Return to Us

by Julie Cross

  “I think you’re talking about dynamics, love,” Mom said. “The volume represents more than sound; it’s density and layered emotion.”

  “Wow.” Eloise had that impressed and intrigued quality to her tone. “That’s brilliantly deep, Jordy. Perhaps you’ll grow up to be a sensitive man, writing love poems to all the girls.”

  At sixteen, Eloise was all about the teen angst and at ten, I wanted nothing to do with it and hated her constant complaints about boys at school and her predictions regarding what kind of boy I’d be at her age.

  My face flamed and I jumped up and dropped my guitar onto the couch. “I am not deep! All I said was that it’s loud. Mom said all that other rubbish, not me.”

  Mom exchanged glances with Eloise, silent words floating in the space between them, and both were now suppressing laughter, but Mom attempted to defend me. “Quit making your brother into a sensitive soul when he is obviously dead set against it.”

  Eloise waved off Mom’s half-assed scolding. “Ten-year-old boys are so one-dimensional.”

  I glared at both of them, trying to think of something clever to say, but eventually settled on, “I’m going outside to play.”

  Even though I made great efforts to tune them out as I stormed through the living room and out the front door, there was no mistaking the burst of laughter that followed my departure.

  I’d liked music at ten years old, I’d even go as far as to say that I’d already learned to love it by then, but I hadn’t wanted to think about it—like really think about what it meant even when a song or a piece was powerful enough to make me feel something. I just wanted to like it and not have to say why. My mom always wanted to talk about why. Even Eloise, who didn’t inherit the musical gene from our mother like I did, loved the discussion part. She had that artistic sensitivity and that constant craving to dig through the ugly to find beauty.

  And still, to this day, I don’t really want to think about the meaning behind music. If I’m affected, then so be it, but otherwise, it feels ridiculous to create drama behind music for the sake of creating drama. This is probably a big reason I have little desire to study music in college. I imagine that major would be packed full of angsty artistic interpretation in the form of twenty-page papers. But the technical aspect of music theory does appeal to me in a way that I’m afraid to admit. The mathematical breakdown of tones and notes and then tying that into an emotional connection between the composer and the piece—it’s exactly what I’m doing right now with that conversation between Mom, Eloise, and ten-year-old me. And the weird chat I just had with Karen.

  It’s gotten so easy for me to see past Karen’s body language—her twisting hands or arms folded across her chest and the occasional judges smile that’s always used to conceal something. But it’s harder with my dad because I think I’m looking for proof that he doesn’t care, like it would be easier if he didn’t. Our relationship would be one-dimensional instead of complicated as hell.

  Words form inside my head, arranging themselves into lyrical fashion. My fingers find the guitar strings and then my hand makes its way to the notebook and pen, scribbling furiously, then back to the guitar. Before I know it, it’s five in the morning, the sky is turning dark pink, and I’ve written a song.

  But unfortunately, I’m still not sure why Karen went from being so pissed off at me to asking me to spend the night alone with her. My guess is that she’s planning some kind of intervention where she talks me into surgery. A mixture of anger and fear crashes over me, but then I remember that I basically did the same thing to her before the Pan-Am qualifying meet. I showed up at her hotel room and, with Blair’s help, talked her into finding peace with what her parents did and really going for that good performance. Guess I can’t be angry at her for doing the same for me.

  At least I won’t be caught off guard.

  ChApTeR fOuR

  ~Tj~

  I’m lost.

  Completely shit-faced lost.

  Again.

  My side smacks hard into the landing mat in the foam pit and the impact knocks the wind out of me. I roll onto my back mentally stringing a dozen swear words together since talking is impossible right now.

  Yeah, so it probably wasn’t the best idea ever to hit the gym at five in the morning after staying up all night. But it’s not like I’ve ever been good at this fucking double twisting double backflip. My logic was: Who knows? Maybe sleep-deprivation will improve my lame-ass twisting.

  Obviously that didn’t work out for me. But what else is new? My mom’s been telling me I suck practically since birth—in Spanish and English, so that every insult counts as two.

