by Caela Carter
Conditioning had gone fine this morning, too. While they ran and did leg lifts and handstand drills and all the rest, Leigh had managed to smile at each gymnast. (Well, except for Camille. And that wasn’t cruelty. That was shyness.)
But then there was the beam. The sound of it. It had gotten into her head. She didn’t know how to force herself to focus, to force her brain to ignore her size and the constant banging, without forcing all of that niceness down.
“What’s going on?” Phil demanded again.
“I don’t know,” Leigh said finally.
Phil sighed. “Is it the same thing?” he’d asked. “The noise?”
Leigh had to remind herself that his frustration might not be with her, it might be with that Sports Illustrated reporter who had called her the linebacker and whom he’d called an asshole. He’d called him an asshole just for hurting Leigh.
“Only partly,” she said.
“What else.” He said it like a statement, not a question. He said it like Leigh had better hurry up and tell him so she could get her butt back on the beam, because she had the four most important routines of her life coming up in a few hours.
Leigh pretended the black strap of her practice leo needed straightening so she wouldn’t have to look at Phil when she said it. It would sound so stupid coming out of her mouth.
“I want to be a nice gymnast,” she said.
“What?” he almost shouted.
“I want to go to the Olympics being me.” She didn’t think it was as stupid as it sounded. And part of being herself probably meant being herself with Phil.
Phil raised his eyebrows and lowered his voice. He looked scared. “You know, kid, I always said I’d respect your decision on when to tell the world. And I will. But . . . you know . . . distraction is . . .”
He stopped. Leigh was shaking her head frantically. There were too many people around and she was terrified that if he kept talking he’d out her accidentally. Even though it seemed like it shouldn’t matter. Her gymnastics had nothing to do with her sexuality. It was the secret of it that got twisted up into her brain.
“I’m not talking about that,” Leigh said. “I mean there are going to be young kids who look up to me, if I go to the Olympics, you know? And I don’t want to be the gymnast who only cares about herself for hours. I want to be a nice gymnast. A role model.”
Phil sighed and it seemed like he was almost going to laugh. “Girls,” he said. Like that answered everything. Like being nice and being a role model had more to do with your gender than your personality. “Okay,” he said. “I don’t know what to do about that. I think you’re plenty nice. But I have an idea about the other thing.”
He looked around the gym, swinging his head back and forth. “Grace!” he shouted. He said it so loudly, Leigh jumped before finding her friend with her eyes. Grace was standing beside the bars, watching Monica. Grace and Ted turned to Phil, and Monica stumbled on her dismount.
“Christ, Phil,” Ted said. “What do you need Grace for?”
“Just a favor,” Phil called back. “Help out a friend.”
Ted shook his head. “She’s training,” he said.
Leigh knew that’s what Ted would say. There are no friends on the gym floor.
Grace stared at her toes. Leigh and Phil looked at Ted, and Ted looked at Phil, and Monica looked at Leigh, and Grace looked at her toes.
“I’ll help.” The voice was behind Leigh, close. It was smooth and it danced across her skin. “What can I do?”
Leigh turned and there she was. Camille.
“Uh . . . Can you do a back handspring back tuck on beam?” Phil asked.
Camille nodded. “Think so,” she said. “It’s been a while, but it’d be fun to try.”
“Are you sure?” Phil asked.
Leigh almost said the same thing. Was Camille crazy? She was going to climb up on beam in the middle of the Olympic trials and try a back handspring back tuck when she hadn’t competed beam in years. Did she want to get hurt or something?
“Sure, I’m sure,” Camille said.
She performed the series easily on the line taped to the floor.
Camille wanted to help her? Camille wanted to help Leigh so much that she would risk her own Olympic trials? Leigh’s heart was pounding so hard in her chest, she was sure Camille would be able to see it moving through her leo. She was trying to keep her crazy-person smile under control, but she was sure she was failing.
“You don’t have to do that, you know,” Leigh said. “I mean, I don’t want you to get hurt or anything. Not that you would, I mean. Because you could do it right on the floor, so why wouldn’t you be able to do it on the beam, right?” Leigh felt her cheeks getting hotter and hotter as the words refused to stop walking out of her mouth. “But you know, I mean, I don’t want you to, like, get hurt. Just in case you get hurt. Or, like, in trouble—”
“Will your coach mind?” Phil said.
Leigh had never been so grateful to be interrupted.
Of course he will, but let her do it, anyway, Phil. Let her help me.
Camille shrugged. “Don’t think so. We’re still waiting for Wilhelmina to finish up on vault. I said she could have a few more minutes.”
Leigh was so excited, her skin was practically vibrating.
Phil nodded. “Okay, then. Hop up there.”
Leigh watched the contours of Camille’s legs stretch and retract as she hoisted onto the beam. She was mesmerized. She wanted to watch Camille’s muscles and curves turn upside down and right-side up again.
But Phil made Leigh sit beneath the beam with her eyes closed. “Listen,” he said.
And she heard it: bang-ba-bang-bang.
