by Caela Carter
The relief in Camille’s chest had solidified into joy by the time she’d found her mother. Then, Helen was huge compared to Camille’s tiny frame, a woman of more than two hundred pounds, all soft tissue and slow movement. At almost seventeen, Camille looked like she could be eleven—four foot ten and string-bean skinny with unruly brown hair and no hint of hips or breasts. Helen picked up tiny Camille and swung her around as Camille whispered in her ear, “Come on, Mommy. Let’s go.” Camille wanted to rush out of there, away from Gym Camp, where the busted dreams and tears of so many of her fellow gymnasts threatened to dilute her joy.
She would fly back to Long Island with her mother for a quick three days of family time (and training, of course) before she was required to return to the camp for a few weeks, and then ultimately board the plane to the Mexico City Olympics.
Camille and Helen were the first out the gym doors after a quick thank-you to her coaches and Katja. They burst into giggles as they made a break for the parking lot, and together they dove into her mother’s rented Ford Taurus. While Helen backed out of the parking space and barreled down the winding camp driveway, Camille strapped herself into the front seat and hooked up her iPod to the car stereo. She blared “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” by Wham!—the song they both loved to sing whenever Camille had a successful meet.
And Camille was happy. Camille was so happy, it was almost surreal. She was going to the Olympics. She was one of the best gymnasts in the country, in the world, even. She was with her mother.
This was before Bobby and regular high school. This was before she even had the fan page for Greg Thompson or Mario Alvarez to find her on. This was when all the people Camille knew could be divided into three categories: gymnasts, coaches, and family. So her mother was her best friend. And the only thing that could possibly feel as good as hearing her name as part of the Olympic team was seeing her mother’s smile.
They careened through the New Mexican country roads, screaming the song out the open windows, smiling and bouncing in their seats. This hoped-for, prayed-for moment was almost otherworldly, almost like she wasn’t in the car but was instead floating above it, watching and saving the joy for later.
And it was good she wasn’t in her body at that moment. Because that’s probably why she didn’t feel her head go through the windshield.
• • •
When Camille woke up, she wasn’t on Long Island. She was still in New Mexico. She knew that right away from the air-conditioning—in New York’s July, it would be blasting all the time, but it was barely purring on her skin. In New Mexico, you could turn down your air-conditioning at night. The state cooled off without the burn of the sun.
Camille’s eyes shot open. Where was she? It was pitch-dark.
She pulled her elbows to her sides, trying to prop herself up, but pain rang through her scalp and her lower back like black flames. She crashed the two inches back to her pillow, and that’s when she realized it. The tight way the sheet was folded. The beeping of a machine by her head. Her mother’s heavy breathing somewhere to her right.
She was in a hospital.
“Mom?” Camille managed to push the one word through the fire.
Her mom was immediately awake, her eyes glowing in the darkness. “I’m so sorry, Cam-Cam. I’m so sorry.”
Camille didn’t ask where she was. She asked the only question that mattered.
“Am I still going to the Olympics?”
Her mother had stroked her cheek with a fleshy palm. “Of course. We’ll get you back in the gym. We’ve come this far.”
Camille leaned her cheek further into her mother’s touch. She let herself calm down.
“We’ll talk to the doctor tomorrow,” Helen concluded.
• • •
“It’s gymnastics that almost killed you.”
That’s what the doctor said the next day. He looked from Camille’s face to Helen’s, searching for a reaction, but they were both still. Gymnastics had almost killed her before. It almost killed everyone she knew at least once. Everyone had some sort of scare when she fell headfirst off the bars or whacked her back into the balance beam from three feet in the air.
He repeated it. “It’s gymnastics that almost killed you. I would advise you never to return.”
“No,” her mother corrected him. “It was a car accident.”
“Mrs. Abrams.” The doctor said her name like Camille’s mother was the child. He turned to face Helen where she sat next to the bed, clutching Camille’s hand. “What was this young girl doing in the front seat of the car?”
Camille’s face pinched into a tight expression; her heart sped up in her rib cage.
Helen faltered. “She’s . . . almost . . . seventeen. . . .” she said.
“She’s only seventy-eight pounds,” the doctor replied. “In New Mexico, it’s illegal for any individual who is under eighty pounds to ride in the front seat of a car, and, quite frankly, it’s inadvisable for anyone under ninety. In fact, they still make booster seats for children her size.”
“But . . . she’s sixteen. . . .” Helen tried again.
The doctor shook his head. “Her body doesn’t know that,” he said. He turned and faced Camille. “Do you menstruate?”
Camille blushed. She’d never heard a man talk about periods before. She shook her head.
“I didn’t think so.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, with that doll factory right up the road that y’all call Gym Camp, I’ve seen too many gymnasts to hope that these words will have any effect. But I’ll say them anyway: you need to rethink how much your sport is worth. If you were not an elite gymnast, you would have gotten in a fender bender, and you’d be on your way home, no more banged up than your mother, who is only suffering from a bruise on her arm. You would be taller and heavier, so you would not have to risk your life sitting in the front seat of your mother’s car at sixteen years old, and you wouldn’t have slipped out of your seat belt and crashed your skull into the windshield. Furthermore, if you weren’t constantly beating your body with overtraining, you would not have the stress fractures in your back that caused it to break in three places during the crash. It’s gymnastics that almost killed you,” he concluded. “The crash just helped.”
