Letters to Nowhere

by Julie Cross

  Wait, what?

  I sat up straighter, turning toward him. “Really?” Excitement flooded through me. I’d love to be able to throw some of my new stuff and make an impression.

  “I need you to promise me you won’t confirm anything. You don’t have to lie, just brush it off as nothing big or important, understood?”

  That dampened my spirits. “So, I guess that means I won’t be performing any new skills either?”

  Coach Bentley gave me a sad smile. “I know I’ve made this hard for you, but what you have to realize, Karen, is that all of you have been branded by the National Team staff.”

  “What’s my brand?” I asked, though I had a pretty good guess.

  “The consistent one. Someone that could be put on the Pan American team or the World team to go first or second on an event, get the team started off on a positive note.” He sighed and leaned a little closer, lowering his voice. “I’m not saying we can’t change that, but if you do throw something new into the mix, it has to be perfect. You’ve got to keep your reputation as a clean gymnast, beautiful form—international judges are looking for that. This year is a whole new ball game for you and it’s my job to set you up for the best position possible.”

  International judges? Not college judges.

  “Does that mean I’ve earned back my layout Jaeger privileges?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Starting Monday on a strictly probationary basis.”

  “What about June?” I asked tentatively. “What about UCLA?” What about the plan I swore to follow?

  Coach Bentley sat quietly for a minute before saying, “How about we put that on the back burner for now? I really don’t think you’re done with elite gymnastics yet, Karen. Besides, June is long ways off.”

  I leaned back in my chair, releasing a breath I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding. A hundred–pound weight lifted off my shoulders. With that one sentence, Bentley had basically made it okay for me to keep pushing myself toward the top. Over the last month, my drive had tripled. I’d gained this hugely competitive edge I’d never had before in my entire life. I’d always focused on my routines and working to make them cleaner, but now I found myself watching my teammates, trying to constantly one–up them. And I wanted to one–up myself and my current routines by adding more. If the “Karen’s life plan” conversation had taken place today with my parents, I would have fought harder to get my way and probably wouldn’t have accepted my dad’s compromise.

  February 13

  Coach Bentley,

  Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU!!!! I won’t let you down.

  —Karen

  P.S. You aren’t planning on talking to Coach Cordes about our little secret plan, are you? Not sure he’d be on board with that.

  ***

  We always had physical abilities testing the second we arrived at the National Team Training Center, which was literally in the middle of nowhere. I was one of the lucky few who got cell phone reception.

  I pushed through the rope climb, leg lifts, and sprint tests with really good scores. There were twenty–eight girls here this month, both seniors and juniors. A few of the other elite gymnasts had injuries that prevented them from attending, but other than that, everyone came. No excuses. We ranged in age from twelve all the way up to twenty–two.

  Right before the press handstand test, Bentley walked over to me and whispered, “We can sit this one out if you think it’ll aggravate your shoulder.”

  I knew it would aggravate my shoulder, but I wasn’t about to bail out of it and look like a baby before camp even started. The first two press handstands hurt like hell, but then it was tolerable. It was also my lowest scoring test. As soon as I finished, Blair was right behind me, rubbing my shoulder.

  “That hurt me just to watch,” she whispered.

  “How are your shins?” I whispered back to her.

  “Bad,” she admitted. “It was just a dull ache, but when we were doing jumps in warm–ups, it turned into a sharp pain, right along the bone. Do you think it’s a stress fracture?”

  Worry for my best friend overtook my own pain. We usually dropped our workout competiveness at training camps because any success from our gym improved all of our chances. It made Coach Bentley look more capable and more likely to produce multiple stars. Plus, we really were like sisters and needed the support in emotionally draining situations like these.

  “I don’t know, but you should probably tell Bentley. He’ll be pissed if you don’t.”

  She sighed, looking defeated. “I know.”

  When Blair left to talk to Bentley, Ellen and Stevie joined me to stretch out. Ellen looked pale and was clutching her stomach. “I feel like I’m gonna barf.”

  Ellen’s brown curls were clinging to her face and she looked even younger than usual.

  “Try putting your head between your knees,” Stevie suggested.

  “Maybe drink some water,” I added.

  “Oh God,” Ellen groaned. Then she leapt up from the floor and ran over to a garbage can by the side door and puked in it, just in time, her fingers gripping the sides, holding her up.

  Stevie and I both covered our eyes at the same time. “Poor thing,” Stevie said.

  “She hasn’t been able to keep anything down all week. Blair’s shins are really bad. She went to tell Bentley.”

  “Man,” Stevie mumbled. “I’d hate to be Coach Bentley right now. His team is a mess.”

  We watched as Bentley left Blair mid–sentence and ran over to Ellen, who was still heaving into the garbage can. Nearly everyone in the gym had their attention on Ellen as we wrapped up the strength testing. Bentley helped her over to the bleachers and another coach brought her a tissue to wipe her mouth and face. Then I saw Bentley rest a hand on her forehead before calling the team doctor over.

