Tumbling

by Caela Carter

  Wilhelmina cut her off. “No. He’s a selfish jerk. Don’t ruin your meet over him. Get your butt over the vault.”

  Camille felt her defeated heart speeding up.

  “You’re going to the Olympics!” Wilhelmina shouted. “Who does that kid think he is?”

  “Yeah,” Camille lied.

  She’d been stupid to think that maybe Wilhelmina would understand, that maybe since she was an older gymnast, she would also have a little bit of gymnastics fatigue or competition fatigue or whatever it was that was weighing on Camille and making her wish she wasn’t here.

  Wilhelmina was angry. “You’re the best vaulter here. You can’t give that up for some guy.”

  Camille’s mouth dropped open. She struggled to say something, anything that would make Wilhelmina, or her mother, or her coach, or anyone, anyone understand.

  “It’s so unfair, Camille! I mean, Katja loves you, right? She didn’t have any private messages for you. And yet you’re the one who’s going to risk the Olympics for some jerk’s phone call?”

  Camille remembered Katja’s words. Her promise. All Camille had to do to get to the Olympics at this point was show up in the locker room at the end of the meet. Wilhelmina was mad, so Camille didn’t want to tell her about her private moment with Katja.

  She felt her cheeks go pink.

  Then, something dawned on her. “Wait,” she said. “Did Katja have a private message for you?”

  Wilhelmina fell quiet and Camille swore she could see her heart break across her face. She shrugged. “At breakfast,” she whispered.

  “What?” Camille said, borrowing some of the anger that her defeated roommate was letting go. “What did she say?”

  “I’m too late,” Wilhelmina mumbled. “She said she can never trust me. She asked me not to make it difficult for her. She basically asked me not to try to make the team because, well, she said that would backfire.”

  “But . . . but . . .” Camille started.

  “But, what?”

  “But that is unfair!” Camille blurted.

  Wilhelmina shook her head. “I know that. That’s what I’m saying. Everything has always been unfair for me.” She wouldn’t look up at Camille.

  “Well, that’s what—” Camille started.

  But Wilhelmina cut her off. “I shouldn’t . . . I don’t want to talk about it. I mean, don’t want to think about it. I’m trying to be . . . healthy. I’m trying to enjoy today. That’s what I want. I want to enjoy today.”

  Wilhelmina looked up then, and Camille nodded. There wasn’t much to say to that. Who didn’t want to enjoy today?

  And it was working: Wilhelmina was rocking it. But she was in fourth place yesterday. The math alone made it pretty unlikely that she’d be able to surpass Georgette and Leigh and Grace. Gymnasts rarely moved more than one spot after the first day of a meet, unless there was a major fall. And no one ever wished for falls.

  “What do you want?” Wilhelmina asked. “If you forget your mom and that jerk. What do you want?”

  Camille scrunched her eyebrows. “Part of it,” she said. It was what she always wanted. But she’d never admitted it to anyone.

  Wilhelmina looked at her like she was crazy, but it didn’t matter. Camille knew what she meant.

  She wanted a balanced life that wasn’t controlled by gymnastics. Her mother would hate that.

  She didn’t want to give up gymnastics completely. Bobby would hate that.

  If she tried to make either of them happy, she’d never be happy herself.

  Did it really matter what Camille wanted?

  “You’re not going to call him, are you?” Wilhelmina demanded.

  Camille shrugged. She wasn’t any closer to a vault solution.

  “I can’t be talking about this now,” Wilhelmina said. “I’m not trying to be mean, but I can’t let this Bobby screw up my meet, my day. Let’s talk after the meet. Ignore him until then.”

  Then she was gone.

  Camille slumped in her chair, her head down so Bobby would know she wasn’t looking at him.

  “Well, I get it,” a voice said beside her. “I think I get what you mean.”

  Camille jumped. She turned to her right. Monica. Had she been sitting there the whole time? Had the girl been so much of a nonfactor in Camille’s brain that she didn’t even realize she’d been sitting there, privy to Camille’s innermost thoughts?

  “It’s harder to be talented than it looks, huh?” Monica said. She said it like it was really a question. Like Camille had the answers.

  “It’s hard to be . . . us,” Camille said. “I think. I mean, it’s hard to be a person and also be, like, a . . . commodity. Like, the product. You know?”

  “I know.” Monica shrugged. “There’s more to gymnastics than the Olympics, though.”

  Camille nodded. For you, maybe. I wish there was for me.

  “And there’s more to life than gymnastics,” Monica said. “I get why you’d want to go call your boyfriend.”

  Camille was surprised. But that was the permission she needed.

  STANDINGS

  AFTER THE SIXTH ROTATION

  1.

  Leigh Becker

  90.405

  2.

  Wilhelmina Parker

  90.325

  3.

  Grace Cooper

  88.705

  4.

  Georgette Paulson

  88.704

  5.

  Monica Chase

  85.555

  6.

