Courage to Soar (with Bonus Content)

by Simone Biles

  After the class, Aimee cornered her mom to ask her who I was.

  “Aimee,” Ronnie said, “that’s the kid I wanted you to see!” Nobody could have guessed back then that Aimee would one day become my coach.

  Soon after, Adria and I moved into Bannon’s USAG Junior Olympic (JO) program, which allows gymnasts to advance through ten skill levels and compete in district, state, regional, and—ultimately—national competitions. We were now officially on Bannon’s Jet Star team, which was the name of our age group. But only a month later, Adria dropped out of gymnastics and joined Girl Scout Brownies instead. She said she didn’t like people watching her perform. That wasn’t the case for me. I wanted my coaches to see that even though I was small, I wasn’t scared to tackle the big skills.

  A few times a year, Bannon’s would hold recitals for the students at each level so that parents and families could see what we were learning. At my first recital, held just a few weeks after I joined the JO program, we were supposed to perform basic conditioning exercises. One of the skills was a seated rope climb, where we sat next to a dangling rope and climbed it for about ten feet using only our arms. We did this while keeping our legs straight out in a seated position.

  Adam remembers that I clambered up that rope and got to the required height of ten feet really fast—and then I looked around and kept climbing! I was like fifteen or twenty feet in the air, swinging from the rope up toward the ceiling and laughing. Even as a six-year-old, I had such crazy upper body strength that it was always easy for me. People at the bottom of the rope were shouting up to me, “Okay, Simone, you’re good, come down now. No, seriously, come down here!” It was so much fun! To this day, I love a rope climb.

  I was still very young, so I don’t recall much about that recital, but Adam says that I also did a vault exercise. The way Adam remembers it, we all ran down a runway and hit a little springboard, then did a handstand into a layout. Most of the kids hit the springboard and landed near the front of the mat. However, I hit the springboard with so much power that I propelled myself all the way to the back of the mat. All the coaches looked up when I landed. They were like, “Well, she really vaulted!”

  At the end of that recital, everybody got a trophy for participating. But from then on, my training shifted into high gear. The very next week, my coaches moved me straight to level four. Then, a couple of weeks later, they began training me on level five skills and signed me up for my first competitive season, which ran from August to November. In the JO program, in order to move up to a new level, you have to either earn a particular score in competition or place high enough in a qualifying meet, depending on the rules for that level. Levels four, five, and six were the compulsory levels. Every gymnast had to perform the same routine, which was set by the USAG and showcased all the skills you had to master for each level. In 2016, the rundown of compulsory skills for level five looks like this:

  VAULT: Front handspring

  BARS: Kip; cast to above horizontal bar; clear hip to above horizontal bar; back sole circle to clear front support or back stalder circle to clear front support; backward sole circle; squat on; long hang kip; long hang pullover; tap swings; flyaway dismount

  BEAM: Back walkover or back extension roll or back handspring step out; straight leg leap to 150 degrees; split jump; sissonne; cartwheel to side handstand, quarter-turn dismount

  FLOOR: Straddle jump; stretch jump with full turn; front handspring step out, front handspring to two feet; front tuck; leap (150 degrees); full turn; round-off back handspring back tuck

  If you’ve never done gymnastics, that might look like a hard list or maybe even like a different language. But those are just the basic skills that every gymnast builds on. When I first got to Bannon’s, I could already do some of the lower-level compulsory skills, thanks to Ron and Adam bouncing me off the trampoline and Tevin teaching me backflips off the backyard swing. Of course, I didn’t have a clue what any of the moves were called, and my form and shape definitely weren’t on point. I lacked polish—the finishing details like pointed toes, knees pressed together, graceful hands, and full extensions through my arms and legs. But I did have two things going for me: I was fearless and eager to learn.

  Luckily, my coaches thought I had enough raw ability to move up quickly through the levels. It helped that I was a visual learner. I could look at someone doing a skill and quickly copy it. I also had an inborn sense of where I was as I tumbled through air. “Simone has incredible air balance,” Aimee told my mom. “She can feel exactly where she is in space while flipping and twisting, and she knows instinctively just how to bring her feet down so that she lands upright. That’s something no coach can teach.”

