Andrea’s reminder was not a curfew.
That distinction mattered to Maja.
“Staff meeting at eight,” Andrea said. “Then the photoshoot, food crawl, and baseball. Tomorrow is long.”
Maja nodded.
Rita Ashbury-Singh nodded.
The two pages nodded.
Nobody asked what time they had to be back.
Andrea looked at Maja instead.
“That was not permission to make eight o’clock hurt.”
“I know.”
“You smiled when you said that.”
“I smile a lot.”
Rita looked at Andrea.
“She does.”
Andrea sighed.
Shun was waiting outside with his board tucked under one arm.
Maja had hers.
Rita had the sponsored board she had been given for the trip, along with sponsored clothes that had somehow managed to make a Kensington prep-school girl look convincingly at home beside Maja.
The two pages had their own boards and more protective gear than anyone else in the group.
Some of that was because they were learning.
Some of it was because they had been told to carry extra.
Some of it belonged to Maja.
Her own protective equipment consisted of a pad on her left knee and one on her right elbow.
No helmet.
Rita looked her over.
“You know that makes no sense.”
“It makes perfect sense.”
“You have protected one of each.”
“I know which parts hit.”
“That is not how falling works.”
“It is how I fall.”
Rita had stopped arguing about it in Mexico.
Mostly.
She had learned to skate there because Maja had decided that years of snowboarding meant Rita already understood enough about balance, edges, commitment, and what happened when gravity won.
Maja had been partly right.
The first afternoon, Rita had stepped onto the board like someone accustomed to having both feet attached to the same object.
The board had immediately explained the difference.
After that, she learned quickly.
Now she pushed off beside Maja without looking down.
Shun noticed.
“You’re better than I expected.”
Rita gave him a look.
“What did you expect?”
“Kensington.”
“That explains nothing.”
“It explains a lot.”
Maja laughed.
“Careful. She went to one of those schools where they teach you seventeen ways to insult somebody without technically being rude.”
Rita pushed ahead of her.
“They teach twenty-three.”
The pages followed more cautiously.
Both had been practicing standing on their boards at the hotel, which Maja had specifically told them did not count as skating.
One still looked down too much.
The other had developed the dangerous confidence of someone who had not yet fallen hard enough.
Maja pointed at him.
“You.”
He looked up.
“You are going to eat pavement tonight.”
“I have not fallen.”
“That’s why.”
Shun laughed.
“Good teacher.”
“I am an amazing teacher.”
Rita said, “She called me a coward for an hour.”
“You kept stepping off.”
“I was learning.”
“You were escaping.”
They moved toward the spot Shun had chosen.
Maja knew before they reached it that something was wrong.
Too many boards.
Too many people standing around pretending not to watch somebody.
Too many phones already out.
She looked at Shun.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
“I invited some people.”
“How many?”
“A few.”
They rounded the corner.
Maja stopped.
Rita nearly walked into her.
The young man standing near the rail was already famous enough that calling him a legend did not sound ridiculous despite his age.
Maja had watched his clips.
Everyone who skated had watched his clips.
He was the name people reached for when they wanted to explain the best young skater of the generation to someone outside the sport.
The comparison usually involved Tony Hawk, not because he skated like Tony Hawk, but because he had crossed that line where someone stopped being merely excellent and became part of how the sport explained itself.
Beside him were three skate bloggers Maja recognized immediately.
A woman standing with them had a Sports Illustrated credential clipped to her bag.
She also had one foot on a board.
Not holding it for a photograph.
Standing on it.
Maja looked at Shun.
“You asshole.”
Shun smiled.
“You’re welcome.”
Maja suddenly became aware of everything.
Her board.
Her sponsor clothes.
Her stupid one-knee, one-elbow protection.
Her hair.
Where her hands were.
The fact that she had apparently forgotten how to speak.
Rita stared at her.
Then slowly smiled.
“Oh.”
Maja looked at her.
“Do not.”
“I have never seen this.”
“Seen what?”
“You nervous.”
“I am not nervous.”
“You are.”
“I have spoken in front of heads of state.”
“Yes.”
“I have argued with Matt.”
“Yes.”
“I have been interviewed by people with audiences bigger than some countries.”
Rita nodded toward the skaters.
“And now?”
Maja glared at her.
“Shut up.”
The young legend noticed them and rolled over.
Not dramatically.
One push and a slow glide.
“Maja Zhang?”
