by Cari Simmons
“No thanks.” I slid my tray down towards the vanilla yogurts and bagels. All white foods. All safe.
“Wait! Stop!” Shrimp cried.
I pulled my hand away from a plastic-wrapped bagel.
“I’ve got it!” Shrimp bounced on her toes. She was always in motion. “Nutella-filled ravioli. Tell me that isn’t the best.”
“Hot Nutella? Yum!” I agreed, and took the bagel. “But what about the sauce?”
As Shrimp and I both gave the checkout lady our school numbers to pay, she said, “Hot fudge?”
I shook my head. “Too much chocolate.”
Shrimp balanced her tray against her hip. I liked how she’d paired a polka-dot shirt with striped leggings and plaid sneakers.
“I know!” she cried. “Strawberry sauce. Then they’d look like the real thing.”
“Can you imagine if we switched out the school ravioli with ours?” I asked.
“Hysterical!” Shrimp agreed. “We could—”
At that moment, Roseann stood and waved me over to a table in the center of the room. “See you later, okay?” I said to Shrimp.
“Sure thing,” Shrimp agreed. She turned and headed towards a table against the wall. I recognized some of the girls from the assembly. Then she turned back. “Do you want to sit—?”
“I’m good,” I said before she could finish. I didn’t want her to think I was snubbing her.
“Okey-dokey, artichokey!” Shrimp called. “Wait! How about holy moley, ravioli?”
I laughed. Shrimp sure was silly!
Roseann scooted down to make room for me. The table was packed, but I wasn’t surprised. I slid between her and a girl named Miranda, who smelled like oranges and had blue rubber bands in her braces. A tall girl named Grace sat across from us. She tucked her white-blond hair behind her ears and eyed me curiously.
“Do you ride Western?” she asked. “I take horseback riding lessons, but I ride English. Everyone does out here.”
“I’ve never been on a horse,” I admitted.
“That’s not possible. Roseann said you’re from Arizona,” she protested. “Don’t you live on a ranch?”
“Nope.” I shrugged.
“How about donkeys?” Miranda asked. “We rode them when we visited the Grand Canyon.”
“No donkeys. Sometimes I rode my bike to school,” I offered. “Bikes are much easier. You don’t have to feed them, and they don’t poop.”
Miranda giggled, and Roseann said hi to the teacher patrolling the tables. Grace screwed up her face and asked more questions. She seemed to be having trouble understanding that I lived nowhere near the Grand Canyon or a ranch. She asked about cacti, but what’s there really to say about a prickly plant?
Roseann changed the subject from Arizona to a scavenger hunt they all did last week at the town pool. Was she trying to save me from Grace’s questions, or had my talk about Arizona been boring?
Nibbling my bagel, I tried to follow along. Something about a missing beach towel and a scoop of ice cream that fell off a cone. And then something about a cute lifeguard.
“Did you see the way Red Hair was staring at you-know-who?” Miranda asked.
“She’s so obvious,” Roseann agreed, biting into a cheese sandwich. “He didn’t care. He’s into that girl who teaches the Minnows.”
“Did you know the Minnow teacher is going to help when the Eagles practice on Saturday?” Grace asked.
“Oh good!” Miranda clapped her hands. “She’s much better than Braid Head.”
Minnows helping Eagles? Braid Head? Were they speaking in code? I wanted to join in, but I had no idea what to say.
“Braid Head wasn’t too bad.” Roseann waved at two girls all in black who passed by. Then three boys said hi to her. I couldn’t get over how many kids and teachers greeted Roseann. All different kinds from all different groups. She was the rock star of the middle school.
“That’s because you were her favorite player,” Miranda pointed out.
“Roe is everyone’s favorite,” Grace said. She sounded proud of her friend. Not jealous.
“Except Mr. Sabel,” Roseann said. “He cringed when he read my name yesterday. He wasn’t a big fan of Kate and Lauren, either. Luckily, he liked Chrissy.”
I couldn’t take it anymore. “Who’re Kate, Lauren, and Chrissy?” At least these names sounded human.
