Then my mind flashes to Marcos cringing as he placed ice on his swollen eye. Hearing Andreas’s hand connect with his face as he mistakenly swung at Marcos. Being convinced that Marcos was suspended with his shot at the scholarship blown. I don’t want that, either.
“You see what I’m saying?” Cass says when I’ve been quiet for too long.
I swallow hard. “Yeah. I do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE STEADY POUNDING on the front door is enough to rattle my bed, I swear. I close my eyes and press the pillow to my ears, but the pounding persists.
Why isn’t Mom answering? What time is it? Should I be at school? The gym?
I race down the stairs in pajama pants and a Level 8 State Championships sweatshirt. The person at the door could have something to do with Richard–
I throw open the door to find not a military man with a somber face, but Marcos. He’s wearing an orange Texas Longhorns sweatshirt and jeans, and as soon as I blink at him with bleary eyes, he smiles. “Good morning. What time do you need to be at the gym?”
“Uh.” I look down at my shirt to check for toothpaste stains or drool. Marcos’s gaze drops, taking in my getup. I feel my ears heat up under the scrutiny of his eyes, the way his smile slowly spreads. God, what time is it? Mornings have never been my forte. “Eight forty-five.”
“Great, so we have plenty of time.”
“For?” The breeze blows cold and I wrap my arms around myself.
“A driving lesson,” he says cheerfully. “Once you pass your road test, you won’t need anyone to drive you to school or the gym.”
“We couldn’t have done this at a normal hour?”
“I work a double today.” His smile slips. “I’m sorry. I thought it would be fun to surprise you.”
“No, this is awesome,” I say hastily. “Let me, um, get shoes or something.”
When you’re not desperately wishing you were warm and sleeping, you find Ponquogue kind of beautiful in the morning. There’s so much light, and it comes in at angles you’ve never paid attention to. And you’re a little less nervous about driving, even though you’re next to your boyfriend who may like you a lot less if you crash his car, and in fact you’re not nervous at all, because you can easily convince yourself that you’re still asleep.
There’s no music or conversation. Only the groan of the engine and better yet, no traffic. Marcos doesn’t flinch when I stop short, barely missing a jogging couple in matching green Spandex. Once in a while he’ll offer encouragement. “I think if you speed up a little here, you’ll still be good, know what I mean?” he says when I cruise by Ponquogue Elementary School at five miles per hour.
After an incredible parallel park behind a Mercedes (I need to do this sleep-deprived driving more often), I feel empowered. “Bagels? On me. If you win the scholarship, you’ll owe me one.”
“If you insist,” he agrees. “If I win the scholarship, I’ll owe you anything you want.”
We walk into Bayside Bagels, Marcos all fresh and crisp with his hair smelling like coconuts and me in the running for a Ponquogue version of The Bachelorette in my pajama pants and sweatshirt. In my smoothness at the counter, I drop my bag. Marcos bends down and comes up with my driver’s permit in his hand. “‘K.S. Gregory,’” he reads. “Have I met her?”
“I’ll take that back now, thank you very much.”
He holds it out of reach, using the few inches he has on me to his advantage. “Katherine? Kara? Karma?”
“Marcos I-Don’t-Know-Your-Middle-Name Castillo, put the permit down and nobody gets hurt.” I take a swipe at it.
“Marcos Alonzo Rodriguez Castillo.” He wheels around. Andreas was right–the boy does have athletic skills. “Kelly, Kristina…”
We’ve attracted onlookers; an older lady with her fleece sweatshirt zipped up to her chin inspects us, and I brace myself.
“Can you believe that?” she says to her companion. “Kids up early on a Saturday? Who would have thought?”
Momentarily distracted, Marcos lowers his arm, and I snatch the card from him. “Kaitlyn, by the way.”
“Kaitlyn.” He says it with an unreasonably large grin. “What’s wrong with that?”
“I like ‘Savannah’ better.”
“So if I call you Katie–”
“How about you help me pass my road test, and then you can call me whatever you want, okay?”
