But neither of those scenes played out for real in the corridors. Levi and I just passed on by as if the other didn’t exist. As if the spa had never even happened.
Rene got back together with Marco on the condition that he never pull a stunt like that again. Judging from the way he was acting all sad and sorry, it didn’t seem likely this century – he reminded me of a panther sulking around and licking his wounds after losing a cat fight.
I passed through a full menu of emotions about them getting back together – happy for Rene at breakfast, full of spite and mistrust for Marco at lunchtime. By dinner I was spitting out all men are bastards and Marco is the biggest one. Though the last part was probably more about Levi.
But watching Rene and Marco so much together again – one always had their eyes on the other – I started to wonder . . . what if I tried talking to Levi, telling him I was sorry for what had happened? Even though his reaction was stupid and immature, maybe I had taken the race too far?
Not that I felt bad about winning, or even what I’d done to get there. It was more a kind of growing unease that I hadn’t even seen it coming. In all the times I’d pictured winning, I’d never once thought how it might affect him. I’d been so focussed and driven and sure . . .
I’d never once stopped to think how my win might hurt Levi.
‘Jade!’
On Friday Belinda called across the corridor to me. As I walked closer, she lifted a hand for me to slap in a high five.
‘Guess what I was just doing?’ she gushed.
‘Ah . . .’ I let my eyes scan her sports uniform and bright cheeks. ‘PE maybe?’
‘Yep! But guess what . . .’ She raised her eyebrows and nodded like she was telling a toddler about Christmas. ‘I was talking to Miss Paynter about the Zone Finals coming up.’ She paused as if waiting for me to join the game.
‘And?’ I asked obediently.
‘She said you could swim!’ Belinda flicked two victory thumbs at me and kept gushing. ‘I mean . . . normally you have to qualify at swim sports and . . . you know . . . train of course. But you did such an awesome swim on the weekend and we need another good swimmer, and Miss Paynter said that if you were willing to put in the work then you could try out for the team!’
I raised my eyebrows, reflecting her excitement but not sure what to say. ‘Oh . . . thanks, Belinda.’
‘I mean . . . she said yes to Levi so there was no way she could turn you down.’
‘What?’ I cried. ‘Levi’s joined the swim team?’
Belinda shot me a curious look.
My heart was pumping hard. Levi had never wanted to join the school swim team before. This had to be all about pride. The day he lost the race against me, something had sparked in him – a burning need to prove that he was still a winner. Until he did that, it wasn’t finished for Levi.
I didn’t want it to be finished for me either.
Belinda was looking at me closely. ‘So . . . will you swim?’
For a moment I let the idea settle inside. I imagined being there when Levi swam the race of his life, watching him prove his point in the pool. As he stepped out, there I’d be, clapping and cheering . . .
I nodded and smiled – a real one this time. ‘Okay, thanks, Belinda.’ My voice sounded as though it was coming from a long way away.
For the first time ever I was entering a competition with fantasies of someone else winning.
After that, I started a game of aquatic catch-up. No problems there. Catch-up was a game I was good at. All my life I’d had Samantha and Mum to look up to – my benchmarks to aim for and compare myself to. Now all I had to do was look to the other squad girls. Diving drills and relay practice. Laps, then more laps, and laps again . . .
I didn’t think I needed stroke correction, but Miss Paynter didn’t care what I thought. She made it clear that my place wasn’t guaranteed. Training with the girls was just a chance to prove I could do it. The others could always pick up my events if I couldn’t hack it.
It was a hard few weeks – finding new ways to push my body while perfecting techniques in my head. Sometimes I thought my brain would explode with the hundred and one new ways to move. I started waking up at three a.m. with my stomach gnawing in on itself; by ten a.m. I was dog-tired and dreaming of bed. But all that was just part of the game. I was playing this one to the end.
Three weeks before Zone, I was pushing through yet another pain barrier in the pool, with a long fifteen minutes to go before the end of training.
