“Coming!” I shout back finally.
I trudge into the living room and perch on the arm of the couch. There’s a glare on the TV from the overhead lights reflecting off the trophy case along one wall. I’ve told my parents to move them. Jasmine and a decorated male gymnast from the ’90s are on-screen. In some ways, she looks the same: her eyes still sparkle with a hint of the glittery eyeliner she’s always loved, and her warm, brown skin pops against a tight, long-sleeved, magenta top that looks vaguely reminiscent of a leotard. But now, dolled up for the cameras, she’s wearing bright lipstick that matches her outfit, and her hair is smooth.
A banner running across the bottom of the screen lists the commentators’ names: Barry McGuire and Jasmine Floyd-Federov. I always forget she works under her hyphenated married name. That was the other thing that happened during my downward spiral in LA: Jasmine and Dimitri. They got together. The news felt like the most violent hangover of my life. I turned down the invitation to their wedding, citing a family reunion that same weekend. It was a lie.
Nothing about it feels real. For starters, he’s more than twenty years our senior. He called us each “girl” interchangeably, like it would’ve been too much effort to learn or use our names. And between me and Jasmine, he was always harder on her. When he mocked my vault, chided me for running like a girl, and made me do laps around the gym with weights strapped to my ankles, I could get through it. I knew his next compliment was just one good routine around the corner. But when Jasmine wobbled through a beam routine and he screamed that she was a “sloppy cow,” everyone knew that he really meant it. His abrasive demeanor, stormy mood swings, cruel nicknames, and outsized punishments were intended to mold us into champions, but they left me with pure distaste for him. I can’t fathom how Jasmine survived all that and could stomach marrying him. If we were still friends, maybe I could ask her. Maybe I’d see a different side to him. But my chance is long gone.
“Now, Hallie always has very strong showings on vault and bars, and today was no exception. Her beam routine was fairly decent, but floor hasn’t historically been her strength,” Jasmine explains. Her tone is authoritative but sympathetic—she knows exactly how it feels to be the underdog.
Barry tuts in agreement, launching into a list of her floor scores from the past year.
“But I hear she’s been training hard on floor recently, so let’s see how she does,” Jasmine adds diplomatically.
She tucks her hair behind her ear, and I catch a flash of a diamond ring glinting on her left hand. I just can’t fathom how or why she’s with Dimitri. I certainly can’t imagine her loving him.
The camera pans to Hallie lingering by the edge of the floor, awaiting her turn. She rolls her toes under her foot, bites her lip, and tugs on her ponytail to tighten it up. She’s alone. Jasmine and I at least always had each other. Before every competition performance, we’d huddle up, arms looped around each other’s shoulders. We’d chant something encouraging, like, “We got this,” or, “You’re gonna nail it.” It made us feel confident, centered. And as we approached each performance, we’d call out the same singsongy chant for each other: “Let’s go, Avery, let’s go!” Clap, clap. “Let’s go, Jasmine, let’s go!” Clap, clap.
A high-pitched beep rings out across the arena, indicating that Hallie is permitted to start. She strides to her spot on the floor, settles into position, and waits for her music to begin. I watch carefully as she hits the opening steps of choreography. Her movements aren’t quite as elegant as they should be, but at least her chin is lifted proudly and her toes reach toward a sharp point. Her first tumbling pass is sky-high, but there’s too much power in her landing; she bobbles out of place, and then out of bounds. She takes three separate steps as she winces and struggles to slow her inertia. Not good.
Mom and Dad gasp and squint. Old habits die hard—they still get anxious and overly invested, even as unattached bystanders, rather than parents with skin in the game.
“Three steps, that’s a three-tenths deduction,” Jasmine notes.
Hallie slides down into a one-legged squat to wind up for her wolf turn, looking determined. She pushes off the ground into a hasty spin, but her left hip drops like usual, and her left heel drags across the floor—another deduction.
“Oof!” Barry says. “She’s struggling.”
Duh. I really could do better commentary than this.
I feel a prick of pain in my hand, and realize I’m biting my knuckle out of nerves. It’s tough to watch her sloppy execution and stiff style while powerless, stuck here in my parents’ musty living room.
