Heroes' Day

by Jesse Gordon

  “I’m going to miss the conferences,” she said, once Chris had stopped talking. “KG, too.”

  Mike diverted his attention to his piece of pie, and Monica caught Sharon shooting him a betrayed glance before sighing, taking a sip from her glass.

  “We’ve already covered this territory, Monica,” she said, her face a portrait of quiet discomfort. “It takes money, and gymnastics isn’t a money sport.”

  “I’ve made money,” Monica said. Not Patriot money, but enough to help offset the costs of training and traveling.

  Sharon set her glass down. “Monica. Let’s not pick at scabs. You’ve had seven good years. It isn’t as if you haven’t had a good run.”

  “That’s right,” Mike piped in between mouthfuls. “First in the county, and never lower than fifth in the state—”

  “And no contract,” Monica said, almost accusingly. She wasn’t outright mad at her parents—how could she be? They’d been generally supportive since the beginning, money and motivation…although in recent months they’d become less and less involved in her gym-related affairs, not even showing up at meets if the Keenes could be counted on to provide transportation. Time was always an issue. Time and money. Years of holding out, waiting for Monica to explode onto the Patriot scene. Now that another season had come and gone without result, they were finally moving on to other, more important matters. Survival instinct—that’s all it was. Trimming back, buckling down, selling the house in order to move a step or two ahead of their credit debt. Many of her neighbors had done much the same. No one was at fault. It was how things were. Yet Monica still felt the need to place blame for the state of Patriot athletics, circa 2099. She needed a reason why her scores seemed to mean nothing to the NPAA.

  I may as well be a band without a record deal, she thought, a painter who’s never had an exhibition, a writer who’s never seen his books on a single store shelf.

  Sharon said, “Greg and Donna promised you can stop by the gym anytime you want. No appointment necessary, of course.”

  Monica’s face brightened (if only slightly). “Then…you’ll drive me after school?”

  “We’ll see what we can work out,” Sharon replied, smiling—

  —though Monica knew it was mostly for show. Which wasn’t to say her mother didn’t want to be more supportive; she was merely caught up in her daily routine, her job, raising two kids. And Mike, he never got home before six on weekdays.

  I’m being unrealistic, Monica thought. Holding on to a lifestyle that was never mine to begin with—oh, don’t start sulking. It was on the tip of her tongue to politely decline any further connection with KG, to simply let it go, make it through the next four years at Hamilton, then college. It looked like that was exactly what her parents were expecting, glasses, forks poised in mid air, mouths slightly open, waiting. Time to accept your failures and move on. We’ve managed it. Why can’t you do the same?

  “I’d like to keep in touch with the Keenes,” Monica said. “I’m sure Greg can use the extra help around the gym. He’s been so nice letting me train there all these years—I’d feel bad if I didn’t do something to reciprocate.”

  Mike and Sharon looked at each other. No doubt they, as parents who hadn’t been athletes themselves, were trying to figure out a way to break it to their daughter that they wanted to do things differently now that the shit had hit the fan.

  After a moment’s silent prodding from Sharon, Mike pushed back his plate and folded his hands on the tabletop. “Why don’t we wait and see how it goes next week. We’ve got a big move ahead of us. You don’t want to bite off more than you can chew. And you’re in public school now. There’ll be homework, a new schedule. I’m sure you’ll want to spend more time with friends.”

  “In other words,” said Monica, “you just want me to forget about gym.”

  “No one’s saying that.”

  Monica stared fixedly at her plate. “Maybe if I’d saved my prize money instead of letting Joe flit it away we wouldn’t be having this conversation, and we wouldn’t be moving into Aunt Deborah’s basement.”

  Sharon reached across the table and slapped her hand warningly. “You don’t mean that. Family looks out for family. Right?”

  “Right,” Monica said, immediately regretting having mentioned Joe’s name.

  Beside her, Chris covered his mouth with his hand, as if he’d been the one to talk out of turn.