“It’s a deal.” He offers his hand and I shake it, both of us pulling back slowly without letting go.
We sit next to the window and watch the baymen gather their nets and lines, tug on thick boots, and make their way down the docks. From here, they look unafraid of the biting cold water. The breeze ruffles the long hair that sticks out from under their knit caps. The red and blue buoys bob in the bay, waiting, riding the white curling tips of waves.
“How was work yesterday?” Marcos adjusts the salt and pepper shakers so that they line up perfectly.
I launch into the story of a child’s elbow colliding with my skull and he laughs, drawing more glances from people leaning over coffee and newspapers. The looks are fleeting. Caffeine and bold-typed headlines are more concerning than us.
Nobody at Bayside Bagels cares.
My feet swing under the chair and once in a while I look up from my sesame seed bagel to find Marcos watching me. He smiles each time I catch him, dimples widening.
Seven forty-five a.m. Does this count as a date?
WE PULL UP in front of my house at eight fifteen, which gives me another fifteen minutes to locate a leotard and attempt a power nap before Emery picks me up so I can teach (and she can nap) before practice.
“What were you and Cassie whispering about yesterday?” Marcos asks.
The golden rule of best friendship: be at odds with one another, but always stand united against the world.
You need an ultimatum.
My stomach twists. How can I do that after he showed up at my house this morning with a smile on his face, ready to let me get behind the wheel and possibly endanger him?
“Cass had some stuff on her mind,” I say evasively. Technically it’s not a lie.
“Did it have to do with the dirty look she gave me when I high-fived you?”
I snort. Subtle, Cass.
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” Marcos straightens up.
“I gotta get ready for the gym.” My fingers slip around the handle. “Thanks for the driving practice.”
Before I can tug open the door, he says, “I don’t mean to offend you, but you’re different around Cassie.”
Don’t mean to offend means that I am already halfway to offended. “How so?”
“It’s like you wilt when she’s in the room.”
“Thanks.” One swift tug, and I’m out of here.
“Stop. Let go of the handle.”
I don’t. “Is there more?”
Marcos spins his hands in the air, looking for the words. “When Cassie’s around, you’re watching her the whole time. It seems that everything you say has to be approved by her, and God forbid it isn’t. Like that night you told off that douche from Galway Beach and she pulled you away.”
“Thank you.”
He doesn’t stop there, because surely I haven’t heard enough. “I feel like you’re so worried about what Cassie will say or do that you won’t let yourself go for what you want.”
What I want is to not break myself at the Golden Leaf Classic, for Coach Englehardt to e-mail me back, to feel confident that I’ve made the right decision in returning to the gym. None of that has to do with Cass.
“I’ve known Cassie for a million years. I am more than fine with myself, thank you.”
“You see?” Marcos calls as I storm down the walk. “You’re being the real you.”
I flip up my middle finger.
As the car rolls away, I hear him laughing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THIS HAS TO be the best Saturday practice I’ve ever had. The
limbs-are-still-dreaming feeling disappears in warm-ups. I do a series of back handsprings down the floor. Instead of feeling shocks through my wrists and ankles, my body rebounds into the next and the next and the next.
The sun trickles through the windows as I raise my arms for my back handspring-layout step-out series. “Make ten flight series on the line,” Matt had said before he turned to the girls on beam.
In Level 10, you’re required to perform two skills in a row in which, at some point, both your hands and feet are off the beam in flight. Or for me, “in fright.”
Out of the corner of my eye, Erica lifts off the beam for her back tuck. Her feet separate as she tries to land. Bam. She straddles the beam and gets bucked to the ground. “Oww,” she moans, limbs in a heap.
Oof. I cringe in empathy. We’ve all been there. The shock of that pain never feels any better, no matter what level you are. Straddling the beam, faceplanting, taking a step back and discovering that there’s no more beam behind you–all of the joys of operating on four inches. “What kind of sport is this?” Cassie had demanded after a meet when I’d missed my layout step-out and slid down the side of the beam, earning a huge burn from the friction of skin against suede.
