I take a seat next to Marta at our always-empty lunch spot. She sneezes into her long-sleeved shirt, then rolls up the sleeve where the snot shot out. “What took you so long?”
I take out my foot-long mozzarella sandwich on La Brea sourdough. “You know you really should keep your big mouth shut.”
“Why?”
We watch Lillian and her crew huddled together across the way. “Because they’re up to something, dumb butt, that’s why, and the less they know about you and me, the better.”
TRUE FACT: Let’s get this straight—Lillian’s no Trixie. She doesn’t care about things like popularity. She only cares about being the best on the team. And thanks to Marta, she’s not anymore.
Marta wolfs down her tuna sandwich like a great white. “Who the heck cares?” She smacks away, her mouth a tunnel of mayo and fish.
I can’t believe she’s so dense. “They want you gone, Marta. They’ve always wanted you gone.”
“The way I see it, it’s a game.” Marta crunches a carrot in my ear. “A game of how long the other guy can last.” She swallows, knocks back some warm milk. “They want to get rid of me, and I want to move so far ahead of them that it’ll just be me and Coach. It’s what I call a zero-sum game.”
Zero-sum game. To me it looks like all of them against her.
“But at the end of the day . . .” She shoves the crust down her throat with her finger. “I’m the best. They know it. Coach knows it. Nothing can stop me.”
TRUE FACT: Saying “nothing can stop me” is like begging for something to stop you. I should know—I’m a middle child.
I get up and toss my trash. “Believe what you want, but don’t”—I come back and punch her on the shoulder to drive this point across—“and I mean don’t mention the JOs until you have the ticket in your hand and the entrance fee receipt paid. Don’t tell them a thing, Marta, or they’ll find a way to stop you. Keep that big mouth shut.” I grab her chin. “You got me?”
“Yeah, yeah.” She says it like I’m nuts.
I drain the last of my Pellegrino and watch Bobby dip and dodge. The way he wears the loose basketball shorts with the totally dinged-up Converse makes me crazy.
Marta rips off a chunk of apple. She zeroes in on Lillian and her crew, pointing her finger right at them. “Who’s the new girl?”
I whack her finger. “Her name’s Lola, she’s supposed to be in eighth grade, but she got held back.” She’s got bigger boobs than my mom, which makes her the most popular kid in school.
Marta nods. “She’s totally staring at Bobby.”
They all are. Every time he gets near the hoops, they jump up and clap like he’s just found a cure for cancer.
The first bell rings. Marta takes off. She’s a stickler for bells.
I shove the last bite of my sandwich into my mouth. It’s truly important that each bite has a piece of mozzarella, a piece of tomato, and a piece of basil—otherwise it’s sadness.
The bell rings: we all scatter like roaches.
The Birth of an Olympian
I have three days to do what Gabby Douglas took a lifetime to accomplish. And I’m not exaggerating. On day one, I arrive at Marta’s brown door and bang on it. “Marta!” I can hear her feet pounding even before I see her. She yanks open the door.
“You’re late.” She’s already in her gym clothes. Marta points down the darkened hallway. Her aunt hasn’t made it that homey. In fact, it looked cleaner when Marta lived here alone. There are candy wrappers everywhere, empty Coke cans, bags of chips and trashy Hollywood magazines. And then I see the photo—a very small woman with Marta’s eyes and dead gray complexion standing on a podium, in a red-and-white leotard, with a silver medal around her neck. Her mom, at the Olympics. What a lady.
I wipe the dust off the frame with the bottom of my T-shirt.
Marta’s glaring at me. “What are you doing?”
I forgot how protective she is about her pictures, so I put it back exactly where I found it. “So where’s your aunt?”
“Getting a mani-pedi.” Marta throws back the sliding door. “It’s like her second one since she got here. And they cost a fortune. And she has no money. It’s always me, me, me.” She stops, scratches her head.
Even I can tell she’s stressed. “Yo, isn’t she here to take care of you?”
Marta snaps her fingers. “I’ve thought it over, and I think the beam’s your best bet.”
