’m like a satellite orbiting the earth. They all know I’m here, but I move too fast for anyone to really pay attention to the breeze that is Penelope Spaulding. I risk another quick glance at the clock. It’s not like I’m going to the Olympics in my dad’s twenty-five-year-old beat-up hockey skates, but twice around the rink in under a minute is pretty damn fast, thank you very much. The breeze from my speed whips my face and the momentum pulls me faster around the turns. It blocks out the world and lets me hide in my own little bubble. I pick a spot at the far end, and I stare at it until it’s a blur as I fly past. Then I focus on another spot on the opposite wall. And so on. And so on. Keeping my body close to the outer
