by Brett Cooper
Chapter Six
“There’s some dust behind your ear there,” Christine’s mom said on the car ride home. She frowned sympathetically as Christine rubbed away the mess she’d missed.
Her wet hair was a constant reminder of the shameful episode that she would come to think of as The Chalk Debacle. She’d rinsed her hair in the sink for five minutes as she’d let the tears run their course. Then she’d wiped herself relatively clean with wet paper towels and changed out of her powdery clothes, back into the outfit she’d worn to school.
“I know what happened. Dina’s mom filled me in. I’m sorry, sweetie. It sure has been a rough couple of days.”
Christine only looked out the window. What was she supposed to say? Either she’d be fishing for sympathy, which she preferred not to do, or she’d be liable to say too much. What for? The less her mom knew, the better. In that sense she agreed with the email she’d seen from the Axe to her dad. She didn’t want her mom poking her nose around in this. She’d find out eventually. She deserved to know. Christine would tell her when she knew everything, no sooner. Otherwise it would be like torture to slowly learn the details of the sordid affair. Better to hear it all at once, like ripping off a Band-aid in one tug or yanking out a loose tooth with a string tied to a tennis ball that you throw to the dog. Except much worse.
“Christine,” her mom said. “Does this have to do with Dad?”
Christine peeled her gaze away from the swiftly passing terrain outside the car window and turned to look at her mom. “What? Why would you say that?”
“It’s just a feeling I get, sweetie. I don’t think it has to do with Ben or with me, does it?”
“No. It’s… girl stuff.”
“I’m a girl. Am, was.”
“Maybe one day. Not now.”
“Let me just say this. You seem to be going through some difficulties. If there’s anything I can do, you just let me know and I’ll do it, no questions asked.”
Christine nodded. This warmed her heart. Maybe it’s just what she needed to hear. She wondered, too, why her mom was acting like this. Did she know more than she let on, just as Christine did?
As they slogged the mile (slow walking most of the time, slow jogging when the gym teachers yelled at them) in the back field during gym class, Christine filled Joanie in on the last night’s events.
“Dina?” Joanie said. “That’s her name? That’s my grandma’s name. This girl is tarnishing a great name. No, not tarnish – devastate. Dina What’s-her-face is DEVASTATING the great name of Dina. I’d like to twist her flexible gymnast body into a pretzel and feed her to the pigeons. How ’bout that?”
“Okay, yeah, that’s pretty much how I feel. But you’re kinda freaking me out.”
“That’s because you’re a softie. All right. I’d like to pack her in a suitcase and put her on a one-way rocket to the International Space Station. With your coach strapped to the outside of the rocket. And your dad cryogenically frozen for a year or two. Better?”
“Better.”
This was one more thing Christine loved about Joanie. She was especially skilled at venting. Christine needed a little work in that department.
One of the gym teachers was yelling again: “Girls! Look alive!”
Yeah, yeah. They sped up to a slow jog.
“You’re rocking that gym uniform,” Christine said. Joanie was wearing both the shirt and the shorts of her blue uniform inside out. This was accented by knee-high yellow socks with red stars at the fringe. Her gym shoes were red Converse hightops circa 1985. She’d found a deal on eBay. They weren’t even in mint condition, but Joanie treasured them. She even named them: The Joneses, as if they were twins.
“And I will continue to rock this uniform. At least until the authorities notice. In the meantime, Sherlock…” She removed from her sock her new phone, the latest Samsung. With a flurry of swipes and touches, she found whatever she was looking for. Then she handed the phone to Christine.
Noticing that the phone was ringing, that someone would likely answer at any second, Christine blurted, “Who am I calling?!”
“That scout.”
“I was gonna call after school. I have her cell number memorized.”
“Impressive. No time like the present.”
Christine pressed the phone to her ear. “Yes, hello. My name is Christine. I’m a freshman at Morning Valley High School in Coeur d’Alene.”
They exchanged pleasantries, and then Ms. Kerry Anderson of Student Athletics at the University of Idaho said, “What’s on your mind, Christine?”
“I’m wondering if you could tell me your opinion, as a gymnastics scout, of a particular academy.”
“Doing some research, huh? Good for you. It’s that kind of initiative that might help to give you an edge on the competition. It’s tough out there.”
“Yes, it sure is.”
“Many academies and clubs I’m not so familiar with,” the scout said. “It depends. Some I work more closely with, certainly. Which one are you looking at?”