Hallie drags herself through the rest of the routine and sheepishly salutes the judges before trotting off the floor. Ryan wraps his arm around her shoulders and walks with her quickly away from the cameras. He’s muttering something under his breath.
“So, that routine probably knocks Hallie off the podium for all-around, but she still has a shot at medaling on individual events,” Barry says.
“Let’s go back to that gorgeous double Arabian, though,” Jasmine suggests.
Sure enough, the channel plays back that impressive tumbling run. Jasmine walks the viewer through exactly what makes it so special to fill the time as the judges deliberate on Hallie’s score. When it finally arrives—12.475—Hallie furrows her brow and looks away, dejected.
I feel myself tunneling back in time to every shaky routine I performed at a competition. I remember the raw horror that seized my nerves, the way my frenzied brain taunted me on a loop—You’re never going to make it. Just give up now. Failure is inevitable in this sport; it happens to everyone at some point. But there’s no room for failure, not if you want to make the Olympics. Not if you want to win. The paradox is crushing.
“Poor girl,” Dad says. “She’s talented, but that routine didn’t do her any favors. What’d you think of her?”
I sigh and slide off the couch. “I think I’d do a better job coaching her than whoever Ryan hired.”
* * *
I know Hallie and Ryan won’t stay in Stuttgart for long. There are just eight precious months to go until Olympic Trials—no time for a European vacation. I figure they’ll travel home on Sunday and start practice again on Monday. I give myself one extra day, just to be sure, and on Tuesday night, I drive to Summit. I back into a parking spot under a maple tree and stay in the driver’s seat so I can watch the last few gymnasts stream out the front door. They have pink cheeks and messy buns, with bare legs stuffed into Uggs. I listen to Kiss 108, the Top 40 station, as I wait for Hallie to emerge.
I dressed carefully tonight: no-nonsense black leggings and white sneakers paired with the red, white, and blue hoodie every member of the US elite women’s gymnastics team received during training in 2011. The once-bright cotton has faded, but my name is still embroidered on the sleeve—proof that I once belonged.
Sure enough, Hallie trudges out of the gym with a phone in one hand and an electric yellow bottle of Gatorade in another. A navy canvas gym bag hangs from one shoulder. She spots what must be her dad’s car and makes her way toward it. I dip my head and pretend to fiddle with the radio dial; I don’t think she sees me. Once she’s buckled up and her dad has pulled out of the parking lot, I get out of my car and walk toward the gym before I can lose my nerve. It’s dark, and a chill nips at my ankles.
Inside Summit, the fluorescent lights are still on in the lobby, but the parents have all cleared out. I take a deep breath and venture around the corner to the office. For a split second, the cozy familiarity of the charcoal-gray-flecked carpet and the neat rows of paper schedules thumbtacked to the wall make me slip back in time. I could be here to give Winnie my parents’ check for the quarter, or to kill time before practice by flicking through rows of plush velvet and slick Lycra leotards. But it’s late. Winnie’s gone home for the night. Instead, Ryan is hunched behind the desk, one fist clenched tightly in his hair, the other propping up an iPhone, the sound turned all the way up.
“Yes!�
�� he whispers. “Yes! No!”
Then, sensing my presence, he snaps his head up.
I give a belated knock on the door frame.
“Hi. Can I come in?” I ask.
He gives his phone screen a pained glance, then pauses the video he’s watching.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” he says.
“I know.”
I take a couple of hesitant steps toward him. There’s nowhere convenient to sit, so I hover a few feet from the desk.
“Watching anything good?” I ask, nodding toward his phone.
“Football,” he says, tapping the screen. “You a fan?”
“Not really,” I say.
“I’m watching the Rams slaughter the Giants,” he explains. “They have this quarterback—”
“Yeah, I know about their quarterback,” I say curtly, cutting him off.
This feels like a sign that I shouldn’t even be here at all. I wonder what Tyler would think if he knew I was returning to the gym to beg for a job. He’d probably nod encouragingly with puppy-dog eyes, like, That’s great, Ave! and then go throw a winning pass or whatever. I clear my throat.
