As she glides across the ice, her feet do their work, and her arms hold the balance just as they did the previous year. She’s not sure Marik is as confident. She hears him gouge the ice with the point of his skate behind her; she hears Andrei shouting, “Slabak!” from where he waits, calling Marik a weakling. But when she looks back, Marik has already leveled himself off, and all she sees are his cheeks red with cold and his eyes white with determination.

On the other side of the ice field, they get in positions: Marik on the right, Andrei next to him, and Sasha to the left of Andrei. She doesn’t care if she doesn’t win. It is Grandma’s superstition that if you keep your fists clenched so tightly that your fingernails dig into your palms, your wish will come true. She keeps her fingers clenched, wishing for Marik to keep up with Andrei, wishing for him not to stumble.

“On your mark, set, go!” yells Andrei, and they tear forward through the wind, all the way to the other end. She skews her eyes and gets a glimpse of Marik panting and rushing forward, moving ahead of Andrei, who is stabbing the air with his elbows in mad, desperate kicks. And then, a few seconds into this ferocious race, she hears a thump: a body padded with the wool and cotton of a winter coat hits the ice.

She grates to a stop and so does Andrei. They both stare at Marik curled by the edge of the field, stroking the ice around him and squinting, feeling for his glasses with his fingers.

“You pushed me,” he spits out as she hands him the glasses. “I was winning, and you pushed me.”

“No, I didn’t,” says Andrei. “You stumbled and fell. You always stumble and fall.”

“I didn’t stumble!” Marik shouts, but his voice betrays him, and the words come out in a thin falsetto, a mockery of his intended message. “He pushed me,” he whispers as he looks at her, a whisper that comes out as a hiss.

She wants to believe Marik, who is sitting on the ice, wiping his bloodied lip with the sleeve of his coat. She saw him winning, and then she saw him fall. She also wants to believe Andrei, who is standing and whistling, his hat in his hands, his black hair blown across his forehead. They are her friends, and she wants to believe them both, but Marik acts as if he wants her to make a choice. He keeps peering at her, tight springs of red hair framing his face, his eyes as liquid as they were when she beat up a stupid sixth grader. His eyes want to know if she believes him, if she is still as noble as that girl who avenged his dignity with a schoolbag full of homework.