(Inhale. Exhale.)

Rhythmic, deep swooshing lulled me awake. Whether still alive, in the in-between, or reborn, I was at peace. Here, miraculously in this warmth, I had no past and no future- just the present.

If this was the promise of nirvana, I now understood the temptation. I knew I had sinned so much my karma would have reincarnated me lower, but this taste of eternal bliss...

(I haven't felt peace in so long.)

Abruptly, the shock of norepinephrine and squeezing pain engulfed me, and for a long second I was tempted to scream. To cry and beg and writher.

But I couldn't.

(I'msoscaredwhyisn'tmybodymovingpleasesomeoneHeLpME)

So I didn't.

And on the 31st of October, 1996, Otabek Atlin, the first son of a first daughter of a first daughter, took his first breath.

Five hours later, Otabek Atlin was registered into Dom Malyutki #2 with a hospital towel, a straw hat, and three words:

Мен қайтып келемін.

I will come back.

Life was, as always, easy. Simple. As my ears tuned and my eyes sharpened, my days grew less muddled and my limbs more oriented. I struggled to pick up the language, which later I realised were two- Russian and Kazakh.

They were too dissimilar to any language I knew to have the advantage of cognates, except for the seldom English word borrowed and naturalized into the languages I was hearing. English, although the international language, was not used. And despite the geographical proximity of Kazakhstan to China as well as their genetic similarities, Mandarin was not used either.

So this was how I spent my days- learning, eating, sleeping. This was my second life, where I could repent for my sins to make up for my first. Where I no longer needed to be a burden, and instead focused on more productive endeavors: language, muscle control, situational awareness.

I was reborn as a human. I was reborn with the ability to have the greatest possible control over any situation.

That said, I needed knowledge. I needed power. I needed to be worthy enough to enough people so that my continued life would be guaranteed, but at the same time unoticable enough so that I could be left to do anything I wanted. And-

I wondered about my mother. My life. Otabek's life.

But wondering was useless when I needed to become useful, first.

So I did.

It started when I first became truly aware of my surroundings. By this time, I could stay awake for hours and have attained a decent understanding of Russian and Kazakh, though I still confused some words for the other language. It was the first time I truly looked around, and, I suppose, even in this life, orphanages are orphanages.

Yes, I was fed irregularly, and I recognized only two adults- the caretakers, assuming for the infant division. But what I did not notice was how in this sea of hundreds of children, there were only two adults.

Let me back up here again. Two adults.

Even assuming that they only took care of the babies and toddlers, bottle feeding, changing nappies, and burping would take at least twenty minutes for each child; for around forty toddlers, each caretaker would have to work seven hours a day.

And this was not even including cleaning after the messes and caring for the sick and giving tours to prospective adopters, or the care of those above three years old.

Furthermore, the caretakers were only around an hour or two per day, if they even bothered showing up. And when they did, they worked with limited supplies

Food, toys, clothing, clean water- all of it was tight. When the rare donation came, the older and stronger kids quickly took them.

And the building itself was in half-disrepair. The mold covering the walls, the lack of beds or cribs or blankets, the broken heater and air conditioner and water pipes, the holes in the walls and ceilings…

To put it simply, these conditions were deplorable for a country that was a pleasant 22 degrees celsius, but in a country where the summers are 35 degrees and the winters -35, this was brutal.

This kind of childhood was terrible. I was terrible. So self-centered and uncaring towards anyone other than me that I didn't even notice what about 200 kids were living through. How much they had to fight each other for a bit of bread, only for it to be stolen quickly by another. How many years they lived in a free-for-all, every person for themselves, no matter how young or sick or starved. How many more bodies were added to the burner each week, filling the air with ash so thick I'd mistaken it for polluted snow…

If you were old, you were better off on the streets. If you were young, you were better off dying.

(If you were new, you better hope you survive the first month.)

But- it doesn't have to be this way. This: the fighting, the unhappiness, the commonness of death- was the situation, but humans had the power to change the situation. I had the power to help. It is my duty, when I'm passing my days as such a layabout in this place.

