I hear the repressed anger in his voice.
“To your left. Through that doorway.”
He carries me into the front sitting room and gently sets me down on the sofa. He turns, stops. The wall is covered with photos of me at various ages in different leotards. Sometimes I’m holding a ribbon, or a medal, or a trophy. Sometimes I’m posed like I’m about to begin or have just ended a routine. Slowly he approaches the wall, studies the photos.
“We need an explanation,” Mom says as she dashes into the room.
“The prom was at a skating rink,” I say. “Some guy decided to go skating, and he clipped me.” I pull up the hem of my gown.
Mom gasps and covers her mouth. “Oh, Charlie.” Kneeling beside me, she tenderly lifts my leg to examine it. “We have to get you to Dr. Kwan tonight.”
He specializes in treating athletes and has taken care of me whenever my ankle has acted up.
“We appreciate your bringing Charlie home,” Dad says to Bobby.
Bobby faces him. “No problem, but I need to scoot. I’m sharing the limo with some other people.” He heads for the doorway.
“Thanks for everything, Bobby,” I call out.
He stops, glances back over his shoulder at me. He looks as sad as I feel. “Good-bye, Charlotte.”
Then he’s gone. And I have a feeling that his good-bye was a good-bye forever.
Chapter Twenty-Three
* * *
“What were you thinking?” Mom asks.
“You told me to embrace my crazy, and going to prom seemed like a crazy thing to do. Plus I really wanted to go. It was just one night. I couldn’t see that it would do any harm.”
Mom glares at me, her mouth in a straight line of disapproval. “You went behind our backs.”
Anger flares up in me, but I remind myself that I deserve this. Mom is right. She has every right to be angry.
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
“Sorry isn’t good enough, Charlie.” She paces around the living room, clearly agitated. “So your spending the night with Gwen . . . was that a complete lie?”
“No, I was going to spend the night at her house.”
“She was in on this?”
I don’t want to get Gwen into trouble. “She didn’t know everything.”
“No more rides or hanging out with Gwen.” She points a finger at me. “Or anyone else, for that matter. You are as grounded as we can make you with trials coming up.”
I look over at Dad. He’s wearing his solidarity face. He won’t contradict Mom. “We’re disappointed in you, Charlie,” he says quietly.
Mom picks up the phone. “You’ve taken this secret-life thing too far, Charlie. When you start lying to your parents, that’s too far. It’s time for you to come out, all of you, in front of everybody.”
“I told Bobby,” I mumble. “I don’t think he’s ever going to talk to me again.”
Mom is quiet for a moment. “I think you have more important things to worry about.”
She’s right. I still have to face Coach Chris and Gwen, not to mention everyone else who believed in me as a gymnast. All my coaches in Texas, for instance. My Facebook and Team Charlie followers. “Mom, do you think I’ve ruined my chances to make the Olympic team?”
Mom’s expression is flat as she starts dialing. “We’ll see what Dr. Kwan says.”
While she’s talking to him, I take out my phone and text Gwen.
I won’t be coming back tonight. I got busted. Long story. I’ll call you tomorrow.
Now I just have to hope that I haven’t ruined things for Gwen, too.
• • •
Long after midnight I’m lying on my bed with my foot wrapped in a compression bandage and elevated on a pillow to reduce the swelling. Dr. Kwan was willing to see his “little Olympian” in an emergency situation late on a Saturday night. After much poking and prodding, he made his diagnosis: nothing torn, just stretched tendons. I’m so lucky, although I’m not really feeling that way. I took some pain relievers to reduce the ache still throbbing through my foot, but the medication doesn’t ease the hurt I’ve caused for others tonight. My parents are still upset with me and disappointed in my deception. I don’t blame them. It was so easy to justify before getting caught, but now I just feel guilty.
Then there’s Bobby. I’m staring at my phone wishing he’d text and wondering if I should text him to let him know what Dr. Kwan said. But a part of me is afraid that he won’t answer, that he won’t care.
A knock sounds on my door, and it opens. Josh steps into my room, closes the door, and leans against it. “How’s the ankle?”
“Swollen, hurting. Dr. Kwan says I need to stay off it as much as possible.” I point to the crutches resting against the foot of my bed. “But that’s not much of an option. I’ll test it Monday at practice.”
“Can’t you give it more time to heal?”
Regretfully I shake my head. “I have to be at a hundred percent by next weekend. If my ankle can’t support me, Coach Chris needs to know.”
“Either way he’s not going to be happy.”
“Tell me about it.” There’s a chance that even if my ankle can take the strain of being jolted and landed on, Coach Chris won’t be willing to risk the possibility of my injuring myself further—to the extent that I’ll have to have one or more surgeries or that I won’t be able to recover in time for the Olympics in August. I don’t want to think about how messed up everything is. “How was the rest of prom?”
“Too crowded. Morgan and I left to grab a burger. I got the third degree just now when I got home. Mom and Dad thought I knew something about you sneaking off, but I had no idea.” He walks over, moves the crutches aside, and sits on the foot of my bed. “So thanks for keeping me in the dark on that.”
He sounds a little hurt. I feel like I didn’t do a single thing right in relation to prom.
