It’s lunchtime. I could drive into the town center to pick up a sandwich or a salad. There’s a new Italian place that opened up since I’ve last lived here that looks delicious. But that’s money I don’t need to spend. Instead, I drive back to my parents’ house, thinking all the while about the day I’ll call somewhere else home.
• CHAPTER 6 •
After practice ends that night, I get ready to leave the gym. But the prospect of heading home is unbelievably depressing—I love my parents, but moving back into what is essentially a shrine to my failed childhood dream is unbearable. They hover. They ask too many questions about my plans for the future. I’m grateful that they let me stay with them (rent-free, even), but I’d be fine spending as little time there as possible. So, halfway through crossing the gym’s lobby, I turn around and head back onto the floor. It’s late, and the gym is empty; this is a golden opportunity to start choreographing Hallie’s new routine without gymnasts and other coaches gawking.
I choreographed all the girls’ routines back in LA, but this is a different beast. With Hallie, there are no physical limits; anything I can dream up, she can do. That doesn’t mean I have entirely free rein, though. The sport’s scoring system is laughably complex. It used to be simple: a perfect performance earned a perfect ten. But now, according to rules instituted in the 2000s by the Worldwide Organization of Gymnastics, a routine’s total score is made up of a difficulty score and an execution score. On floor, only the top five hardest tumbling skills and top three most challenging dance skills are allowed to count toward the difficulty score, though additional points can be earned by connecting multiple elements. Points are docked if you miss out on certain skills. I take Ryan’s binder from the shelf under the stereo and flip through it until I find the section of the Code of Points that details the requirements: I’ll need to include a leap or jump series, a front flip, a back flip, a flip with a full twist or more, a double flip, and a final tumbling pass with a difficulty value of at least a “D” (skills are ranked alphabetically, with the easiest ones labeled as “A”). In other words, choreographing a winning floor routine isn’t just an art—it’s a science, too.
I hook up my phone to the stereo system and roll my head and ankles out in a light stretch as I find “Jazz Fling,” the piece of music we’ve chosen. I play the first ten seconds to jog my memory—Dun dun dun… dun-dun-dun dun dun dun—and experiment with movement on the floor. I could start with this pose, or that one. There could be a flashy kick, or a spin, or a flick of my wrists. I watch myself carefully in the mirror as I string together a sequence of dance, and try it out to the beat of the music. It’s good. But what if I squeeze in a jump series before the first tumbling pass? I rework the choreography three different ways before I settle on a version I like. I try it out—and this time, I’m pleased.
The next section of the melody soars, and I make a mental note to reserve that for Hallie’s first tumbling pass, the impressive double Arabian. I listen as the music unfurls and try to imagine what could come next. The song has flaring trumpets and a sassy beat. You don’t just dance to this music—you strut. I pop my hip, flick my fingers, shimmy my shoulders. I let myself get lost in the song, leaping and pirouetting with abandon. It’s been close to a decade since I’ve allowed myself to indulge in this way, and I can practically feel my heart glowing with joy.
That is, until I catch sight of the mirror across the floor, reflecting stiff joints that don’t bend the way I envision. It’s cringeworthy. I hear echoes of Dimitri’s criticisms: the split in my leap isn’t crisp enough; my Shushunova doesn’t get enough height; the routine would really look better if my thighs were thinner. I thought I was done mourning the loss of my ability years ago, but fresh grief springs up again. It’s overwhelmingly sad to know that no matter how hard I train, I can never regain the body I once took for granted.
I take a break, letting the music play out as I take an ice-cold slurp from the water fountain. Then I tighten my ponytail, take a deep breath, and queue up the beginning of “Jazz Fling” again.
Over the next hour, the bones of the routine begin to take shape. I’m reminded of one of the many things I loved about gymnastics: if you work hard, you can become a superhuman version of yourself, at least for a time. If I were in prime shape, I could spiral like a ballerina, contort myself like a circus performer, catapult myself like a soldier, and defy gravity like a goddess. There would be no limits on what I could do. Outside the gym, that’s never been true for me—I couldn’t make it through college, and I couldn’t make Tyler stay in love with me. But here? This is my world. Or at least it was. Until I went to Trials.