I could make up for my drain on time and resources that could be better used on the children. And in order to do that, I needed to know what I could sell.

(My life.)

This is what happened: I grew. I talked with people- young and old, rich and poor, strangers and 'family'. I learned their fear, their hopes, their wants, their dreams.

I looked and looked and looked until I could see them.

And then, I gave them what they wanted.

(As I said, life was, as always, easy.)

But- are you still confused, dear reader? How life could be so easy? So simple, so uncomplicated?

Let me ask you something, then.

.

.

.

What is reality?

Reality is not truth. It is what people see and perceive. Its subject to perceptions and preconceptions and lies and 'truth'.

But then, what is truth?

Know this: truth is not objective. Truth is never the total truth, because the complete truth does not exist; it is always subject to people's interpretations. Therefore, the truth is always on some level, a lie.

In turn, reality is subjective to the beholder. We are all living in our own illusions, theoretically built upon our first few breaths and the ripples of other people. From then on, we are always living in our own delusions.

(We are all in the centers of our worlds, where nothing matters but us. After all, if a tree falls but no one hears it, it is impossible to prove it fell. Even if we saw the aftermath with our own eyes, we cannot believe if it really fell, because we were not there when it happened.

(Humans are utterly, intrinsically, selfish.

Remember that.))

.

.

.

Let me tell you a story.

When I was four, there were two mice I captured in a 16-oz take out container. They were brothers: one older, one younger. They were the same but in size, with pink noses and twitching ears and tiny toes. Each time they came upon each other, they sniffed each other, and chittered excitedly.

They lasted three days.

At first, they patrolled the clear plastic walls, restless and sniffing. They climbed on top of each other, reaching for the top, but they could not open the lid. They were condemned to certain death-suffocation, dehydration, starvation-and I watched them slow and shiver and shrivel and stop.

By the second day, their grey fur was moist with a yellowish tint. Whiskers wet with sweat or grease or perspiration, drawing brush-prints on the plastic. The brothers no longer circled their range, but lay resigned and anticipatory, as if they foresaw their death. Accepting of the longing, last grueling hours.

And then-

The youngest started to lick himself, hair slicked back, as if preparing for a black tie event. With a dress code of waxed hair and tuxedos. Halfway through, he stopped moving.

Two hours later, he oldest brother started to strip his younger brother's stomach, soft unprotected belly skin easily giving way to sharp, desperate teeth. By the time the intestines slithered out, ribbons of skin lay abandoned and he was still gnawing, gnawing, gnawing upon his brother, ceaseless as the roaring hunger within. And when there was barely anymore left he flipped the body stomach-down, and slowly ripped out the spine.

He knew he was going to die. So why not get a last feast out of it?

Satisfied, belly engorged, the oldest brother finished grooming his younger, and started licking himself, too.

And by the third day, both were dead.

.

.

.

(Why did I tell you this tale? Because, dear reader, in order to understand the perception of life, you need to understand the perception of death first.)

.

.

.

Movies and books don't tell the reality about death: the way in their last moments, they lose control of their bowel and urinary muscles: how over days, the stomach bloats and inflates and explodes: the stink of decay that sets in even before they die: the still stare of the eyes, ever open, inviting flies and maggots and mice. How the bruises appear on the parts touching to the ground and then the skin marbles to yellow, how blisters grow and pop and luster, how bloody foam leaks out of the mouth, how eggs are laid inside all possible orifices, how the stink of rotten meat and bacteria and acid clings. How if left in the same place, a pool of liquids congregates beneath the carcass. How if left unattended, carrion can strip a full human body in hours. Death is not pretty or honorable. It's disgusting and horrifying and numbing. It's one of the starkest reminders of life. It's also one of the most terrifying inevitabilities of humanity.

… But, what is death really? When the heart stops? When the brain is dead? Or sooner, when people lost their will or sight of their ideals? Or even beyond, when all is forgotten about them?

Considering this, then, what is life?

They say life is beautiful. That it's glorious, simple, the most complicated thing in the universe. That it's just another stepping stone in the realm of a soul's journey. That it just is.

