First Competition (4)
My breath comes short. My heart pounds.
After roughly thirty seconds of applause that feel eternal, I move my legs and head off the ice.
A slow heaviness settles from my toes to my knees. The dizziness left by the finishing spin finally rises now. Still, I keep my back straight. It isn’t over yet.
The performance has ended, but the real results start from this moment.
"Seolhwa, well done. Come here."
I take Yerim’s waiting hand and step from the ice onto solid ground. The moment the firm, go-anywhere slipperiness vanishes, a small regret lingers. Holding Yerim’s hand, I walk in silence.
We arrive at a small raised space that juts a little toward the stands—blue-toned benches and decorations, baskets of bouquets set to the side. In front of me, a large screen ready to display the scores and a camera waiting.
I’m back.
The Kiss & Cry Zone.
The place where a skater and coach wait for their marks after the program. If you were satisfied with your skate, you wait for the numbers. If you weren’t, you wish they would come even a little later. A merciless corner of the sport that, to the winner, still throws a splendid bouquet. The place that shows you the other face of figure skating.
"Um… excuse me."
Yerim speaks first in a worried voice to the people already sitting there. Jin Sehee, who skated right before me, and her coach are still occupying the seats. Normally they clear out the moment the next skater finishes.
She cried.
From the look of things, Sehee’s nerves had shattered and her coach was still trying to put her back together. She must have been staring at her own score, certain it was enough for first, then watched my program and realized a higher mark was coming.
She’s seven.
Second year or not, proper competitor or not—she’s still a little kid. Everyone grows by going through this.
"Oh, I’m so sorry. We’ll move right away."
"Please take your time."
"Sehee, hurry up—the next skater is here."
"Hic… hhk."
Sehee’s coach carefully helps her to her feet.
"It’s okay, Sehee. Your program was good. It’s over. Let’s go."
Jin Sehee is too exhausted from crying to manage a proper voice; she only nods without a word. I’m used to seeing faces like that. Some people break for the first time here. Some get back up. This space is always the same.
Once they clear the bench, Yerim gives my back a careful little push.
"Let’s go, Seolhwa."
I nod quietly and stop in front of the blue bench. Folding my small body carefully, I sit. The camera is rolling. Flashes spark from the distant stands. None of it feels strange. I have sat in this seat thousands of times. The moment I decide to enjoy the air, the lighting, even the tension of this place, everything returns like memory.
"Are you tired?"
"No, I’m fine."
I answer shortly and watch the screen. The scores will appear any second.
In that instant the first numbers light up.
TES: 21.85
Technical Element Score—the marks for the technical content. How accurately and how difficultly you execute the jumps, spins, steps. The part that is most clearly visible, and at the same time the part cut without mercy. Every wobble and every mistake on the ice is reflected exactly on the board. The slightest unsteadiness, a short rotation—deductions instead of bonuses. That is why this score is frighteningly honest. No excuses. No free passes.
Beneath it the second number rises.
PCS: 16
Program Components Score—expression, composition, choreography, musical interpretation. A score you cannot simply take at face value. More ambiguous than the technical mark, and therefore sometimes accused of bias. Yet this is the place where true artists are sorted out. It measures a skater’s completeness in the art of figure skating: performance quality, fundamental skating skill, command of the ice.
PCS is higher than I expected?
It feels a little strange to say this as a competitor, but component scores tend to follow reputation—how long you have been on the circuit, how well the audience and judges already know your name. All of that is baked into the number. In other words, newcomers almost never score high here. On top of that, judges usually give a little extra to the skater they want to push. Even with an overwhelming program I had expected something close to Sehee’s or a little lower. Instead it is three points higher.
Then the total appears.
37.85.
Among seven-year-old girls, the ones called geniuses usually sit under thirty. The girl who will one day win the World Championships—Jin Sehee—scored 33.4 today. An undeniable victory.
I suppose I should be satisfied with this for now.
