Letters to Nowhere

by Julie Cross

  This time it was he who dug his elbow into my ribs. “It’s not that easy. She’s…older…and a world champion.”

  “So is your dad,” I pointed out. “And socially, Stevie is probably the same age as you. If she’s anything like me, which she is because we’re both elite gymnasts, then she got a late start on dating, I’m sure.” Or maybe she hadn’t even started?

  The dance teacher walked off, leaving Stevie no choice but to see us, standing in the lobby watching her. Jordan turned to me and smirked before strolling over in Stevie’s direction.

  Obviously he didn’t need me standing beside him while he flirted with my teammate. I’d already invaded his make–out session the other night. “I’m gonna do more conditioning if we’re stuck here for two more hours.”

  “Hey, Stevie,” I heard Jordan say.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw my much older, much more mature teammate blush. “Jordan, right?”

  “You remembered,” he said.

  They were out of hearing range now and all I could do was watch their body language as I grabbed a jump rope and got on a high beam to do a little extra cardio. Ten minutes later, Jordan came out in the gym with me, which was now completely empty.

  It wasn’t until he sat down beside the beam and looked up at me that I remembered the horrible Internet research. My jump rope stopped moving and I opened my mouth to say something but couldn’t utter a single word.

  Jordan’s smile faded instantly. “Uh oh…I know that look.”

  I jumped down from the beam and sat beside him, checking the door to the conference room to make sure it stayed closed. “Jordan,” I started.

  “Who told you?” he asked, keeping his voice low and even.

  I pulled my knees to my chest, resting my chin on them. “Promise you won’t tell?”

  “Won’t tell what?”

  “I have to see a shrink,” I admitted. “Not a shrink, actually, because she’s a PhD, not an MD. Therapist is the proper term.”

  “Why would your shrink be talking about me?”

  “She didn’t—I mean—she had hoped your dad would tell me, and when I said I didn’t know why he let me stay with you guys, she hinted that I should look into that further, so I did.” I let out a breath, praying that I wouldn’t ruin this line of communication. I’d only known Jordan for a few days, but already he’d managed to save me from a lot of emotional trauma. “She said that we might have more in common than I realized.”

  “I made you say it out loud, so I’ll do the same.” He stared right at me, nodding his head slowly. “My mom is dead, my older sister, my grandparents, but it’s been a long time.”

  His steady hold on his grief broke open a new wound inside me, aching in too many ways to even attempt to soothe it.

  “You and Coach Bentley weren’t hurt? You weren’t with them?”

  “We were at the gym that day,” Jordan said. “My mom and my sister Eloise had taken my grandparents out around London. Touristy stuff.” He dropped his eyes to the blue mat under us, scratching his fingernail along the seam. “My dad lost everything that day.”

  Air constricted itself in my lungs, the weight pressing against my chest, but I managed to say, “Not everything.”

  “Right.”

  Breathe…in…out…in…out. “So…you were a gymnast?”

  He was silent for several seconds and then shook with laughter. “Yeah, I was. Nice transition, by the way.”

  “I can only take so much at once, you know?”

  “Believe me, I know.” He jumped to his feet, grinning down at me before sticking out a hand to help me up. “Bet you can’t throw a triple back off the end of the tumble track?”

  “And you can?” The tumble track was a long trampoline—eighty feet to be exact—that landed into the foam pit. It helped with training tumbling runs for floor routines.

  Jordan kicked off his shoes and socks, emptied his pockets onto the mats beside the tumble track, and then took off his long–sleeved white uniform shirt. He stood at the end of the trampoline wearing only his khaki pants and a leather belt. “Let me warm up with a double first, okay?”

  “You’re not going to kill yourself, are you?” I asked wearily. “At least stretch out a little.”

  “Stretching is for wimps, Karen.” With that he took off at a run, then jumped into his round–off, which was a little slow and sloppy, plus he didn’t even do a back handspring first. Coach Bentley would never let me train a triple back from just a round–off. If I did that, I’d never be able to actually perform it on the floor. Not that I planned on adding triple backs to my floor choreography anytime soon.

