“So she didn’t tell you, her best friend, who she really was? Why do you think she kept her true identity a secret?”
Zoe furrows her brow, shakes her head. “I don’t know. Maybe she was afraid it would get all weird, because it has kinda gotten weird around here.”
“How so?”
“All you reporters hanging around, for one thing.”
I want to reach through the TV and hug Zoe.
“Are people treating her differently?” Edwina asks from off camera.
“I don’t know.” Zoe squirms, looks guilty. “I guess.”
“Can you give us a play-by-play of that night at prom? You were there, correct?”
“Yeah, I was there.” Zoe looks like she wishes she were somewhere else. I don’t blame her. “I didn’t see her fall. I heard the screams and shouts, so I went to see what was going on. She was sprawled on the floor, and her date was trying to help her.”
My stomach tightens as the events of that night rush through my mind. I know it’s not possible, but it feels like my ankle aches more, like it’s remembering too.
The shot changes, and Kristine’s face fills the screen. She squints under the lights. Behind her Tasha bobs her head as if she’s trying to get into the shot. Jane stands stalwartly at Kristine’s shoulder, smiling into the lens. “Yeah, it was pretty shocking,” Kristine says, flipping her hair over her shoulder. Next to her, Jane nods in agreement. “I mean, you think you know someone, and then you find out they have this double life. Like, I can’t imagine that she’s actually that good at gymnastics—”
Edwina Huang interrupts her from off camera. “She’s won two World Championship gold medals on beam. She’s one of our nation’s best.”
“Yeah, but you’d never know that by looking at her,” Kristine says. “She doesn’t look like an athlete. She doesn’t act like an athlete. I know. I play soccer. You’ve got to have focus. I doubt she has what it takes. I mean, if she were taking gymnastics seriously, she should not have gone to prom.”
Beside her, Jane holds a hand over her mouth to cover her laughter. Then she leans toward Edwina and the microphone, blocking the view of Kristine. “Prom was disastrous for Charlotte,” Jane says snidely. “Let’s just be honest.”
“Hmm, yes, indeed,” Edwina says, turning to the camera. “It seems like Jefferson High School, even among her friends, is split about whether to support Charlie Ryland as she pursues her Olympic dream. We’d like to know what she was doing at prom with a gymnastics event of this magnitude right around the corner, but Charlie was unwilling to comment. Chris Betts, her celebrated two-time Olympic coach, also declined to speak with us. USA Gymnastics said they have a press release forthcoming.”
“Oh no!” I say hoarsely. I turn to Mom. “Is that true? Have you heard anything?”
She shakes her head. “No one has told me about any plans for a press release, but I’m sure they are going to be supportive. If anything, they’ll just want to let people know that you are still able to compete.”
“Here I am, saving the day,” Josh interjects gleefully, obviously pleased with the spotlight. He can have all of it, as far as I’m concerned.
I jerk my attention back to the TV in time to see Josh shepherding me into his car and then driving us away. As we pass the camera, I’m covering my face like a criminal being led to jail. “Back to you, Trudy and David.”
“Thank you, Edwina,” says Trudy, shuffling papers.
“What an interesting turn of events for that young lady,” says the male news anchor, David, who happens to have painfully sideswiped hair. “I wonder why she felt like she had to keep her gymnastics career a secret.”
“Friends say she’s a private person.” Trudy smiles. “We’ll see how she does under Olympic pressure. But we wish her the very best in her endeavors. It would be wonderful to have a local Olympic athlete to root for.”
“And now,” David says, “another sports story that’s a lot less perplexing and a whole lot more inspiring. Let’s visit the Columbus Dog Show and meet Mitsy, a very special poodle with a whole lot of attitude. . . .”
I bury my face in a sofa pillow and groan.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
* * *
It’s three days before I’ll know if I made the Olympic team, and my last day at school for a while. My last day ever as fill-in for student council secretary. I carry a carefully piled stack of papers, separated neatly with paper clips. I’m going to earn my A in U.S. government class, even if it means being awkward with Kristine and resisting the urge to punch her in the face.
