Tumbling

by Caela Carter

  Wilhelmina squinted at her, so she kept talking.

  “I mean, I set a goal like that. One that I can achieve no matter who else is at the gym that day.”

  Wilhelmina nodded. But she said, “You shouldn’t.”

  Monica raised her eyebrows.

  “You should set the goal of beating everyone. Everyone you can beat, mathematically, at this point. You could easily climb above some of us if you perform top-notch tomorrow. And when they factor in who is winning on beam, bars, and floor combined without vault—and they will—it’s you. It could be, anyway.”

  Monica shook her head. She couldn’t think like that. It made her brain spin and her heart ache because no matter what goals she set, she knew the Olympics wasn’t in her future. She wasn’t good enough.

  She didn’t want it to hurt too badly when her name wasn’t called tomorrow.

  “Why don’t you decide that, then?” Monica asked.

  Wilhelmina shook her head. “It’s complicated for me.” she said. “But when you’re in the Olympics, I’m going to cheer for you.” She reached across the ice to knock Monica on the shoulder with her fist. “You’re the only girl here I actually like.”

  LEIGH

  Leigh had dawdled at dinner as long as she could. She’d been slow and overly careful (and talked way too much) while filling a bucket with ice to munch on until Lights Out. Her steps in the hallway were at a slug’s pace. She did not want to go back to her room. She was glad, when she got there, to find the bathroom door closed and the shower running. She flopped down on her bed and pulled out her tablet.

  Hip-hop pumped through her earphones.

  Grace’s fan page glowed from Leigh’s computer screen. Dylan had been messaging her all day. Grace had even messaged him back.

  Leigh stared and stared at this until a mixture of anger and terror came down black over her eyes. All she could hear was Grace’s voice:

  “We aren’t close-close.”

  “We’re just friends.”

  “I’m not like that.”

  The reporter had said, “Okaaaay.” Like she felt bad for Leigh. Like she knew. Like everyone in the world would know now.

  Leigh thought about the laughs she’d gotten at dinner. She thought about the friends from school who had texted her throughout the day. She didn’t need Grace. It was Grace who needed her.

  She couldn’t let the anger she felt at Grace get mixed up in sadness.She had to protect her secret.

  A new message popped up on Grace’s fan page, and Leigh realized that Grace and Dylan had been having a whole back-and-forth ever since Grace got back into the room.

  And then—suddenly—she knew what to do and exactly how to do it. Grace wouldn’t like it, but Leigh didn’t care about that anymore. She pulled her phone out of her bag, logged into her own fan page, and started typing.

  Hey Dylan Patrick, why all the attention on Grace Cooper? There are more of us out there you know!

  It was ballsy, but so what? Leigh even linked Grace’s fan page to the comment so she’d be sure to see it.

  She threw her phone on the bed and it dinged immediately.

  He’d replied.

  Oh, I noticed you out there, Leigh Becker. They said that vault was the best one in the world. (And you looked good doing it, too.)

  He was flirting. With her. Which meant he had no idea. Which meant they weren’t talking about that linebacker comment all day on the television.

  Which meant she’d better write back.

  She typed quickly, something flirty but not suggestive:

  I’m sure you could vault just as well if you gave that singing thing up.

  His reply:

  Or maybe you should watch me sing sometime.

  Leigh’s heart sped as her fingers played on the touch screen. It was weird, this, whatever this was. This flirting with a boy. It was like trying on someone else’s skin. Like doing a handstand on the bars while wearing sneakers. It was awkward and clunky, but a fun challenge.

  This kind of public flirting would keep anyone from looking too deeply into that “Linebacker” nickname or Grace’s weird interview tonight. And if Grace outed her completely, she’d have this fan page conversation to point to in order to keep herself in the closet.

  . . . because she wanted to stay there. Right?

  In some ways Leigh almost wished Grace would have come out and said it tonight. She wished she could admit who she really was and stop worrying about what gymnastics, America, the world would say.