  Despite the rusty lead–up skills, Jordan managed to fling himself pretty high in the air, and with stuntman–like air sense, he found his way around the double flip. I clapped loudly, then attempted to whistle with my fingers in my mouth, but quickly decided that wasn’t a good idea, considering the fact that he was topless. At least he wore pants today instead of just boxers.

  He walked over to me after climbing out of the pit and fake–fell onto the carpet. “I’m so out of shape. No triples today.”

  I jumped to my feet, the rush of adrenaline I had earlier returning. “I’ll give it a shot for both of us.”

  “Wait…have you done these before?” he asked.

  “Um, technically no.”

  He grabbed my ankle, causing me to fall over. “Don’t do it. You’ll get hurt before the first meet and it’ll be my fault.”

  My skin warmed in the places he touched, causing goose bumps to spread everywhere. I got up again and laughed at him. “I’m not going to get hurt. I’m safe and boring, remember? You said so yourself the other day.”

  “Well, you were safe and boring. Maybe you aren’t anymore,” he conceded. “I take it back. Karen Campbell is a wild–ass risk taker. She should be riding a Harley through downtown St. Louis.”

  I hopped onto the end of the tumble track, grinning down at him. “Jordan Bentley is a great big ass–kisser with the cardiovascular endurance of a ninety–year–old man.”

  He glared at me. “I had no idea you were such a vindictive person. Go ahead and hurt yourself then. Fine with me.”

  My head was already wrapping itself around the idea of yet another new skill. This one was more fun and less practical, but why the hell not? Seriously. In a last attempt at safe training, I called over my shoulder to Jordan, “Yank me out if I end up doing the ostrich in the sand move.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  I took off and lunged into my round–off back handspring, before setting myself up high enough for the triple back. Halfway through the second flip, I got a little lost and was totally shocked to end up feet first in the foam pit. Jordan had jumped up, cheering loudly. “That was awesome! So awesome!”

  “Karen!” a loud voice boomed from across the gym. “What the hell are you doing?”

  I crawled out of the pit, landing on the mat beside Jordan. Coach Bentley and several of his staff were heading our way.

  “What’s going on?” he snapped at Jordan, who had already reached for his shirt and was buttoning it up. “I asked you to take Karen home.”

  Jordan scowled at him. “Try checking your cell phone once in a while, Dad. Glad I wasn’t choking or in great need of a guardian to sign off on medical procedures.”

  “His car broke down,” I said.

  Coach Bentley turned to me, eyes narrowing. “You know the rules, Karen. Nobody trains skills without a coach in the gym. What were you thinking? And triple backs?”

  I shrunk back, not sure how to react. Bentley had never yelled at me before. Stacey was right behind him, arms crossed, glaring at me. “This is something I expect from the little girls.”

  “This is something I expect from my irresponsible son,” Bentley said, “but not from you.”

  The six or eight other coaches stayed back, watching this exchange from a distance. Coach Bentley strode over to the pit bar and yanked down my chart, which
had already been marked up quite a bit in the last two days. My heart pounded, not knowing what was coming.

  “We’re taking layout Jaegers off the bar training program for now. I thought you were mature enough to understand how to weigh the risk versus reward, but I guess I was wrong.”

  “Come on, Dad,” Jordan argued. “She was just playing around.”

  I shook my head at him, not wanting any help with this. It was already bad enough. “I’m sorry,” I said with a sigh, then left them to go and grab my stuff from the locker room.

  Dad,

  I know you said a long time ago that teenage boys are not likely to have a clean thought in their head and I should stay far, far away from all of them, but what about Jordan? Sure, he’s a little bit of a playboy, but he’s not just that. Are all boys like him? Were you like him? So far, I’ve talked to Jordan more about stuff that actually matters than anyone else. What if he’s done the same with me? What does that mean?