  Aimee likes to tell this one story about me: In one of my early JO classes when I had just turned seven, I saw a member of the cheerleading team do a standing back tuck. So I ran over to the gymnastics coaches—Aimee, Susan, and Selinda—and said, “I can do that.”

  Aimee looked down at this tiny little person eagerly smiling up at her.

  “No, you can’t,” she said.

  I insisted, “Yeah, I can.” And then I did it.

  All three coaches just stared at me.

  Then Susan challenged, “I bet you can’t do it on the beam.”

  I said, “Sure!” then ran over and jumped up onto the high beam, which was taller than I was at the time. As I was getting ready to do a standing back tuck, the coaches were running over and yelling, “Nooooo! Simone, get off the high beam! That’s too high for you! Get down!” Susan said, “Okay, Simone, come over here and try it on floor beam.”

  So I hopped down and ran over to the low beam. And I pulled it off.

  Years later, Aimee told me that was the day she knew I had what it took to go all the way—to Nationals, to Worlds, and, one day, maybe even to the Olympics.

  CHAPTER 5

  Shady Arbor Way

  “We make each other stronger. That ain’t ever gonna change.”

  —FROM THE FILM THE CHEETAH GIRLS

  Say it loud, I’m black and I’m proud!”

  Every morning, while driving us to school, Adam would put that James Brown song on the car radio. He’d turn up the volume, start bopping his head, tapping the steering wheel, and singing along.

  “Come on, Simone and Adria, sing!” he’d yell, and the two of us would jump in, drumming our hands on the back of the car seat and belting out the words as Adam yelled, “Louder! Louder!” Our morning music jam with our brother was like our own little dance party before school. By the time we rolled into the parking lot, we were two happy little girls, the beat still playing in our heads.

  Little did we know Adam was using that song to instill pride in us, since most of the children we went to school and gym with looked different from us. Adam wanted us to be happy and confident in ourselves, no matter where we were. But at five and seven years old, Adria and I didn’t think twice about that. All we cared about was the way that song got our hearts pumping and our day started off just right. Still, maybe his message got through, because Adria and I always felt completely comfortable growing up in Spring and traveling around our home state, Texas.

  By this time, I’d been in gymnastics for about a year. Back then, our family lived on a street called Shady Arbor Way, and our house was at the end of a cul-de-sac. “Stay where I can see you!” Mom would call out from the window at the front of our house. Adria and I rolled our eyes, but we always made sure to stay within the concrete circle of the cul-de-sac. Our mom and dad were pretty strict compared to our friends’ parents. They didn’t allow Adria and me to attend sleepover parties or go on play dates with anyone but our cousins. And going to the mall to meet friends—even when we got older—made absolutely no sense to them. As far as they were concerned, young kids wandering aimlessly around a mall were just asking for trouble.

  The silver lining was that Adria and I grew up as close as two sisters could be. We became champions at entertaining ourselves. We’d play jump rope, socce
r, and hopscotch in that cul-de-sac, or we’d ride our bikes round and round, making zooming noises as if they were motorcycles. Adria also had a little motorized Barbie Jeep and I had a play Hummer, and we’d drive those toy cars endlessly around the circle. We’d put our Barbies and baby dolls next to us and act like we were moms coming home from work. We’d drive to the different mailboxes in the circle as if we were checking the mail. Sometimes, one of us would act like a cop chasing the other one. We’d pull the Jeep or the Hummer over and whip out a pretend notebook from our Hello Kitty purse and write a fake ticket.

  On rainy days, we’d play tic-tac-toe for hours or watch Power Puff Girls marathons on TV. On sunny days, we’d invent fun activities like the “Trying Not to Laugh” game, which we’d play on the covered patio behind our house. One of us would take a big mouthful of water, and then the other one would set a kitchen timer and try to get the first one to laugh in thirty seconds or less. The whole point of the game was to make the other person laugh so hard that water comes spurting out of her mouth, like in movies when someone’s caught off guard. That game never got old. A couple of years ago, we even made a YouTube video of us playing it. As usual, I giggled a lot but held on to my mouthful of water. But when it was my turn, I made Adria laugh and spew water in less than ten seconds!