‘You’re dropping, Jade,’ Miss Paynter called, her voice like a police sergeant at drill practice.
When I made it to the end of the pool, I stopped and panted. Only a few more sets to go.
‘Hey, Jade, I know what you need,’ called Belinda from the next lane.
I just looked at her, resting my head against the wall and sucking in air for all I was worth.
‘We’ll stick laminated photos of Levi at both ends of your lane,’ she giggled. ‘That’ll get you moving!’
I snorted, still sucking in air, but I knew what she was doing – trying to boost my energy with a joke. The squad girls did it all the time.
Belinda was still going. ‘Can’t slack off though. Levi says he’s doing a heap of work in the pool. And he’s lost so much weight, hasn’t he!’
I turned properly then, my whole focus suddenly on her.
Belinda shrugged, then pushed off to start her next set.
I watched her go, trying to push away the icky image of her and Levi talking, feeling a helpless kind of anger creep into my chest. Don’t move on, Levi. Don’t forget about me.
‘Jade! Move it or lose it!’ Miss Paynter called.
I glanced at the clock, summoning energy from the last reserves of my body. Then I pushed off to keep fighting. Just keep going . . .
I swam the next set in personal best time.
On Saturday I went to the Nationals with Pip, feeling strangely scared of how it would be. I think the thing that scared me most was the chance I would feel nothing.
Pip was smart to have booked early. We were sitting in the front row of the stands with only a rail between us and the expanse of floor. Beyond that were the beam and bar areas, with the vault run-up on the left-hand side.
The atmosphere was sharp and super-focussed. I recognised a few of the top gymnasts from the year before and pointed out a couple of neat up-and-comers to Pip. They had matching ponytails, matching long-sleeved leotards, and a matching drive to beat everyone around them.
I was impressed by some of their tricks – aerial handsprings on beam, which is like being blindfolded on a tightrope, and spins between uneven bars. I even felt a spark of pride to see how my hardest floor tumble would look from the stands. I had to stop myself from pointing and saying loudly, I can do that!
Well, at least I hoped I still could.
Monique stood out to me like family among all the strangers. So compact and precise, she moved through her routines with a dynamic ease that reminded me that perfection was possible. I was impressed with an extra trick on beam and a high-scoring dismount on bars that she’d mastered since I’d stopped going to training.
‘So, what does Russell say about Monique’s chances?’ I asked Pip. Marching music had just started, signifying the next rotation. Our team was moving to the floor area.
‘Well . . .’ Pip glanced up from her program. It was covered with scores – a running tally of the gymnasts she was keeping an eye on, as well as the contenders for overall champion. ‘Vault, of course. He thinks she might have a chance to medal there. But floor too . . . Maybe even a chance at overall? But you know Russell . . . he never lets us lose focus.’
‘Yeah . . .’ I nodded then shifted forwards to lean my forearms on the railing. I heard Pip unzip her backpack and slip the program away. Then she was leaning on the railing next to me.
Warm-up had started on floor by now – a pulsing rumble and thud as six elite gymnasts took turns running along the dia
gonal of the floor, twisting and defying gravity.
‘Ooo,’ I gasped when Monique nailed a double-back then jumped straight into a forwards somersault. ‘That’s new.’
‘Yeah,’ said Pip beside me, her chin resting on her hands. ‘Good, hey?’
I nodded, keeping my eyes on Monique and feeling a strange mix of excitement and envy. She looked taller than I remembered her, and stronger than ever.
‘So . . . how have you been doing, Jade?’ asked Pip, her voice quiet and close.
I shrugged and kept my eyes on the warm-up. ‘Okay. I’ve been doing good work in the pool.’ Pip was quiet and I pulled my eyes away from the floor area to peer at her over the tip of my elbow. The look on her face made me realise how much I missed training with her. ‘Though overall? It’s been total crap, I guess.’ I let out a snort trying to pretend I didn’t care.
