“My gosh! You’re so tall now!” “How have you been?” “How’s Michigan?” “What’s it like over there?” “You grew up so fast!” These exclamations and questions popped out of everyone’s mouths as a cluster of people gathered around him in the snack shop of the skating rink. He had moved to Michigan to train under one of the best ice dance coaches. He came back to San Jose for a visit. “I’ve been good!” he replied.

I knew this boy, who was four months younger than me. Just a year ago, I would hear his loud screams coming down the warm-up halls at the ice rink. In fact, if I heard loud screams, I would know that Anthony was there. My ears would be bursting, and I’d always have to say to the person I was conversing with, “Sorry, can you please say that again? I couldn’t hear.” He’d be zipping up and down, doing crazy things, like running away from people whose sandwiches he’d just stolen and offering hugs to unsuspecting people. He’d often disrupt my stretching lessons unintentionally by being boisterous. My stretching teacher would always have to shoo him away. Although a troublemaker, he always made the day more energetic. His smile and laughter brought warmth to the stinky, cold arena.

Still, many wondered if he would ever grow up.

It was a cold January morning when the sun had just risen from behind the mountains from afar. The birds began their flight and humans began their daily agendas. On this morning at the arena, I first saw Anthony since his return. I ran to him like a chimpanzee, tip-toed up, and gave him a hug. He wore long slender Adidas pants and a jacket printed with big bold letters, “Team USA.” He called me short and we both laughed. We had a let’s-go-down-memory-lane conversation as good old pals, excluding the yelling and the I’m-on-a-sugar-high enthusiasm.

We talked about that time my coach David walked into the restroom and saw a chair in the sink, and he said, “Oh, Anton!” We laughed about all of Anthony’s old pranks. Talking about the past felt so satisfying. Anthony described for me his new life in Michigan, his pet hedgehog, the house he shares with other skaters, and his new dance partner Christina. I was impressed with his level of responsibility. He took skating more seriously. He seemed to have grown up overnight.

Height taller, voice lower, build firmer; Anthony had changed quite a lot, but something else caught everyone’s attention. Still possessing his sense of humor, there were no more running around, no more screaming, and definitely no more whacking my face with an empty plastic water bottle. He even acted as my temporary coach, giving me some ice dance tips that he had recently learned.

“Go warm-up and we’ll start with the Silver Samba today,” he said. “Remember to be fierce and spicy!” “Point your toes and be on your edges!” “Tighter crosses!”

Although only four seasons had passed, seeing Anthony again fascinated me. He really taught me valuable lessons that I never thought would come from him. While he talked, I put my focus on him and I nodded my head up and down to show understanding. At the end of the day, saying goodbye was like dropping a vanilla ice cream cone I had just bought.

It’s 5:30 in the morning. I take off my skate-guards and get on the empty ice. I suck in the silence of the arena. I feel the edges of my blade rip through the ice while releasing crunching noises. Anthony left yesterday, but I am still processing what just happened in the past week. “I pet the ice nicely so it’ll be nice to me.” One of Anthony’s “skating lessons” keeps repeating in my head. I slow to a stop. Standing there in dead silence, I finally bend down and pet the ice. I think I might like this new Anthony more. He’s not a boy anymore. He’s a guy.