Heroes' Day

by Jesse Gordon

  Out of the corner of her eye, Monica caught Jackie feigning a yawn as she shot Britney a bored look. Obviously they’d heard this lecture before.

  “Two-thirds of you,” Hades continued, pacing, “are without international experience. This is okay. As I said, the NPAA is trying new things. Developing your experience over the coming months will undoubtedly prove more worthwhile than having to reshape old skills, old habits. You will learn to work as a team, and not just as six individual gymnasts who happen to be competing together.” He gestured for Monica to stand up, and had her face the others as he gripped her shoulders. “Monica is your team captain. She’s racked up some of the most solid numbers we’ve ever seen at the national level. Despite her inexperience overseas, her demeanor, her reaction to her mistakes is what caught my eye during the recruitment process.” Hades let her go, gestured for her to sit down. “I’ve assembled this particular team because today’s sport calls for a balance of pep and performance, pretty smiles and perfect lines. Each of you has a super-power: Jackie, your tumbling skills; Britney, your bars work; Monica, your consistency. And so forth. I have every intention of seeing this group through to next year’s National and International Conventions, and on to Heroes’ Day. However, my intentions amount to nothing if you are unwilling or unprepared to give it your everything. I don’t have to remind you that at this level of competition, every tenth of a point matters. Technical ability cannot overshadow artistic presentation, nor can artistic presentation be used to mask an obvious lack of skill. You need to comprise the best elements of competition in your routines: conflict, struggle, resolution. You are performers. Olympus is your stage. Let’s put on one heck of a show.”

  Monica bit her lip, unsure of what she’d just heard, of what exactly Hades was trying to convey between all the fluff besides reinforcing the usual “work hard, mind your instructors” attitude—not that she cared all that much at the moment. Coaches always had big, sometimes overly-ambitious ideals, but in the end they all wanted the same thing from their athletes: obedience, repetition, results.

  Hades talked for a few minutes longer, dispensing with the more mundane details regarding his training schedule. Then he hopped onto the podium and announced that it was practice time.

  Shedding her warm-up suit and falling into step with the others, Monica breathed deeply and summoned her well-rehearsed game state. Immediately, she was focused, all the excitement and anticipation receding, everything flowing along a specific current. She found herself in fluid motion, stretching, jogging, then beginning work on the uneven bars, the balance beam, the vault. Beside each apparatus, Hades and Tracie unleashed their collection of critiques, assessing skill sets, noting weak spots as, in the background, the gym gradually filled with athletes, milling about, running, jumping, twisting, twirling through the air, tumbling across the numerous podiums—feeding the boundless kinetic energy.

  The rest of the morning was a flash-frame progression, a rapid-motion composite of missed bar-grabs and unstuck landings, bruised skin, bloody palms, torn ligaments, and frustrated young faces streaked with tears as chalk dust-like-failure rained down from above.

  During a brief interlude, Monica, gulping from her water bottle, stood at the edge of the Mexicans’ practice space and surveyed the battlefield, watched as a dozen soldier-athletes tore themselves apart at the whim of their commander-coaches. One girl went down hard on the beam, and had to be carried away on a stretcher. A hundred years ago, before the advent of nanomedicine, such an accident would have set her back an entire season, perhaps longer. Now, it was little more than a minor annoyance, one more thing for a coach to lord over his pupil upon her recovery several days later.

  Monica was glad she’d kept herself in shape. She endured practice without too much complaint from her muscles, her joints. She was able to warm to the monotony, the tireless repetition of skills performed over and over until they were second nature, with only a scratch here, a bruise there—nothing that warranted a visit to the infirmary.

  Throughout, Hades and Tracie were consistent, though Tracie seemed more suited for multi-tasking than Hades—and stern as she was, she didn’t have half the temper he did whenever something went wrong. At one point, when Britney bungled one of her layouts, causing her to hop off the beam prematurely, Hades grabbed a handful of chalk from the bowl and hurled it at her, yelling, “Are you listening or just hearing? Tilt, tilt!” On another occasion, he resorted to childish mimicking when Kristen complained that an aerial skill was proving more difficult than expected.