Pip nodded, her pixie face full of seriousness. ‘By rights you really should be out there today, Jade. Your floor routine was . . . is . . . amazing.’
I winked at her. ‘Thanks, Pig Face,’ I said, using a nickname from years ago that we gave to the first person to learn a new trick.
Pip giggled and responded just as she always used to: ‘You’re welcome, Egg Head.’
Then we were quiet as the music sprung up for the first of the floor routines. Pip slid her program out to record a high score on beam. Someone fell on bars.
When I heard the rock music beginning Monique’s routine, I took a breath in and felt a quickening in my chest. I knew her music as well as I knew my own. In a rush it brought back the memory of a time when it was me out there. So many hours of work had gone into our routines. So many run-throughs and so many mistakes. So much sweat to get them good.
As Monique landed her first tumble sequence then skipped into a series of leaps, I had to stop myself from twitching and straining with each step. Silly, I know, but somehow I felt as if staying with Monique might help stick her deep in the zone – protect her from something going wrong.
Maybe it was a bit of misplaced fantasy, wishing it was me out there. But I think there was more to it than that. In some small way, Monique was the only thing still connecting me to the National Championships. My only link with fading dreams.
Monique’s ending was clean – a simple, fun flip. Pip and I both clapped with relief. No mistakes meant she’d get a good score. But how good would it be?
Then we were quiet, watching the judges frown and scribble, glancing every now and then at Monique.
Soon 14.95 appeared on the screen and everyone clapped – some with slow disappointment. One of the teams sitting out for a spare started whispering and staring at Monique.
‘Does that put her into second on floor?’ I asked.
Pip was still writing. ‘No, third. Amy Elliott got 15.10. But Monique’s pretty strong overall.’
‘Geez, they’re scoring high,’ I said with a weird kind of ache. What if I had made the State Team this year? Would I have been good enough to medal?
Soon the marching music sprung up for rotation again. Time to move to the final apparatus.
I couldn’t lean on the rail anymore. I wriggled and shifted in my seat. This was excruciating. It was hard to stay still when we were so close to an end that had been coming forever.
As Monique marched in line to vault, a girl from one of the other teams ran back to the waiting area. Her ponytail flicked as she called something out. I didn’t hear what the girl said, but it clearly wasn’t ‘top floor routine’. Monique’s shoulders stiffened and she shook her head. Even from a distance, I could see her clenching her jaw.
‘What’s she doing on vault?’ I asked Pip, keeping my eyes on Monique as she dropped her stuff in the vault area.
‘A Tsukahara double. She’s such a Pig Face,’ said Pip with gruff admiration.
‘Has she been landing it okay?’
‘Most of the time,’ said Pip. ‘Well, you know Monique. Sometimes she overshoots.’
I didn’t like the sound of that. Even though I hadn’t trained with her for so long, I could still see where her clenched jaw and flashing eyes were headed. The last thing we needed was for Monique to put in that extra grunt and overshoot her landing.
Warm-up began with a drip-feed of our state team pounding down the run-up and into their thud, slap and fly. Monique’s first vault was good except for two backward steps. The second was messy even though she stuck it.
It was hard to sit there, watching, without being able to help. I wanted to tell Monique to go easy. She seemed so alone down there, head tilted to stay in the zone.
Soon the real vaulting began – each gymnast performing two vaults with the average score counting.
When it was her turn, Monique shot off like a freight train, hammering down the runway and ramming all that speed – whack – onto the springboard. Slap went her hands and then she was flying . . .
I held my breath as her two feet touched.
It was a solid landing. Pip and I both let out our breath, only to start holding it again.
‘She just has to stick the next one and she’s sure to medal,’ Pip murmured.
I nodded, watching Monique as she made her way back to the top of the run-up. Her eyes were down; she was staying in the zone. It looked like a lonely place to be.
Without realising what I was doing, I began to slow my breathing, trying to send calm thought vibes down to where she was waiting.
When she presented to the judges, Monique’s eyes were fixed and focussed, her jaw clenched in fierce determination.