I’ve given a lot of thought to my last day before I head out for trials, my last student council meeting. I have something in mind that I want to accomplish. I even did some research on parliamentary procedure so I’d know what to say to make things go the right way.
Mr. Alto looks up from his desk when I limp into the room without my crutches. As long as I’m mindful of how much weight I’m putting on my bad ankle, it’s not giving me too much trouble.
“Charlotte, when am I going to get an autograph from you,” he says. “And I want an Olympic T-shirt with your name on it. Can you make that happen?”
“Sure,” I say halfheartedly.
The only empty seat in the circle is between Brandon and Alex. Bobby’s eyes dart over to me just long enough for me to know he’s aware that I’m here. His arms are crossed over his chest. He looks wonderful, as always. And at least he’s not sitting by Kristine.
I’ve caught glimpses of them in the hallway together, have wondered if they’re going out again.
Out of the corner of my eye, I’m aware of Kristine whispering to Jane and Tasha. I busy myself with walking around and passing out the packets I made. The perfect secretary.
“Mr. Alto,” I say as I hand him his packet. “Just to avoid any confusion, I need to make sure that you know this will be my last student council meeting, because I’ll be out of town for the next couple of weeks.”
Mr. Alto takes the packet and looks it over. “Very nice job here, Charlie.”
“I’m sorry I can’t finish out the year.”
“Oh no, that’s all right.” He rubs his nose with the back of his hand. “You’ve done a terrific job filling in for Mandy. We’re winding down the year anyway. I think you’ve earned that extra credit.”
“Thank you, Mr. Alto.”
“No, no,” he says. “You have a nice time in Detroit. And you go to Montreal and win us a gold medal, you hear?”
“I’ll try.”
Kristine raps her desk. “I’m calling this meeting to order.”
I take my seat.
“Okay, where is the agenda?” She flips through the papers I handed her. “Where are the minutes from last week?”
“The minutes are on top,” I say. “The agenda is beneath that.”
“By now you should know I prefer the agenda on top. I guess maybe you were just distracted trying to be an Olympic gymnast.”
“At least I’m not distracted by being interviewed on the evening news.”
“The people deserve to know the truth,” she says, flipping her hair back over her shoulder. “I was doing my civic responsibility. Now please call the roll.”
I could argue with her, but there is nothing to be gained, so I call the roll. Everyone is here. I turn to a blank page in my notebook. My chest feels tight, but I breathe to control it. Twenty more minutes, and I’m out of here, forever. I’m surprised by how much I’ll miss being part of this group. I won’t miss the Kristine aspect, but I will miss working toward accomplishing something. In spite of everything, I feel a sense of satisfaction that I had a role in helping with prom.
Kristine reports on prom, claiming it as a huge success for the student council. I have to agree. Except for my little accident, it was a wonderful night. Then a couple of action items are discussed. Finally she says, “If there is no further business to come before the assembly—”
The moment I’ve been waiting for an
d dreading just a little. I raise my hand. “Actually, there is. I have something to say.”
“Are you presenting a motion?”
“Yield me the floor.”
She glances around, and I know she doesn’t want to. She has no idea what I’m going to say. She clears her throat. “You really should have talked with me about this before the meeting.”
“Actually, that really is not a requirement. Yield me the floor.”
“She’s correct, Kristine. Yield her the floor,” Mr. Alto says.
If looks could kill, I’d be drawing my last breath.
“The chair recognizes Charlie Ryland,” Kristine says.
“Thank you.” I stand up, balancing carefully on my good foot. “As you all know, it was recently revealed that I’m an elite athlete with Olympic aspirations. I know some people feel betrayed because I kept my hopes and dreams a secret. Some people are judging me because of it. But they don’t have all the facts. So . . .”