Yet even though I had expected to win the competition, I cannot feel satisfied. In my previous life my personal best was 220. The road still left to walk is impossibly long.
I stand on the highest step, first place. A medal decorated with a gold ribbon is placed around my neck; the ceremonial bouquet leaves a warm weight against my chest. Under the spotlight, every flash that bursts in front of my eyes brings a faintly alien sensation.
"First place in Girls’ Singles, ages 5–7—Cha Seolhwa!"
The announcer’s voice rolls out. Applause pours from the surroundings, but it is not what anyone would call a crowd—just Mom, Yerim, and the acquaintances of the skaters standing on either side of me.
Calling this an awards ceremony is a stretch.
In a multi-group joint competition that runs all day, the 5–7 division is little more than a courtesy. Even a temporary podium like this is something to be grateful for.
I smile toward Mom, who is photographing me with the medal around my neck. Then I glance sideways.
"…"
Jin Sehee, who had been perfectly fine until she stepped onto the podium, is sniffling again. Is second place really that bitter? She is seven, and she has always been called a genius while taking first; it is understandable.
After receiving the medal and bouquet we come down and approach Mom and Yerim.
"Our daughter was completely amazing."
"See, ma’am? I told you. Seolhwa has real talent for figure skating."
Both of them look thoroughly pleased. Mom is proud of me; Yerim seems satisfied with the result.
"Tonkatsu today."
"Of course! Our first-place girl gets whatever she wants!"
I absolutely have to eat tonkatsu today. The last time I had it was when I started skating—almost half a year ago.
"Coach, would you like to come with us?"
"Oh, I haven’t eaten yet today… is it really all right?"
"Of course! You’re basically Seolhwa’s teacher."
"Then I’ll gratefully accept."
Just like that, Yerim is added to the post-competition meal. The important thing is the tonkatsu, not who sits with us…
"Oh no, what now?"
The tonkatsu place we return to after half a year happens to be closed today. The sight freezes me in place, unable to speak.
"Shall we go somewhere else?"
"Yes! I know a really good place nearby!"
Mom and Yerim hurriedly start soothing me. We ride in silence for a few minutes until we stop in front of the small specialty tonkatsu shop Yerim recommended.
"This place is really solid. I stopped by after a competition last time—the cutlets are thick and the sauce is pure art."
Yerim makes a little thumbs-up with her fingers. A small, modest shop, the kind of exterior you see in any neighborhood alley. Mom smiles—“Well, at least the door is open”—and pushes it first.
Ding-dong—
The bell on the door rings and a staff member inside greets us brightly. And then a familiar face catches my eye first.
Jin Sehee.
"…!"
She must have arrived a little earlier than us. She is sitting in a corner seat, quietly choosing from the menu with a woman who looks like her mother. Our eyes meet for only an instant. In my old memories most kids could not endure a situation like this and could not even lift their heads. Her tears have dried; her expression is a little stiff, but she stays right where she is.
"Oh my, isn’t that the girl from earlier? Maybe we should say hi…"
Mom murmurs softly, then hesitates when she sees my face.
"…Seolhwa, what do you think? If it’s uncomfortable we can just pretend we didn’t notice."
"It’s fine."
I nod and walk quietly forward. As I pass her table I open my mouth for the briefest moment.
"Your program today was good."
Jin Sehee looks up at me, startled. Red-rimmed eyes, careful lips. Then, in a voice so small it is almost inaudible, she answers.
"…Thanks."
That is all. I say nothing more and head to our seats. Mom and Yerim follow quietly, and the three of us sit by the window. Yerim, opening the menu, speaks carefully.
"Seolhwa, you were really cool."
"That’s right—just now you looked like a big sister."
Mom and Yerim praise me in soft voices, full of pride.
Ruining a relationship doesn’t help anyone.
The child who holds back tears and the child who conquers them both grow up on this ice. There are no eternal enemies and no eternal teammates—that is the life of a figure skater on the ice.