a twilight tour of the monuments that he'd taken with some of the other skaters and showed me some slightly blurry pictures. I listened intently; I wanted to go to the capitol some day. Stan showed us his medal proudly; it was heavy and cool in my hand, and Dad had him put it on so he could take a picture. He'd left his bouquet in the hotel room; too bad. It had looked pretty.

 That weekend, a couple representatives from the national figure skaters' association showed up with his coach for a chat about Stan's future. I wasn't part of the discussion, but I was doing homework in the dining room so I got to hear anyway. I was going to a movie with my friends later and wanted to finish geometry first. I actually kind of liked geometry.

"We're very excited about Constantine," Mr Warren, who had something to do about the development of skaters, said enthusiastically.

"We didn't expect Starry to make such progress in his first year in the elite program," Mr Miller admitted. You could hear the grin in his voice when he used Stan's new nickname.  "We think he has a bright future ahead of him, he's going to the world championship this year, and of course, the next Olympics is two years away, which gives him plenty of time to develop as a skater. He's already got the charisma, his personality is evident in his presence on the ice. But if he wants to develop his full potential, he's going to need to make some changes."

I listened as they talked about the need to improve his artistic expression, introduce more advanced choreography, up his technical abilities. Sucks to be Stan, I thought, as I completed a problem.