  “What would Reverend Coates say if he heard you talking like that?” asked Sharon.

  “He probably wouldn’t like it,” replied Monica.

  “I don’t think he would.” Sharon leaned back, folded her arms. “Your uncle Joseph came to us in a time of need. It was very noble of you to agree to part with your earnings. Joe helped us when we bought this house. But the tables have turned. Times are tough for everyone.”

  That was Mike’s cue. He said, “Some of us have been hit harder than others. Remember how Joe was going to be the successful entrepreneur of the family? He spent ten years working part time and attending college. He was going to make something of himself. Now, with all his certificates and degrees, where is he? Where does he work? It’s been one failed business after another. He’s only recently begun to make a few inroads—and his debt is waiting for him like a storm cloud.”

  As is ours, Monica thought.

  “We’re of a certain make,” Sharon said, “and it just so happens we’re part of the working class. You have to realize it’s not your skill set that matters, it’s your connections. There are no other elites in our family. Never have been. We’ve been trying to start a blaze without the proper kindling—it’s just not catching. We’ve known that for some time. We’ve held on for as long as reasonably possible, now it’s time to cut our losses and move on, stop pretending that a Patriot contract will somehow appear out of thin air…lest we end up like dear Uncle Joe.”

  And there it was: the Sardinia Family State of the Union Address, delivered in impromptu fashion over sweet potato pie. Sorry, honey, but you’re just not enough of a moneymaker, so it’s time to get our heads out of the clouds, time to hunker down and stop chasing after silly dreams.

  Monica’s mood was hardly improved, though in all honesty she knew she couldn’t hold it against her uncle for going broke. It had been almost a year ago, in November. Joe’s third child had been only months out of the womb; the Sardinia family had had to scrounge for cash. Brothers called sisters, sisters conferred with husbands, and daughters with sizable caches of gymnastics prize money—college money—were requisitioned. Now Monica was out of her club, out of money, and her parents were trying to reassemble the pieces before she graduated high school.

  It was frustrating, to say the least—and that, she realized, was a big part of what was going through her head. In the gym, she was away, mind and body. She didn’t have to witness first-hand the lower middle-class entropy she’d been born into, didn’t have to hear an exasperated sigh from her mother and connect it with her most recent KG enrollment fees. She didn’t have to listen to her father’s dire murmurings about the crumbling economy and how precariously her family was perched on the financial totem pole.

  She finished her dessert, helped with the dishes afterward. In the kitchen, while wiping down the cleaned plates as Sharon handed them to her, she told herself to be mature about things, to accept where she was at, to accept her mother as a grade school teacher, her father a store manager. After all, it wasn’t their fault; they just didn’t know any better.

  CHAPTER 5

  That night, while Monica was checking her e-mail, Sarah sent her an instant message:

  gymsprite: OMG, Monica, you’re online!

  msardinia: Well, I’ve got loads of free time nowadays, don’t you know?

  gymsprite: Aww, it can’t be that bad. I just got done with my math homework. My mom thinks she’s going to win Teacher of the Year by cramming three chapters into a single night.

  msardinia: Speaking of Teacher of the Year, my mom’s been
talking about taking on longer hours at her school. I’m going to be walking my little brother home on weekdays.

  gymsprite: That sucks.

  msardinia: He’s not that bad…not really.

  gymsprite: I meant about your mom’s longer hours.

  msardinia: Oh, well, she’ll manage.

  gymsprite: My parents are never around either. They make it out to the meets and all, but my grandma’s the one who’s around most. She says everyone’s so stressed out because of all the crop burnings in Africa. Biofuel prices are through the roof—by the time I get my driver’s license, it’s going to be too expensive to go more than a couple of blocks!

  msardinia: Things are tough.

  gymsprite: Sure are. But hey, you’re getting to go to public school—there’ll be boys!

  msardinia: Don’t remind me.