  Maria Vasquez

  85.505

  7.

  Kristin Jackson

  84.845

  8.

  Annie Simms

  84.405

  9.

  Natalie Rice

  80.650

  10.

  Samantha Soloman

  60.405

  11.

  Olivia Corsica

  59.550

  12.

  Camille Abrams

  30.980

  Seventh Rotation

  MONICA

  Monica climbed onto the beam to start her warm-up. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ted stand and approach the podium. He was watching.

  That’s good, she told herself. But her knees were shaky. She walked to the end of the beam and sprung her body through the first tumbling pass. She landed, her right heel hanging off the end of the beam, her left pinkie toe hanging off the side. She squeezed her legs and feet to keep her body upright. Crap. That was not good. She had to land that trick during her routine.

  Once she regained her balance, she hopped off and walked on the mats to the end of the beam. She climbed on again and tumbled again. She landed crooked again.

  Damn it! She hopped off to try yet another time.

  Some gymnasts warm up by running through their entire routine, but Monica always went for a watered-down version. Usually, without the pressure of the eyes from the judges and the crowd, she would do her tumbling perfectly in her warm-up. Then she’d do a few full turns, her leaps, a dismount and be done with it. That gave her muscles enough spring and herself enough confidence to feel good mounting the bea
m for her official routine a few minutes later.

  But Ted was standing there, staring at her, ruining her confidence and the whole point of her warm-up. He wasn’t telling her what to do; he wasn’t even saying his usual “good job, kiddo.” He was staring.

  Monica hopped off the beam yet again after screwing up for a third time, and Ted sat. He pulled out his phone.

  Now, of course, she did a perfect double-handspring back tuck. She did a few full turns without the slightest balance check. She practiced a split leap. Perfect.

  Why was it so much harder to perform when people were watching?

  Monica hopped off the podium and the next girl mounted the beam for her warm-up. Monica felt good. But then she heard Ted’s voice, gruff and mean. “Monica.”

  She looked up at him.

  “What was that?”

  He said it so loudly, she ran over to him, hoping that if she was right next to him, he’d stop the hollering and everyone in the gym would stop looking at her. Grace was staring at her with a scrunched nose like Monica was the most pathetic piece of worthlessness gymnastics had ever seen.

  “Is that how you warm up for beam?” Ted was saying. “Just do a few run-throughs and don’t worry when you fall off? Just do a turn for the hell of it? La-la-la, I’ll do whatever I like.”

  He was mocking her. Monica felt herself grow shorter, her cheeks grow brighter.

  Her blood ran hot.

  It was amazing that she could feel this small, this insecure, this terrified and at the same time be so angry.

  “I—” Monica started.

  “You what? You thought your warm-up was a suggestion? Thought we talk about muscle memory because we like the sound of our voices?”

  “No,” Monica said, “I didn’t—”

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t know,” Ted said. He was quieter now but his voice still cut through her heart like a steak knife. “Don’t tell me that here you are, at the Olympic trials, the second day, having the meet of your life, and you don’t know how to warm up.”

  There were so many people looking at them.

  Is this what it meant to have Ted as a coach? You either get ignored or you get mocked?

  Monica felt tiny and scared, but she couldn’t stand there and let him yell at her while everyone watched. She couldn’t keep the anger in her stomach anymore. She felt the words simmering in her throat. “This is your fault,” she mumbled. She wasn’t sure she even heard her own voice, but Ted did.

  “Excuse me?” he said.

  “You should know that’s how I warm up. I did the exact same thing yesterday. You should know.” She wished she could sound as angry as she felt.

  Ted’s mouth snapped shut. He nodded once. Monica thought that was going to be it. She was ready to go back to being ignored and belittled. Anything was better than mocking.

  But Ted smiled. It was a weird smile, like Grace’s.

  He pointed to the line that was taped on the floor. “Do it again,” he said. His smile disappeared as soon as he spoke.

  “What?” Monica squeaked.

  Ted pointed to the floor. “You want a real warm-up? Fine. I’ll teach you now. Do it again.”

  Wide-eyed, Monica backed up until her feet were on the tape. She did the first of her double handsprings.

  “Stop!” Ted said. Monica froze, knees bent, hands in the air, ready to spring her body over again. “Start at the beginning. Your whole routine,” Ted said. “That’s how we warm up.”

  She ran through her entire routine on the floor. Ted pointed out every balance check, every slipped foot, every bent elbow.

  Monica’s heart stuttered every time she heard his voice. His eyes focused like lasers on her feet and it made her jumpy. She flipped down the length of the fake beam and her toes landed half a foot away from the end of the tape.

  “Well, that’s great,” Ted said. “You just leaped off the end of the beam.”

  This is what I want, Monica told herself as she walked back. He’s paying attention to me. I have to listen to his words and erase that disgusted tone from my ears.

  She finished her routine and turned to her coach.

  “Do it again,” Ted said.

  He’s here because he thinks I matter.