Then she was off again, freight train pounding . . .
Whack, slap. Everything paused as she flew. She turned tight and opened with perfect timing to land like a champion.
‘Yes!’ Pip wriggled with glee.
Behind me someone whispered, ‘Bum’.
Still in the zone, Monique presented again, then she began to walk back to the waiting area. For a brief moment as she walked back to her seat, Monique glanced up at us and a smile flickered in her eyes. Then she was poker-faced again – always the true competitor. But I knew she would be cheering inside. Monique had worked her guts out. And it had all come together.
Pip wasn’t just cheering on the inside – her whole body had gone into celebration mode. She was wriggling in her seat trying to contain it because it was bad form to go crazy before everyone else had finished.
‘She did it!’ Pip whispered. ‘I know she did!’
I nodded, laughing past the lump in my throat and bubbling over with pride and amazement. I had no idea how it felt to medal at the Nationals. But I knew this was the next best thing.
CHAPTER 12
It was late by the time I got home from the Nationals, my stomach full of Thai food and my head full of gym talk after going out with Monique, Pip and Russell.
The house was dark but for the pale flicker of the TV at the end of the hall. I wasn’t ready to face Mum yet.
When I’d told her the date for my swim against Levi, we’d both smiled at the way it all fitted so perfectly – a good win in the pool to rekindle my competitive fire, then watching the Nationals to set it blazing.
But now? I guess the closest thing to a fire inside my belly was a sense of drifting smoke. Everything that had once seemed so clear now seemed fuzzy and complicated. I was proud of Monique and really happy for her, but at the same time those feelings confused me. Now I felt further than ever from going back to gym. A few months before, seeing Monique blitz would have made me sick with envy. But now I felt real pride. She’d come first on vault and third on floor. Plus third overall! She’d done it. Made it. Won.
But how could that feel so good for me? I was glad to have moved beyond my old ruthlessness and jealousy, but without it I didn’t know what to do. I still didn’t know how to get back the old focus on my training. Not with so many things to get my head around first.
For a moment I stood outside my bedroom door, then I stepped across the hall.
Carefully
I opened Samantha’s door and peered into the darkness, trying to pick up a hint of breathing. Two seconds later I switched on the light and sat down on her empty bed. I hoped that this wasn’t one of those nights when she stayed out clubbing forever. I really wanted to talk to her.
The room still smelt of oil paints, though much fainter. The painting on the easel had been mostly covered with a towel but deep shadowed storm clouds were visible in a strip down one side.
I sighed and lay back on the bed, imagining what it would be like to be Samantha. Her pillow felt softer than mine.
The next thing I knew, someone was placing a hand gently on my shin. ‘Jade? Your bedroom’s thattaway.’
‘Oh . . . ah . . .’ I yawned and cleared my throat. ‘Sorry.’ I cleared my throat again and shifted to sit with my back against the bed head. I stretched my arms up lazily.
‘So how were the Nationals?’ Samantha asked, hanging a jacket in the wardrobe.
‘Good. Bit weird though,’ I said and snuggled my back into the pillow. ‘Almost made me feel like a kid again, watching the stuff they could do.’
‘Well . . . you can do all that stuff too.’
I was quiet while she peeled off her work clothes – first skirt, next tights, and last her white shirt.
‘So, how’s your painting going?’ I asked.
Samantha stopped to look at me, mid-step into her pyjama shorts. Then she kept stepping. ‘It’s not finished yet,’ she said. ‘I’m racing to get it done before our exhibition.’
I shifted again. ‘Do I get an invite?’ I’d never been to one of Samantha’s exhibitions before.
Samantha snorted. ‘Suddenly developed an interest in art, have you?’
I shrugged. The way I felt about art hadn’t changed, but she had missed my point. ‘No, really. When is it?’ I pushed.
‘It’s next Friday, ah . . .’ Samantha peered at her calendar, ‘the sixteenth.’
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