“I hate the beam.”
“You need to know how to get on it, how to get off it, and how to look like you know what you’re doing in between.”
What a major drag. The whole point of being a star is not having to do anything. I pick up the giant brown receiver from the Dark Ages and stick my fingers in the holes and call my mom. I tell her I’ll be home in time for dinner.
Marta grabs the phone out of my hand. “More like bedtime, Mrs. Cooper!” She cracks her neck. “Now, get out to the gym. Meet the beam.”
Meet the beam? She’s so weird. I go out—the beam’s there dividing up her small yard. “Hey, Beam.” I look under it, around it. I strip off my outerwear to expose my faux black snakeskin leotard with the slogan Gymnastics Rox in diamonds.
“What the hell is that?” Marta says when she sees it.
“Don’t be so jealous.” I massage my diamonds. “I’ll get you one.”
“Over my dead body.” She points to the beam. “Get on.”
“Sure.” I like how the leotard holds my belly in. “Where’s the stool?”
“Stool?” Marta rolls her eyes. “There is no stool.”
Great.
“Today you’re going to learn how to mount the beam without looking like a giant sausage. Tomorrow, how to leap without looking like a giant sausage, and then how to dismount—”
I got it. “Without looking like a giant sausage.”
TRUE FACT: The abused can become pretty nasty abusers when given half the chance. Keep reading.
Marta yanks my arms across the beam. “Now lift yourself up and straddle the beam.”
I stare at it. “Say what?”
“Like this.” She stands in front of it, pushes herself up, and lifts her right leg up and over until she’s straddling it. “This is the easiest way on.”
Liar. “What about the little springy thing?”
She ignores me and hops down. “Now you.”
I put my hands on the beam, and I heave myself up, turn slightly, and straddle. “See?”
“You look like a dying whale.”
“Experts agree.” I pull myself up, square my shoulders. “Sarcasm is not a great motivator.”
“Now down.” She circles me like a predator. “And back up.
“And down.
“And back up.
“I want to see you lift off the ground. I want to see your hip swivel out and your leg straddle in one motion.”
Somewhere along the way Marta’s found a stick. She’s tapping the floor in a pretty scary way.
“Leg over, straddle.” She watches me like a vulture. The sun is gone. I’ve got a major rash. “Tomorrow we work on moving from straddle position to leg up, walk beam, leap, dismount.”
Free at last. I hop off, sore as heck.
She whacks the backs of my legs with her stick. “Get back on! On and off until you don’t look like you’re dying.”
“FYI,” I point out immediately, “you’re becoming super mean.” By the end of the night, I want to quit. Give up. I’m not cut out for hard work. But this is what keeps me going, people:
TELEVISION. It’s the only cure for the torture of life.
“Take a hot bath and we’ll pick up where we left off tomorrow morning at five.”
“Five? As in three whole hours before the bell rings?”
“Go.” She picks me up and opens the door to a pitch-black driveway. I was kinda hoping her aunt would be home from the salon with a hot pizza and a ride home. But she never shows. “So how do I get home?”
“It’s called
the bus.” She pauses to let the horror of it sink in and simmer. “And you need the thirty-nine. Comes every half an hour on the other side of the street. If you leave now, you might make it. And I’d try to make it. It gets cold out there on the street.” The door closes without the slightest bit of hesitation. Man, she’s cold.
“Wow, thanks.” I walk out onto the mean streets of Reseda.
By the time I get home and kiss Mom and Dad good night, I’m so tired I can barely stand. But it’s a good tired. I walk into the bathroom, run a warm bath, and slip into it. Every muscle aches, but it’s a good ache. I close my eyes and dream.
Day Two of My Rebirth
Yes, people, for the next two days I’m up before even the sun. I go downstairs, open the fridge, and eat. Then I take the 4:30 bus to Marta’s house in Reseda to train.
Marta’s aunt sure doesn’t mess around. Every morning, she’s fully dressed in a gym outfit with the word ROMANIA written in red. She always offers me tea.