  Leigh was so involved in fake flirting that she didn’t hear the water turn off. Suddenly a dripping, towel-wrapped Grace stood at the foot of her bed.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  Leigh shrugged. “What’s it to you?” She didn’t pull out an earbud. She didn’t want to talk to this girl who used to be her best friend.

  Grace marched up behind her.

  “You’re messaging him? You’re messaging Dylan? What are you doing?”

  Leigh didn’t even look up this time. She pretended not to notice, not to know what was happening as Grace lunged across her bed and yanked her own iPad out of her bag on the floor. While her back was turned, Leigh looked at Grace. She was wrapped from head to toe in towels: one secure around her waist and reaching all the way to her ankles. Another plastered under her armpits so that her hips and butt were double-wrapped. And yet another draped over her shoulders.

  Leigh’s heart cracked. She swore she could hear the creaking sounds as it splintered inside her.

  Leigh’s mom had told her that sometimes in life she’d face people who didn’t understand, who thought they could judge her, who would hate her for simply being who she was. She was scared of how high she’d have to hold her head when she did choose to tell the world about her sexuality. How, as a semi-famous person, she’d be opening herself up to ridicule from friends and from strangers. Hate, ignorance, judgment: Leigh knew these things were coming in her life, but she hadn’t had to face them yet.

  Until now. And now it was Grace—too scared to let Leigh see a bit of skin besides her face and her feet. As if Leigh’s sexuality would automatically mean she was attracted to sticklike Grace. As if Leigh was dangerous and scary.

  God, it hurt.

  She typed. Grace was still linked in the conversation, so she’d see it right away.

  Is that an invitation? To a concert?

  Leigh watched Grace’s shoulders go tight as she read.

  Grace slowly sat up, her legs crisscross-applesauce wrapped in the brown towel, and looked at Leigh. Her face was long, the corners of her lips pointing down. Her wet, black hair was dripping all over the top of her white bedspread and it was like she didn’t even notice.

  “I don’t get why you’re doing this,” she said slowly. “I mean, you don’t even like him.”

  “Neither do you, really,” Leigh said.

  Grace shrugged. “How do you know?” She was barely whispering now.

  Leigh answered aggressively. “Because you’re—”

  Focused. Boring. Not interested in anything or anyone.

  Leigh had only seen Grace look so flat and vulnerable once before: years ago when Grace’s birthday had fallen during the Natalia cup and, even though she won the gold medal for the junior all-around, her mother still didn’t call. Grace said that was the first time her mother had missed her birthday. They were thirteen.

  But that was different. That made sense. Leigh wasn’t sure she trusted Grace’s long face now. After all, Leigh had been a part of it when Grace had set out to destroy Monica earlier today. And then the target had jumped to Leigh’s own back faster than she’d gone over the vault.

  Leigh’s laptop dinged with a new fan page alert and she saw Grace flinch.

  This was sort of fun, this flirting. Maybe she could be straight after
all.

  But this message wasn’t from some boy. It was from Camille.

  Did you guys all see Leigh Becker’s vault today!?!? AMAZING.

  It was a silly promotional post. It was probably something Camille’s agent told her to do so that she wouldn’t look bitter. It wasn’t even real.

  But it made Leigh’s blood rush to the outer layers of her skin and light her on fire.

  “Because I’m what?” Grace demanded. She didn’t notice Leigh flush and Leigh silently thanked Past Leigh for never telling Grace the whole truth, for never telling her about this crush. “I don’t really like Dylan because I’m what?”

  Leigh was more calm now, though. She didn’t want to hurl any of those insults anymore.

  “Do you like him?” Leigh asked Grace.

  Grace sat silent, studying her pruney fingers. “I’m not allowed to,” she said finally.

  Leigh did not want to feel sorry for her.

  “Do you like him?” Grace asked. Almost like she was trying to be funny, like she wanted to be friends again.