I run through the light version of the choreography—I cartwheel across the floor where Hallie will tumble for real; I spin on my butt where she’ll do a wolf turn. I don’t want to overextend myself and trigger another flare-up of back pain, so I take it easy. Watching the choreography gel together is satisfying, and I get so lost in performing it that I don’t hear the soft creak of the door on the other side of the gym. When the song finishes, there’s a beat of silence, then the sound of applause.
I whip out of the dramatic final pose—chest thrust out, back arched, arms outstretched—and turn toward the noise. I’m mortified to see Ryan walking down the vault runway toward the floor.
“Impressive,” he says.
I cross my arms over my chest, embarrassed. “I had no idea anyone was still here.”
“I was in the office. So, will that be Hallie’s floor routine, or are you just playing around?” He looks bemused.
“That depends,” I say. “Do you really like it or are you just being nice?”
“Come on, Avery,” he says with a smirk.
Ryan doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d joke around when it comes to work. The stakes are too high. I genuinely like the routine: the choreography is playful, energetic, and suited to Hallie’s strengths. But I’m not so brazenly confident to expect Ryan to like it right off the bat.
“It’s great,” he clarifies. “I love it.”
“You know this isn’t actually the real, final thing,” I warn him. “I just can’t perform at that level anymore. So Hallie will kick up the difficulty level by, like, five notches.”
“Yeah, that’s fine. I figured. Show me the beginning?” he asks. “I missed it.”
I jog to the stereo to restart the song, then scamper into place for the opening steps of the routine. I’m terribly self-conscious of his gaze on my unmuscled arms and soft stomach, but that leaves me with only one choice: I have to throw myself into the choreography and perform it to the fullest extent, because otherwise it’ll look lackluster. It’s fine for him to think I’m out of shape—but he can’t think I’m bad at my job.
“Nice, nice, nice,” he calls over the music as I sashay through a section reserved for a tumbling pass. “I got it.”
Relieved, I turn off the music.
“So?” I ask, trying not to let on that I’m close to panting.
He crosses the floor to join me near the stereo. “So! That’s it.”
I laugh. “No, I mean, do you have any notes? Suggestions?”
“Mmmm… no? Not now, at least? Let’s see how Hallie does with it. Avery, you did an amazing job.”
He shakes his head, grins, and looks away.
“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
Now that he’s just two feet away from me, I realize he can probably see the sheen of sweat on my forehead and the halo of frizz that always escapes my ponytail when I dance.
“I just…” He trails off and laughs quietly. “Do you remember Worlds in 2010?”
“Yeah.”
The memories of that weekend snap into focus. My scrunchie flew off my head during my bars routine. That was the first day I heard whispers about me as a likely contender for 2012. Jasmine cried that night in our shared hotel room when Dimitri pointed out that maybe the reason she slipped off beam was because her ever-expanding hips and ass threw her
off balance.
“I’ll never forget seeing your floor routine that day. I mean, I remember watching from the sidelines and thinking, Damn, that girl is going places,” he recalls. He gazes off into the distance, then snaps back toward me. “And now you’re here.”
The words should fall flat, but he says them with a sense of wonder. His face lights up. I don’t know what to say.
“If I had known, all those years ago, that we’d end up working together, I think I’d be kinda starstruck,” he adds.
I can feel my cheeks flush pink. “Starstruck?!” I yelp.
“Hundred percent,” he says, nodding.
A panicked thought flashes by—is he flirting with me? Am I imagining the coy warmth behind his words? I take in his casual stance and the impressive curve of his biceps straining at the sleeves of his T-shirt. He looks good without trying.
“Well, I was pretty starstruck, myself, when you called,” I admit. My voice is just a touch more honeyed than usual. “Olympians don’t call me every day, you know.”