  Grace herself was warming up on the beam by now, but Ted kept watching Monica. “Balance check,” he said over and over again. “Point your toes. Get those ankles together. Come on, Monica, you know better!”

  And Monica did matter. Her gymnastics mattered. It mattered to her: that was most important.

  By her third run-through Monica was smiling. There was something good about being terrified of Ted. It made it impossible for her to be terrified of everyone else.

  Minutes later, her name was called. She stared at the beam, focusing on it like it was the only light in a room full of darkness. She ran through everything Ted had told her. Then she put her hands on the surface and raised herself into her handstand.

  And a word went through her head. Alternate.

  Olympic alternate.

  She could do it. She knew she could.

  Grace

  As her name boomed across the Baltimore Metroplex for the second-to-last time, Grace watched her father lift her competitor from the balance beam podium. She watched him lean over the girl he maybe loved best now, the girl Katja probably loved best now, and whisper in her ear. She watched him put her on the ground and pat on her lower back. And then he sat.

  He did not come over to Grace to give her any last-minute strategy or warning or advice. He didn’t even look up as she climbed the steps to the podium.

  Grace glanced back at the stands, hoping to see Katja’s eyes on her as they usually were, but no.

  Katja had asked Grace to be consistent and she wasn’t. There was no way Katja would see her as consistent now. But Grace had to make Katja happy in order to qualify to compete in the all-around, which would lead to her one shot at Olympic gold. And now there was only one way to make Katja happy.

  Grace had to beat Wilhelmina Parker.

  Grace was the only one who had bothered to figure out what—really, who—Katja was talking about last night, and now she could use that to her advantage.

  Katja needed Grace to kill Wilhelmina’s story. Because Wilhelmina could prove that you can be a real person and still be a gymnast. Wilhelmina could prove that you can use your brain, that you can do something different from what Katja decided, and still make the Olympic team.

  And Grace was the opposite. Grace did everything exactly as Katja preferred it.

  If Wilhelmina beat Grace, she would nullify Katja’s whole training philosophy, Katja’s whole job, Katja’s whole life. But if Grace beat Wilhelmina, Katja would be validated.

  Grace would stay in Katja’s favor.

  Grace had to show them all that Katja’s way was the right way.

  Because it was the only way she knew how to live. Katja was the third most important person in her life. Dad, Max, Katja, Leigh. That’s all Grace had.

  If Dylan were into me . . .

  If Mom were here . . .

  Grace squeezed her eyes shut and tried to shut her entire face. What was happening? What had flirting with Dylan done to her? It had been so long since she’d let herself miss her mother.

  Grace wiped the pain off her face and signaled the judges.

  This was not the way it was supposed to be. It should not feel this awful to be coming in third at the biggest American gymnastic event in four years. Later today, Grace would hear her name listed among those going to the Olympics. In only a few weeks she would be on an international stage fighting to etch her name into history next to Nastia Liukin and Gabby Douglas and Carly Patterson and Mary Lou Retton. Right now, the stands were full of Americans who had followed her career. They were full of people who believed in her. Her little brot
her, Max, was up there, somewhere in the dark, waving a sign around and screaming her name.

  Yes, she was in third. Yes, she might stay there. But still, Grace thought, this should feel better.

  She should feel confident, proud, excited. Instead of mortified and hurt and like a terrible daughter and a terrible gymnast and a terrible friend.

  Her heart was pumping sludge, sinking lower and lower in her torso, and it would keep sinking until it was caught by the hip bones that protruded from her navy leo. Her arms felt so heavy that it was an effort to lift them over her head when the flag turned green.

  But luckily Grace’s gymnastics did not depend on her emotional state. She squinted at the beam, like her coach had taught her, and watched it grow. She flipped the switch. She erased her feelings. She let her brain and heart die, and her body took over.

  Foot, she said to herself as her left foot launched her off the springboard. Foot, she told herself patiently, and her right foot landed on the beam.

  Spin. She did a full twist with her left leg kicked out to the side. It was a difficult trick and the audience—the crowd of thousands whose belief in her somehow still couldn’t erase her father’s disappointment—awarded her with applause.

  By the time Grace stood with her toes lined up on the end of the beam, her arms raised over her head, ready to catapult her body into its first tumbling run, she was herself again. Hand-hand-feet. Her roundoff. Feet. Her back layout. Feet. Her back tuck.

  She landed squarely on the beam, her right foot in front of her left in ballet’s fourth position. She posed with her arms over her head and smiled toward the ceiling. That was it. Her body was listening again.

  Grace felt her confidence build. She let her body do what it always did, let her muscles take her through the routine, let her spirits rise with her body’s abilities. Standing back tuck. Check. Switch leap. Check. Dance poses. Perfect. Second tumbling run. Awesome.

  Everything connected. Everything square.

  By the time she landed her double-tuck dismount, the applause falling down on her like the confetti that would after she was announced to the team, she didn’t need to force her smile.