“I was hoping you’d be here tonight,” I begin. “I watched Worlds, I saw Hallie… and Ryan, she’s so close. She has so much potential, but she’s not quite solid enough. I know she can do better. You know it, too—that’s why you were looking for a new coach in the first place.”
“Worlds was tough for her,” he admits, looking away.
“Look, I don’t even know who you hired. It’s nothing personal. But watching her flounder like that on floor? It was painful.”
“And you think you can do better?” he asks.
I nod. “I really respect you, Ryan. You’re doing an amazing job with her. But she needs extra help on floor. Remember how quickly she picked up what I was teaching? What if we could do that every day? Just imagine how much we could accomplish together, you and me and her.”
My heart is racing. Everything rests on his reaction. Ryan leans forward onto the desk and rests his chin on his interlaced knuckles. For a moment, he doesn’t speak.
Then finally, he says, “It didn’t work out.”
“The other coach?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Svetlana Morozova. You know her?”
“The name rings a bell,” I say.
“Russian. She’s, like, sixty, super old-school. She and Hallie didn’t really click.”
“Oh.”
He lifts one dark eyebrow. “She likes you, though.”
“I like her, too. I get her. I mean, I think I do,” I admit.
“She kinda reminds me of you, way back when,” he says. “Super determined, ambitious, follows every rule.”
I laugh; I had no idea he knew me well enough to think of me in any particular way, much less like that. I could volley back a joke about how that didn’t last so long, but it feels too sad, given the reason I spiraled out of control.
“She sounds easy to coach, then,” I offer instead.
Ryan nods wordlessly. He holds my gaze for a beat longer than is comfortable. I want the job so badly.
“I can do it,” I blurt out. “I was in Hallie’s exact shoes seven years ago. I know what she’s going through. I know how to take her to the next level. Floor was my thing—it’s what I did better than almost anyone else in the world.”
“I remember,” he says, leaning back in his spinning chair and kicking his sneakers up onto the desk.
“If I trained Hallie, I’d go back to basics and focus on her poise and her posture. I’d find her new music and give her new choreography that plays to her strengths.”
Pitching my plan to Ryan reminds me exactly how deeply I need this job. I’m on the verge of choking up, but I take a deep breath and force myself to hold it together.
“She’s gonna shine—I know it. Just… please. Give me a chance.”
Ryan runs a hand along his stubbled jaw and squints at me. I feel too exposed now; I curl my fingers around the sleeves of my hoodie and fold my arms tightly across my chest.
“I’ll talk to Hallie’s parents,” he says finally. “If they sign off on you working with her, then the job will be yours.”
I’m grinning so hard, my cheeks hurt. “Thank you,” I say.
The gravity of Ryan’s decision fills me with a giddy sort of delight; my mind glosses right over the fact that the Conway family has to approve of me first and skips straight toward a blur of practice, choreography, and chalk dust. I throw my arms around Ryan in a hug, and to my surprise, he actually hugs back. He promises he’ll let me know when he’s had a chance to speak with Hallie’s parents. When I exit the gym, I don’t even feel the crisp night air. I feel the way I felt about leaving practice a decade ago: pink-cheeked, high on adrenaline, blood running hot.
As I cross the parking lot, I feel this primal urge to cartwheel across the smooth pavement. I turn to check over both shoulders before letting my arms stretch down and my feet pinwheel over the top of my head. I feel weightless when I sink into the driver’s seat of the car and turn up the radio. It’s late, and the roads home are empty at this time of night. I wish I had somewhere to go or someone to tell about my exciting news, but my only real option is home. I drive a little faster than I should, and for the first time, the glittering green traffic lights in the town center and the dark pine trees along the back roads feel like exhilarating markers of what could be my new life, not dull reminders of my old one.