It sounded just like her. Of course it did. Camille was a big gymnast. She was built like Leigh.
But Camille was also gorgeous.
And talented. Crazy talented.
And popular with the fans.
And beautiful . . .
Leigh opened her eyes. Camille was standing on the beam, staring down at Leigh. Leigh’s heart was in her throat.
Leigh hated this crush. It was unfair—Dylan might have distracted Grace yesterday, but Leigh was the only one with hormones that would let her actual competitors distract her.
Leigh also loved the crush.
She’d have to find success on the beam now that Camille helped her.
Camille hopped down and started jogging toward the vault. Leigh managed to call out a thank-you after her.
Phil squatted in front of her. “Leigh,” he said. “Everyone makes noises on the beam. Everyone.”
Leigh nodded. At least all the big girls do. All the girls like me do.
“You know what does happen because you’re bigger?”
Leigh shook her head.
Phil nodded across the gym to where Camille was now sprinting down the vaulting runway. “Watch her. Watch Camille. Study her Amanar.”
Leigh’s breath caught as Camille’s body spun and twisted high in the air. Her Amanar was stunning. She was beautiful.
“You know what happens because you’re bigger?” Phil said again.
Leigh didn’t say anything. She watched Camille bounce back down the runway with an ache in her chest.
“You fly higher.”
Leigh gave him a smile. He was trying. She looked from his face to the beam and told her heart to save its crush for later.
“I hate those noises,” she said.
Phil sighed. “Look, I get the role model thing. I don’t want you to think about that right now, but I can’t tell you what to think. And I do understand. So, you can be nice to all of your competitors and to the other coaches and the judges and the selection committee and all the little girls in the stands. But . . . can’t you be mean to the beam?”
Leigh laughed.
The beam would not defeat her again. The beam would not win. She would pound it with her hands and feet. She would make it scream. She’d focus so hard, she could burn the four-inch surface with her retinas.
Leigh hopped back onto the apparatus and smiled at her coach. Phil had given her the key. The way to win while being nice.
Back handspring back tuck. BANG. Perfect.
CAMILLE
Camille was seriously considering not going over the vault that night.
That was the answer. She’d let Leigh be the best vaulter. She’d take the question of whether she’d make the team out of her brain.
She’d keep her NCAA eligibility. But would any school actually take her on their team if she quit in the middle of the Olympic trials?
Somehow this debate was working for her. She was nailing Amanar after Amanar without a step. Gymnastics is all about muscle memory and her muscles were doing their job without the help of her brain.
Skip it. Step onto the podium, signal the judges, and step off. Don’t go over the vault.
Bobby would be watching from home. And if he saw her quit mid-meet, he’d think it was the most romantic thing ever. He’d greet her tomorrow with flowers and plans for them both to attend NYU in the fall.
NYU. With no gymnastics team.
Camille’s hips knew how to twist her body the full two-and-a-half rotations in the air. Her wrists knew exactly when to flex against the horse to propel her off it. And her feet were perfect at squeezing the mat when they landed in order to keep her upright and in one place.
Her brain had no idea what it was doing.
If I disqualify myself, Wilhelmina will be happy, too.
But . . . Mom.
Camille had to keep her mother happy. And healthy. It was Camille’s responsibility. All she had to do was vault. A simple vault that would propel Camille into gymnastics fame and glory.
Then the endorsements would roll in, even more than they were now. She’d give up her eligibility. She’d honor her promise to her mother.
Her own desire to join an NCAA team was impossible no matter whom she chose.
“Yes! Yes!” her coach kept yelling as she landed. Camille would smile, slap him five, and jog back to the end of the runway thinking, I have to go over that vault tonight. I owe it to my coach. To my mom. To myself, my old self.
But by the time she was sprinting down the runway, she was thinking, If I do this tonight, I’m going to the Olympics. I’m staying on the huge stage. I’m training full-time for another few months: the preparation in Italy, the games, and then the Tour of Champions. I’m staying exhausted and risking more pain. I’m giving up more than Bobby.
Bobby still hadn’t called or texted or anything. Camille had tried to reach him several times last night and this morning. He’d gone silent on her for the second day in a row. Camille was starting to get angry. First he had promised he’d be there. Then he didn’t show up. Then he dumped her and disappeared at the most important moment of her life—or her post-accident life anyway. What had happened to the supportive boyfriend she met in high school? When did he change?
• • •
“I made elite again,” Camille had told Bobby last summer. “I’m going to make the national team. Andrew says I might be his first Olympian.” They were sitting in his car in the gym parking lot. She was sweaty and her hair was extra frizzy and it was pointless that Bobby had shown up to take her home because her mother had been in the observation room through her entire practice. But he was here anyway. Because he loved her, Camille guessed.
Bobby didn’t say anything. His jaw tightened underneath his rust-colored stubble.
“He said we’d try only on vault. I think I convinced him to let me train floor, too, just for fun. But still, that’s only two events,” Camille was saying. “So you don’t need to worry, I’ll only practice a few extra hours a week. He says with an Amanar like mine I have a chance at it.” Camille tried to sound as enthusiastic as possible, tried to get Bobby to smile. She felt tired. “What would you think of that: an Olympic girlfriend!”