  Stevie and I finished our cool–down stretches quietly, listening in on the discussions around us. It was decided that Ellen, who was running a fever of a hundred and three, would be sent to bed with fluids and Tylenol. Then they spent several minutes deciding to put Ellen in her own room so she wouldn’t infect any of the others.

  Blair was checked out by the team doctor next and restricted to only bars and beam—no tumbling, vault, or dismounts for the entire weekend. Needless to say, none of us were in good spirits by the time we headed to our rooms.

  But I was pleasantly surprised to have a text from Jordan waiting for me on my cell phone. This led to a long exchange over the next several hours between dinner, showering, bringing Ellen my fuzzy slippers, and a team meeting.

  JORDAN: Mrs. Garrett’s teeth are soaking in a glass on the kitchen counter…can you pls break your ankle or something and come home early?

  ME: Omg! Ew. I’ll try to help you help out. Maybe I’ll throw a triple back on floor tomorrow

  JORDAN: Thanks! How’s camp so far? Do they really have llamas there?

  ME: Yep. There’s a llama and a few bulls and some chickens. I think it’s gonna be a rough weekend. Ellen’s sick. Blair might have a stress fracture…Stevie’s under way too much pressure

  JORDAN: Stevie’s a pro. Don’t worry about her. She’ll come through. Besides, I thought we were feeling sorry for me right now. Not you. What do you think Mrs. Garrett wears to bed? It’s gonna be scary, isn’t it?

  ME: Right. I apologize for not focusing 100% on Jordan Bentley’s problems

  JORDAN: Apology accepted

  ME: Can I ask you something?

  JORDAN: Sure…

  ME: You go to Catholic school, right? You have church or mass or religion class or whatever?

  JORDAN: All of the above

  ME: This is a stupid question, so don’t answer it if you don’t want to…but what do you believe? As far as afterlife goes? I know it’s stupid. You can ignore me.

  My phone rang about thirty seconds after I sent the last text. I answered it with a pounding heart. I had gone too far this time. Jordan would probably tell me I needed professional help, though technically
I was already getting help.

  “Hey,” I said after the third ring.

  “Hey,” Jordan said, and just the sound of his voice put butterflies in my stomach. “It’s not a stupid question, I just didn’t want to answer it by text.”

  “I’m not pondering this twenty–four–seven or anything, it’s just…sometimes . . .”

  “You think about it,” he finished for me.

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know, Karen.” He sighed. “I’m not sure what I believe. I want to think about my family in Heaven, but it’s so out there. So much fantasy and not enough reality. Hell seems more believable than pearly gates and angels floating around in clouds.”

  “That’s my problem, too.” I slid under the covers and pulled the blanket up to my chin.

  “Maybe I believe in ghosts…not that I have any evidence or proof, but it seems a lot more possible than Heaven or Hell.”

  “Memories are like ghosts for me,” I said.

  Silence fell over both of us for a long moment, then Jordan finally spoke again. “New subject?”

  I laughed. “So…have you seen any more of Sara? Or had any other random make–out sessions lately? Or should I say study sessions?”

  “I did mention there is currently a very old lady residing in my home, didn’t I?” he said. “Besides, we’re young. We’re supposed to kiss a lot people, figure out who’s superior. I’m sure someone like you can appreciate that. You probably give scores.”

  My cheeks flared up even though no one was around to see me blush. “Okay, you’ve obviously learned nothing at all from me,” I said, laughing. “Think about it, Jordan…do you really think I have any experience with this subject whatsoever?”

  “Wait,” he said. “You mean you’ve never kissed anyone?”

  “Not a nonrelative,” I said. “It’s not like I go around advertising this to people, but I figured you would get that I’m a little behind in that area. If I had known you thought otherwise I probably would have been happy living a lie just to avoid this conversation.”

  “Seriously? Not even during an innocent game of spin–the–bottle? Or seven minutes in heaven?”

  “No,” I said more firmly this time. “Nothing. I went to parties with kids from gymnastics and we talked about Disney Channel movie star crushes and gymnastics—that’s it. No boys. No spin–the–bottle or whatever that other game you mentioned is.”

  “Well,” he said. “I think it’s cool.”

  “No you don’t. It’s weird, even I know that, but I’m okay with it.”

  “Really, it’s kinda cool.” His voice held no hint of the patronizing tone I’d expected. “I wish I could have my first kiss all over again, but better. Or just that feeling of anticipating something that seems so ordinary to me now. Once you cross that line you can’t take it back.” He laughed. “And I don’t mean that in an abstinence, wait–for–marriage kind of way, but in the sense that…I don’t know…it’s like the feeling you got on Christmas morning, as a little kid, looking at all the wrapped gifts and endless possibilities that came with not knowing what was in them. Once you open the gifts, that feeling is gone.”

  “So what you’re saying is, anticipating a first kiss is better than the kiss itself?” I asked.

  “Sometimes,” he admitted. “Depending on who you’re kissing. But I think my jealousy of your lack of experience stems from my resistance to the whole growing–up concept. I’d rather not. Just between you and me.”