“The Bleeker sisters,” Miranda explained. “Roseann and her sisters are legends here. The royal family of Hillsbury.”
“No, we’re not,” Roseann said.
“Yes, they are,” Miranda mouthed to me.
“How many sisters do you have?” I asked.
“Four. Kate’s in eighth grade, Lauren’s in tenth, Chrissy’s in twelfth, and Jane’s still in fourth.”
“Is that why all the teachers here know you?”
“It would be impossible not to. The famous Bleeker sisters all look alike,” Grace said. I imagined a row of five pretty girls with Roseann’s long chestnut-brown hair, dark blue eyes, and thick eyelashes.
“And they’re all supergood at everything,” Miranda added.
“We are not!” Roseann cried. She wasn’t being modest. I could see she meant it, and I liked her even more for that. Roseann wasn’t stuck up.
Over the next couple of days, I discovered that the Bleeker sisters truly were amazing. Photos of winning sports teams, cast lists from school plays, science fair prizes, and good citizenship awards covered the wall by the principal’s office. The sisters owned that wall. They were easy to spot, not only because they all looked alike, but because they all had that same sparkle. I couldn’t stop staring at them. Sometimes I pretended I was lost, just to go down that hallway.
Alex was okay as far as brothers go, but I’d always wanted a sister. Roseann had four beautiful, smart, perfect sisters. She wasn’t only an It Girl. She came from an It Family. How cool was that?
As the days went on, all I could think about was Roseann. She’d continued to save a spot for me at lunch. That was good, I knew, but she hadn’t texted me at all. I’d texted her twice and she had answered both times, but she hadn’t started a conversation.
Don’t be silly, I kept telling myself. Texts don’t mean anything.
“Maybe I’m not exciting enough,” I’d told Eden during our video chat last night.
“You are so weird.” Eden polished her nails sea-foam green while we talked.
“Not as weird as you!” I teased. “Seriously, though.”
“Tell her something about you that will stand out. Be interesting,” Eden said.
“Like what? What’s interesting?”
“You can gargle water and sing the alphabet,” she suggested.
I shook my head. “Not exciting enough.”
“You wrote and illustrated an entire book?”
I had, but it was a children’s book. A Dr. Seuss–type thing I did to make Eden’s little sister laugh.
“Bigger. I need something bigger,” I insisted.
And that’s how I came to say what I said the next day at lunch.
I sat at the table with my usual bagel. I’d gotten used to not understanding their inside jokes, but I was picking up on nicknames. The girls called Miranda Flick, and another girl with tons of woven friendship bracelets and a Spanish accent who sat with us was called Striker. I had no idea why.
“The Eagles is our field hockey team,” Roseann finally explained. “We all play. Do you?”
“No. I don’t know anyone who plays field hockey back home,” I admitted. The girls in Arizona were more into volleyball.
They eagerly described the game. Miranda was called Flick because she was queen of flicking the ball into the goal. A striker was a position on the field. Defense, I think. Striker’s real name was Anna.
Then all they did was talk about field hockey. About plays. About who made the A team and who made the B team. About a tournament sometime soon in Delaware.
I pretended to be interested. I didn’t men
tion that I hate sports where you have to run up and down chasing a ball. I was the kid who turned cartwheels in the field during T-ball and kindergarten soccer.
Squeezed between Roseann and Flick, I felt as exciting as the colorless bagel on my tray. What had happened to my sparkle?
Roseann’s eyes twinkled as she recalled how she and Grace had worked together to score. “They should give gold medals for goals like that.” Roseann pointed at Grace. Grace pointed back. Another inside joke.
“I won a gold medal last year,” I blurted. “Actually, I’ve won a bunch.”
Roseann tilted her head towards me, suddenly interested. “For what?”
“Gymnastics.” I plunged ahead. “I’m a gymnast.”
“That’s so cool. Are you good?” Roseann asked.
“Yeah.” I wasn’t lying. I really was a gymnast. And I was good.
“How good?” Grace asked. She liked sports, I knew that.
“Pretty good.” I thought back to Eden last night. Think big. Be interesting. “I was the best in my gym.”