Everyone, even Bobby, is looking at me. I see curiosity on their faces. I clear my throat. Performing in front of a crowd of thousands is one thing. Talking to a group of twelve is more unnerving.
“Charlie Ryland has four hundred fifty thousand followers on Facebook. Charlotte Ryland has thirty. Some people adore Charlie, and some people hate her. She can come away with the gold, and there are people who will still find fault with her performance, her dismount, the position of her feet, the color of her leotard. That’s fine. Everyone has an opinion. But I have to look at their opinions only when I go to Facebook.”
A couple of people nod as though they can relate to getting criticized on social media.
“I used to be homeschooled. And I missed sitting in a room with people. I missed laughing with someone or groaning because the teacher announced a pop quiz. The only people I ever interacted with were other gymnasts. And they were all girls. They were all ambitious, determined, and talented. They all had the same dream that I had. But I was getting a skewed perspective on the world. Because not everyone thinks it’s normal to want to spend seven hours a day in a gym flying through the air and landing on your back more times than you land on your feet.
“So I decided to go back to public school. I wanted to have friends who weren’t gymnasts and who had experiences different from mine. But I didn’t want their opinions of me to be based on my gymnastics talent. I didn’t want them to say to my face what I was reading on Facebook. I didn’t want to find things like this”—I pull out the marked-up cover of Gymnastics NOW!—“taped to my locker. So I decided to become Charlotte Ryland, who no one had ever heard of.”
I release a self-mocking laugh. “And that kind of backfired, as you all know. But that’s okay. You see, Charlie Ryland wouldn’t have had to serve on the student council to bring up her grade. She would have been given a quick and easy project. But Charlotte Ryland had to figure out how government worked, so she had to serve on the student council. I enjoyed it a lot more than I thought I would. It gave me the opportunity to get to know all of you a little bit and to work to give those who went to prom a night to remember. And no matter what else happens, I’m glad for that.”
This whole time I have avoided looking at Bobby. But it’s time now. His gaze is on me. I look into his brown eyes. After all, this little speech of mine—it’s actually for him. “I’m really sorry, Bobby, that I didn’t tell you the truth about me. I regret more than you’ll ever know that I was stupid and careless with our friendship. I’m really truly sorry. You deserved better.”
I look over at Kristine. “And with that, Madam President, I yield the floor back to you.”
I sit down. No one says a word. Kristine clears her throat, shifts in her chair. “Uh, is there any further business? No? Then we’re adjourned.”
“I knew who you were,” Brandon says as he grabs his backpack and stands.
I stare at him in amazement. “What?”
He grins. “Yeah, my sister’s in gymnastics. I’ve seen you at some meets. You’re going to kill them in Montreal.”
I’m so touched. Tears sting my eyes. I smile. “Thanks, Brandon.”
He shrugs and gives me a teasing grin. “But I’d like you more if you’d voted for the Prom Wars theme.”
Laughing, I reach down for my backpack, and realize that Bobby has already picked it up and is holding it out to me.
“Thanks,” I say.
“I still don’t understand why you couldn’t have just told me all that before.”
“I should have when I realized how much I was beginning to like you. But then there never seemed a good way to say it so that it made sense. So much of my life is about getting scores for how I perform that I guess I think people are scoring me on everything.”
The room has cleared out. Only Mr. Alto is left in the corner, studying his phone.
“I misjudged Kristine when we were going out,” Bobby continues. “I thought I’d done the same thing with you. Wrestling is part of who I am. It’s not something I can separate from. For you to be at the level you are, that means gymnastics is part of you. After I discovered you had this double life, I just felt like I didn’t really know you.”
“Charlotte and Charlie aren’t that different. Not really. I finally figured that out. It’s actually a lot easier just being Charlie. More challenging in some ways, but still easier. Which makes no sense.”
“I think I get what you mean.”
I hope he does. “I guess we’d better get to class,” I say.
“See you around, Charlie Ryland.”