I’d assumed my ability to flirt had dried up after I started dating Tyler, but I’m pleasantly surprised to find it’s still there. My hands find my hips; I straighten up and suck in my stomach.
He waves away my comment. “You should’ve been one, too. It was just bad luck.”
“Yeah,” I say, shrugging. This isn’t my favorite subject. I’d rather change it. “So, you spend all your evenings here?”
“Ouch, are you telling me to get a social life?” he shoots back.
“Hey, all I’m saying is that you spend an awful lot of time in a gym that smells like feet,” I say, holding up my hands.
I briefly weigh the pros and cons of what I want to say next, and spurred by a rush of adrenaline, I toss it out there.
“What, no hot date tonight?” I tease.
A flicker of surprise crosses his face. He recovers by shoving his hands into his pockets and looking away, laughing.
“Not tonight,” he says softly. “But I’ll take that as my cue that you want the gym to yourself to finish choreographing.”
He starts to walk away, but I realize I don’t want him to.
“Wait!” I call. “I didn’t mean it that way. Stay?”
He wavers. “You want me to?”
It takes me a split second to think of a plausible excuse. “I need someone to film what I’ve choreographed so far, right?”
He turns back toward me with a smile. He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Let’s do it.”
DECEMBER 2019
• CHAPTER 7 •
By the time Hallie’s ankle is strong enough for her to learn the new choreography, the radio plays holiday shopping jingles between every song. The town center is decked out in blue and white lights. I have to throw a parka on over my sweats just to make it from the parking lot to the gym. Christmas break is three weeks away, and most of the gymnasts and coaches are buzzing about holiday plans and winter vacation trips to visit grandparents in Florida. But not us. Ryan, Hallie, and I will spend the week between Christmas and New Year’s here. There’s no sense in wasting a week of prime training time. I have been practicing the routine every night after Hallie leaves practice, ensuring the choreography flows flawlessly and I’ve maximized every moment to squeeze out the highest possible difficulty score. I’ve been waiting until she’s gone so she doesn’t catch a glimpse of it until I’m satisfied it’s perfect.
“Let me show it to you first before I teach it to you, okay?” I tell Hallie.
She’s just finished warm-ups, stretching, and conditioning, and is happy to sit on the sidelines for a ninety-second break. I give her my phone so she can control the music.
“If you check out the Notes app, you’ll see the entire breakdown of the choreography,” I explain. “You can follow along, so you can see where, for example, I spin around on my butt, but you’ll actually do a wolf turn.”
“Got it,” she says, peering at the screen.
“And when I do a switch leap with a full turn and it sucks, you’ll do a switch leap with a full turn but make it look good,” I say in the same matter-of-fact tone, hoping she’ll laugh.
She snickers. “Understood.”
I unzip my hoodie and kick off my sneakers. They’ll only get in the way. I hear the bars creaking on the other side of the gym; Ryan is doing pull-ups. His muscles bulge cartoonishly. I force myself to look away.
“Ready?” she asks, once I’ve struck the starting pose on the floor.
“Ready!” I say.
“Jazz Fling” fills the room. To the extent that I can, I perform the hell out of the routine with the same passion and intensity I used to give the judges. I need to sell Hallie on this routine. It strikes me—while upside down, midway through a cartwheel we’re all kindly pretending is Hallie’s third tumbling pass—that the thrill of this performance isn’t so far off from the adrenaline high I used to get from doing my own routine during competition. Maybe there can be real joy on the sidelines as a coach and a choreographer. When I’m finished, I retreat toward her, trying desperately to catch my breath.
“Okay, cool, teach me,” Hallie says, bouncing up to her feet.
“You like it?” I ask.
“Well…” She fidgets, scratching the back of one calf with the other foot. She looks at me with a shy gaze. “It’s different. I’ll give it a try.”