Maja’s brain briefly stopped doing useful work.
“Yeah.”
“I like your stuff.”
That was worse.
“Thanks.”
Rita covered a cough with one hand.
Maja heard the laugh inside it.
He looked down at Maja’s board, then at the peculiar distribution of protective equipment.
“One knee?”
“Left.”
“One elbow?”
“Right.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
No mockery.
No question.
Just acceptance of one more strange thing skaters did because bodies developed preferences.
The Sports Illustrated writer rolled over next.
“I was told there would be skating.”
Shun said, “There will.”
One of the bloggers pointed toward the pages.
“They skate?”
Maja looked back.
“Not yet.”
The page with too much confidence said, “I can stand on it.”
Maja turned immediately.
“That is not skating.”
The legend laughed.
“What are they doing here?”
“I promised I’d teach them tonight.”
Maja looked back at the people she had spent years watching.
Then at the two pages.
It irritated her how easy the choice was.
She pointed toward an open section of pavement.
“Come on.”
The overconfident page looked toward the assembled skaters.
“Now?”
“That was the promise.”
Maja rolled away from the group.
For three seconds she hated herself.
Behind her were people she might never get another night with.
In front of her were two beginners, one staring at his feet and the other preparing to discover the pavement personally.
Then wheels sounded behind her.
She looked back.
The young legend was following.
So was the Sports Illustrated writer.
Then Shun.
Then one blogger.
Maja slowed.
“You don’t have to.”
The legend shrugged.
“You said you’re teaching.”
“Yes.”
“So teach.”
There was no condescension in it.
That was what got her.
No grand gesture.
No celebrity graciously indulging the kids.
Just another skater seeing beginners and coming over.
Maja pointed at the page staring at his board.
“Stop looking down.”
“I need to see where my feet are.”
“They are attached to you.”
The Sports Illustrated writer laughed.
“Solid coaching.”
“It works.”
Rita rolled over.
“Eventually.”
Maja pointed at her.
“Evidence.”
Rita bowed slightly.
“I am apparently a teaching credential.”
“You learned.”
“I snowboard.”
“You fell.”
“Those are not mutually exclusive.”
The young legend stepped beside the nervous page.
“Bend your knees more.”
The page obeyed instantly.
Maja stared.
“I have told him that twelve times.”
“He knows who I am.”
The page looked embarrassed.
Maja pointed at him.
“Traitor.”
Everyone laughed.
The next hour stopped belonging to anyone important.
That was the best part.
The bloggers filmed, but they skated too.
The Sports Illustrated writer asked questions while rolling beside Rita.
Shun moved between groups, translating slang when necessary and occasionally shouting warnings when somebody drifted into the wrong line.
Maja taught.
Rita helped.
The experienced skaters joined whenever they saw something they could fix.
The page who had been afraid to move finally pushed three times without stepping off.
Maja slapped both hands over her head.
“Yes!”
He nearly fell because he turned toward her.
“Forward!”
He recovered.
Barely.
The legend clapped.
The page smiled so hard he forgot to look nervous.
The other page finally ate pavement.
Maja had been expecting it.
He went down on a turn, caught himself badly, rolled, and came up shocked.
Before anyone could reach him, Maja called, “Anything broken?”
He checked.
“No.”
“Bleeding?”
He looked at one palm.
“A little.”
“Congratulations. Now you skate.”
Rita shook her head.
“That is almost exactly what she told me.”
“You survived.”
“I had snow to fall on.”
“You had Mexico pavement too.”
The Sports Illustrated writer looked at Rita.
“You learned from her?”
“In Mexico.”
“Never skated before?”
“No. Snowboarded for years.”
That interested her.
“Did it transfer?”
“Balance did. Commitment did. Knowing hesitation usually makes a bad situation worse did.”
Maja rolled past.
“See?”
Rita continued.
“Everything else was an argument.”
Maja raised one hand without turning.
“Also true.”
Eventually the beginners were tired enough that instruction became counterproductive.
Maja looked back toward the main group.
The legend saw her looking.
“Your turn.”
That was all the permission she needed.
She pushed hard.
The first line was safe.
Not easy.
Safe.
Something she knew she could land because she suddenly cared far too much about not looking stupid.
She finished clean.
One of the bloggers shouted, “That all you brought from Missouri?”
Maja turned.
There it was.
The tension broke.
“Fuck you.”
Everyone laughed.
She came back faster.
The next run was better.