Matt doesn’t give Erica so much as a glance. “Tighten up those connections, Nicola,” he says instead. “No weight on the heels.” I wonder if Nicola feels the twinly pain, if she wants to get down on the floor and see if her sister is okay. Slowly Erica stands up, shakes out her legs, and climbs back on the beam. What else can she do?
Emery practices series after series. Front aerial, back handspring layout step-out, stuck. Layout step-out, tiny wobble. No matter the outcome, she puts her hands up and kicks forward without waiting. She is so focused, so deliberate, that I can’t imagine how any school could overlook her.
“How’s it going over there, Gregory?” Matt calls.
Oops.
I imagine the competition beam. There will be judges to one side, notebooks open and pens ready. Matt will stand on the other side, arms folded. He’ll mutter under his breath as I move through each skill, saying things like, “Come on, come on, hang in there.” It’s the end of the meet, the last rotation, and if I nail this now…
I don’t know what the imaginary payoff will be. Even so, I reach my hands as far up as I can, until my stomach can’t suck in any tighter. Then I swing my arms down and back past my head. My toes lift off the floor, my legs snap over into a split as my hands hit the line, feet back on the floor, punch up, flip once, land on the line.
The little girls on bars clap.
It’s just the floor.
But still.
DURING OUR WATER break, Emery looks down at her phone and her cheeks bulge out like a squirrel’s. She waves her free hand frantically.
“Are you choking?” I exclaim. “Can anyone here do the Heimlich?”
Emery manages to catch her breath, but her cheeks are still unnaturally red, and, frankly, I’m worried that she’s still choking or having some kind of allergic reaction to whatever she saw on her phone. “Savannah, did you e-mail Barry?” she demands.
Okay, that’s definitely not what I expected this ruckus to be about. “No, why?”
“This is a national emergency!” she shouts.
“Emery Johnson, is that a cell phone I see?” Matt calls.
“The press release on Owego’s new assistant coach,” Emery says. I shake my head. “You’re kidding me–you don’t know? Get thee to the Internet, my friend. ASAP.”
“Oh, my God, it’s Angela Cardena?” Nicola squeals then claps her hand over her mouth.
Am I hearing them properly? I did wake up much earlier than usual, after all. I might have returned to a dream state between balance beam and now.
Emery brandishes her phone in my face. “‘The State University of New York at Owego is proud to welcome–’”
“‘Olympic uneven bars champion Angela Cardena,’” I read. “Emery. Emery!”
“Savannah!” she yells.
“What the heck is she doing in Owego?” This can’t be real. Internet hoax, highly authentic-appearing?
“The quote from her says that her boyfriend is there for grad school.”
“What the heck is he doing there?”
“Who cares? If you don’t choose there, I’m driving you up there and forcing you into a dorm room. That is a promise.”
“Emery,” Matt calls threateningly. “You have three seconds to put away the phone, or I will happily put it away for you.”
She drops it like a hot potato, although not before Vanessa notices. “You girls are the ones setting an example,” she calls from where the younger ones do pliés against the wall. Ballet with Vanessa is its own special kind of hell. “As a reward, you’ll start strength early today.”
We look at each other, all of us holding back groans.
The prospect of doing extra conditioning with Vanessa isn’t enough to dampen the excitement, though. “I bet Coach Barry’s gotten like a gazillion e-mails,” Nicola says, tucking away her water bottle. “I wish I was old enough to go to college.”
A gazillion e-mails. Gymnasts all over the country sit down at their desk, ponytails still perky after a six-hour practice. They open the laptop and the Gymnastics 4 Life background awakens, coupled with a photo of them winning Regionals. They begin: Dear Coach Barry, I am very interested in gymnastics at Owego. Gymnasts with knees unbroken by scars. Gymnasts writing with the subtext: I deserve to be coached by an Olympic champion. Gymnasts saying: I am a champion.