Christine and Joanie were rounding the last bend before the straightaway nearest the school. They had dropped their pace to a slow walk again; Mrs. Durrier, the loudest P.E. teacher you’d ever hope to meet, noticed this, blew her whistle at top volume and bellowed: “You are RUNning the mile, ninth graders!!!”
“I’m sorry, what’d you say?” asked Ms. Anderson.
“That wasn’t me.”
“Sounds like you’re in P.E. class.”
“Ha,” Christine said, picking up the pace and trying to manage her breathing to keep it sounding close to normal as she exerted herself. She was fit, but she was no runner. “That’d be funny. Calling from gym. Anyway, the club I’m interested in is called Excel Gymnastics.”
“Huh.”
“What?”
“Excel. In Coeur d’Alene, did you say?”
“Yes, that’s it. You know it?”
“We’ll, I’m judging a meet there on Saturday.”
“What can you tell me about it? And the coaches?”
Christine wasn’t sure what she was fishing for, but two things made her wonder. First, she’d found Ms. Anderson’s cell number scrawled on the back of her business card when snooping about in the Axe’s desk. And second, the Axe had said that she expected Christine to perform well for the scout. It seemed like an unusual thing for her to say at the time. Shouldn’t a coach who’d caught a girl nosing around in her files be more concerned with giving a stern warning than with reminding some freshman not to blow an early scholarship opportunity? If Christine could uncover some kind of scholarship funny business, she might be able to put the Axe out of commission. Get the authorities to shut the gym down. Maybe even so that the Axe would be inclined to move somewhere far away, if she wasn’t thrown in jail. Christine would be happy to find herself another gymnastics academy.
“Did you say your name was Christine? What’s your last name?”
“Gold.”
The pause seemed longer than it should be. “Christine, the truth is I really shouldn’t answer these sorts of questions. I’m afraid it wouldn’t be appropriate given the circumstances.”
“What circumstances?”
“Time!” Mrs. Durrier hollered.
The girls were being called inside. Gym class was over. Christine and Joanie headed inside, Christine using Joanie as a shield to disguise the fact that she was still engaged in an illicit phone call.
“Excuse me?”
“That wasn’t me.”
“In fact I think it is time. I’d best go. You focus on the meet. Perhaps we can speak again after, okay?”
“Wait, why is-”
“Bye now.”
Christine returned the phone to Joanie, who tucked it back in her sock and said, “What’d the scout say?”
“That she can’t talk to me.”
“Why?!”
“Because of the circumstances.”
“The meet?”
“I guess.”
Sounds like a cover-up if I ever heard one.”
“We might need to strap her to your rocket, too,” Christine said with a wan smile.
The meet was a mere sixteen hours away. For the first time in a week, Christine had cleared her mind enough to truly invest herself in the sport she loved to death. She stood before the uneven bars, visualized each element of her routine, each move and transition executed flawlessly, with a smooth dismount, sticking the landing. Then she breathed deep. Inhale, exhale. Then she shook it out.
And then the Axe spoiled the moment.
“Christine, I’d like you to meet Mr. Winger, my husband.”
He was flat-faced and thick as a mat roll, a former gymnast or wrestler, maybe. He clapped her on the back, far too hard. “How do you do?”
“I’ve been better,” Christine replied.
“You’ll feel like a new girl tomorrow. If all goes as it should.”
“At the meet.”
“You’re a quick study, Christine. Your eyes reveal a young lady who is accustomed to putting the pieces together. That will serve you well in life. Not only in gymnastics.”
Christine didn’t like where this was going. Mr. Winger seemed to be warning her. The Axe maybe called for him to show up and flex a little muscle. Don’t mess with us, girl. Or maybe she was imagining it.
She chalked up, looked over toward Coach Jill, her usual spotter.
“I’ll spot you,” Mr. Winger said, and he moved in close.
Before she could take any evasive action, he lifted her toward the high bar. But her left side he lifted higher than her right, and she only got the fingers of her left hand on the bar. She heard him curse, then felt his grip about her waist loosen. Then she heard him fall.
A moment later, Christine fell, too. She felt a sharp pain in her left heel as she hit the mat. She buckled to the floor, clutched her heel, rubbed it. It was just a stinger. She’d be okay.
“Sorry about the rough landing,” Mr. Winger said. “Let’s not do that again, eh?”
He gave her a meaningful look.
Message received, Christine thought. But what she did was give him two big thumbs up.