Then Rita joined.
Rita did not have Maja’s tricks.
She did have years of knowing how to trust motion.
She carved through the open space, comfortable at speed, knees loose, upper body quiet.
The legend watched.
“Snowboarder?”
Rita nodded.
“That obvious?”
“Only if you know.”
He dropped in beside her.
Rita followed.
For the next twenty minutes she forgot she was from Kensington.
Forgot prep school.
Forgot flight training.
Forgot anyone had ever ranked anyone.
There were only boards and wheels and people who respected what another person could do.
Maja saw it.
She also saw the pages watching from the edge.
One was rubbing his elbow.
The other was standing on his board again.
Maja pointed toward him.
“You want another?”
He nodded.
She looked toward the legends.
Then back.
The young legend saw it happen again.
“Go.”
Maja hesitated.
“I can do both.”
“I know.”
He rolled after her.
So did Rita.
Then Shun.
Pretty soon the whole ridiculous collection of famous skaters, bloggers, flight cadets, V’ren pages, and one Sports Illustrated writer had reorganized itself around two people learning to turn.
Nobody treated it like charity.
That mattered.
When one page finally made a full, ugly, uncertain curve without stepping off, the cheer he received would have embarrassed someone landing something far more difficult.
He looked horrified.
Then delighted.
Maja slapped his shoulder.
“Again.”
By eleven, nobody had mentioned the hotel.
At eleven-thirty, Shun checked the time.
“Staff meeting at eight.”
Maja looked at him.
“You sound like Andrea.”
“I am protecting myself. When you complain tomorrow, I want witnesses.”
Rita checked the time too.
“We should probably go.”
The legend said, “One more.”
Maja immediately pointed at him.
“See?”
Rita stared.
“You were looking for an excuse.”
“Yes.”
“One.”
It became three.
At midnight, the bloggers started peeling away.
The Sports Illustrated writer stayed long enough to try one final line with Maja and then sat on a low wall making notes while everyone else kept moving.
Maja eventually dropped beside her.
“You really skate.”
The writer looked offended.
“I told you.”
“Writers lie.”
“So do people being interviewed.”
“Fair.”
The writer nodded toward the pages.
“That was the story.”
Maja frowned.
“What was?”
“You had half the people here waiting to skate with you and spent the first hour teaching beginners.”
“I promised them.”
“Exactly.”
Maja looked away.
That sounded dangerously like something someone might put in an article.
“Don’t make it inspirational.”
The writer laughed.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.”
“Probably.”
“That was not good.”
Around twelve-thirty, Shun finally called it.
This time nobody argued very hard.
The pages were exhausted.
Rita was limping slightly from nothing serious.
Maja’s left knee pad had done its job at least twice.
Her right elbow pad had somehow remained almost pristine, which Rita considered evidence against Maja’s entire protective philosophy.
They stumbled into the hotel around one.
Shun left them in the lobby after extracting promises from all four that they would actually sleep.
Nobody discussed why the two pages followed Maja and Rita upstairs.
They simply did.
A few minutes later all four were in the room Maja and Rita shared.
Four boards leaned against one wall.
Protective gear formed a pile near the door.
One page sat down on the floor and announced that standing again was optional.
The other stretched across Rita’s bed.
Rita stared at him.
He moved.
Maja smelled her shirt.
“Oh God.”
Rita pointed toward the bathroom.
“Shower.”
“You first.”
“You smell worse.”
“That means I should wait.”
“That makes no sense.”
“I need water.”
“There is water in the bathroom.”
“For drinking.”
Rita grabbed clean clothes.
“You are impossible.”
“I have been told.”
The bathroom door closed.
The shower started.
One page was already sliding toward sleep against the wall.
The other had his phone out, replaying clips from the night.
Maja dropped onto her bed and reached for hers.
That was the mistake.
Notifications had become ridiculous hours ago.
She ignored most of them.
Skate clips.
Tags.
Messages.
Someone had posted the beginners’ first turns.
Someone else had clipped the young legend crouching beside one page and showing him where to put his front foot.
Another clip showed Rita carving past the camera with a caption identifying her as the Kensington flight cadet who apparently snowboarded well enough to make skating look unfairly easy.
Maja smiled.
Then she saw the ferry story.
Dinner Q&A With Matt and the Ladies.
She opened it.
The first exchange was about chopsticks.
A passenger had admitted he did not know the V’ren used them.
T’mari had answered that they did.
