Head Over Heels

by Hannah Orenstein

  Jasmine leads us to the fourth floor, where the receptionist greets her by name, and then through a maze of hallways until we’re in the greenroom.

  “Every guest on the show waits here to go on,” she explains.

  The room isn’t actually green—it’s white with gray carpeting, brown furniture, and multiple TVs tuned in to the show. A handful of people sit around in suits and dresses like ours; they have faces that seem vaguely familiar, or maybe it’s just that everyone on TV looks more or less the same: conventionally attractive but airbrushed in an eerily bland way.

  A twenty-something producer in a headset comes flying toward us.

  “Hiiii, you’re in hair first,” she says to Jasmine, then glances down at her clipboard. “And you, Avery? You’re in makeup.”

  “Oh, I actually did both at home,” I say.

  Jasmine shakes her head. “Everyone gets touch-ups,” she insists.

  The producer drops me off in a room just big enough to contain a single chair in front of a mirror decked out in lights and a table full of beauty products. A makeup artist dabs concealer under my eyes, as Jasmine promised, and slicks on hot pink lip gloss before I can protest that I don’t really feel like myself in so much makeup. Next, the producer brings me to the room next door, where a hairstylist finishes the transformation with a curling iron and an intense blast of hair spray. When she’s done, I look like… well, I look just as polished and professional as Jasmine always does. With a pang, I realize that if my life had turned out differently, none of this would faze me. I wouldn’t be bare-skinned in a ponytail at Summit; I would be contoured and curled at NBC. This would be my reality.

  I find Jasmine back in the greenroom. On TV, the meteorologist talks about the seventy-five-degree days coming this week. Jasmine stares vacantly in the direction of the TV, but she’s not focused on the screen. Her knee bounces up and down. I understand why she’s nervous—my heart is pounding, too—but I’m surprised the pressure is getting to her, of all people.

  “You okay?” I ask gently.

  She turns toward me, and her jittery knee slows to a stop. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I will be.”

  “You sure?” I ask.

  “I’ll be fine once I’m out there, trust me,” she says. “It’s just… this is bigger than anything I’ve ever done before.”

  “You’ve been on this same channel, what, a hundred times? A thousand times,” I remind her.

  “Commenting on other people,” she says. “This time, the spotlight’s on us.”

  I grab her hand, and she gives mine a squeeze.

  Soon, the producer breezes back into the greenroom. “Come with me,” she says to us, jerking her head. “Commercial break just hit.”

  We follow her down a hallway and around a corner into a dark studio space jumbled with lighting equipment, rubber cables, and, further back, a glossy, L-shaped desk with two open seats for us diagonal from Cynthia King, the news anchor. Another producer clips tiny microphones to the necklines of our dresses. If I hadn’t watched Jasmine do it first, I would have been bewildered: Jasmine expertly threads the thin cable over her shoulder, hiding it under her hair, and turns to let the producer clip the mic’s battery pack to her bra underneath her dress. I follow her lead, flinching at the feel of his hands. He zips my dress up again and gives the first producer a thumbs-up. We’re ready.

  “Thirty seconds,” she barks. “Go.”

  I follow Jasmine onstage, letting her take the seat closest to Cynthia, who greets her warmly. In contrast to the dimly lit backstage, the lighting here is bright and white and blinding. Cynthia, clad in a pearly pink dress with a neat bob and gravity-defying eyelashes, looks like a Real Housewives star in the sense that she could just as easily be thirty-five or fifty. She says hello and asks how I am, but I’m too nervous to squeak out anything more than a hello. She and Jasmine make pleasant small talk, which seems frankly insane to me with just seconds to go before we’re on live television, but Jasmine looks unfussed. I’m relieved that she’s settling into her element.

  “The producer says it’s Jasmine Floyd, not Floyd-Federov now, right?” Cynthia confirms.

  “Floyd’s perfect, thanks,” Jasmine says.

  Cynthia cocks her head like she’s connecting the dots. “You’re leaving your husband the coach, and speaking out about abuse in the sport?” she asks slowly.