  “Thomas, you’re just like your papi—lazy and sneaky, always want ways to get gold without mining.”

  I clench my fists, squeezing away the anger and then I relax and sink further into the mats. Maybe I won’t get up. Maybe I can’t get up.

  The second one. Definitely the second one.

  “One of these days you’re going to break your neck and no one will be around to do CPR.”

  I stop thinking about the pain radiating through my body and jump to my feet, taking in Stevie Davis’s figure in the doorway of the gym. “Are you offering to give me mouth-to-mouth, chica?”

  “Not a chance,” she says, so fast I’m almost hurt.

  My normal quick insulting reply is held back because I have to put every ounce of effort into climbing out of the pit without showing even one painful wince. By the time I make my way to the end of the tumbling strip, Stevie is on the big gymnastics floor, her iPod fastened to her waist and ear buds in her ears. I shake my arms out, giving myself a second to decide if I should just give up for the day and crawl into bed for a few hours of sleep.

  Thomas, you’re just like your papi—lazy and sneaky.

  Adrenaline pumps through my veins, covering the pain from my last crash, which was only one of many this morning. I take off in a sprint, flipping fast down the tumbling strip. But halfway through the double twisting double backflip I get lost again, so bad I can hardly tell which way is up. My face hits the mat first, the impact causing my nose to burn and my eyes water like one of the little bawling girls I have to coach later.

  “Goddammit!” I shout before remembering that I’m not alone. I glance around the gym and see Stevie prancing across the floor, headphones still in place. I breathe a sigh of relief and make my way out again. Her back is to me and I can’t stop myself from watching her move. She’s not doing much, just jumping and leaping around, which is a freakin’ waste of time if you ask me, but the way her muscles flex with every movement—it’s hard not to stare. It doesn’t help that she’s wearing a leotard and skintight leggings.

  I abandon the twisting for today and go back to my straight passes. I haven’t done a triple back in competition yet, but I’m fucking doing one at Nationals. There’s no way I’m walking onto that floor with a bunch of entitled veterans and then throwing some cookie-cutter, average passes. I’m doing my best tricks. I don’t have the luxury of failing. Either I get sponsorship to keep training or I go back home and… Well, that’s not an option I’m even willing to think about right now.

  “What’s the difficulty value of a triple back?” Stevie asks after I’ve tumbled several passes and it’s almost time for the other girls to start morning practice.

  I tell her the answer and ask, “Why?”

  She shrugs. “Just trying to figure out if it’s worth the risk.”

  I snort back a laugh. “Hell yeah, it’s worth it. It’s a fucking triple back.”

  “Whatever.” She rolls her eyes and sits on the floor to stuff her headphones into her gym bag. “Wouldn’t it be smarter to up the difficulty a little on two skills in the pass rather than dump it all into the triple? Just seems a lot like putting all your eggs in one basket.”

  “Baby, where I’m from we’re lucky to get one basket. People like you must get a few dozen to work with?”

  Stevie shakes her head, a look of disgus
t on her face. “You are such a cliché. You’re gonna face-plant on that triple at Nationals, quit after failing to make the senior team, and then blame the world for your screwups.”

  I dig my fingertips into my palms, channeling the anger to one spot. This sounds way too familiar. “Oh, I get it. You’ve got a little color to your skin, too, and that makes me and you exactly the same. Except your daddy is cashing in on his Olympic medal and Nike ads from twenty years ago and mine is in prison.”

  I don’t know what made me say that out loud. That was not the comeback I needed. Now she’s going to freakin’ feel sorry for me. I’ll shoot myself if I have to see one single look of pity coming from Stevie Davis.

  She cocks her head to the side, examining me. “Now I know how the story ends. You fail at Nationals, blame the world, and end up in a cell beside your dad. Poetic justice at its best.”

  Ain’t that the truth. Nice to know we’re on the same page.