“Wow!” Grace seemed impressed. “So you can do flips and all that?”
“I can. I was working on some really hard stuff before I left.” I went on to describe some of the tricks I can do. I told them about the back-handspring contest where I did eight in a row. I would’ve done more, but the wall got in my way. As I spoke, the energy around me shifted. I had their interest. I had Roseann’s interest.
“So did you find a new gym here?” she asked.
Luckily, my mom had. “Today’s my first day. I’m pretty excited. The next level I’m working towards is huge.”
“Big-time huge?” Roseann focused on only me now.
“Very big-time,” I agreed, getting into my role in the spotlight.
“Do you mean . . . ? Are you training for the top?” Roseann asked, her whispery voice rising.
I leaned back a little, trying to look casual. “I always work to be the best. I’m going allllll the way.”
“All the way?” Roseann cried.
“TV! You’ll be on TV!” Miranda exclaimed.
Wait. What? What was she talking about? I wondered.
“Trials come first, Flick,” Roseann explained. “Lots of other competitions too. And training camps, right, Molly?”
“Uh, totally,” I said, unsure what she too was getting at. What camps? Was this another one of their inside jokes?
“We watch the Olympics like crazy people in my house. It’s a total obsession,” Roseann said.
“Me too,” I agreed. “I set up camp in front of the screen when gymnastics is on.”
“How amazing is it that you’re training for it? I never knew anyone who did that.”
“Training for . . . ?” My brain tried to piece together the words, but I was too slow. Everyone began talking at once. About me. About gymnastics. About me going . . . to the Olympics?
My mouth hung open. The closest thing I had was a gold medal from the Desert Flower Olympic Festival at our gym in April. But that didn’t count. Our local competition was miles—no, worlds—away from the real thing.
Roseann slung her arm protectively around my shoulder. “Chill out, folks, and stop bothering Molly. She’s new. She’s training for the Olympics. She has a lot going on.”
The questions stopped, but not the smiles.
“Gold Medal Girl,” Roseann announced.
“Huh?”
“I just came up with that. Isn’t it cute for you? Gold Medal Girl.” She gave my shoulder a friendly squeeze.
I didn’t know what to say. I was conflicted. I’d made myself the center of Roseann’s attention, but not in a good way. In a not-exactly-true way.
She tilted her chin towards the trash can. “We should throw away our trash, Gold Medal Girl. Bell’s going to ring.”
“Listen—” I began, but Roseann was already on the move. I followed her across the lunchroom to tell her she was wrong. I wasn’t training for the Olympics. I wasn’t anywhere near good enough for that.
Not yet, said a voice inside my head. But you could be.
I stopped walking. I’d never considered the possibility. Could I train to be good enough? My old coach did say I was extremely talented.
The bell rang. Roseann waved before hurrying off to art on the other side of the building. I thought some more about gymnastics. I could be really good. I could train for something big if I put my mind to it. I turned the idea around in my head, liking the sound of it.
Molly Larsen, Olympic champion.
I’ll wait until tomorrow, after I check out my new gym, to set everyone straight, I decided. Maybe by then, I’ll be training for real.
CHAPTER 4
“Ready?” Mom asked that afternoon. We stood in front of a huge building and stared at the small sign on the plain metal door: TOP FLIGHT GYMNASTICS. We both were expecting something grander, considering we had heard that this was the best gym in the state.
“Incredibly ready!” I wore my favorite shiny lavender leotard with the rhinestone sunburst design. I’d stretched for over an hour at home, and my muscles felt loose.
Inside I breathed in the familiar smell of sweat and chalk. The thwack of bare feet hitting mats echoed off the high ceilings. A girl on the uneven parallel bars on one side of the gym and a girl flying over the vault on the other side stuck their landings at the same time.
“It’s enormous,” I breathed. My old gym had been half the size.
“I think this building used to be a warehouse.” Mom folded her arms and watched a row of six girls do one-arm push-ups as a tiny woman counted loudly. “This is intense.”
“It’s great,” I assured her. This was the kind of gym that got girls into the Olympics.