I watch him walk out. I’m glad he’s at least talking to me again, but I can’t imagine that he’ll want to hang out with me anymore.
• • •
I’m nearly to my locker when I see what appears to be a gaggle of girls gathered in front of it, apparently doing something to it. Defacing it, no doubt. If I didn’t need one of the books in it for class, I’d just walk on.
One of the girls turns slightly, her eyes widen, and she begins shoving on the other girls and pointing at me. They turn and start hopping up and down. People stare at them, stare at me.
“Charlie Ryland!” a girl with short blond hair shouts. “We had no idea you were at our school. But then, we’re just freshmen and so beneath you, but when we saw the news last night . . . OhmyGod! OhmyGod! Charlie Ryland at our school.”
A girl with long black hair pulled back into a ponytail steps forward. “Can I carry your backpack for you?”
I blink at her. “What?”
“You don’t need the extra weight, not with your ankle trying to heal. I wish I’d realized sooner that you were at Jefferson. I would have totally carried your backpack for you all week.”
I guess Zoe doesn’t Friend the freshmen on Facebook, or they don’t Friend her.
“Thanks. That’s okay. I’ve got it,” I say. “But I do need to get to my locker.”
“Oh, sure. Absolutely.”
The girls part like the Red Sea, and that’s when I see what they’ve done to my locker. Tears sting my eyes. My chest tightens. There are starbursts and glittered signs taped to the door.
GO, CHARLIE!
WE BELIEVE!
CHARLIE ROCKS!
YOU CAN DO IT!
A string of balloons has been tied to the handle. They’ve decorated my locker like the cheerleaders decorate the lockers of the football and basketball players before a game.
“We just think you’re amazing,” the blonde says.
“Totally amazing,” the dark-haired girl says.
I figure they are the voice for the group. There has to be at least eight girls, smiling at me.
“Thanks so much for doing this,” I say, waving my hand over my locker, like Vanna White revealing a puzzle on Wheel of Fortune. I imagine them working on the signs, gluing and glittering. “It means more to me than I can say.”
“Oh, totally,” another of the girls says.
I get my book out of my locker and close the door. I can’t help but sm
ile at all the enthusiasm taped to it.
“I’ve got to get to class,” I say, regretting that I don’t have more time to get to know them.
“Oh, we do too,” the blonde says. “But we’ll be watching the trials on TV.”
“And rooting for you,” one of the other girls says.
“Thanks.”
I’m still smiling as I head to class. This fame thing is a mixed bag. They reminded me that it’s not all bad, that I can bring excitement to others’ lives, that all I’ve been working for isn’t just for me. It’s for anyone who has ever had a dream.
• • •
I have one more thing that I need to do before I leave school today, before I head into the most important weekend of my life so far. I have to talk to Zoe.
She’s been incredibly skilled at avoiding me in the hallways and at our lockers. But she can’t escape me in Mr. Alto’s class, because he has us in assigned seats. When I walk into government, I’m glad to see Zoe hunched over her desk, scribbling in her notebook. That’s been her usual posture in this class since Monday.
I hobble over to my desk, take my seat, remove my book from my backpack, and then slide the backpack beneath my injured foot so that I can keep my ankle elevated as much as possible. The swelling is way down, but my ankle is still tender.
The seats around us are empty. I lean over slightly toward Zoe. “I saw you on the news last night. You handled the interview really well.”
Without looking at me, she lifts a shoulder, drops it back down, keeps scribbling.
“It means a lot to me that you still want me to go to the Olympics,” I say. “I wish I’d told you the truth about me, that I’d had your support all along.”
With her head still ducked, she peers over at me. “Why didn’t you tell me? I tell you everything.”
“I just felt like I needed to keep my two lives separate. My life is so totally crazy right now. I wanted someplace that was gymnastics-free.” Which isn’t the entire truth, and I know I have to be completely honest with her if I want to regain her friendship. “Plus I was afraid things might change between us.”
The Flip Side Page 19