  Leigh looked at Grace, slowly shaking her head. She knew why she was enjoying the flirtatious replies from someone she didn’t find appealing at all. She knew why she’d messaged him in the first place. This was about beating Grace in this stupid way, since she could never beat her in gymnastics. What was the point of being the girl who went to regular high school, who knew how to make friends, who tried so hard to be normal and nice? What was the point carving up her life so that she could never really belong anywhere if the people on the outside of their little gymnastics world weren’t going to recognize her as the coolest?

  Grace would always win. Even when Leigh had beaten her this summer, the headlines and the stories had been about Grace. SURE THING FALLS TO BEST FRIEND. And WHO DOES GYMNASTICS HAVE IF THE GREAT GRACE COOPER CAN BE BEATEN? Grace would always win in the gym because she was allowed to dedicate all her time there. What was the point of being Leigh, what was the point of not being Grace, if Leigh couldn’t win in the real world?

  Leigh opened her mouth to attempt to explain this, to attempt to find a truce when they heard a knock on the door. They both jumped, startled.

  “Oh yeah,” Leigh said. “I sort of invited Wilhelmina and some others over here to watch Katja’s interview on espnW.”

  “Katja’s interview on espnW?” Grace repeated.

  Leigh nodded. “Yeah. In ten minutes.”

  Grace and her army of towels darted back into the bathroom and Leigh froze for a second before letting the other girls in.

  Was Grace her friend? Or not?

  CAMILLE

  “Yeah, it’s cool. I know it’s cool that so many people wrote on my page. Sorry, Mom,” Camille said into the phone.

  “I’m just trying to enjoy it with you, sweetheart,” her mom said. “I only want to be a part of your life, you know. Ever since Bobby started hanging around, you don’t let me in anymore.”

  Camille sighed before she could help it. Was she serious? Camille’s mom was the reason she was here right now, the reason she did everything.

  “What?” her mom said.

  “Nothing. Sorry.”

  “You’re nervous, aren’t you? About tomorrow?” her mom said. “That’s why you’re all upset.”

  She’d been on the phone for too long. It was ridiculous. Wilhelmina was sure to come back soon and she had to think of a way to fix that situation, too.

  So she said, “You know, Mom, if I joined an NCAA team—”

  Her mom cut her off. “Are you still thinking about that? You promised—”

  “I know,” Camille said. She’d promised her mom that if she made the Olympics, she would finally go pro. She’d give her up college eligibility.

  “It’s not just about the money, sweetie,” her mom said. “I want to see you be a star! I want to see you on Subway commercials and Wheaties boxes. I want to go with you when the team is flown to Disney World. I’ve been dreaming of these things since you turned your first cartwheel, you know. I’ve been here, by your side and I’m only—”

  “Mom, I know,” Camille said. “I’m going to go pro if I make the Olympics. I’m just saying if I don’t make it—”

  “I don’t think we need to worry about that, sweetie. You’ve got the most consistent, most beautiful vault. And Leigh was going to be chosen anyway. I’m sure both of you girls will still get to go.”

  Camille tried to hide the hope from her voice, tried to sound disappointed when she spoke again. “That might not be what happens. Leigh did a triple twisting Yurchenko. She’s the best vaulter now. And then there are a lot of all-around girls who also have good vaults, so it might be—”

  “Ohhh,” her mom said. “Listen to you, all nervous. You’re okay, sweetie. You’ve got it in the bag. Get some rest, okay?”

  Her mom sounded so happy. On the other side of that happiness was a despair so deep, Camille didn’t know if they could both survive it again. So, even though she was still sort of hoping she wouldn’t make the team now, she dropped it. Camille said, “Thanks, Mom,” and hung up.

  A knock on the door pulled Camille out of her own head.

  “Katja is being interviewed live,” Samantha called through the wood. “Leigh’s got a computer. Her room. Ten minutes.”

  Camille put down her phone and left the room. She’d fix things with Wilhelmina after she heard what Katja had to say.