  Consequently, Tracie often had to pull double duty, coddling as well as coaching—and this overwhelmingly resulted in Monica being ignored. She was given instruction, told which skills she was expected to connect in order to assemble her preliminary routines, but beyond that, the hugs, the pep-talk, and the shows of emotional support were reserved for the other girls, who were obviously unstable, emotionally. Or perhaps it was merely their youth that made them prone to throwing fits and sulking whenever something went the slightest bit wrong.

  At any rate, Monica was glad when noon break arrived. Her first training session aboard Olympus had stoked tempers, ruffled feathers; there had been no time for smalltalk, no opportunities to sit on the fringes and admire the male gymnasts.

  Indeed, she didn’t notice John until she was pulling on her warm-up suit.

  “Hello, Monica,” he said, his bag slung over his shoulder, his face slightly flushed from his workout. He was smiling, and whether or not it was intentional, he radiated a subtle sort of mischief, a playfulness that seemed to offset the entire morning’s harshness.

  Monica straightened, cinched the drawstring of her pants. “Hi, John.”

  “How’s it going with Mr. Hades?”

  “Well, I’m dealing with his assistant, mostly,” said Monica. “But he steps in every now and then to make sure I know everything I’m doing is bad.”

  John laughed. “So I heard.”

  “You’d think we were all a bunch of level 6’s just trying to get past compulsories.” Monica glanced over her shoulder. Hades and Tracie were talking with a small group of press hounds who’d wandered into the gym. A step away, Tompkins and his men kept a meticulous watch.

  “He likes to move his girls around a lot, doesn’t he?” asked John.

  Monica sighed. “You noticed?”

  John lowered his lashes, still smiling, looking embarrassed. “I watched you train all morning. My father says you’re the Americans’ secret weapon, sent here to distract all the other teams’ male members. I told him I agree.”

  Monica reached for her bag. Boys, she thought. Always thinking about romance even when the girl is sweaty and covered in chalk—though she had to admit she didn’t necessarily mind being observed from afar by such a cute boy.

  Lisa came to her side.

  “Are you ready?” she asked, gesturing at Kristen and Alana, who were waiting at the end of the podium, and who were looking rather impatient. “We’d like our showers—and lunch—before class time starts.”

  Monica smiled at John. “I should be going.”

  “Me too,” John said. “But maybe we’ll bump into each other in the cafeteria?”

  “I’ll look for you.”

  He winked and rejoined his teammates.

  “Who was that?” Lisa asked, folding her arms.

  “Some Canadian named John.”

  Lisa watched him from behind. After a moment, she said, “Excellent butt.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Monica.

  The two of them giggled.

  CHAPTER 17

  Somewhere between the showers and the cafeteria, Jackie and Britney were whisked away for safe keeping by Coach Hades. That meant Tracie would be having lunch with Monica, Lisa, Kristen, and Alana, and while the prospect wasn’t entirely alluring, it was obvious, now that their first training session was over, the girls would rather deal with Tracie than with Hades.

  “Jackie wasn’t flattering herself,” Lisa whisp
ered into Monica’s ear as they made their way to one of the NAU tables. “Coach Hades really is all about her and Britney. I don’t think a moment passes by when they’re not under his wing.”

  “I’m actually thinking it’s better this way,” Monica whispered back. “Can you imagine eating with Coach Hades? He probably spends two-thirds of the time going over routines.”

  “It sounds like you don’t care much for him.”

  “Well, he’s Darren Hades,” Monica said, “and it’s only my first day working with him, but I have to admit he’s a little…intense.”

  Lisa made a face. “It’s okay. I don’t like him, either.”

  I didn’t say that, Monica thought, but let it drop (what with Tracie in such close proximity) as she took her seat.

  “Your orders, please,” said Tracie.