  Jasmine freezes next to me. “Well, um…”

  “Five, four,” the cameraman calls out.

  Cynthia raises an eyebrow, shuffles her papers, and clears her throat.

  The cameraman falls silent, flashing three fingers, then two fingers, then pointing straight at us.

  “Welcome back. The Olympics are just around the corner, but before you get too excited about watching the gymnastics, you might want to hear what two former athletes are saying about the sport,” Cynthia begins. Her voice is strong and smooth like honey. “Olympic gymnast Jasmine Floyd and her former teammate Avery Abrams claim that the culture of competitive gymnastics puts young athletes at risk, and they’re launching a new organization called the Elite Gymnastics Foundation to offer these gymnasts what they believe is much-needed support. Ladies, tell us more.”

  “Thanks for having us, Cynthia. It’s always great to be here,” Jasmine says weakly.

  We’ve practiced that Jasmine will deliver the announcement of the foundation, but now she seems shaken. I glance at her, unsure if I should take over her lines. On live television, every second feels like it stretches out for ten minutes. But finally, thankfully, she collects herself and launches into the speech we wrote together.

  “As many people unfortunately saw with the recent sexual abuse claims against Dr. Ron Kaminsky, gymnasts aren’t always safe. And as two former elite gymnasts ourselves, we know there are other issues out there that threaten the athletes’ well-being. Not every gymnast out there is struggling, but there are real challenges in this sport. I’m talking about eating disorders, depression, anxiety, emotionally abusive coaches, and yes, sexual abuse. There’s a serious lack of regulation from the sport’s governing body—the American Gymnastics Federation—and given our personal experiences, we know how challenging it can be to advocate for yourself to get the help and resources you need in order to thrive. That’s why we’re launching the Elite Gymnastics Foundation, an organization that offers mental health support for elite gymnasts.”

  “That’s very admirable,” Cynthia says. “We’ve heard a lot about the allegations against Dr. Kaminsky—who, by the way, is set to face trial early next year.”

  A chill runs through me. Delia, Skylar, and the other girls should have justice.

  “While I’m saddened to hear of the mental health issues that plague top gymnasts, I’m also not exactly surprised,” Cynthia continues. “It seems like a particularly high-pressure sport—and who is looking out for these girls?”

  “The sport’s toxic culture is a real problem,” I agree. “That’s why our first step was to create what we’re calling a wellness network for elite gymnasts. We’ve assembled an excellent team of professionals, including therapists and sexual assault educators, to provide top-notch care for these athletes. Gymnastics is a mind-body sport—gymnasts, mostly adolescents, train hours a day to keep their bodies strong, but it’s equally important for them to take care of their mental health, too.”

  I pivot to the sales pitch. “This is important work, but it’s not easy, so we are raising money on EliteGymnasticsFoundation.com to fund these initiatives.”

  I’m surprised at the steady way my words flow. It feels as if the lights and cameras and unnatural stage makeup fade away, and all I need to do is explain why I’m here.

  “Avery, for you, this is personal, isn’t it?” Cynthia asks.

  I knew this question was coming. It was part of our pitch to the network—a good sob story will catch people’s attention more than anything else we could say. Neither of us is ready to talk publicly about Dimitri yet, but there’s still plenty I c
an say.

  “It is,” I confirm. “I suffered a knee injury during the Olympic Trials in 2012. Physically, I was able to bounce back after a few months, but I was depressed. I didn’t seek out help, but I should have. This organization would ensure that nobody feels alone. Gymnastics is a solo sport, but that doesn’t mean you’re on your own.”

  Jasmine and I wrote five different versions of that line before we hit on the right one, and maybe the familiarity of it stirs something in her.

  “Nobody has to be alone,” she adds. Under the desk, she grips my hand. “I’m grateful to be partnering with my friend Avery here.”

  “That’s a great message. Now, Avery, you’re hopefully heading to the Olympics in Tokyo later this summer, isn’t that right?” Cynthia asks.