“What were you thinking?” he asks.
“That I wanted to go to prom. But now I’m paying for it.”
Josh stares at me. “Why shouldn’t you be able to go to prom, though? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Because I have my priorities mixed up,” I say, tears springing into my eyes. “I’m going to the Olympic trials, Josh, and here I was stumbling around in high heels. I mean, how did I think that was a good idea? When I saw that guy headed for me, I couldn’t move quickly, I couldn’t get out of the way. Maybe I deserve to be out of the trials. After this, when the coaches find out I’m injured, I probably will be out.”
“They’re not going to sideline you for an injury. Not a sprained ankle. People sprain their ankles all the time and still compete.”
“Maybe if I got hurt during practice or a competition. But I lied to everyone and went to prom.”
“Are you serious? After all the sacrifices you’ve made? After everything?”
I shrug. “I messed up, Josh. It’s a harsh world.”
“So you’re giving up?”
I have to pause to consider my answer. Am I giving up? Am I giving in to the pain, resigning myself to losing my dream? Or do I have it in me to still fight? Fight through the pain and see what happens.
“No, I’m not giving up.”
Josh shifts on the bed. “And what does wearing heels have to do with anything? It was the idiot on the skates who sideswiped you.”
“But I shouldn’t have been there to begin with.”
“Then he would have sideswiped someone else. You actually saved someone tonight, Charlie.”
I release a bubble of laughter—the last thing I expected to do anytime soon. “That seems like a stretch, Josh.”
“So is thinking that you should be punished for going to prom. Who doesn’t want to go to prom?” He plucks at a thread on my comforter. “I’m sorry you didn’t feel like you could confide in me, let me help you pull this off.”
“You’re just sorry that you didn’t get a chance to buddy up to Bobby.”
He grins. “That, too. I like the guy.
”
“Would you like him if he weren’t famous at our school for his wrestling prowess?”
He actually considers it for a minute. “Yeah, I think so.”
I toss a pillow at him. With a laugh, he sets it aside and gets up. “To be honest, I can understand why he wouldn’t want to hang around with me. I was acting like an idiot, trying to get in close to him just because he was spending time with you.”
“I think he would want to hang around with you if you didn’t try so hard to impress him. Actually, the way you acted around him . . . that’s part of the reason why I didn’t tell people about my gymnastics life. I thought they would try to be friends with me because of my ‘star’ power. Not because of who I am. Although, I realize that makes me sound a little conceited, to think I’m a star.”
“You are a star. Or you will be after the Olympics.”
“If I can make the team.”
• • •
The next afternoon my phone vibrates against the desk. I’m sitting in my room with my foot in ice water.
“Hey, Charlotte.” Zoe’s voice sounds strained.
“Hey.”
“How’re you doing? How’s the ankle?”
I swallow. “It’s swollen.”
“Have you been to the doctor?”
“Yep. It’s just sprained.”
“Not the best prom night, huh?”
I’m not going to lie. It was a disastrous prom night. But there’s always a bright side. There has to be. “I had fun until skating boy happened upon the scene.” I force out a laugh.
“I feel so bad. I should have left when you did.”
“No, you shouldn’t have,” I say. “Then I would have felt worse than I feel now. How was prom after I left?”
“Wonderful. Which makes me feel guilty, because it wasn’t wonderful for you.”
“You shouldn’t feel guilty,” I insist.
“Michael kissed me.”
I release a little squeal. “How was it?”
“Nice. Really nice.”
“You guys make a cute couple.”
“If you hadn’t gotten hurt, it would have been the best night ever.”
“It’s all right, Zoe, if for you it was the best night ever.”
“It can’t be when my bestest friend gets hurt. Devon Winters is such a doofus. Who wears skates to a prom? Kristine was so mad at him for getting kicked out.”
“Why would she be mad?”
“Because he was her date. Did you not know?”
No. She failed to mention that when she was talking to Bobby. “Zoe, how do you keep up with all this stuff?”
“I follow just about everyone on Facebook and Instagram.”
“It must take you hours to go through your timelines.”
“Sometimes, but I love it. It’s like reading a gossip magazine.”
Maybe I’ll have Zoe handle my social media if I make the Olympic team.
“I should probably get back to studying,” I tell her.
“Me too. I’m glad it’s just a sprain.”
I lift my foot up out of the ice. “I think the swelling is going down. I’ll be as good as new tomorrow.” A little lie, but there’s no point in bringing her down.
“Great! I’ll see you at school.”
We hang up, and I lower my foot back into the ice. Then I stare at my phone, wishing that Bobby would call.
Chapter Twenty-Four
* * *
Monday morning, with my ankle still in a compress wrap, I use my crutches to hobble down the hallways through school. Mom called Coach Chris and told him that I needed to skip my morning workout, but not why. She’s going to tell him this afternoon. I’m dreading it.
After third period, as I’m heading to my locker before lunch, I notice the whispering and the odd looks that people are giving me, but I shrug them off, figuring there’s gossip about the Rollerblading incident at prom. People must be looking and pointing because I’m the girl who got knocked off her feet.
It doesn’t occur to me to think it’s anything else, until Kristine stops in front of me in the hallway, plants her hands on her hips, and gives me a steely once-over.