“I thought you were excited to go to NYU with me this fall. I thought I was enough,” Bobby had almost whispered. “I put off college for a year just to be with you in that stupid gym.”
I didn’t ask you to do that.
Camille said nothing about the picture that flashed in her brain anytime someone mentioned the word college: her, in the crowd of fifteen or so gymnasts in matching leos, her competing in the NCAA. Where the gymnasts seemed to truly love each other. Where they danced in unison on the sidelines as their teammates rocked creative floor routines. Where they trained a maximum of twenty-five hours a week.
Camille as a part of a team. It was a piece of her childhood she’d missed. Teamwork.
She swallowed her dreams in that car with Bobby.
If she could hold him off a little longer, she could make them both happy. First her mom training for the Olympics. Then Bobby with retirement.
Ultimately, it was only herself she’d have to disappoint.
She hadn’t expected to have a chance to get to the Olympics with Andrew. Camille didn’t know that within a year she’d be considered one of the best vaulters in the world, that she’d make the US national team quickly, that she’d do better in this new gymnastics body than she had in her first one.
Camille hadn’t expected any of it.
For the past year Camille’s heart had been a piece of putty being pulled and yanked by her mother and by Bobby. It was so out of shape, she couldn’t recognize it anymore.
• • •
Camille landed yet another Amanar.
“That’s enough for today,” Andrew said with a chuckle. “I think you’ve got it.”
Camille stopped her jog back to the end of the runway and turned to face her laughing coach.
“We don’t want to wear you out, right?” he said.
She nodded. “Right,” she said.
But inside there was a strange queasy feeling. Disappointment.
Camille realized that she’d been having fun with this parade of perfect Amanars.
Had she just turned her last Amanar ever?
It was both freeing and heartbreaking.
GRACE
Grace finished practicing her floor routine. She posed in the far corner with her arms thrown over her head as she always did.
Then she hopped off the podium and reached for the water bottle in her father’s hand. Her stomach was rumbling despite the five apple slices and tablespoon of peanut butter her father had forced her to eat at breakfast.
“Nice job, Grace!” Monica piped up. She’d gotten taller or something ever since that stupid interview last night. Like it counted for something. Like Katja wasn’t just saying Monica’s name to put down the other gymnasts.
Grace gave her a look. They were the only two present who had to share a coach and Grace was sick of it. She wasn’t used to her father splitting his time. She had been looking forward to the break from his constant scrutiny during this meet, but she thought they would split her father’s attention 80/20 or 70/30. Now, it was feeling like Monica was getting close to 50 percent of his time, and it wasn’t fair. Because, first, Grace was more than his gymnast. She was his daughter. And second, Grace was better.
The worst thing about the morning was the compliments. First, there were all the compliments that her father kept giving Monica. After almost every routine he would say, “Good job, kiddo.” And that was it. Even when Monica’s toes weren’t pointed. Even when there was a separation between her legs. Even when her beam routine was full of so many balance checks, she looked more like a Mexican jumping bean than a gymnast. He’d still say, “Good job, kiddo.” And when she fell, on beam once and bars twice, he said, “It’s okay. Get up there again, kiddo.”
Then there were the constant com
pliments that Monica was giving Grace. She was making herself look better, superior. What made her think she could decide what a “nice job” was? Who was Monica to judge Grace?
“That was pretty good, Gracie,” her father said. “You need to watch that bobble on your landing. And keep your knees straight when you pike.”
Grace nodded. Seen and not heard.
She was sick of him acting like Monica was the talented one. There was only one way in which Monica was better than Grace: she was smaller.
And by the end of the morning practice, it felt like that was all that mattered.
Grace toweled off her face and took a few gulps of water before pulling on her sneakers and heading into the locker room. She put her hand on her stomach and told it to shut up.
She’d had a good workout. Her dad had said almost one-third positive things. That was well above average. And Grace had to admit that she might be steady because of the protein in that tablespoon of peanut butter.
Grace needed to be consistent tonight. Katja had pretty much said that to the world.
So, Grace left the gym determined to eat a regular lunch. She’d eaten a regular breakfast and gotten through the entire workout without one moment of a wobbly heart. She would force herself to have a few bites of meat, a full serving of vegetables, a little skim milk. Then, she’d shower and chill out in her bed in the air-conditioning, her wet hair feeling refreshing against the back of her neck.
Grace was not going to let her heart or her stomach interrupt her tonight. She’d seen Leigh fall over and over again on beam in practice. If she went into tonight as steady as she had this morning, she might be able to beat her, TTY and all.
There would be no stupid message distracting her. Even if Dylan started messaging her again before or during the meet tonight, Grace would not look. There would be no focusing on being Leigh’s friend or on food or on anything. She’d think about gymnastics.
But lunch was not a buffet. Instead, the gymnasts were seated and the staff of the hotel brought them turkey sandwiches on whole wheat bread, oranges, full glasses of skim milk.