by Julie Cross
He can’t look me in the eye, but he does say, “He came to my party the other day. The one you skipped out on ‘cause you were dying of the plague.”
“Strep,” I correct. “Who’d he come with?”
“Some junior chick. His cousin.”
“So he’s like… he’s…”
“Gay,” Tony finishes, dropping his gaze to his feet. “Yeah.”
“If you can get three tickets to the game tomorrow, then invite him,” I say, despite the fact that we are treading into all kinds of territory and maybe it’s a little fast for not just Tony, but me also. “It’ll be a guy’s trip to the ball game. Nothing more than that. Your parents aren’t coming, right?”
He shakes his head, indicating the plan might work, but I can already see the nerves building up in him. I’m not even a hundred percent positive that Tony’s accepted his sexuality. For all I know, he’s still trying to convince himself that he’s straight. No… that’s not true. I know he’s accepted it. I haven’t seen him getting flirty with girls for months and months.
I take a swing, landing a hard punch right into his shoulder. “Don’t be a wimp. Just tell him you have an extra ticket. It’s no big deal.”
He retaliates by driving his fist right into my gut. I groan and bend over, clutching my stomach. And Karen thinks I have nice abs… doesn’t do much good when I have to absorb a six-foot-five giant’s punch. “I don’t know why you keep insisting on playing this game. Your pretty-boy muscles aren’t going to get you anywhere in a fight. You’re gonna have to start carrying pepper spray and a rape whistle when you go to college.”
I laugh and pull myself upright again. “I just need to figure out how to use what I’ve got. I’m not ready to give up yet.”
Tony shrugs like he knows my five-foot-eight self doesn’t stand a chance at taking him down in a fight. His cocky grin fades and his expression turns serious again. “I might,” he says. “You know… invite him.”
He says him like a forbidden fruit. I guess maybe to Tony that’s exactly what this “relationship” is. I toss Karen’s bag over my shoulder and head back into the house. Unfortunately, Dad is seated on the couch waiting for me. He’s got a yellow manila envelope in his hand and he uses it to tap the couch cushion beside him, indicating that I should sit down.
Oh great. Here we go. Lecture time.
I suppress the frustrated sigh about to escape as I plop down on the couch. “Aren’t you tired? Long flight, screaming babies…”
The envelope lands in my hands and he’s waiting for me to open it. “Graduation and birthday present. Sorry I had to miss both. Your counselor sent me some pictures of the ceremony. It looked like it went well.”
She must have left out the chicken incident.
I pull what looks like an airline boarding pass out of the envelope and then another one identical to the first.
“It’s a gift card,” Dad says, casually but there’s an undertone hinting at a build to more uncomfortable subjects. “Two round-trip flights anywhere in the US in the next year. Like if you want to come home for a visit before winter break.”
Considering I’d gone to boarding school since I was thirteen and I never came home for visits outside of winter break and summers, this had to be about Karen. About being able to see her. My suppressed anger toward Dad fades about ten percent.
“You didn’t have to do this. Tuition is going to be hard enough to cover—”
“It’s done,” he says, firmly. “It’s all paid for, so you can stop worrying that I’m not going to be able to come through.”
My gaze diverts from his. So yeah, I didn’t think he’d come through. “How? I mean… that’s a lot of money, Dad. Most people don’t have that lying around.”
He laughs under his breath. “Let’s just say it’s covered and be done talking about it, all right?”
Yeah, like that’s gonna happen. “You didn’t join the Mafia or sell a kidney or something, did you?”
He shakes his head and cracks a smile. “Nothing dangerous or illegal, I promise.” He scoots further toward his end of the couch, angling himself to face me and tossing his feet up on the coffee table. “Karen told you about training at camp this summer, I assume?”
Okay… think I know where this is headed. “Uh-huh.”
“I need you to keep an eye on her for me.”
Huh? “You want me to keep an eye on Karen? I figured you’d be giving her this speech about making sure that I stayed out of trouble.” Actually, I figured he’d tell Karen to look out for herself and he wouldn’t tell me anything. Like usual. Or he’d tell me to stay away from her and let her focus.
Even though I don’t want to admit it, he’s never told me to stay away from Karen. He was the one who basically told off Nina Jones when she tried to accuse me of having “relations” with one of her gymnasts. Bitch.
“Stevie will be fine,” he says, more to himself than to me. “But I’m afraid Nina’s going to push Karen too hard and Karen’s always trying to prove herself, add more difficulty to her routines.”
“It’s not like she’s going be there forever.” But now he’s got me worried. Karen does have a daredevil buried inside her. Okay, maybe not so buried anymore. Yet, another reason for concern.
“A lot of damage can be done in three weeks. That’s all I’m saying.”
“No problem. I’ll make sure she’s not messed up by the time you get her back.” I move to stand up, but Dad stops me.
“One more thing…” He waits for me to get comfortable again before plunging ahead. “You have to be careful with her, Jordy.”
And there it is. Not like I hadn’t seen this coming a mile away.