“Is it true?” She slides her tongue into her cheek, like she’s trying not to laugh.
“What? That your date knocked me over at prom?”
“If what they’re saying is true, you should have been able to leap out of his way.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Gymnastics! Woo-woo!” Kristine flaps her arms around. “It’s not true, right? It’s just coincidence that you have similar names.”
My insides freeze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The lie comes out automatically.
“Exactly.” Kristine stalks away.
I barely notice anything around me as I make my way to my locker. I see Zoe at her locker. I’m surprised she doesn’t rush over. Instead she’s watching me like she doesn’t know who I am. I stuff my book-filled backpack into my locker and then hobble over to her.
“Hey,” I say to her. “I just had the weirdest conversation with Kristine.”
“I bet. Do you want to hear something really funny? It’s crazy. Totally nuts.”
“Sure.” I need something to distract me from Kristine’s weirdness. Did Bobby say something to Kristine? Did he catch up with her at the prom after her date was thrown out? He’s the only one who knows. . . .
“I posted the selfie from prom on Instagram, and I tagged you. And then Morgan Whitcomb tagged it, but with a different name—Charlie Ryland—that linked to a gymnast. She posted a comment that she went to prom with the gymnast’s brother.”
Oh no. No, no, no.
“Zoe—”
“I followed the link. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that my bestest friend is famous.”
“I’m not famous.”
She scoffs. “You’re an Olympic hopeful, and you didn’t even tell me. I feel so stupid, Charlotte.” Tears well in her eyes. “Oh, I mean, Charlie. People are asking me what it’s like to be the friend of a famous person—”
“I’m not famous,” I repeat. Not like celebrity, paparazzi-followed famous.
“You will be.”
“Not if I don’t make the team.”
“There were photos of you at a training ranch in Texas. You lied to me about that. I asked for pictures of cowboys. There’s a photo of you on the cover of some gymnastics magazine. You have this whole other life, and I knew nothing about it. Why didn’t you tell me?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I guess I thought things between us would change.”
“Like what? You think that I’m shallow and would only want to be with you because you’re famous?”
It sounds so bad. “I’m sorry. I should have told you.”
“Yeah, you should have. But you’re right. Things between us did change.” She slings her backpack over her shoulder and heads down the hallway.
“Charlie?”
I turn to find a girl looking at me hesitantly. I have no idea who she is, but she suddenly grins broadly. “Charlie Ryland. It is you. I can’t believe you go to my school and I didn’t know it. I train at another gym, nowhere near good enough to make the Olympic team, but I’m hoping for a college scholarship. Will you sign this for me?”
She holds out a notebook, turned to a blank page, and a pen. I’m reeling, trying to make sense of all this. “Sure.”
I take the pen while she steadies the notebook. “My name is Malia,” she says.
Good luck, Malia! I write, and then sign Charlie Ryland with a flourish.
“Thanks,” she says, hugging the notebook to her chest.
“Keep working toward your dream,” I say automatically.
When she walks off, I fumble my phone out of my pocket and bite my lip as I pull up Instagram. I scroll through the photos, and horror sinks into my lungs, restricting my breath, into my stomach, making it plunge. Not only is the selfie that Z
oe took there, but there is a photo of me sprawled on the floor and Bobby kneeling beside me and one of him carrying me. “Oh no . . .”
I stare at the screen. It feels like all the blood is draining to my feet. The photo of me sprawled on the floor has more than 10,000 likes and 654 shares.
Charlie Ryland Gymnast on Facebook has 450,000 followers. And all it took was one tag for all the people who know me in one life to get linked to the other life. I think of Coach Rachel. This isn’t nearly as bad as what she went through, but it still hurts, and my mind is filling with thoughts of the various ways that this could play out badly.
I get a text from Josh. We need to talk.
I’m at my locker.
Wait there.
I make my way over to my locker and lean against it. The hallway empties out somewhat as the other students head to the cafeteria. Then I spot Kristine talking with Bobby at the far end, where one hallway intersects with another. She’s running her hand up and down his arm, like she’s testing his muscles.
Then she sees me, points, and laughs. Bobby glances over his shoulder, says something to her. I try not to wonder if they got back together at prom after I was hurt. His date was no longer there, and neither was hers. At the very least she probably got her dance with Bobby.
Leaving her behind, Bobby approaches me. He doesn’t give me his enticing grin. The dimple doesn’t show.
“How’s the ankle?” he asks with very little emotion.
“The doctor said it was just a sprain. I’ll find out during practice this afternoon if it can withstand the impact.”
“Shouldn’t you give it a few days?”
“I can’t. Trials are this Saturday, and I have to know. My coaches have to know. This is it for me. If I miss trials, all my dedication and years of practice were for nothing.”
“Really?” He wrinkles his brow. “What about all the friendships you made, everything you’ve achieved up until now. Doesn’t any of that count for anything?”
I don’t know what to say. “Of course it does,” I finally manage. “But I want to go to trials. I will go to trials.” No matter how much my foot hurts.
“Good luck. I mean it, Charlotte. I hope—”
The Flip Side Page 16