  I smiled to myself. “I’m sure ninety–nine percent of people our age feel the same way. But I doubt many are able to admit it like you have or even realize it at all.”

  “Admitting you have a problem is the first step, right?”

  “Right,” I said, smiling again. “I should get some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be hard enough without adding sleep deprivation.”

  “Talk to you later, Karen.”

  I hung up my phone and tucked it under my pillow, my ears still lingering on the sound of my name…Jordan saying my name…it rolled off his tongue, smooth and fluid and I was pretty sure I’d be happy listening to him saying it over and over again.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  February 14

  Mom and Dad,

  Did it hurt? Who was driving? If I had been in the car, would it have changed anything? Please don’t answer this. I don’t want a concrete reason to believe in ghosts.

  Love, Karen

  Coach Bentley,

  I want to ask you so many things about your family, but most of the time, I force myself to not think about it. You’re the most stable person in my life and you probably were even before my parents’ accident and now I really need you to stay that way. I’m sorry if that’s selfish.

  —Karen

  P.S. Thank you for never asking me about going home or getting my car. I’m not ready.

  Jordan,

  I’m glad you haven’t been making out with Sara.

  —Karen

  ***

  “Karen Campbell!”

  I froze in my spot up on the high beam, watching Nina Jones, our National Team coordinator, walking toward me, followed by two committee members. Nina was basically the person who made the final decision on every women’s gymnastics team that represented the USA, including World and Olympic teams. Despite her short stature and wild gray hair, Nina was the single most intimidating person I’d ever met.

  The most intimidating thing I’d ever met was Nina’s clipboard, which she now held pressed to her chest.

  “Have you ever trained a tucked full on beam?” she drilled, snapping her fingers in the air, indicating I should hop down and stand at attention in front of the three committee members.

  Stacey had been teaching me an even more difficult skill, an Arabian somersault, but Coach Bentley had quickly positioned himself behind Nina. He shook his head slightly, reminding me of our discussion on the flight to Houston. “Just…uh…on a line…in the off–season.”

  Bentley nodded his approval. Nina exchanged glances with the other committee members and then her eyes beamed like lasers right at me. “Show me on the line, please.”

  She snapped again and I hurried over to the gymnastics floor, placing my feet on one of the white taped lines.

  I quickly showed Nina and her two sidekicks my back tucked full, which is basically a back tucked flip with a full twist. I bent my knees on the landing, pressing my feet into the slick white tape as if it were a beam high in the air.

  “Again,” she said.

  This continued ten more times. Luckily this skill had no impact on my sore shoulder and provided a nice break from doing full beam routine.

  “One more time,” Nina said. “Make sure your chest is up when you land.”

  One more time led to another ten attempts with me applying the correction she’d given me. By that time, Coach Bentley was much closer to us and several of the other girls were watching to see what Nina was up to. Usually we only trained routines at camp, not new skills. They didn’t want to see something that wasn’t ready for competition. There was no time for that.

  “Now, let’s take it up there.” She pointed to the high beam that had a sixteen–inch crash mat under it. The extra mat was better than nothing, but there was still a big gap between the beam and the mat.

  In reality, there was no difference between the low beam and high beam. If you could perform a skill six inches above the ground, then you could do it twenty feet above the ground. It became a mental game.

  I hopped up onto the beam and expected to feel my legs shake with fear, but they didn’t. Instead I had that rush of adrenaline that I craved so much lately. I could feel the skill practically tingling through my fingertips.

  “Nina, I don’t think—” Bentley started to say, but Nina held up a hand right away to shut him up.

  “Don’t baby her, Henry,” she snapped.

  Only Nina Jones would get away with calling Coach Bentley by his first name.

  I stood in the cen
ter of the high beam, raising my arms to prepare. I felt the weight of their eyes on me. Then I just went for it, landing with a thud back on the beam. I wobbled and one leg even came all the way out to the side as I tried to regain balance. Eventually, I bent my knees and held myself in place.

  Now my legs were shaking. I couldn’t even look at Blair or Stevie and especially not Bentley. If they looked totally shocked, then I was likely to start freaking and never do it again, and I had a feeling that Nina—

  “Again!” Nina said.

  So, I did it again. After ten tries—three falls and seven successful landings—she had me come down and start reciting all the skills in my current routine. It only took me a second to realize she was looking for a place to put this move.

  “After the straddle jump, in the middle of your routine, add the tucked full,” Nina said.

  I didn’t wait for Bentley to protest or even give him a chance. I stood facing the high beam, ready to do my press handstand mount. The rush of excitement running through my veins drowned out all other thoughts. The good and the bad.

  I got to the tucked full in the middle of my routine and performed it well, but fell off after wobbling for a few seconds.

  “Start over,” Nina barked.

  The second time through, I made the tucked full and it took all the focus in me to not smile or cheer since I still had half a routine to finish. Instead, I plunged myself into the next skill. But the emotional high, the shift in my world caused my focus to slip and outside noise I usually tuned out broke through my bubble.