I can’t tell if this conversation is torturing him, but I decide the more at ease and blunt I am with the subject we’re about to tackle, the worse it’ll be for him. Which is exactly why I fold my arms across my chest and toss my feet onto the coffee table beside his. “Be careful with her? You mean safe sex? Don’t worry. Got that covered.”
His expression turns from stiff to alarmed in one second flat. “Please tell me you haven’t taken things that far? Because if you have, I swear to God—”
I stare at him—poker face on—and hold the position for practically an eternity before saying, “No, we haven’t.”
Dad exhales and drops his face into his hands. “Jesus Christ, Jordan. What the hell are you trying to do to me?”
“Come on, she’s seventeen. What percentage of girls haven’t gone that far by her age? Statistically, she’s sitting in the minority.”
His entire demeanor changes and he’s suddenly normal nonchalant Dad, not the overprotective person he is when it comes to Karen. “I know what it’s like to be your age. And I don’t think getting involved like that is wrong, but for Karen, there’s too much at stake. So, I’ll be as blunt as possible and just say, find a way around it. Anything but going all the way. Got it?”
In other words, don’t get her pregnant. I know my mom got pregnant with my older sister, Eloise, when she was barely twenty and they had no money, no insurance. She was a student and Dad was a full-time gymnast. I get what he’s saying. If the roles had been reversed, if my mom had been the gymnast and had gotten pregnant, she either wouldn’t have had Eloise or she would have been forced to quit competing.
What Dad doesn’t realize is that Karen and I aren’t having sex anytime soon. We’ve barely grazed second base. She’s not the type that you rush things with. It’s so much better when it’s her idea and that’s how I plan to make decisions like that, moving forward. If it’s Karen’s idea, then I’m on board. Otherwise, I’m not pushing her.
I like the idea of leaving Dad to sweat it out, but a tiny drop of compassion drifts up to the surface. “We’re practically an entire Olympic cycle away from reaching that point, so quit worrying. She’s Karen. I can’t just go screwing with her.” I close my eyes briefly, realizing my poor choice of words. “Mentally. Screwing her up mentally.”
�
�Good to hear.” Dad’s feet drop back onto the floor and he gives me a pat on the knee before standing. “I trust you.”
My eyebrows shoot up. Really? This is new. “You’re not going to tell me how you came up with fifty grand?”
He turns to me, amusement all over his face. “I’m ninety-nine percent positive that I will never tell you how I paid that bill.”
I think he just challenged my investigator skills.
CHAPTER SEVEN
KAREN
“Who have you been writing your thoughts to?” Jackie picks at her less than appetizing fast-food salad with a fork, maybe talking herself into taking a bite.
My own sandwich from home remains mostly untouched due to some pretty intense subject matter in today’s therapy session. “I stopped writing letters weeks ago.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Really? Why is that?”
“I don’t know. I guess once I admitted to doing it, it got easier to say a lot of the things I’d been writing down.”
“Regardless of the intentions behind writing those letters, it’s a very healthy outlet for you to deal with your feelings,” Jackie says. “Continuing the exercise may help you get through some of the challenges that are coming up in the near future.”
Speaking of challenges…
My eyes stay focused on my hands when I spill the most difficult update I have for Jackie today. “My grandma wants to fly out here next week.”
“To visit?” Jackie asks though I’m pretty sure she’s put two and two together and has guessed why Grandma is coming.
I stare at her PhD mounted on the wall. “To pack up my parents house.” I exhale the words all in one long breath.
“You haven’t changed your mind about selling it, correct?”
“Correct.” I’d decided even before going to Brazil that it was unrealistic to keep the house, my house, especially with having to take care of it when I didn’t even want to enter the garage, let alone stay there. Dad’s former partner at his law firm had already started the sale process. A family—a young doctor, his teacher wife, and their two little girls—had just made an offer.
“You can’t wait forever to take care of this,” Jackie says so matter-of-factly, it surprises the hell out of me. Usually she dishes out the “go at your own pace” philosophy and “you can’t hurry grieving.”
“But—”
“I mean it, Karen. You’ve agreed to sell the house. Someone is going to pack it up without you, probably your grandmother will take care of that, and you’re never going to get that closure you and I both know that you need in order to truly move on.”
This aggressive approach is very out of character for Jackie so I’m momentarily silenced, not sure what to say next.
“How about this,” Jackie proposes, dropping the firm tone. “Next week when your grandmother arrives, you and I will go to your house together and I’ll help you through it. We’ll have a special on-location session.”
“Do you do that a lot with other patients?”
She gives me the friendly smile I’ve come to know from my young hip therapist. “I can’t give you information about other patients, but taking issues out of the office is a widely practiced technique. But I think you need more support than just me. I know Jordan’s not around next week, so maybe ask someone else who’s willing to help you through this. Think about it and don’t be shy about asking for help.”
I lift my gaze to meet hers. “So we’re really gonna do this?”
“Yes,” she says, returning to the firm tone.
I take a deep breath and nod. Time to look the beast in the eye.
***
GymnMom85: is it me, or is this floor routine seriously lacking artistry?