  It doesn’t matter. I know he’s not bad. Not perfect either, but not bad.

  Love, Karen

  Coach Bentley,

  You’re right. I did know better. I’m sorry. I’ll do whatever I have to do to earn your trust back.

  —Karen

  P.S. You didn’t lose everything. You still have Jordan.

  ***

  Later, after I had showered and put on my PJs, I came downstairs, ready to scrounge for food in the kitchen since I hadn’t had dinner yet. Bentley was at the stove, cooking. He set a plate at the table for me—pasta with red sauce and what looked like zucchini and broccoli tossed in it. I slid into the chair tentatively, waiting for another lecture. “Thanks, this looks really good.”

  “It’s better than my eggs,” he said, giving me a half smile that looked so much like Jordan’s.

  I thought maybe this was his way of telling me that what happens in the gym stays in the gym. However, there was something I had to clarify for him. “Jordan told me not to do it. He looked kind of freaked out, actually, but I did it anyway.”

  Coach nodded, picking up his fork. “Jordan’s only irresponsible with his own life, not anyone else’s.”

  “I didn’t know he did gymnastics before,” I said.

  Coach Bentley surprised me by laughing. “He’s a victim of overambitious parents. You’ve seen this before, I’m sure?”

  I laughed with him. “Uh, yeah. I’ve seen way too much of it over the years. Don’t you know that, statistically, those kids quit by age twelve?”

  “I do now.” He pointed to my plate of pasta. “Eat your dinner. You’ll need the carbs to get through all the extra conditioning tomorrow.”

  I groaned and stuffed my mouth full of noodles.

  “Jordan didn’t throw a triple back, did he?” Coach Bentley asked after a few minutes of eating in comfortable silence.

  “Just a double.”

  “How was it?”

  “Sloppy,” I said without hesitation. “Really high, but very sloppy.”

  Coach Bentley laughed again, then his face turned more serious. “Is everything okay with you and Blair? I was under the impression that you two were practically inseparable inside and outside of the gym. It’s not a problem if you want to hang out after practice or—”

  “I might. Just not right now. I’m still getting used to a new place…getting my routine and all that.”

  I could tell he didn’t totally believe me, but he didn’t ask more questions. And if he had, I wasn’t sure I’d have been able to answer them. Avoiding sleepovers and between practice hang–out sessions wasn’t something I could explain in words.

  There wasn’t much logic to my avoidance of certain places or things, but still…how was I supposed to make it go away? How did Jordan and Coach Bentley get through this? Is that why they left England? Or maybe it had something to do with Jordan’s mom being British, but Bentley being American. Maybe he wasn’t allowed to stay?

  Mom AND Dad,

  Where are you?

  Love, Karen

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  February 12

  Jordan,

  There’s still one magazine under the bathroom sink. I’m afraid to tell you because I have a feeling you’ll tell me it’s a rite of passage into adulthood to look at porn and not have to cover my eyes, but I’m not sure I can do that. Also, do you really need to shave Every. Single. Day? If you’re trying to impress me with your manly ability to grow hair quickly, I’d rather just have the extra 15 minutes in the bathroom.

  Thank you, Karen

  P.S. After reading your essay on Catcher in the Rye from last year, I’ve decided that you are most definitely smarter than me. And I really, really hate knowing that.

  “Have you done any goal planning or mental toughness exercises in gymnastics?”

  Jackie smiled after seeing my startled expression. She’d told me awhile back that I had to translate gymnastics for her, so the last thing I expected was for her to understand the mental training required at my level.

  “You look surprised,” she laughed. “In grad school I worked with collegiate athletes and did my thesis on the results of mental training programs. Mostly cross–country, soccer, track and field. No gymnastics.”

  “We do weekly goal setting and mental toughness exercises with Stacey, our beam coach.”

  “Perfect,” Jackie said. “Then go ahead and tell me some of your short–term goals.”