The house is quiet when I walk in. Mom’s probably watching TV in bed, and Dad is probably reading in his office. I slump down on the couch in the living room, feeling restless but unsure what to do. That old life-sized cardboard cutout of me in a leotard is propped up against the mantel. There are visible shadows marking each individual ab and the muscular curve of my thighs, but even so, I’m slender and lithe. The cardboard version of me has one hand on my tight waist and the other casually holding the gold medal dangling from my neck. I don’t want that old image of myself haunting me anymore. I get up from the couch and fold the cardboard stand in the back into the cutout. I pick it up and see a soft gray coat of dust on the floor. I carry the cutout to the garage and prop it up by the recycling bins, facing the wall. Then I grab the vacuum from the front hall closet and suck up a decade’s worth of dust bunnies. I’m glad to see them go.
• CHAPTER 5 •
Two days later, Ryan arranges a meeting with Kim, Todd, and Hallie Conway before practice. I want Hallie to like me, of course, but I’ve already done my best to win her over. Now, it’s crucial that I can convince Kim and Todd to trust me with their daughter’s career. My nerves jangle with anticipation as I slog through rush-hour traffic in the town center. I used to dread being up this early, but today I’m wide-awake. This morning will make or break me.
Summit is still sleepy when I arrive. The practice space is empty; the fluorescent lights are off; there’s no hum of Top 40 radio over the sounds of creaking bars and coaches’ shouts. I meet Ryan and the Conway family in the office. Walking into that room makes my heart pound; I wish I had more professional experience to bolster my confidence.
“Hi, it’s so nice to meet you,” Kim says warmly, reaching to shake my hand.
She has bangs brushed across her forehead, and she’s dressed casually in jeans and a faded, oversized button-down. I wonder if she still works, or if—like so many moms at this level—she quit her job to support her daughter’s gymnastics career.
“Hi,” Todd says, extending his hand, too.
Like his wife, he looks as if he’s in his midforties. He’s in a charcoal-gray suit, like he’s heading straight to some office job after this meeting. Hallie gets her square face and hazel eyes from him.
I take the open seat between Ryan and Hallie.
“I’m sure you don’t remember us, but I remember watching you train here years ago,” Kim says.
“Oh, really?” I say, flustered.
“You were a beautiful gymnast,” she says. �
��Really incredible to watch.”
“Thank you,” I say.
Kim’s sunny demeanor turns slightly strained. She glances at her husband and continues, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m excited to see that you’re so passionate about helping Hallie here, but I also do want to know for sure that you’re one hundred percent qualified to get her through 2020.”
Hallie slumps back in her chair, like she’s heard this complaint one too many times.
“Mom, I need help on floor,” she mutters.
Todd clears his throat. “We’d like to hear more about your experience as a coach.”
“It’s not that we don’t trust you,” Kim rushes to add. “It’s just, you know, Trials are only eight months away, and this is a once-in-a-lifetime shot.”
“Of course, I understand,” I say.
Families make enormous, life-changing sacrifices to give their kids a chance in this sport, and I don’t fault them for wanting nothing less than the best for their daughter. Otherwise, those sacrifices aren’t worth it.
“Hallie’s sixteen now, and if we wait another four years, she’ll be…” Kim makes a helpless gesture with her hands.
“Maybe too old,” I offer.
“Twenty’s not old,” Hallie groans.
“In this sport? Honey, it’s a long shot,” Kim says, ruffling a hand through her bangs.
“Do you want to try for 2024?” I ask.
“That’ll be where, Paris?” Todd asks.
Ryan nods.
“Of course!” Hallie says. “And then after that, college, maybe law school, who knows?”
It’s impressive that she has the next dozen years of her life mapped out, but I’m not surprised. Since childhood, her entire life has revolved around a singular, far-off goal.
“But 2020 is your best shot,” Kim reminds her gently. “And the Olympic team will be smaller and more selective than ever before.”
She’s right. In 1996, the US gymnastics delegation included seven athletes, nicknamed the Magnificent Seven. But the rules have changed over time. By 2012, the year I tried to make the Olympics, only five gymnasts competed, known as the Fierce Five. Another five girls, the Final Five, competed at the 2016 Olympics, but by that point, the Worldwide Organization of Gymnastics had already ruled that team sizes would dwindle to four spots each in 2020. Making the Olympic team this year will be harder than ever before.
Head Over Heels Page 5