She’s clearly skeptical, but not strong-willed enough to challenge my judgment. I’m relieved she doesn’t reject the routine flat out, but I know I can’t let my expression waver. The coach-gymnast relationship is sacred and built on a concrete foundation of respect and trust; she can’t catch on to the fact that I’m anxious and have feelings that can be hurt, just like anyone else.
“Whew, okay. Let’s break it down from the top. Start here, a couple feet out from this corner,” I instruct, pointing to the spot in which she needs to stand.
From the other side of the floor, I see Ryan watching us with a smile.
I walk Hallie through the choreography step by step, focusing on teaching her the broad strokes of every move. We can sharpen each motion later on, once she’s gotten the hang of the routine. She hasn’t warmed up her tumbling yet, so she goes for lazy, easy passes, like a round-off, back handspring, back tuck instead of the real deal. With Hallie toning down her skills and me performing to the fullest extent of my abilities, the playing field is almost level.
She picks up the routine fairly quickly, delighting in the creative combinations I’ve thrown together for her. Not everything runs so smoothly, though. I planned a switch ring leap connected to a switch leap with a full turn. A switch leap involves scissoring your legs back and forth, so you hit both a left split and a right split in midair before landing; each variation is tricky on its own, but the two moves back-to-back are even more complicated. That’s the point, of course—the more difficult the series is, the higher the payoff is from the judges. Hallie fumbles the combination three times in a row. It doesn’t matter how powerful or energetic she is—the move requires an absurd amount of precision.
“You have to use your arms for momentum in between the two leaps so you can have enough height on the second to make the full rotation,” I explain.
She exhales and tries it again. It’s sloppy, and she knows it. The moment her feet touch the floor, she shoots me a frustrated glance.
“More height,” I remind her, demonstrating the way she needs to swing her arms. “Try it again.”
She takes a few steps backward and screws up her face. I can tell she’s trying to visualize the move in front of her. She sashays into the combination, but the series looks more like a jumble of flailing limbs than real gymnastics. If we had a stronger relationship at this point, I’d feel comfortable pushing her to work through it. But right now, I don’t want to bring down her mood. Today, her confidence is worth more than the difficulty value of that leap series.
“Or maybe we put something else in that spot,” I suggest. “Moving on
…”
When we make it through the end of the routine, I give her a celebratory high five.
“Let’s do it again,” she says, bouncing up on her toes. “For real, this time, to music.”
“You think you have all that memorized already?” I ask.
I know she’s good, but she can’t be that good.
“Not all of it, but most,” she says proudly.
“Okay,” I say, chuckling. “One more walk-through together, then you do it by yourself for real.”
We repeat the choreography. This time, she deftly slides into most of the right moves, though she does spend half the routine with her neck craned toward me. Her switch leap series is a flop, but she pushes through to make it toward the final tumbling pass and the simple last bit of dance. (By the time you hit the fourth tumbling pass, you’re flat-out exhausted. Even waving to a crowd cheering your name feels impossible. So I kept her last few motions easy.)
Ryan drops down from the bars. “How’s it going over there?” he calls, wiping sweat from his brow.
“Good!” Hallie and I shout at the same time.
“Jinx, you owe me a soda,” she says quickly. As Ryan approaches, she lowers her voice. “Not that I even drink soda, but, you know.”
“I’ll get you a Gatorade,” I reply.
“Can I see how it’s going?” Ryan asks.
“What do you think, Hallie? Are you ready for music?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says, jutting out her chin. “Let’s do this.”
She scrambles over to the starting spot, settles into the first pose, then peeks back at me, as if to ensure she’s doing it right. I nod and turn on the music. On her own for the first time, her performance is rough and uneven. She nails certain sections of choreography, though I’d still like to tighten up the way she moves and performs; other bits, though, she stumbles through, or forgets entirely. I watch her face freeze when she realizes she has no idea how to transition from upright and standing to down on the floor for the wolf turn. She doesn’t have enough time to figure it out; the music has already moved on. So she spasms and drops to the floor, shouting an apology as she goes.
Head Over Heels Page 7