They say that life is hard and twisting and just another perception of reality. Some say that in death, you are still living, but senseless and untethered. No hearing, feeling, tasting, smelling, seeing. Just living. Forever.

But life and death are not so easily defined. In every living creature, they carry a bit death. And in every dead creature, there is a bit of life. And so, in the way that there is no true life, there is no true death.

So what are life and death, truly?

…

(Perception.)

When it all comes down to it, everything is how you perceive it as. And so, this is life to me:

It just is.

See? Easy. Simple. You are given a life, and what comes forth is how you use your power to live it.

And that's it.

Let me tell you something more:

Over the years, my family taught me many things. One is that if you have pride as a human, you don't have to explain yourself. If you get in a situation where you have to explain yourself to save face, you do not have pride as a human. Lying is okay.

(Cheating is not.)

I have pride. Some days, it is a close existence between acting and reality. Other days, it is not. Sometimes, when people ask, "How are you?" I am tempted to be virtuous and honest. But I am neither, and so I lie. It is better to live burdened than to impose on the happiness of others, leading to more questions. It is better to live a life lying than to live a life without basic human pride, a life where friends and strangers watch my every move and me having to explain myself. It is better to be normal and unnoticed, blending into the faceless masses and moving as one.

(It is better to be nothing)

Another is that there is always someone better than you and worse than you. Be humble. Be quiet. Listen and watch. Learn carefully. And then, when you are ready, imitate their successes and avoid their failures. Be successful when they are not. Do better. Be better. But most of all, hide your weaknesses. Do not give an inch to anyone, or they will take a thousand miles and leave you gutted out on your own weapon. Do not trust friends, because they will betray you. Do not trust authority, because they are corrupt. Do not trust strangers, because they are unknown. Do not even trust yourself, because you are imperfect.

So when people ask, "How are you," do not freely tell your weaknesses. Hide your imperfections, and carry on.

(. . .)

And that, that, my dear, is how I grew.

Three years passed and my mother still had not come back.

Four years passed and my mother still had not come back.

Five years passed and I've started to stop hoping.

Six years passed and the caretakers leave, and don't come back. I think, is this my karma?

Eight years passed and I've stopped hoping altogether.

. . .

But I still kept my name. And if anyone saw the blanket and old straw hat hidden below my mattress, nobody said a word.

(I've always been a fool.)

On the New Year's of my ninth year, I was invited to go ice skating from an acquaintance. Who, you ask? How? Why?

In Almaty, the city is built on a valley, where the thick air weighs down on its people. But despite that, strangers are friendly, families welcoming, and the town's bustling.

Well, not really.

It is the culture to be friendly, but people are truly anything but. When people come to adopt, they go for the toddler who have not yet grown into themselves to know that their to-be-parents are not their true family. And the parents pick the toddler who looks the most like them to pretend that they did not adopt, but that the child is actually theirs.

Even worse, most of the children in these houses are abandoned, sick, and undernourished. Since there are not enough resources, the presentation and health of the children turn away many adopters, and even more, the bureaucracy takes years for approval of a couple, even if the paperwork is perfect. And to be even considered for adoption, the child must have their parents traced, but this step is mostly skipped out of laziness or lack of manpower and effort.

The whole system is against these kids.

Furthermore, the documentation of children is patchy at most. Each orphan is supposed to be entered into the database, have a medical exam, and secured a plan for education, but most of these files are empty or false. This means that the majority of the kids in my house not only never had a medical check up, but are also left for dead when sick or wasting, never went to school before, and have no official documentation. This makes them both prime targets for human traffickers and child labor, not to mention the sexual exploitation.

In big cities like Almaty, there is always a demand for sex, and the younger ones and the virgins rack up the biggest prices. Orphanage caretakers sell kids into this service, and even if they run away and live in the streets, over 60% of the girls become nightwalkers anyway, out of desperation.

It's a harsh life, but I listened, and gave what they wanted.