Emery’s already been caught for using her phone, the stern words used, the punishment doled out. But I can’t stop myself from pulling out mine and typing the world’s fastest e-mail. Cassie would be proud of my blatant bucking of the system. I can handle a few extra push-ups.
Dear Coach Barry, Thank you for the very helpful links to the kinesiology department. (“Very helpful” is a stretch, but whatever.) I would be happy to update you on my training and competition results. In fact, I will be making my comeback at the Golden Leaf Classic, and I hope that my knee stays in one place.
I hit Send. Then refresh. Refresh. In retrospect, adding a few exclamation points might have helped–
“Savannah!” Vanessa sounds both exasperated and surprised to catch me in the act. “Forget it. You girls are starting now.”
FACE TO THE floor. Push up. Clap.
The quicker my nose brushes against blue carpet and then jumps back up, the less my arms shake. It’s way too hot this close to winter. Isn’t there a fan in here? Thirty-four. Thirty-five.
“You’re on a freakin’ roll, woman.” Emery pants next to me. “Is your boyfriend afraid that you can beat him up?”
“Her who?” Nicola gasps like she’s on the verge of an asthma attack.
“You have to see him, Nic; he’s adorable. I hope he’s attending the meet.”
“Shut up, Em.” My hands slap together.
“If you have enough energy to talk, you have enough energy for fifty more push-ups,” calls Vanessa.
We’re seventeen, not seven–
“I see that face, Gregory.” Her small white shoes step in front of me. “You want another fifty?”
“Vanessa, this is getting excessive–” Matt cuts in.
“You can’t baby her forever, Matt. Doing fulls into the pit all practice isn’t getting her back to where she needs to be.”
Okay, one second. That’s been my decision, not Matt’s.
“They had a hard workout today,” Matt says.
“Why do you think the other girls left?” The shoes pivot and walk away. Nicola gulps next to me, trying to control her breathing so we can listen.
For as long as I’ve been at South Ocean, it’s been the duo of Vanessa and Matt. Vanessa leads the younger children through the lower-level compulsories and passes them to Matt for the higher levels, though she’s always watching, calculating, commenting, and punishing when she deems fit. Matt’s quicker to encourage and joke with u
s when we’re grumpy. They’ve always worked out the balance.
Until now.
“Why?” Matt’s voice is quiet, bracing itself.
“They weren’t being pushed to what they’re capable of.”
“Or they wanted to bone their boyfriends,” Emery mutters. “Sorry,” she adds with a contrite look at the twins, but they’re too riveted by the exchange to notice.
Face down. Push up. Clap.
“Their parents want to know all those years of money and competitions and injuries weren’t for nothing,” Vanessa continues. “Division III gymnastics doesn’t cut it.”
The comment stings, though haven’t I thought the same? Ocean State or bust?
Coach Barry and the ferocious pump of his handshake, his heavy abuse of exclamation points (heavy abuse of exclamations, period). Based on the videos that Emery and I watched at McDonald’s, his team isn’t hurting for talented athletes.
Matt’s voice doesn’t rise. He leans against a padded pillar, casual–like he’s waiting for practice to start. Somehow he seems less offended than all of us, but I guess he knows Vanessa better than we do. “Just because it was that way for you doesn’t mean that it’s all about the scholarship for every athlete.”
Vanessa walks farther away and we all hold our breath. “You could have her coach the little ones,” she says quietly. “They look up to her. It would be an easy transition.”
Nobody needs to whisper to confirm whom her refers to.
I signed on to teach a few classes of little kids. I didn’t sign on to be in the gym at the same time as my teammates and not be flipping, because as I learned very quickly after blowing out my knee, the thought hurt too much.
I’m prepared to stand up and end these shenanigans once and for all when Matt speaks for me. “She wants to compete.”
“You want her to compete. The girl’s coming off ACL reconstruction. She’s terrified of everything. It’s all over her face.”
First you give me an extra hundred push-ups, and then you insult me?
“Can’t baby them forever, can we, Vanessa?” Matt claps once and we spring to our feet. “That’s enough, ladies. Line up.”
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