“Hello, hello!” A blond man in a navy tracksuit headed over to us. “You are Moll-le, yes?” He said my name with a strong Russian accent. “I am Andre Kamenev.”
“We spoke on the phone. I’m Monica Larsen, and this is Molly.” Mom reached out her hand.
Andre grasped it between his huge ones, and I thought I saw her wince at his grip. She quickly smiled and asked questions about the gym.
His face was serious. Everything about him was angular, from his sharp cheekbones, to his square jaw, to his wide shoulders. His ice-blue eyes scanned me from head to toe. “Moll-le, your mother says you are a gymnast, yes?”
“Yes,” I said. I shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. I sensed him eyeing my arms. I hoped they looked strong.
“You can do a roundoff–back handspring–back layout? A front handspring–front tuck?” He spoke as if he were barking commands in the army.
I nodded, suddenly unable to speak. Andre was the complete opposite of Daria.
Daria had owned the gym I’d gone to since Eden and I had started there together in first grade. Everything about Daria was soft. Her face. Her body. Her long, red wavy hair. The chiffon skirts she wore. Even her voice.
He’s the real thing, I told myself and stood straighter.
“Okay, we try. First you must change,” Andre said.
“Change?” I asked.
“You wear this to practice.” He handed me a plain red leotard. Only then did I notice that every girl in the gym wore the same one.
“Wait.” Mom touched my hand that held the leotard. “Why must all the girls look the same? At Molly’s old gym, the girls were encouraged to express their identities.”
Daria believed that gymnastics was more than tricks and flips. She wanted us to express who we were with our music, our steps, and what we wore.
“Here the girls wear a uniform. We train my way. Conditioning. Stretching. Strength exercises. All together. The same for everyone.” Andre focused his steely gaze at my mother. “We make champions here.”
Mom turned to me. “Molly, what do you think?”
She sounded unsure. She had liked Daria and her artistic way.
I didn’t mind wearing the same leotard if I could be a champion. “I like red. I’m ready.”
“Sofia!” Andre bellowed.
A tiny girl with muscles rippling along her tan thighs hurried across the mats. Her light brown hair was slicked into a tight ponytail. “Hi, Andre!” she greeted him.
“This is Moll-le. Take her to the locker room and then bring her to Nastia’s group.” He turned to my mom and gestured to a glassed-in space. “So we go over some papers now?”
I followed Sofia along the edge of the gym and through a door against the far wall. The locker room had rows of benches, small metal cubbies, and a bathroom. Quickly I stripped off one leotard and put on the other. Sofia told me she was my age, but she went to a private school. She pointed out different girls as we returned to the floor. “Kelsey Wyant is the best here,” she said.
My eyes widened as I watched Kelsey land a double salto with a full twist.
“She’s in the top tier. Elite training. You think you’ll qualify?” Sofia asked.
Would I? A few minutes ago, I would’ve said yes. I’d told Roseann the truth when I said I was the best in Daria’s gym. Compared with Eden and the other girls there, I was really good. But Kelsey Wyant was a different story.
“I’m not as good as her,” I replied. “I’m hoping to get better.”
Sofia watched Kelsey with dreamy admiration. “She’ll compete in college. Maybe even the Olympics. That’s my plan too. I might get homeschooled next year. Andre says I have potential. That’s megapraise from him.”
“Has Andre ever sent anyone to the Olympics?”
“Of course. Izzy McCabe and Hannah Rice both trained here.”
Wow. I had seen both Izzy and Hannah compete on TV.
All summer Mom kept telling me that every cloud has a silver lining. Suddenly I wondered if Top Flight wasn’t the silver lining of our move. I’d get really good here. Supergood.
Sofia led me to Nastia, the short woman with a blond ponytail. Her powerful shoulders and thighs told me that she’d once been an elite gymnast.
“We stretch,” she said instead of hello.
Joining Sofia and six other girls on the mats in a straddle, I was glad I’d stretched at home. Nastia moved much faster than Daria. Daria had played classical music and allowed us to talk while we stretched. Here the only sound was Nastia’s rapid commands: pike, squat, lunge, split.