  “What kind of food do they serve here?” asked Kristen.

  “Anything,” said Lisa. “The kitchens use bulk matter.”

  “You make it sound so good,” Monica said, scrunching up her nose.

  “Well, they do—it’s in the information packet.”

  “I’ll have a turkey sandwich, then. Lettuce and tomato, no oil or mayo, easy on the mustard.”

  “Hamburger, no onions,” added Lisa.

  After thinking for a moment, Kristen said, “Caesar salad.”

  Alana quietly nodded and indicated that she wanted what Kristen was having.

  Tracie went to fetch the girls their meals. Monica watched her go, her stomach rumbling as she surveyed the cafeteria, which was roped off into sections. Video screens embedded in the walls displayed newsfeeds from a variety of sources. The various countries’ respective security officers paced to and fro, up and down the aisles, their firearms clinking as they kept watch over not just the athletes, but the scientists, businessmen, and politicians, too.

  The NAU tables were attended by several dozen Patriots from Canada, Mexico, and the United States—most of whom would be discharged after the Pre-Season Assessment meet, replaced, if necessary, as the team rosters were refined here, in orbit, instead of down on Earth. More teams were on the way, but even now the place was packed, athletes sitting shoulder to shoulder, eating, talking, laughing. Monica couldn’t help but notice how much older the non-gymnastics members were. Oh, the other teams had their young prodigies as well, but virtually all the gymnasts present were aged thirteen and under. It was enough to make Monica feel uncommonly self-conscious, she a petite little thing, four-foot-eight, eighty pounds, seated beside a tall, muscular Canadian with ample beard stubble dusting his cheeks (a swimmer, she gathered from his conversation with his teammates).

  He noticed her right away, offered her a nod and a tentative grin.

  “Hi,” she said, smiling. “I’m Monica.”

  The swimmer smirked. “Todd. Let me guess—you’re a gymnast, right?”

  Monica nodded.

  “Yeah, I thought so. It’s always the ankle-biters the NPAA likes to put out there in Spandex and scrunchies. Pretty soon we’ll have tiny fetuses in jars rolling across the balance beams.”

  Todd’s companions laughed, not entirely apathetic, but not exactly friendly either—and it dawned on Monica that planetside she’d been a junior; inter-team interaction had been friendly, respectful banter between competitors within the same nation. Here, amongst the seniors, it was the United States versus the rest of the NAU versus the rest of the world. Economic leverage over prize money.

  No false pretenses.

  Monica started to turn away—

  “Wait, little girl—I mean Monica, is it?”

  —and faced the Canadian group again (if only to show that she could take a little criticism without losing her manners). One of the female swimmers was smiling at her.

  “You have to forgive him,” she said, gesturing at Todd. “He’s rather blunt, what with his being a competitor—and a guy, no less. It’s just…well, obviously everyone at this table is a member of the same union, but our respective countries do have different ideas on things.”

  “That’s okay,” Monica said, honestly enough. “No harm, no foul, right?”

  “Right. May I ask you a personal question?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “Is Darren Hades for real?”

  A shrug from Monica. “I would think so.”

  “What I mean is, and please don’t take this the wrong way, but, in my opinion, your superiors are crazy to send a group of kids up here. I mean, having minors compete as seniors is one thing, but how can a bunch of twelve-year-olds be expected to make it an entire year away from their friends and families?”

  Instinctively, Monica looked at Alana, who’d taken to nibbling her bottom lip. It looked like homesickness had been first and foremost on her mind since morning practice. That, combined with her exceedingly prepubescent physique, and she was just about as vulnerable-looking as you could get.

  “We all make our sacrifices,” Monica said, facing the Canadians again. “If I can serve my country by spending a year without the comforts of home, then I’m all for it—but what about you? How are you going to deal with your term?”

  The Canadian swimmer held up her hands. “No need to be defensive on the matter.”