DaveTheGymWarrior: and difficulty. Which makes it completely full of suck
Gymnicetics101: hate to state the obvious, but Karen Campbell did secure the all-around gold with this floor routine
LordofTheRings: hate to state the even more obvious, but I will since Gymnicetics is obviously an idiot 1) this is the Pan-Am games, not World or Olympics—see any Russians, Romanians, or Chinese? Nope. 2) 3 of the top 5 US gymnasts from last year’s championships were injured or unavailable for this meet 3) Stevie Davis might be back, but she’s not in top form. Yet. And she barely edged out Campbell.
GymnMom85: LordofTheRings is right. If the rest of team USA gets back to top form, I wouldn’t be surprised if Campbell’s name is missing from the World team roster. She upgraded slightly on bars and vault.
DaveTheWarrior: She had a good meet. That’s all. Doesn’t make her a future World Champion.
“Give me that!” Blair snatches my cell phone from my hand, placing it behind her back. “Stop. Reading. Comments. On. You. Tube.”
I sigh and toss my T-shirt and shorts into my gym bag. “I can’t help it. I’ve never had a hundred thousand views on any of my routine videos before.”
“Well, Stevie has.” Blair throws my phone into my bag and zips it up, stuffs it into my locker. “Which means she’s got a ton of groupies and anyone who beats Stevie is going to get a visit from them in their comment section.”
She’s probably right. But still, I can’t help reading that stuff—finding out what people think about me. I can filter out the most ridiculous comments and find the truth buried under the bullshit. And truth is, I might not have won if my fellow American gymnasts were all healthy and competing. Plus, my floor routine really isn’t up to international standards.
Blair shuts her own locker and stands up, ready to head out to the gym even though we have fifteen minutes until afternoon practice starts. Remembering Jackie’s directions earlier, I grab her wrist, pulling her back down on the bench beside me. “I need a favor.”
She stays perfectly still while I explain what I have to do next week and what my therapist has recommended. When I finally stop talking, she nods and says, “I’ll be there. I’ll do whatever you need me to.”
I release the breath I’d been holding. It’s not that it’s difficult to ask Blair for help. It’s just hard to admit that I’m really gonna do this. It’s so final.
When we head out to the gym, Coach Bentley waves at me from inside his office. “Close the door behind you,” he says.
I take a seat in the chair across from his desk and watch as he slides a check for $200,000 printed by my parents’ accountant across the wood surface until it’s resting in front of me. I look up at him, confused. “But this is for—”
“Jordan’s tuition,” he finishes. “We had a deal. I know that. But it wasn’t a deal I’m able to live with, just as you aren’t able to live with keeping this money, correct?”
The money I got for my parents drinking, driving, and killing themselves in the process. No thank you. “Correct.”
“I’ve got a compromise for you.”
I fold my arms over my chest, biting back angry words and focusing on the factual questions. I knew he’d go back on this deal. I just knew it. “He thinks he’s going to Stanford. You have to take this money. I’m not keeping it.”
His gaze drops to the keyboard in front of him. “I asked Jordan’s grandparents to help. I hated going there, but it feels right. They aren’t the warmest people in the world, but they do want to be a part of his life and sometimes writing a big fat check is a person’s chosen method of expressing love.”
Yeah, I think my own grandmother is in this camp. She’d rather be involved in a technical or financial sense than an emotional one.
“Plus, there’s the bragging rights.” Bentley rolls his eyes. “Grandson at an Ivy League school. That kind of thing is very important to them, even with them not being American.”
Jordan’s mother was British and he and his older sister grew up in England. Until he was ten, when his mother, sister, and Bentley’s parents were killed during the London bombing. Bentley’s parents had come all the way from Chicago and were on their first trip to the UK.
Not wanting to delve into depressing topics right now,
I refocused my attention on the neglected $200,000 check in front of me. “But what do I do with this money? Ask the law firm to donate it?” At least I wouldn’t have to lie or withhold information from Jordan regarding his tuition payments, which brings me to a whole new question, “Wait… does Jordan know his grandparents paid?”
Bentley shakes his head. “No, he’d probably find an excuse to use his fallback schools. The animosity between him and them isn’t much different than my own feelings about them. So let’s keep this between you and me, okay?”
I nod but I can’t help wondering why Jordan never mentioned this animosity. He glossed over his relationship with grandparents, saying only that he’d hardly seen them since moving to the US years ago. I tuck that question away for now because it’s obvious Bentley is ready to fill in the rest to finish telling me his news.
“You can absolutely ask the firm for help in choosing an organization to donate to, but I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately and specifically coming up with something that might hit close to home for you,” he continues.
“Like what? Gymnastics scholarships?”
He cracks a smile. “Yes, but more specifically, I was thinking about kids who’ve lost their parents, whether in support or have actually lost them, and providing funds for them to take classes here.”
“What do mean, lost them in support?”
“Foster kids,” Bentley says to clarify. “With the Department of Children and Family Services involved, we can easily get the information into the right hands, foster parents can come and apply for assistance for the kids they’re caring for.”