  I twisted my hands in my lap. “Well, I’m leaving for National Team training camp tomorrow. I’d like to do well there.”

  “And if you do?” she prompted.

  I shrugged. “Guess I’m not sure exactly what will happen, but the committee could select me to compete in the American Cup in April. That’s a pretty big deal and it would be my first senior international meet, but they’re only picking three girls, so it’s a long shot.”

  “And if you don’t get picked, then what?”

  “Keep training,” I answered without hesitation. “The camps are a chance for them to check in and see how everyone’s skills are looking and how the coaches are doing. It’s cumulative and we have another one next month.”

  Jackie x–rayed me with her therapist laser–beam eyes. “Does the fact that you’re supposed to be heading to UCLA in June hurt your chances with these National Team Committee people? College gymnastics is like retiring for you, isn’t it?”

  I drew in a deep breath. Grandma must have told her about UCLA. I looked down at my hands again. “I don’t know. The last camp I went to was before we announced that I’d signed on with UCLA.” Stacey had gone with us to the last couple of camps and she hadn’t mentioned UCLA to anyone. Neither had Bentley. It was Coach Cordes who had let the cat out of the bag right before Christmas by posting something on the Bruins’ gymnastics team Facebook page.

  “I see,” Jackie said. “I’m giving you another assignment. I’d like you to bring in a list of your long–term goals beyond this training camp and beyond June.”

  Long–term goals. Like the plan Dad had made me and Mom write down. And the compromise plan he’d come up with. The plan I was currently debating whether or not I should void in their absence. Just thinking it made me feel guilty. And yet, I still wanted everything I’d wanted that day in the kitchen with my parents. If anything, the dream was even more alive in their absence. It represented a part of my past that included them.

  ***

  After two weeks of living with my coach and his teenage son, I still hadn’t been able to bring myself to sleep anywhere in my new room but the closet. A couple nights ago, I did fall asleep on the living room couch watching TV.

  Today, my four teammates and I were on a plane headed to Houston for our first National Team training camp since early November, and none of us St. Louis Gymnastics Institute girls were exactly in the best condition at the moment. My right shoulder was really sore and Ally, our athletic trainer, was already planning to schedule an x–ray and possibly an MRI for me next week. Ellen was getting over the flu. Bla
ir’s shins had been killing her for the last week and she would probably be in the running for an MRI as well.

  And Stevie hadn’t competed at Nationals last summer because that was during her retirement, so she wasn’t even ranked. She and Coach Bentley had to submit a video to the National Team staff proving she was at least at eighty percent of where she was prior to the last Olympic trials. The problem was—Stevie had to know this—twenty–five girls in this country were equal to Stevie’s eighty percent, pre–retirement self. She was on this trip because of her past success. Most likely, this weekend would be her only chance at a second chance.

  “You think Jordan will be okay on his own for three days?” I asked Bentley after the plane had taken off. He and I were seated in row ten, while the other three were all the way back in row twenty–nine. The four of us girls had huddled in the airport bathroom, drawing straws to see who had to sit by the coach. Honestly, I didn’t think it was fair that I had to be in this contest, considering I lived with the guy now. But of course, I drew the short straw.

  “Oh, he’s not alone,” Bentley said, thumbing through the airline magazine. “Mrs. Garrett is staying with him until Sunday night.”

  I had to snort back laughter. Poor Jordan. Mrs. Garrett was the seventy–five–year–old receptionist at the gym, and it wasn’t like Jordan would be able to be mean or disobedient to an old woman.

  “Actually, I’m glad you’re up here with me,” Bentley said after the first hour of the flight. “There’s something we need to discuss before we get to camp.”

  I shut my book and stuffed it in the pouch of the seat in front of me. “Okay?”

  “Word travels fast in gymnastics. You know that already, I’m sure?” I nodded, figuring he was talking about UCLA in June. “It’s possible some of the National Team staff might be aware of the new skills you’ve been working on.”