You see, people can't actually get everything that they want through money. Money does buy materials and people and loyalty and luxury, but only until the bigger guy comes around. But favors…

Favors that cannot be returned by money are priceless. When I see an opportunity to do something, to make something better, to lessen my sick karma from my last life despite the serendipity of my high rebirth into a human, I do it. I am selfish. I help others to lessen my guilt, to repent for my past life, to help myself.

So I taught those willing to listen what they were denied but what I selfishly took for granted in my first life- knowledge. Because knowledge is power, and they craved power.

Of course, I started small. The credibility of a self-proclamation from a three-year old is lacking. But once that claim is inevitably slipped through the mouth of a five-year-old who could read and write when he couldn't before, others start noticing. And soon enough, I had a reading circle and a growing bin of wrappings, torn pages of books, and trashed newspapers from around the orphanage.

And why stop there? I had power, and I could give it to them.

(Knowledge is power, the girl in the basement whispered. Knowledge is power, so learn until you can run away from here, and keep on learning so nobody can ever cage you.

The girl in the basement knew this now, because she was ignorant and trusting, and that was how she was caged.

Knowledge is power, the girl who lived with her grandparents whispered back, so let me teach you what I learned today so when you are reborn you will always be free.)

. . .

I could give them power, so I did.

I told them that if they knew how to count coins, they would never get cheated. So I taught them accountability and safekeeping. I told them that if they knew how to add and multiply and subtract and divide, they could keep count of their supplies, and know when they were getting stolen from. So I taught them basic math. I told them if they did odd jobs helping the local shops and families, they could save up for the harsher seasons, or have something to fall back on. So I taught them manners and social norms and monetary responsibility.

And soon enough, I had a school. Not very large, mind you, and not the least bit conventional, but enough that orphans who took to the streets came back to listen in, and vagabond kids with overworked and absentee parents peeped in too.

And with each lesson, I could see a difference. A small difference, but still a difference.

Ravil, one of the older teens, started working for the elderly couple four blocks away to upkeep their apartment, and now had a rosy tint to his cheeks from the various coats (Oh, our son wouldn't ever need that, it would go to waste sitting in the closet) and plates of homemade Baursak (You're too skinny, young man! Can't have you fainting halfway through cleaning the windows, hmph!) they forced on him.

Gulshaim, a reserved, serious young runaway who sat in one rainy day on a ramble of the Heimlich maneuver, saved the life of the local baker's son four and a half months later. After profuse thanks from the baker and his wife, they've offered free bread to her even on sabbath.

But the most change was with the orphanage itself. With knowledge, they now knew that kindness was more powerful than force, and accrued favors and relationships had more leverage than any kind of money. They knew this, and so exchanged the power I gave them for things they wanted: food, water, clothes, more knowledge.

And the thing about knowledge? Knowledge is power, yes. But you still keep all the knowledge even after you give some to others, because you still know it.

So you never lose power, no matter how many times you trade it.

The kids exchanging their powers grew healthier. More secure. Kinder. They started sharing their resources with the littler kids, and teaching them where I couldn't teach. Started giving them power, even if they couldn't use it yet. Started to introduce them to their own networks, preparing them to expand their opportunities.

(And at the end of the first two years, I realised that I haven't seen ash fall in a long time.)

Before my eyes, the orphanage bloomed into something hopeful. New arrivals were not left for dead, but welcomed. Babies were not starved, but watched over by a rotation of older kids and read to. By building a system linking orphans to the town, the town took action and slowly gave back. A plumber whose daughter learned to walk again here fixed the broken pipes. By the dozen runners from the orphanage that delivered catering from the restaurant near the marketplace, food was no longer a priority, and the children started filling out their new clothes.

The building started looking more like a big family complex rather than an abandoned warehouse.

And, through the years, the reputation of the school has encouraged even some busy parents to drop off their kids here as they realized that there was always going to be at least four pairs of eyes on duty at any given time. Now, orphans were growing up with middle class kids alike, making friends with each other and playing with the same toys.

The orphanage grew to be a part of the city. Kids with or without parents were given the same opportunities, the same resources. Being an orphan was no longer a death sentence, or a condemnation for the rest of your life. And I was finally happy that I am useful. Still tired, but happy.

All because of the slip of a comment from one boy six years ago.