  • • •

  During her six months of nothing but high school and Bobby, Camille had missed the gym, the power of her limbs, the ability to defy gravity and science’s understanding of the human body.

  But she didn’t miss it enough. Not enough to want to do the hardest tricks, the ones that are required of elite gymnasts. Not enough to risk breaking her back, shattering her personality, redefining herself yet again.

  Still, when Camille had stopped training, it was like someone had died. For as long as she could remember, her family had always been her and her mother, and when they lost their common goal of gymnastics glory, they started living with a ghost.

  At dinner they would have conversations peppered with silences where the words they didn’t know how to not say hung in the air in gray typeset letters. In the mornings, Bobby would drive Camille to high school. High school, where her mother didn’t sit behind a glass wall and watch her progress the way she always had been able to at the gym. And Camille could see the other ways her mother was changing: her weight was yo-yoing again, she spent full days without ever taking off her yellow robe, and she often forgot to eat until Camille asked about dinner.

  Camille’s mom wanted her career back, but Camille was choosing to spend her time and energy on other things. Like Bobby.

  Camille loved them both. She wanted to make them both happy.

  She refused to go back to her old gym. She would not let her body get mangled and pushed. But Andrew’s gym across town was different. He didn’t deal with many elite gymnasts. He had never coached an Olympian. His goal was to place several gymnasts a year into college programs with scholarships. When Camille met with him, he agreed to train her only after school and on Saturdays. He agreed that she should keep some of the new weight on her body. He agreed that school and boyfriends and family were also important things. Neither of them mentioned the next Olympics. Camille thought her mother would be happy. She thought maybe she’d be happy, too.

  She would compete in college. She would be part of a team. She would be part gymnast and part everything else.

  “I think you’re throwing your life away,” Helen had said when Camille told her the new plan over dinner. Her hair was oily, the gray and blonde roots matted to her skull, and the brownish locks hung from her head in chunks. She picked up her fork again and it waved around in front of her face, her red eyes watching it.

  This wasn’t fair.

  “What a
bout your life?” Camille had asked.

  She didn’t think her mother would understand the jump in the topic. But she did.

  “Our life,” her mom had said. “You’re throwing our life away.” Her voice didn’t match the anger of the words she chose. She was whispering. “You’re a kid, so you don’t know it yet. You can choose school and boys and all sorts of other things. You can say I should be happy to have you for so long, but you’re wrong.”

  “Mom, you’re not making sense,” Camille had said.

  “I am,” she said. “You just aren’t listening. We used to do everything together. We used to spend our whole day in the same room, working toward the same goal, doing it together. All I wanted was to see you be an Olympian, and you can do it. I know you can do it. And I know you can choose not to, but me, I can’t. I’m too old. There are no men left for me, nothing else for me to do with my life than to be an Olympic mom. I just wish you’d try.”

  Then she’d finally taken a bite of fish.

  “I want to try the NCAA,” Camille said quietly. “I love gymnastics, but I want to be on a team. And I love other things, too.”

  “Don’t you miss it?” her mom had said while she was chewing.

  “I did miss it. I was missing it.”

  Her mom looked alarmed. “Not anymore?”

  “Because I’m doing it, Mom. I’m going to be training twenty hours a week. I want to keep going through college and get a scholarship so you don’t have to pay for me to go. I’m happy. It’s . . . like . . . a balance or something.”

  “No,” Camille’s mother had said. “Don’t you miss it . . . us?”

  Camille’s eyes had welled up. She did miss that. She loved her time with Bobby. She loved her new gym routine and how it left time for silly stuff like movies and flirty texting. But she missed her mother. She missed the closeness they used to have. Singing Wham! in the car when her mother drove her around. Talking about the highs and lows of every workout before she went to bed each night. Cuddling under blankets and watching the other countries’ National Championships on live streaming. She missed sharing a small world with this one woman, this one person who would always love her more than anyone else could.