  “And after you fail at Nationals, you’ll go back home, go to college, become a doctor or a lawyer,” I say. “I bet you have some fancy grades and test scores, plus buckets of scholarships like Campbell.”

  She jumps to her feet, taking a step in my direction. “I bet you do this close-minded judgmental thing with everyone.”

  I shrug. “It’s been working for me so far.”

  “That’s a great plan, TJ. It’ll come in handy when you need to point blame at people for your inevitable failures. “

  “Screw you.” If I squeeze my fists any harder, I’m gonna break a finger.

  She steps closer to me, arms crossed, glare pointed right at my chest. “Just don’t pretend you know shit about me. Do that with someone else.”

  “You know what—” I start to say, raising my voice. But then I feel the eyes. Lots of watching eyes. Both Stevie and I turn to face the gym entrance and see four of the girls, including Karen, and Nina Jones staring at us.

  We turn and walk in separate directions—me headed toward the tumble track and Stevie toward her teammates and Nina. I’m still breathing hard from holding back all the insults I’d wanted to throw her way. What the hell? My triple back is way more solid than my damn twisting skills. Maybe because she hasn’t seen me land it outside of the pit, but this isn’t gymnastics, we get a nice soft landing zone in power tumbling. It’s not that different than coming down onto mats stacked in the foam pit.

  Whatever. Why do I even care what she thinks?

  For a full forty-five minutes, no one bothers me and I work through pass after pass ,then do a shit-ton of pull-ups and leg lifts. By the time Nina moves in my direction, I’m drenched in sweat and I’ve worked off most of my anger.

  “Go stand over by the bars and watch that one.” Nina points at Karen, prepped with her grips already on. “I’ll end up retiring early if I have to see another failed attempt at a dismount. And don’t let her get hurt.”

  Sure, Nina. Thanks for asking so nicely. How about you add me to your payroll before ordering me around.

  I walk toward Karen, feeling all the relief from last night dissolve with each step. What if she can’t do it anymore? What if our midnight practice session was a fluke? I should have sat on her again and made her do it ten more times. No, twenty.

  I remove my sweaty T-shirt and toss it onto the floor beside the bars and then stand near the high bar. Karen is focused straight ahead on the low bar, but judging by the tension in her jaw, I’d say she’s seconds away from punching me again. I rub my cheek, feeling the bruised skin. Then she’s jumping into her mount and all I can do is hold my breath and hope my intervention did some good.

  One thing I do know, this chick does some awesome gymnastics when she’s pissed off.

  I back away a few steps, giving her space to work through the beginning of her routine, but when she gets to that layout Jaeger release, I can tell she’s not gonna catch. I lunge forward and grab her around the waist before she lands flat on her stomach. The second she’s steady on her feet, she shoves me so hard, the back of my head smacks into the metal leg of the uneven bars.

  “There’s a mat under the bar, TJ,” she snaps, heading for the chalk bowl again. “I don’t need you to catch me.”

  “I’m doing what Nina told me to, just like you are.”

  She glares at me. “She said to make sure that I don’t get hurt. Seriously, back off!”

  I glance over my shoulder and see Jordan sitting in the bleachers, his expression hard but mostly unreadable. I hold my hands up in surrender. “Fine. Have it your way. I hope you fall on your face this time, Campbell.”

  Yeah, Mr. Romance back there is not gonna like that one. Guess I’ll deal with him later.

  Karen laughs, but not the humorous kind. “I hate you.”

  “Like I care.” I tuck my arms behind my back, proving my backing off status. “Go! You’re wasting time.”

  Her level of pissed off goes from a seven straight to a ten and it’s plastered on her face for everyone to see as she mounts the bars. I have to dig my blunt fingernails into my wrist to keep from having my hands at the ready when she does that crazy Jaeger release move. Watching her prepare for her dismount and not being on the spotting block where I can actually help is pure agony. Right before she lets go, I see her head slam into the bar and have to shake the image away.

  Her release is timed perfectly. She floats through that dismount like it’s fucking easy when I know it isn’t.