All because people took interest.

And- all because…

(knowledge

is

power.)

. . .

In the darkness of the awning twilight, after I've tucked in all 34 five-year-olds to bed with promises of more ballet lessons tomorrow with pretty tutus, I sigh, then smile.

You would of wanted to be here, my friend.

To see them grow free.

"Otabek, come on!" Bekzat, the boy who invited me skating, whined, throwing his mittened hands up for emphasis. He was an orphan a year older than me, until a barren couple that stumbled upon our school accidentally illegally adopted him.

They shouldn't of kept feeding him. But they did, so they had to deal with him curled up in their couch and popping up in random places only to be impossible to extricate. By the summer, the couple had just exasperatedly given up and gave him a room of his own, not that they hadn't already added another set of plates and an extra chair for him.

"Come on!" He repeated, this time grabbing my hands and hauling me up. "You already teach ballet, so this isn't so different!" That was true, but it was only because I was caught practicing grand battements by a triage of insomniatic six-year-olds and guilt-tripped into teaching them the 'cool kicks', despite my insistence that it might take them months before they could do it. The classes somehow became so popular that others started discretely (and some, not so discretely) attending, too. I just never stopped the classes, embarrassed but relieved that I could give them something that, while not particularly useful, was fun.

"And plus, if you fall, I'll catch you." he tugged me to the entrance of the ice, and I nodded, following him. I wasn't scared of the ice, per say, but anticipatory of how to act like a novice when I was a pre-professional in my previous life. Granted, I was using rented skates, had no buildup of muscle memory in this body, and was on rough, pitted ice from the thirty or so others who also had the idea of skating on New Year's Day, but I couldn't shake the fear of suspicion.

Ah, whatever. If I looked too talented, I could always chalk it up to ballet. Ballerinas were graceful.

Let me explain: in my past life, I was a rhythmic gymnast. And like all athletes, I cross-trained. I was on my school's long-distance running team for endurance through my routines, on the local YMCA swim team for better body lines, a pre-professional ice skater for better jumps and footwork, and of course, ballet for the basis of the everything. And musicality? I already had piano, but picked up violin for convenience of fulfilling a music credit at school, too. That didn't count the dances I had to learn, too. Tango, waltz, tap, jazz, flamenco… a gymnast each year had four routines, and each routine was based on a different dance. Add in the difficulties of elements (required tricks, analogous to jumps and spins in figure skating) and apparatus (hoop, clubs, ribbon, ball, and the ever-frustrating rope), and you've got the beginnings of a properly trained, well-rounded rhythmic gymnast.

You can see how that all adds up through the years.

Of course, I didn't do everything at once. That would be too much. I just did track and swimming during the school year, and ice skating during the summer. Everything else was throughout the whole year.

Simple, no?

It gets a bit more complicated, though. First of all, rhythmic gymnastics is considered a women's- only sport. Sure, there are the rare men who also are rhythmic gymnasts, but their routines are more like martial- art exhibitions than the stereotypical ribbons-throwing flowy dances. Rhythmic gymnastics is popular and well-known in Russia, where the legacy of Olympic dominance treats its top gymnasts like celebrities.

But in Kazakhstan, where the country is still developing after Soviet control, it has barely any professional athletic facilities, not to even mention money and governmental interest in supporting athletes. This means that the vast majority of athletes from Kazakhstan are self-made, without the resources and support that many others readily receive in their own home country. To make it worse, rhythmic gymnastics is unheard of by the general populace.

So I couldn't explain how I knew rhythmic gymnastics.

But ballet…

Ballet was everywhere. In the newspapers, on T.V., on posters in the streets. There was a theater five blocks away from the city square, and on special occasions, they would hold shows open to the public.

People knew what ballet was. So I did ballet. And others assumed I learned it from watching.

They're not wrong, but they're also not right. However, it is more plausible than suddenly having skill in a sport I had no reason to have ever seen or heard of.

I knew I wouldn't be able to stop doing something of the sport I so love, so I searched for the most acceptable option. And ballet it was.