  “I’m coaching a young gymnast named Hallie Conway, and I have to tell you, she is such a superstar,” I say. “I can’t wait for you to see her compete at the Olympic Trials.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” Cynthia says. She turns away from us to face a different camera, and wraps up the segment. “This has been Jasmine Floyd and Avery Abrams, cofounders of the Elite Gymnastics Foundation. Back to you, Michael.”

  The network cuts to a commercial break, and the producer shuffles us quickly offstage, unclipping our mics and sending us back to the greenroom.

  “I’m shaking,” Jasmine whispers.

  “You were great,” I reassure her.

  “I lost it,” she says. “Her comment before we went on threw me off. You were amazing.”

  “I don’t think we sounded so bad,” I admit.

  “Next time, I’ll be better,” she insists.

  “Next time?” I ask.

  She beams. “Girl, this is just the beginning.”

  In the greenroom, I dig my phone out of my purse. I’m caught off guard by a text from Ryan. After the breakup, our endless stream of texts came to a sudden halt; now we rarely text, and only about work.

  I caught you on TV, he wrote. Very impressive. Just wanted to say congrats—what you and Jasmine are doing is so cool.

  I had mentioned the segment to him, but I didn’t think he’d bother watching it. It’s one thing for him to pay lip service to our cause, but this shows he actually cares. I’m happy to hear from him. I slip my phone back into my purse without mentioning it to Jasmine.

  * * *

  I drive directly from NBC to the gym, where I change out of Jasmine’s dress into an old pair of Soffe shorts and a faded T-shirt with Summit’s logo splashed across the chest. I pull my hair back into a ponytail but don’t bother scrubbing the gloss off my lips.

  “Whoa,” Hallie says when she sees me on the floor. “Why do you look so fancy?”

  I hesitate to explain where I was earlier that morning. I haven’t told her anything at all about the Elite Gymnastics Foundation because it felt too embarrassingly personal. But now that she’s asking, I don’t have a choice.

  “You probably haven’t heard about what I’m up to,” I confirm.

  I doubt she watches cable news—and anyway, she’s been in the gym all day. But I also wouldn’t be surprised if this was lighting up her Twitter feed.

  “Jasmine—Jasmine Floyd—and I went on NBC this morning to announce the launch of our new organization that helps out top gymnasts,” I explain. “You know how I connected you to Sara and got you into yoga? Think of that, plus connecting people to therapists and other experts who can help gymnasts stay healthy.”

  She squeals a little. “Avery!”

  “What?” I laugh nervously.

  “I’m so proud of you,” she says.

  It’s a funny thing for her to say—if anything, I’m proud of her. That’s how this relationship dynamic is supposed to go. But, hey, Jasmine and I created the foundation for the sole purpose of making life healthier and happier for girls like Hallie. If she’s on board with the idea, I’m elated.

  Hallie sashays across the gym and finds Ryan filling up his water bottle.

  “Ryan, Ryan, Ryan!” she calls.

  He turns to look over his shoulder.

  “Hallie, Hallie, Hallie, what’s up?” he mimics.

  She leaps—and I mean literally executes a perfect, 180-degree split leap—in front of him. I wish I was her age and had that much energy on a Monday morning, or ever at all.

  “Did you hear what Avery’s up to? It’s super cool! And very fancy. See how fancy she looks?” she says.

  He laughs. “I heard. Pretty amazing, huh?”

  “Guys, stop it,” I say bashfully. “Don’t we have work to do today? There are just—”

  “Eighteen days left,” Hallie groans. “I know, I know.”

  * * *

  Maybe it’s because the Olympics are drawing closer, or maybe it’s because of Jasmine’s near celebrity status, but either way, the response to the NBC segment is thrilling. The story gets picked up by other outlets, including ESPN, Sports Illustrated, the Boston Globe, Cosmo, and BuzzFeed. Jasmine and I are invited on GymCastic, the gymternet’s most revered gymnastics-themed podcast, and a wave of current and former elite gymnasts urge their Instagram followers to donate to the foundation. Within three days, we raise nearly ten thousand dollars. It’s far more money than I could have hoped for.