  The only exception to the cul-de-sac rule was if we asked to leave the circle to go to our friend Becca’s house, which was a few doors down. Becca was Adria’s age, and she was one of our two BFFs on the street. The other one was Marissa, who lived next door and was two days older than I was. During weekends and school holidays, the four of us were inseparable, racing in and out of each other’s yards and making up games on the fly.

  One of our favorites was acting like we were Cheetah Girls. The TV musical The Cheetah Girls, about four girls in a band at a performing arts high school in New York City, had just come out. Adria, Marissa, Becca, and I could not get enough of that movie. We watched the DVD almost every day one summer, and when the “Cheetah Sisters” song came on, we’d line up, hold our fists like mics, and sing and dance our hearts out, each of us taking on the role of our favorite Cheetah Girl.

  I was Galleria. That was a no brainer, not only because we were both brown-skinned, but also because the name of the actress who played her was Raven-Symone. Marissa chose Chanel as her Cheetah Girl because they both had brown, curly hair, while Becca was Dorinda because she was dark blond, like her. The fourth Cheetah, Aquanette—Aqua for short—was brown-skinned like Galleria; Adria played her. In the movie, the girls all rock stylish animal print clothing as they try to become music superstars. I think pretending to be Galleria is why I love zebra prints to this day. The four of us were serious about being Cheetah Girls. We stepped into our imaginary roles every single day for an entire summer and into the new school year—at least until the incident with the clubhouse.

  Adria and I ran down the street toward Becca’s house, our flip-flops squishing into the water-soaked grass of our neighbors’ lawn. It was late September, and Hurricane Rita had recently flooded Southern Texas. Like most families, Becca’s parents had nailed sheets of plywood over their windows and glass doors to protect against the storm. Now that the hurricane had blown over, Becca’s dad had ripped the wood off the house and piled it up against the garage. Adria and I found Becca and Marissa sorting through the pile and stacking the largest sheets of plywood on the damp grass.

  “We’re going to build a fort!” Marissa squealed as soon as she saw us.

  “It can be our clubhouse!” I said.

  We each ran back to our houses to rifle through our parents’ toolboxes for hammers and nails. At the last second, I also grabbed a can of green paint and a paintbrush, thinking we could make a little sign to go over the doorway—Cheetah Girls Clubhouse.

  Every afternoon for the next three days, the four of us gathered in Becca’s backyard to continue hammering and nailing those pieces of plywood together. We’d get to work as soon as we got home from school, not even stopping to have a snack. Finally, we had a structure big enough for the four of us to fit. We even built a little bench to sit on inside the fort, and we had a plan to paint animal spots on the walls. I have to admit the structure did look a little rough, with huge gaps in the walls and a tilt to one side, but at least it stayed standing. We were so impressed with what we’d built as we crawled through the doorway and settled ourselves inside.

  What we didn’t know was that a spider had also settled itself near the ceiling. Sitting cross-legged, the four of us began belting out the “Cheetah Sister” song, shimmying our shoulders and slapping hands against our knees. We must have disturbed the spider, causing it to fall and land squarely on Marissa’s head.

  “Aaaah!” she screamed. She jumped up from the bench and brushed her hair and stamped her feet, then waved her arms around frantically. She scrambled outside the fort, still shrieking. Not knowing what was happening, the rest of us followed her out. When she told us about the spider, we all started cracking up. Her reaction had been so extreme that we couldn’t help ourselves. We were rolling on the damp grass, holding our sides and giggling at Marissa’s freak-out. I guess we were laughing so hard, we didn’t notice that Marissa didn’t find the whole thing funny.