  gymsprite: You say that now, but I bet you fifty ameros on Monday night you’ll be calling me with news of some cutie who wants to take you to the mall.

  msardinia: You think about boys entirely too much. No wonder you tumble like a drunkard.

  gymsprite: Oh, don’t be bummed out, Monica.

  msardinia: I’m not bummed out.

  gymsprite: You are too—spill it, babe.

  msardinia: What do you want me to say? KG was such a big part of my life. I mean, I worked on my skills, my combinations, my form—I’ve always kept my national rank up where it matters, or where it’s supposed to, anyway. And now here I am, about to get a good night’s rest so that tomorrow I can help with the packing, so that on Monday my mom can take me to have my tag updated, my elite status removed.

  gymsprite: Oh, Gloomy. At least you’re not going common because of a debilitating injury.

  msardinia: Ugh. Don’t call me Gloomy.

  gymsprite: Sorry. I didn’t realize you were so down about the whole thing.

  msardinia: I should have known after my third National Convention that it’s looks before talent.

  gymsprite: Says who?

  msardinia: Donna. We spoke earlier today, at closing time.

  gymsprite: Well, the Patriot girls do have that “I just spent three hours in the salon” look.

  msardinia: It seems to be working for them.

  gymsprite: Oh, pish. Patriots spend two-thirds of their time just looking pretty. You and me and Amy could probably punch-front them out the door at any NCPA meet.

  msardinia: You’re only saying that to make me feel better. You want to go to Olympus as bad as I do.

  gymsprite: Hey, babe, we all want that chance.

  msardinia: I’ve run out of chances.

  gymsprite: Those military jerks should be fired for not picking you.

  msardinia: Not that I was expecting any special treatment, but…I wanted my time at KG to be more than just a hobby. I wanted it to do something for my family. I mean, if you make the national team, you aren’t just an athlete anymore, you’re a Patriot athlete, certificate, contract and all. You get free health care, free city transportation, housing for life. You get to represent the NAU overseas—you get to compete for your country during Heroes’ Day.

  gymsprite: Yeah, but do you want those things strictly for the money and the recognition, or for the sport?

  msardinia: What do you want?

  gymsprite: I asked you first.

  msardinia: I want to compete for America—

  gymsprite: Fudge-fudge! Hey, my parents are bugging me to get off the computer, but you just keep that frown upside down, okay?

  msardinia: No promises. Goodnight, Sarah.

  gymsprite: Goodnight.

  Monica closed her notebook and set it atop one of the boxes beside her bed. She’d already showered, stripped down for the night; all that remained was the physical manifestation of sleep—which, despite her exhaustion, didn’t come easily. She curled up in her favorite plaid comforter and blinked at the walls, the ceiling, her eyes refusing to stay closed for more than a few seconds at a time.

  She felt like it was the eve of a humongous competition.

  After dinner, she’d dusted her certificates and polished her medals for the last time before carefully wrapping them in felt and packing them away. When she got her new room, she would replace the empty spots on the walls with posters of her favorite musicians and movie stars—she would keep her champion trinkets to herself, stored in a box at the back of her closet. If you’d never met her personally, you’d never know she was a junior national champion. It wasn’t denial, she told herself; it was…acceptance.

  Close to midnight, she got out of bed, knelt on the floor, and said a prayer, asking for forgiveness and apologizing for slandering her uncle at dinnertime. Then she got back into bed, tossed, turned, tossed some more. Finally, she threw on a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants and left her room, went down into the den, with its quiet darkness, the familiar shag carpet beneath her bare feet, the feel of the beanbags and overstuffed sofa in the little video nook. She curled up between the cushions and, reasonably assured that no one would hear her crying, let it all out, one sobbing fit at a time. The reasons behind her need for emotional release didn’t matter. Maybe she was angry at her parents for spinning their wheels the last few years, maybe it was the NPAA’s unwavering ignorance, or maybe she was merely unused to change, growing up—shifting from girl to woman in uncertain times. In any case, when it was over and she was all cried out, sleep came, swift and sure.