  We were disappointed that AGF never reached out to us directly, though when prodded by Cosmo, the organization apparently “declined to comment.” Predictably, the worst reaction came from Dimitri. He called Jasmine five times, and when she refused to pick up, he left a voicemail threatening that we better not say a word about him. She saved the voicemail—just in case we ever need it.

  It’s nerve-wracking but exciting to have the foundation getting this much attention so early on. It feels like yet another good omen: now that I’ve encouraged Ryan to turn down Dimitri’s offer and work alongside Jasmine to make a real difference in this sport, I feel more capable and confident than I have in a long time. People say good things come in threes. And this summer, there’s only one goal left to tackle. It’s a big one. But I’m ready.

  • CHAPTER 30 •

  By Friday, of course, the countdown has dropped to just fifteen days. In two weeks’ time, Hallie will be about to compete at Trials; in six weeks, she could potentially be marching with the rest of the United States Olympic fleet at the opening ceremony in Tokyo. This afternoon, though, the only place Hallie is going is back and forth across the length of the beam. Ryan and I watch patiently as she drills her tumbling pass—a back handspring, whip back, back layout step-out—over and over. The goal is for her to smoothly connect each move into the next and finish the series with a satisfying thwack of a clean landing, no wobbles whatsoever.

  As a rap song blares from the speaker, Hallie stands with her toes a millimeter from the edge of the beam and stretches her arms out in front of her, centering herself. Her chest rises and falls as she takes a deep breath. Then, in one sleek, catlike motion, she swings her arms behind her and lunges backward into the tumbling pass. The back handspring is solid, but she’s probably been doing that since she was nine years old. What’s trickier is the whip back, a fast-moving, arched flip in which her hands float a foot above the beam, and safely transitioning from that to a soaring back layout, which requires rotating high in the air with her body and legs extended to their fullest length. She lands with one heel just inches from the opposite end of the beam, and teeters ever so slightly to catch her balance. It’s not good enough, and she knows it.

  “Again,” Ryan calls.

  She looks a little frustrated with herself, but she nods and scurries back to the other end of the beam to start over.

  Ryan turns to me.

  “So, uh, I’ve been thinking about ways to support the foundation you and Jasmine are launching,” Ryan says, looking down at his feet.

  “What?” I ask, surprised.

  “Yeah. It’s an amazing cause and I want to do my part,” he says, shrugging.

  “Oh, uh, wow. Thank you,” I say.

  “I hope this
isn’t overstepping anything, but I called a few places around town to see who might be willing to host a fund-raiser,” he says.

  “You did what?” I blurt.

  He speeds up nervously. “Jade Castle agreed that if we wanted to partner with them for a fund-raiser, one hundred percent of the proceeds for drinks ordered there would go directly to the Elite Gymnastics Foundation, as long as we tip the bartenders.”

  He looks directly at me now, and I’m almost too stunned to speak.

  “Ryan, oh my god,” I say.

  He winces. “Or if you hate the idea, I don’t have to do anything at all. I haven’t agreed to anything with Jade Castle yet—I just called to ask.”

  “No, are you kidding me? That’s so ridiculously nice of you, really,” I say.

  I can’t believe he really did this. It’s not out of character, exactly—I know he’s a thoughtful person, and I’m sure his friends would have no problem drinking enough to raise a sizable chunk of money—but I’m blown away that he would do all this for me.

  Hallie flips across the beam and sticks the landing. She leans dramatically into a bow.

  “Good one,” Ryan calls. “Again.”

  He drops his voice and turns to me. “I wanted to find a way to show you how sorry I am for almost taking the Powerhouse job. I made a huge mistake by not listening to you from the moment you told me what Dimitri’s really like, and I hate that I upset you by taking so long to come around. I know this isn’t enough, but I hope it’s a step toward showing you that I really do care about keeping Hallie and the other girls safe and happy.”

  His apology that night at Summit was one thing, but this is on another level entirely. This shows me that he’s listening and learning, and isn’t that all anyone can ask for? He made a mistake and isn’t just owning it—he’s fixing it. I wish we were somewhere else so I could give him a hug.

  “Thank you,” I say, squeezing his arm. “I really appreciate that. This fund-raiser sounds really helpful.”