  “Stupid spider,” Marissa grumbled, glaring at us. When we finally realized she was really upset, we tried to get serious but we didn’t do it very well. You know how when you start laughing sometimes and your eyes start to water and you just can’t stop? It was like that. Trying to cover up our giggling, Becca suggested we go play at Marissa’s house, and she and I walked ahead down the driveway. At the gate, we turned to wait for Marissa and Adria, who were still up by the garage. Suddenly, I saw Marissa punch my sister! Adria immediately started bawling. Before I knew what I was doing, I raced up the driveway and jumped on top of Marissa, shoving her down onto the grass.

  “Don’t you ever hit my sister again!” I yelled, my hands pinning Marissa’s to the ground, my face inches from hers. I don’t know what came over me. All I knew was that Adria was crying. It was like she was two years old again, and I was her protector, just as Tevin had once been mine. That feeling of wanting to take care of Adria was so strong in me that day. It’s a feeling that I don’t think will ever go away.

  The next day at school, Marissa apologized to us; I apologized too. Just like that, the four of us were buddies again, although now that I think about it, we never really spent much time inside our fort. That sneaky spider ruined our Cheetah Girls fantasy. But it didn’t destroy our friendship. Marissa and Becca are still two of my BFFs to this day.

  One afternoon, Mom surprised Adria and me by saying we could ride our bikes as far as the stop sign at the other end of the street. We were super excited. All afternoon, we biked up and down the street, and when we got tired of riding our bikes, we just skipped back and forth to the stop sign, relishing our new freedom. Eventually the streetlights came on. One of Momma Biles’s ironclad rules was that no matter where we were or what we were doing, once the streetlights came on, it was time to head home.

  Just a few houses away from ours, next to the yard of two neighborhood boys named Trent and Grant, something blue glinted under the streetlight. We moved closer to investigate and found three blue eggs, two of them whole and the third one crushed and leaking yellow liquid, like a broken yolk.

  “Oh no,” Adria wailed. “The poor baby bird.”

  That’s when I got an idea.

  “Let’s save them so the babies can hatch,” I said, reaching down to pick up one of the good blue eggs.

  “You mean, take them home with us?” Adria gave me a confused look.

  “We’ll protect them,” I said with all the confidence of a seven-year-old with a plan. “Out here, they’ll just break like the other egg.”

  Adria still wasn’t convinced, but she followed my lead and scooped up a blue egg, holding it carefully against her chest. Back at home, we called out hello to Mom and Dad and scurried up the stairs to o
ur bedroom before they could ask us what we were carrying. We fished out a pink plastic, octagonal container that was part of a pet shop play set, and we placed the two blue eggs inside. Adria filled the container with warm water and closed the lid. We put the container under the sink and hoped that the water would soothe the soon-to-be-hatched baby birds.

  The next morning, we checked on the eggs. They looked fine. So we changed the water and went to school. In the afternoon, we went out to play with Marissa and Becca for a while. Then around four, when Becca’s mom called her to come home, the other three of us went to my house to check on the eggs. When Adria took the container from under the sink this time, we noticed a yellow blur seeping out from the eggs and clouding the water.

  Adria and I gasped, hands over our mouths, eyes wide and sad.

  “What’s the matter?” Marissa asked us, clearly confused.

  “We killed the baby birds,” Adria cried.

  “What?” Marissa said, elbowing us aside and peering into the pink container. “Let me see.” And then it was Marissa’s turn to laugh at Adria and me. She laughed just as hard as we had laughed when the spider fell on her. “Those aren’t bird eggs!” she told us, trying to catch her breath. “Those are paintball pods! Trent and Grant play paintball with them all the time!”

  My sister and I might have felt a little silly right then, except that we were too busy gulping big sighs of relief.

  Our parents never did find out about those blue eggs, just as they never knew about the turtle we found on the road one day, after a car had crushed it. I loved turtles. Maybe it was because my mom sometimes called me her “little turtle.” I’d even started a figurine collection and was always on the lookout for new turtles to add to it whenever we traveled. Adria had a soft spot for turtles too, but I was surprised when she ran into the empty street and picked up the flattened thing.