And if the knowledge of me doing ballet spread, I didn't have to worry about hiding it, and it would also explain more than confuse- how my steps were always silent, why I was gone sometimes in the mornings, my odd gracefulness, my posture.

And now, it will help Bekzat assume the reason for my lack of flailing in the rink.

Bekzat, the ever-energetic ten-year-old, stopped holding my hand clutch the neck-high wall for balance as he carefully stepped on the ice.

And promptly sprawled headfirst into a mess of limbs.

"Need some help?" I couldn't hold back a small quirk of my lips as I extended my hand to him.

"Don't you dare take amusement from my pain, plebeian!" He was openly grinning, eyes sparkling in the glare of the studio lights when standing up again. "I bet you're going to last one second on the ice, and then beg me to come rescue you!"

Oh, how naive. He shouldn't of challenged someone that he didn't fully know the skills of.

I calmly glided onto the ice, without hands, around him. "What was that?" I softly purred into his ear.

"I- I- I" His face lit up in mock anger. "Arg! You prodigies!"

Of course, I've heard whispers of 'genius' around me, but I simply dismissed them as rumors. After all, my past life knowledge would seem strange to some, but I didn't really think too deep into it, too busy giving others power.

But to be called such so cavalierly, as if it were common knowledge…

"I'm no prodigy." I lightly poked his nose with my index finger. It would be best to nip this preconception in the bud. "You're just… a bit coordinationaly challenged."

"Ha! As if!" He huffed. "You'll regret that, I promise you!"

"Oh, yes. I'm practically quaking in my boots."

And I casually skated away, hands in my pockets, whistling as I went.

"Come back here, Otabek Atlin!" His high- pitched scream of 'fury' startling some skaters. "I'm not done with you, young man!"

I swerved, hockey-stopping, snow flying as my skates shaved it from the rough ice, and turned facing him, bowing.

"Yes, your majesty. Your servant shall do as you wish."

Another scream of indignation rippled through the rink.

Ah. I eyed the dozen or so accidents he caused from the alarmed skaters. I should probably stop teasing him, or else he will likely cause actual destruction of property, not just bodily injury.

I glanced back at him, face pucy and eyes comically bulging.

Nope, never mind. It was just too fun.

Thirty minutes into (relatively) peaceful skating, Bekzat suddenly grabbed my elbow. "Do you know what would be really cool?" His eyes gleamed. I got a bad feeling of what was going to happen.

"Wh-"

"If you did some awesome ballet moves on ice!"

"I don't-"

"Pleasepleasepleasepleeeeeease?" He unleashed his puppy eyes. "Just one or two! Come on, just try it. Nobody's going to remember you after today, anyway, so it won't even be embarrassing!"

...Did he not notice that I half of the people in the rink I knew from the school? They would definitely not let it go if they saw me face plant in a jumble of my own limbs.

But as I looked back at him, Bekzat's round, tearful eyes widened further, and his mouth quivered with a high whine, and-

"Okay." I was going to regret this. Mark my words, I was going to regret this.

"OhmygoshthankyousososososososomuchOtabek!" His face suddenly morphed into what appeared to be a painful expression of pure joy.

"Please don't hurt yourself-"

"You have to do a leg lift first!" He blurted. "Then like go super-fast into a ballet squat and one of those arabesque thingies!"

"Okay, Bekzat." I stepped back. "Tell me if it makes you happy."

I pushed with the outer edges of my blades forward, into the middle of the rink, as the majority of the skaters were using the sides for support as they wobbled rounds around the oval. Bunny-hopping for a bit of flashy momentum, I lifted my left leg into a side extension, at a lazy 160 degrees, and then shifted my hips so I was then at a full penchée for a few seconds, fingers gliding over the ice as my speed slowed. Dropping my left leg into a demi- pliéd second position, I angled my toes out so I half-circled on my outside edge, and the angled them in so I half-circled again, leaving an 's' on the ice. Closing my feet together to a 't' shape, I skidded to a stop in front of him.