  CHAPTER 6

  Aunt Deborah’s basement was pretty nice, as far as basements went. The boiler and furnace area were to the right of the stairs, the guest room and billiards room down a hallway to the left—but it was still a basement, and the Sardinias were still a family of four without a home for the next few months. Monica was understandably introverted as Deborah (seemingly oblivious to any of the awkwardness associated with the situation) gave them the grand tour.

  “Isn’t it cozy?” she kept asking. “This was Kit’s domain before he was shipped off to UNL. We’ll have to share the bathroom upstairs, but there’s power and heating, and network reception is quite good. You’re welcome to stay for as long as you need.”

  Monica smiled and nodded politely, breaking off from Mike, Sharon, and Chris. She set her backpack down and ran her hand over the wood-paneled wall, discovered a discreet handle—closet space.

  The billiards room was windowless, slightly smaller than the guest room. The pool table had been pushed over to one side; a cross-trainer, weights, and some mats were tucked towards the back. Monica examined the equipment, brushed her finger over the plates, which were caked with dust, but otherwise fit for use. She wondered if her parents would be keen on letting her arrange a miniature gym, something for old times’ sake. She wasn’t really into weight-lifting, nor was there any reason to keep herself conditioned—but it somehow seemed important to score a small sort of win in the midst of a larger defeat. A small bonus to offset an overwhelmingly shitty chain of events.

  “Ah, I see she’s found the training room,” said Deborah, guiding the rest of the family inside. “Kit’s idea. Bodybuilding was a major hobby for him during his teenage years. Evidently impressing girls was more important than finishing his homework.” She winked.

  Sharon glanced around, started to murmur something about dismantling the equipment and storing it in the garage—

  —Monica cut her off, put on what she hoped was an irresistible smile. “Do you think I could use it? You know, to keep in shape and all? The weights and mats, at least?”

  A sigh from Sharon. We need the space, her expression read.

  Monica pushed nonetheless: “This can be my area. I’ll put my bed here. You’ll have the whole rest of the basement—er, guest room—to yourselves.”

  Sharon sighed again, looked like she was calculating an infinite string of numbers in her head. Monica knew it wasn’t the time to be asking for favors, but she also knew her mother would rather not stage a confrontation in front of Deborah. At least, not on moving day.

  “I suppos
e so,” Sharon said slowly. “That is, if your aunt doesn’t mind.”

  “I think Kit would be perfectly okay if little Monica here used his weight machine,” said Deborah, still smiling, still oblivious. “What’s that old saying? You can take the gymnast out of gymnastics, but you can never take the gymnastics out of the gymnast?”

  “Something like that,” said Sharon. She hid her displeasure behind a forced smile.

  “Well, if it’s heavy lifting you’re after,” said Mike, hustling Chris towards the doorway, “there are plenty of boxes out in the car that need unloading.”

  “Yes,” said Sharon. “Let’s get started.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Life outside the training room was an adjustment. That first Monday morning waking up in Deborah’s basement, Monica sat yawning at the edge of her bed for a good few minutes. She did not want to get up, did not want to scavenge the boxes for clothes and school supplies, did not want to spend the rest of the day sitting in a cramped desk while some teacher droned on at the head of the classroom—but, like it or lump it, she was no longer an elite, and so was no longer exempt from her everyday duties as a common citizen.

  She went into the guest room. The others were already awake, Chris stumbling into his pants, Sharon setting out bowls and spoons atop the card table, Mike fiddling with the videobox as he tried to get a decent signal. Above, a confused garden bot continuously bumped against one of the windows.

  “Good morning,” murmured Sharon. “Amenities are in the box beside the door.”

  Monica nodded and tried not to pay too much attention to the clutter, nor to how common she felt, how derelict she must have looked as she rummaged for her robe, a change of clothes. When she found what she needed, she quietly slipped upstairs for her morning shower.