  Monica started to respond that it hadn’t been her intention to be “defensive,” that she was only curious, interested in making friends—but it was no use. The older athletes had already turned away, delving into other matters, other conversations.

  “What was that about?” Kristen asked.

  “I guess,” said Monica, “our neighbors have better things to do than talk to a bunch of little kids.”

  The girls waited in silence until Tracie returned with their lunches.

  Taking her plate from the tray, Monica noted that there was a conspicuous amount of empty space around her sandwich. “This is kind of small,” she said.

  Tracie sat herself down and popped the lid off her diet milkshake. “We’ll be checking your weight on a daily basis.”

  “Okay, but this is still the most miniature sandwich I’ve ever seen. I can have seconds, right?”

  “What you have there is what’s optimal for your body type.”

  Monica knew herself. It wasn’t as if she’d just entered the sport on a whim. Back at KG, the Keenes had worked with her over the years to develop a competent meal plan. She knew what she could eat, and she knew how much, how often. Ah, but this isn’t KG, she thought. This is Olympus, and Greg isn’t here. Coach Tracie is.

  Tracie was staring her down, waiting for her to make like her teammates and avail herself of her dainty little meal.

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll grab something from the vending machine later.” She picked up her sandwich and took a bite. As she ate, she glanced around the cafeteria and scrutinized the dozens, hundreds of faces. Everyone’s eating but us, she thought, and watched as a pair of women from one of the Spanish teams got up to refill their plates from a nearby kiosk. As they waited for their order to be processed, they joked and laughed with each other, adding to an already boisterous ambiance and making Monica feel even more out-of-place. Her teammates were absolutely wordless—no doubt it was Tracie’s presence that put them off. She slurped her vitamins and minerals from her cup and sat straight-backed, watching her girls, supervising. Babysitting.

  Monica’s sandwich went quick. When she was through, she pushed her plate back and waited quietly for lunchtime to end. It was easy for her gaze to wander, and she was pleasantly surprised when she spotted John, tray in hand, weaving his way through the crowd. When he reached where she was sitting, he bowed gracefully and offered her a roll.

  “Compliments of the Canadian Parliament,” he said.

  “Monica, your diet,” warned Tracie.

  Monica resisted the urge to accept the roll and devour it right then and there. Instead, maintaining her cool exterior, she shrugged her shoulders and smiled at John. “That’s very thoughtful of you, but I’m supposed to watch what I eat.”


  “Ah, I see.” John bowed to Tracie. “My apologies, madam, for tempting your pupil so.”

  Tracie nodded ever so slightly; it was obvious she wanted John on his merry way—especially when Lisa and Kristen started giggling and rolling their eyes, whispering to one other under their breath.

  “The boys’ table is over there,” Tracie said, pointing.

  The girls giggled some more as John bowed again and walked away.

  Monica watched him go, navigating his way back to the Canadians’ table. There, he sat with his teammates, his friends, his coach-and-father, and he talked, he laughed—and Monica knew she could waste her lunchtime no longer. Before Tracie could come up with any excuses, she quickly gathered up Lisa, Kristen, and Alana’s empty plates and stacked them on the tray.

  “I’ll bring these to the recycler,” she said, and left the table, making good on her word—but instead of returning to the United States’ table, she went to John’s, tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Hi,” she said as he looked up.

  He grinned. “Did the mother bear let you out of the den?”

  Monica glanced over her shoulder and caught a feral stare from Tracie. “You could say that.”

  “Will you sit with us, then?”

  “Yes.”

  The other boys and men welcomed her graciously, making room for her to sit, asking her name, and then introducing themselves. Even John’s father (with whom he shared the same first name), who’d earlier exuded an air of nonstop focus, was looking amiable.

  “So, what’s your story?” John asked her after the pleasantries were out of the way.

  “I’m part of the U.S. Patriots’ bold new plan,” Monica replied. “My coach gave a speech about it this morning—something about determination and perseverance, though I couldn’t understand half of what he said. He’s a little artsy that way.”