By now Camille’s heart was beating in her throat. Sure, she’d seen nutritionists. She’d been told by regular doctors that she was too frail and small to be training as much as she did. She’d been warned that if she didn’t start her period before her eighteenth birthday, that could mean something terrible about her health.
But she’d shrugged all that off. It sounded crazy. How could she be unhealthy when she was able to make her body move in ways most people couldn’t even think about?
Plus, for every doctor and trainer who warned her, her coach seemed to be able to find another who wasn’t too concerned.
But now she’d almost died. She knew it.
“But she was just named to the Olympic team!” her mother had yelled.
Camille’s eyes ached, they went so wide. That felt like a year ago, a lifetime ago. Her mind was anchored in her broken back.
The doctor looked right at her. “You’re not paralyzed. If we get you the right doctors back home, this situation won’t be permanent. On your body, anyway. Your mind’s another story.”
“So she can try again?” her mother said. Then she seemed to decide it. “So next Olympics she’ll try again.”
The doctor still didn’t take his eyes off Camille’s bony frame.
“You shouldn’t. But if you do . . .” He sighed. “And I know enough by now—you’ll keep at it no matter what I say. So if you start training again, please put on at least twenty-two pounds, okay?”
GRACE
Grace clasped her hands over her breastbone. She was standing on the beam podium, waiting for the green flag.
Stay there, she said silently.
Stay still. I mean, keep beating, but don’t fall apart.
It would look like she was praying, but Grace didn’t pray. She spoke directly to her inner organs. It was her own body she counted on, not some Great Unknown Creature in the Sky.
And today, it felt like her heart was listening.
You can’t give out on me now, okay? she asked her heart. I need you. I’m winning.
Because Grace had done what she’d promised herself she wouldn’t: she’d snuck a peek at the scoreboard. And even though her dad always warned her against comparing scores too early in the meet, Grace was shocked to see that Leigh’s name was nowhere near her own. Her own name was almost on top. That was not surprising. Georgette was technically winning, but that’s only because she got a lot more points on vault than Grace did. Grace’s degrees of difficulty and maximum score were higher for every other apparatus, so Grace would catch her quickly. But both Grace and Georgette were beating Leigh. Wilhelmina was several slots in front of Leigh. And—this gave Grace the most confidence in her eventual domination—Monica was still beating Leigh. Monica was in Leigh’s rotation, which meant their scores were comparable. And it was basically agreed upon that Monica didn’t even deserve to be present that day. The gap between Grace and Leigh was not simply because they’d competed different events so far: it meant Leigh was having a terrible day. And Grace was having a good one.
Grace was supposed to be scared for Leigh. She was supposed to be her friend and feel her losses. But Grace wasn’t. She couldn’t be.
It was perfect.
The only thing that could stop Grace was encased within her own skin. Just do what you’re supposed to.
The green flag waved in the corner of her vision, and Grace dropped her hands and squinted at the beam. Her beam coach always told her “focus can make the beam grow.”
And she was right. When Grace’s insides were still and her mind was laser sharp, she could make the four-inch surface of the beam spread to six or eight. And on the rare day that Grace was off, the beam got skinnier. Sometimes, mid-routine, when she stood with her ten toes lined up for her single standing back tuck, her pinkie toes hung off the edges. Other times, the creamy cloth that covered it seemed to go on for inches on either side of her feet.
Today, she would turn this beam into a sidewalk.
She signaled the judges, stormed toward the springboard, and leaped onto the beam, the soles of her feet landing squarely with a bang. Her heart beat solidly in the pit of her chest. Everything was as it should be.
For the next ninety seconds, the gym disappeared and she saw only the glowing sidewalk-beam. Ninety seconds of only her limbs and her hands and her muscles. Then, with a roundoff double back layout, it was over.
Grace threw her hands over her head as she faced the judges, then brought them immediately to her heart. Thank you, thank you, she told it. Only one rotation left. We can do it.
Her father patted her sleek ponytail once she was off the platform. “Not quite as good as bars,” he whispered through his fake smile. “You can get more height on that dismount. You swung your arms before your switch leap, so you missed that connection. And you weren’t solid on your full turn.”
Grace nodded. His critique was unfair, as usual. She said nothing, as always.
He turned his back on her and scanned the gym, seeming to look at nothing.
Was he punishing her? Had he found her phone? Had he taken the time to go on her fan page on his phone?
Did Dylan post again?
If he kept it up, Grace would have to tell Dylan Patrick to stop. She’d be freaking out about him until the Olympics, even through the Olympics, if she didn’t put a stop to it. They were stupid messages from some patriotic celebrity, and it would be 100 percent mortifying to acknowledge them with more than a simple “like” button. But she’d have to do it. All those silly fantasies that sometimes danced in her head when she was outside the gym—dates and candlelit dinners and midnight phone calls—she couldn’t have them anyway. Even if that was what Dylan Patrick meant when he said hot.