On day two, Marta drops to the mat and starts her push-ups. Her stomach doesn’t even sag onto the mat.
Marta raises the stick and points it at my core—yes, my core—and has the indecency to announce, “If you want to work the beam, you’re gonna have to lose some of that fat.”
Offensive, or what? “First of all,” I point out, “my doctor says I’m not fat. Plus, I told you. They like my belly. I’m the evil, jealous sister, remember?”
“Come on, you weakling, sit-ups. Fifty.” And she launches right into it, as effortlessly as me opening a bag of Doritos. I start, but at ten I swear it feels like my stomach is being ripped apart. I collapse on the mat until she gets to forty-five, then I start back up again, huffing and puffing, like I never quit. “Now that was tough,” I announce like a true athlete.
Marta finishes her set, lies on her back, stretching. She looks up at the sky and says with the calmest voice, “Do you want this?” She turns to look at me. “Because if you do, you’re going to have to fight for it,” Marta says. “Blood, sweat, and tears.”
She’s right. Blood, sweat, and tears. I get up and walk to the beam. I want this. I want this more than I have ever wanted anything in my life. I mount the beam.
Marta hits the stick against the mat, and I do it again and again for hours.
By the time it’s 7:45, I’m about ready to puke. To rethink my goal. To just call in sick for the rest of my life. It’s so hot, and my legs can barely hold me up. My arms don’t feel attached to my body. “We’ll continue after school.” Marta puts down her whip. “Greta will drive.”
Greta’s dangling the keys over the door. “I am excellent driver.”
Graffiti Alley
I can’t count how many times we almost crashed. From now on, I will never, and I mean ever, complain about the bus again. In fact, I love my bus driver with his narrow eyes and his rearview suspicion.
By lunch, my legs feel like they’ve got weights attached to them. I can barely make it down the stairs. Kids run past me, bumping and knocking me off guard. In the middle of it I see Mr. Bobby Brown. He’s smiling right at me. “Hey, old lady, you want to come someplace with me?”
It’s a miracle! My legs are fine! I need a kiss. I want a kiss.
He takes my hand. We run down the corridor. I forget all about my aching muscles and follow Bobby’s lead. We run past Pickler’s office and go up one flight of stairs. He looks over the railing. “Ready?”
“Where?” All I can see is the mountain and a lot of dirt.
He climbs over the railing and throws himself off.
“What the—” I look over the ledge. And there he is, hot as ever, standing against a rock wall.
Bobby puts his finger up to his lips. “Get down here before we get busted.”
I look both ways, about to climb the railing, when Mr. L comes walking down the stairs and stops right in front of me. I freeze.
He looks over at the railing, putting two and two together. “You’re not jumping into Graffiti Alley, are you?”
“Me? No way, sir.” I point to the door. “I’m heading to the library.” I wait till he’s gone.
“Cooper!” Bobby calls me.
I run to the railing, check quickly, and this time I do it. I jump straight into Graffiti Alley. All I can think of as I fly through the sky is, Thank the lord I’m wearing my RCVA overalls I had hemmed and wear like a glove. Zero possibility of an underwear flash.
Bobby’s all business. He grabs my hand the second I land and we disappear down a long, narrow passage until we’re hidden between the back of the middle school and the mountain. Bobby sits, his back against the dirt wall. “No one can see us here.”
I’m suddenly nervous. I did not, and I repeat did not, bring my brand-new MAC Rock and Roll lip crayon. Was this going to be it? The big moment? And I, Charlie C. Cooper, am lipstickless?
Bobby puts his hands over his knees, drops his head. “Ever heard of this place?”
The walls are covered in old-school Latino block graffiti and a funky take on the Mercedes-Benz symbol. There’s trash everywhere, which leads me to believe there could be a super scary ax murderer living behind our school.
“Legend is there was a kid here at Happy Canyon who went totally nuts, ran away, and eventually ended up right here. Living in a tent. Free.”
Free in a tent?
He reaches into his backpack and takes out a can of black paint and starts spray-painting over the Mercedes-Benz symbols, covering them in black paint.