  Bam. Feet smack into the mats, sinking the blue material and holding firmly in place. The gym is silent, not that it’s ever too loud during these early morning workouts, but it’s dead silent now.

  “Thank God,” Nina’s voice rings loud and clear from across the gym.

  A few of the girls shout out some good jobs, but I don’t turn. My gaze is glued to Karen who keeps her head down and shuffles quickly back to the chalk bowl. She doesn’t acknowledge anyone that comes up to her. It’s like we’re not even here. There’s no relief on her face. And then she’s back on the bar again.

  She’s not over it yet, I realize right then. She needs those twenty hit routines under her belt to really relax. I stand there, not as anxious as before, watching for nearly thirty minutes as she does five more routines identical to the one she just did, then she works dismounts only, clocking in another ten hits.

  Finally Nina yells at her to move on to balance beam. Karen brushes past me with a deliberate force. I grab her arm, stopping her. “It’s not over. You had one good workout. Don’t go putting yourself on top of that podium yet.”

  She shakes out of my grip, shooting daggers at me. “You think I don’t know that? I’ve been doing this practically my whole life. How long have you been doing your stupid tumbling?”

  I bite down on the inside of my cheek. “Long enough.”

  “Really?” She raises an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

  “You know what—” I start to say, but get interrupted by the hands now gripping the back of my shirt.

  Jordan yanks me a few feet away from Karen and then releases my shirt, using his palms to give me a shove in the chest. For a few seconds, my head explodes with rage, my muscles twitching, anticipating a fight. I don’t get grabbed from behind and not at least break a few fingers, maybe a jaw. It’s instinct to swing. The action runs thick in my blood.

  Calm the fuck down, TJ, you just touched his girlfriend and yelled at her.

  The storm dies down inside me. Karen’s eyes are wide, bouncing between the two of us, but Nina Jones is now standing between me and Jordan.

  All Nina does is shake her head, point at the door, and say, Uh-uh. Not in my gym.”

  Karen scurries over to the beams, her head down, and Jordan stalks toward the gym doors. I take a deep breath and follow him outside. I don’t know what else I expected to happen. Of course Jordan’s gonna want to take a swing at me.

  If it were my girlfriend and I was him… Yeah, it wouldn’t be pretty. That’s for damn sure.

  “You wanna hit me?” I supply,
ready to get this over with.

  “Definitely.” He turns to face me, clenching his fists at his sides.

  I fold my arms over my chest. “Okay, fine.”

  Jordan leans against the building, his arms now mimicking my position. “I want to but I’m not going to.”

  I try not to look surprised, but seriously? Nobody is that tolerant. “Look, I’m not trying to screw with her—” Oh shit. Bad choice of words.

  “I know that,” he says, surprising me again. “It took me awhile to realize this, but I can’t do what you’re doing. Not with Karen.”

  My mouth falls open, but it takes a second for me to figure out the words I want to use, probably because my body had been so keyed up for a fight. “You can’t tell her to get her ass in gear and do a freakin’ bar dismount?”

  “No, I can’t,” he admits. “I think deep down, I don’t care if she does it or not. Of course if that’s what she wants, then I want her to figure it out. But really, I just want her to be happy. And that makes me incapable of—”

  “Pissing her off on purpose,” I finish, finally understanding what he’s trying to say. The tough love, hard-ass stuff is not his job.

  But then again, I don’t want it to be my job either. I just need to get that shitty crash out of my head.

  “It’s not exactly the same with my dad and Karen, but it’s close. He pushes her, but it’s quiet and technical and he would have backed off long before you did. He’s her support, too, so that kind of sucks for her gymnastics.”

  I shrug. “Maybe not. It means she’s doing it for herself. Not like these rich-ass kids constantly looking for approval from their coaches.”

  “Maybe.” He shakes his head, focusing on something over my shoulder. “Maybe she is doing this for someone else. Who the hell knows? Maybe she’s gonna quit in a few months and buy a motorcycle and join the circus. Maybe fall in love with some guy on a Harley or—”