So Grace would reply to him on her fan page and say, “Thanks for the good luck message! Please don’t post on my page anymore. I can’t afford to be distracted by boys.” That would placate her dad. And then it would be over . . . Dylan . . . her crush . . . her distraction from the world of beams and bars and vaults . . .
It would be over. Soon. She’d take care of it before her dad found out, hopefully.
But Dylan had called her hot.
Maybe Leigh was right. Maybe her father wouldn’t bother to check her fan page.
“I think you probably got what we need to take the lead, though,” her dad said, turning back to her.
Grace nodded again, even though she knew better than that. She gave a stellar beam routine. It was more than they needed. Why couldn’t he admit that?
A dinging rang between them, bursting out of Grace’s gym bag. Dylan again?
Grace’s father’s eyes flicked to her bag and then back to her. He dared her to check her phone. She swallowed.
Then he was gone.
Where did he go?
Grace grabbed a water bottle, glancing around, trying not to be obvious as she looked for where she should be and who she should be talking to. She wished again that Leigh was in her rotation and she could go plop down next to her. Grace hated feeling lost and shy, especially in the middle of a meet.
She saw her dad then, his blond crew-cut head dashing between the podiums, rushing to the folding chairs beside the floor. Oh yeah, Grace thought. Monica stood in the corner of the floor, her head thrown up to the ceiling and her arms folded over her chest. He has to watch Monica, too.
Now would be the perfect time to check her phone. Now, when her dad couldn’t look at her. But there was a camera next to her. And that probably wasn’t Dylan again anyway.
Grace wandered toward the floor podium. Fans liked when you cheered for your underdog teammate, she reasoned. It looked good. As focused as Grace was, it was impossible not to think of the people who might be watching her at home when all the cameras surrounded her like this. People like Dylan Patrick. And, maybe, people like her mom.
Not that Grace knew anything about where her mother was or what she was doing. It had been eight full years since Grace had laid eyes on her mother; the woman had been gone ever since a few months after Max was born. She hadn’t heard a word from her since her twelfth birthday, when they had a brief phone call, but her mother refused to tell Grace where she was calling from. Then she had said she’d been reading about Grace online. She’d been following her career. Grace didn’t know if her mother followed gymnastics anymore. But if she won Olympic trials, if she was the favorite for gold, if she was on all the magazines and in commercials and maybe even on The Tonight Show, her mother would have to see her face again.
Not that that’s why Grace wanted to win.
“Hey!” Leigh said, walking up beside her.
Grace nodded at her friend.
“Did you see?” Leigh blabbed, the words falling out of her mouth too quickly and carelessly as if she didn’t realize where they were. “I don’t know if you saw, but he messaged you again. It’s been after, like, every event. And you know what? I only asked him to wish you good luck the first time. He must be watching the meet!”
Grace turned to Leigh’s bouncy smile. Didn’t Leigh realize she was losing? Didn’t she know a stupid new message didn’t matter? And what did that message say?
“Are you gonna reply?”
Leigh was crazy. Leigh was a boy-crazy lesbian.
“No,” Grace said, a little too loudly. What had Dylan written that made Leigh think Grace should respond?
Just then, the piano notes rained softly down on the gym, and Monica began her routine. She was a talented dancer. Grace knew that from the ballet classes her father insisted all his gymnasts ta
ke to support their floor and beam routines.
“He’s right, too. Dylan is. You were great,” Leigh whispered. “I think that’s the best I’ve ever seen you do on beam.”
Grace returned Leigh’s fake smile. There was no way Leigh’s smile and compliment were real. She was trying to get under Grace’s skin, but she should know by now that it wouldn’t work.
They turned back to watch Monica dancing.
Grace squinted at Monica’s bottom, looking for signs of loose-leo. She tried to think of another butt-glue joke to bring her real friend back, but she found herself captivated. They both were. Monica controlled the floor. Her movements were graceful and precise and perfect. Her arms and legs commanded attention, pulled the spectator onto the floor with her. She was taller than her height should allow her to be. And her tumbling looked like dancing.
When she struck her final pose, Grace and Leigh clapped along with the rows of fans in the stands, their jaws dropped in awe.
Leigh’s smile was gone. “Shit,” she breathed.
Grace started adding up past scores in her head. Leigh could still beat Monica on floor. Monica’s performance was close to perfect, but Leigh’s difficulty was greater, so her maximum potential score was higher. Still, Leigh wouldn’t be able to blow her away. At the end of the day, Monica was likely to still be ahead of Leigh.
And Monica was not going to the Olympics.
Leigh was the national champion (thanks to Grace’s fluttery heart), so, to a lot of people, it seemed like Katja had to choose Leigh no matter how she performed today and tomorrow.
But Leigh was not only far from second—she was behind Wilhelmina and Georgette and Maria and Monica. Monica!
“If all these girls beat me . . .” Leigh trailed off, but she didn’t have to finish the thought. Grace knew the end of the sentence.
Katja had some leverage as to whom she chose, but these trials were on television. If Leigh came in toward the end of the all-arounders, Katja and the Olympic Committee would not be able to explain picking her. So they wouldn’t.