“What are you doing?” I try to stop him. “Do you even know how much trouble we’re gonna get in?”
But Bobby doesn’t care. He keeps on spraying until the can is empty and the symbols are gone. “It’s my dad’s trademark.”
“Wait a sec, why are you blacking them out, then?” Looks like the Mercedes-Benz logo to me.
“Because I hate every last one of ’em.” He puts the empty can in his backpack and checks his fingers. The bell rings.
I look up. You can hear the storm of feet coming up from the lower yard. The screams as they approach the stairwell, all trying to get to class on time.
Bobby grabs me and we hide under the stairs. He holds me close. I swear to God, he’s gonna kiss me. This is where I, Charlie C. Cooper, am getting my first kiss.
But then the final bell rings. The stomping stops, and Bobby lets me go. “Now!” He climbs up and checks both ends of the stairs. As soon as I am up, he takes off.
No kiss. Dang it.
After school, Greta picks us up at 2:40 in Marta’s mom’s old orange corn-drinking Pacer car from the Dark Ages. It’s almost more humiliation than I can bear. Lucky for me, we slip out before anyone can see us. I duck as low as I can in the backseat. She revs the engine, and suddenly we’re flying off the curb and crashing down on the street.
I turn and see a piece of the car in the middle of the road.
I elbow Marta. “Does your aunt even have insurance?”
“You wanna take the bus?” Marta glares at me.
I close my eyes and think, Yeah, I kinda do.
Greta sees my face. “In Romania I have all insurance. State pays for it. Not like here, where you have to pay for everything. Here is not free. There is free.” I look up as Greta taps one four-inch red nail against the wheel.
“Only thing here better is manicure salon. In Romania, very, very expensive.”
Marta hits me. “Did you and Bobby go somewhere today?”
I don’t even open my eyes. “No.”
“Boys and training do not mix.” Greta frowns suspiciously.
Marta turns and whispers, “Lillian told me his dad takes drugs.”
My eyes fly open, and I sit up as straight as a rod. “What did you just say?”
“She said his father takes drugs.” Greta adjusts the mirror so she can see my face. “No big deal. In Romania, many people take drugs.”
“What?” I grab her shirt and pull her toward me. “When did you hear this?”
“Today, when
everyone was going on about how the two of you went missing. Missing and kissing—”
I’m about to hit her when Greta cuts in again.
“Don’t get mixed up in that nonsense, Charlie. Drugs are for losers.”
Like I don’t know that. “And everyone knows?”
Marta nods.
Poor Bobby. Poor, poor Bobby.
“That is what you do here in America. You raise them up and you tear them down.” Greta tickles her mole with her giant red blade.
I slide back down. It all makes sense now.
We pull into the driveway. Greta opens the door and announces, “After-school snack time. Sit in front of TV. I will bring it.”
We walk through the deep chocolate-brown carpet and collapse onto the sofa. Marta picks up a remote and clicks on the TV. “You ever see this show?”
I stare at the screen. It’s Make It or Break It. I can’t believe she even knows the show exists.
She grins like a psycho. “I could watch it all day. It feels like my life. The mean girls and me.”
“But they’re actresses, Marta. You’re the real thing.” I’m feeling a little hot flash coming on.
“Ssh!” She throws her hand up to cut me off. “This is a really good part.”
Marta’s aunt calls from the kitchen. “Protein, girls.”
Marta pauses the show.
“Tuna and mayo on white,” Greta announces proudly as she walks into the room carrying the platter of food. “Glasses of warm milk. Very American, no, Charlie?”
I take the plate and close off all air coming into my nostrils. There are simply no words to express my disdain for tuna.
“Eat.” Greta stares. “Eat.”
I plug my nose and close my eyes. I lift the sandwich to my lips.
Marta jabs me. “You have to eat tuna if you want to be a great gymnast.”
I want to run away. But instead, I do what she tells me and give in. I take a bite of tuna and wash it down with warm milk.
Watch Out, Hollywood!: More Confessions of a So-called Middle Child Page 3