Bertine’s dedication to figure skating is frightening to behold, her can-do vigor so wonderfully type A that it’s hard to believe she never reached an Olympic ice rink. Instead, she settled for a haphazard touring caravan in South America, where, as a so-called ”pro,” she worked alongside four sour Russian counterparts all named Olga, chickens and a cow that could skate, and bosses who virtually ignored her growing bout with anorexia. And she lived to tell it all in this graceful memoir tinged with can-you-believe-this? bitterness. She especially crackles when writing about her mother, a calorie-counting society doyenne who offered passive-aggressive disapproval of her daughter’s pursuits. Now 28, Bertine clearly has more to say about Mom; perhaps her next book will more deeply explore their thorny relationship.