"Was that to your liking?" Thank goodness I didn't make a fool of myself out there. With this body, I didn't know if I could still do anything, but thankfully I had year of ballet again to regain my body awareness. "I didn't do it in order, but-"

"It was the greatest thing in the world!" He bellowed. In his excitement, six more innocent bystanders fell. I winced, remembering all the practices where I came back with bruises so dark my friends once thought I drew on myself in weird places for fun.

The ice was not soft.

"You have to do it again! And more! Oh, spin, too! And a jump!"

I was tempted to smile. "I don't think I can do all that, Bekzat. This is my first time on the ice." That was a lie. "Give me ten more years, maybe."

"That was sure impressive for your age." A tall, moreno teen interrupted. I didn't notice him, and was startled when he spoke. He was old- older than us, maybe late teens, early adulthood. He was clearly comfortable, on the ice, and didn't wear rental shoes. He didn't look Kazakh, but more Slavick. Russian, or Ukrainian, maybe. He had sharp features. "And your first time, too? Are you sure you never skated before?"

Bekzat answered for me. "Yeah, this is his first time. He's our resident genius, right Otabek?" He slapped a hand on my shoulder, and I tried not to wince. "He also teaches ballet down at the school! You should watch sometime!"

I watched in dread as Bekzat digged me into a deeper hole. What was he thinking, giving so much information to a stranger?

"The School?" He repeated, eyebrow raised. I could hear the capital letters.

Bekzat visibly perked. "You know, the orphanage? Otabek knows all about it!" The ten-year-old brightened further, if that was all possible. "He started it!"

To my horror, the stranger seemed even more interested. I just wanted to hide in the shadow of my shame. Melt into a goo of nothingness and erase my existence. Maybe Bekzat's, too, while I was at it.

The teen smiled. "Then I have to sit in sometime, O-ta-bek." He slowly pronounced my name, like he was tasting it to see if it would roll on his tongue. "It would be my pleasure, to get to know such promising youth."

The tall boy extended his hand. "I'm Georgi. Georgi Popovich." And then- "I'm a figure skater at the St. Petersburg Ice Club, and you would be the perfect addition."

My mind felt numb as I shook hands. So that was what he wanted. "Are you recruiting me?" I deadpanned, hoping the whole situation was a hoax. It must be prank Otabek day. It must be.

"Yes." It wasn't prank Otabek day.

"..."

"I'll like to make arrangements with your parents about getting you lessons and traveling, and of course the equipment fees and-"

"Um… Popovich?" Bekzat played with his thumbs, voice quieter than his usual ear-piercing decibels. "Otabek is from the orphanage."

"Yes, he teaches ballet there, which is splendid! He already at least has the basics down, if that little performance was of any indication, and his form would blend magnificently with the ice." He reached into his pocket to fish his phone. "Otabek definitely has too much raw talent to just ignore. I need to call Yakov and-"

"No. Otabek is from the orphanage."

Georgi's face turned petulantly serious, as if humoring him. "Yes, I understand. He teaches there, which is-"

"What I'm trying to say is that he has no parents!"

This time, Bekzat's outburst silenced the whole skatium. Georgi slowly faced me, as to confirm the statement.

I nodded.

The older teenager suddenly looked lost. "Well, then." He cleared his throat, and took a deep breath. Settled himself.

"Well, then. I still have to call Yakov, but since you're an orphan, you'll be under his guardianship. You can't pay the fees, obviously, and the paperwork will be a mess, but we'll talk later about those once you start competing. For now, the most important thing is getting you on a plane to St. Petersburg. Everything else can be figured out from there."

And that, my dear readers, is how I was unceremoniously wrenched from the place I had just started calling home to the foreign world of figure skating.

Literally.

Visualisations:

Add in www. youtube .com before each link (without spaces)

watch?v=QqGcJbeh0IM

Spiral (Bekzat's 'arabesque thingie'), which was actually a Charlotte Spiral in story

Also, 0:06 stars a bunny hop

watch?v=suyKb3-JWyQ

0:08 shows the side spiral (Bekzat's 'leg lift')

watch?v=B06GeD1sD9Y

1:53 starts the Besti Squat (Bekzat's 'Ballet Squat')