T’monn said theirs were somewhat longer.
L’tani said preferred materials varied by region.
Maja smiled.
That was actually interesting.
Then alien seafood apparently tasted approximately like chicken.
She laughed.
Then T’monn drank something called Galaxy Grape twice while insisting she had not liked it.
Maja laughed harder.
The article itself was fine.
Better than fine.
It was funny.
Ordinary.
People asking questions because they did not know the answers.
She finished it.
Then she made the second mistake.
She opened the comments.
Then reposts.
Then commentary.
At first it was harmless.
ALIENS USE CHOPSTICKS.
Sure.
They did.
Then:
V’REN INDEPENDENTLY DEVELOPED JAPANESE CHOPSTICKS.
Maja stopped scrolling.
She read it again.
“Japanese chopsticks?”
The page still awake on the floor looked over.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She kept going.
Another post.
An astonishing cultural parallel between Japan and V’ren civilization.
Another.
Why would an alien species develop a Japanese-style eating implement?
Maja’s eyebrows went up.
Another article had managed to turn T’mari holding two sticks into several paragraphs about an uncanny convergence between Japanese dining culture and the V’ren.
“Jesus Christ.”
The page looked over again.
“That sounds like something.”
“It is becoming something.”
She opened another.
China did not appear until deep into the article.
Korea appeared once.
Vietnam did not appear at all.
The entire conversation seemed to be hardening around the idea that chopsticks were Japanese and the V’ren had somehow independently duplicated a piece of Japanese culture.
Maja sat upright.
“No.”
The sleeping page opened one eye.
“What now?”
“People are stupid.”
“That seems broad.”
“This is specific stupidity.”
She went back to the actual ferry transcript.
T’mari: We do.
T’monn: Ours tend to be somewhat longer.
L’tani: Preferred materials vary by region.
Maja stared at those three lines.
That was the story.
Not aliens discovered Japanese culture.
Not V’ren duplicated a Japanese utensil.
They had their own chopsticks.
Different proportions.
Different materials.
Regional differences.
Which meant they had probably been using the things long enough to develop traditions around them.
On another planet.
Without ever meeting a human being.
That was fucking fascinating.
And somehow people were turning it into Japan discovering aliens liked Japanese things.
Maja rubbed both hands over her face.
Then another thought landed.
Dad.
She checked the date.
June fifth.
Of course.
“Shit.”
The awake page looked concerned.
“What?”
“My dad’s birthday.”
“You forgot?”
“No.”
A beat.
“Almost.”
She opened another document.
For a moment she did not type.
She could see the little training holders.
Normal ones first, back when her fingers had refused to cooperate and noodles occasionally escaped sideways.
Then the pair Dad had printed for her fifth birthday.
Little skateboards on them because apparently five-year-old Maja had already believed everything could be improved by adding skateboards.
She still had them.
They hung from her mirror at home.
Her father was from Hubei.
He had taught her to use chopsticks before she was out of kindergarten.
There was nothing uniquely Japanese about two sticks and dinner.
China would like a word.
So would Korea.
Vietnam.
A lot of Asia.
And that still was not the most interesting part.
The interesting part was that somewhere on another planet, thousands or tens of thousands of years ago, some V’ren had apparently looked at food and arrived at the same basic answer.
Two sticks.
Maja stared at the blank screen.
The shower was still running.
The awake page leaned sideways.
“What are you doing?”
“Writing.”
“At one in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“We have a staff meeting at eight.”
“I know.”
“What are you writing?”
Maja typed a title.
Stopped.
Deleted it.
Typed another.
CHOPSTICKS ARE NOT JAPANESE PROPERTY
She stared at it.
Better.
The page read over her shoulder.
“That sounds angry.”
“It is accurate.”
“Are you angry?”
“Yes.”
“Then it is a good title.”
Maja put her fingers on the keyboard.
From behind the bathroom door, Rita shouted over the shower.
“If you are starting an internet war, wait until I get out.”
Maja looked toward the door.
“I am not starting one.”
Rita shouted back.
“That is what you always say.”
Maja looked at the blank page beneath the title.
Then began.
I have spent most of tonight watching people act astonished that the V’ren use chopsticks.
She stopped.
Deleted tonight.
Typed today.
Then kept going.
Can we please stop behaving like Japan is the only civilization on Earth that ever figured out two sticks are useful for picking up food?
The page beside her smiled.
Maja kept typing.
