At first all I could do was sit outside and stare. Then Victor said, “Let’s go, pendejo. You want to waste your life sitting around like those guys?” Down the road, I could see two men drinking on the curb.
I joined Victor at Pav’s Place, busing tables. Most people don’t sit down at Pav’s. But those who did looked past me, seeing a shadow or nobody at all.
Victor was a big hit–whipping up surprise concoctions, speaking in crisp English to the businessmen and smooth Spanish to the laborers, to the men from our neighborhood. Even in the off-season, he came home with over one hundred dollars in tips a night. He finally quit in August when the packaging company gave him steady hours and better wages.
He could stand the looks at Pav’s. I couldn’t. “There’s nothing wrong with being invisible,” he said. “Nobody bothers you when they can’t see you.”
Except when they can, like the guys from school who came down to ask for a job but we had no openings. They looked at me and I heard them saying the usual things on their way out. Fuck this, fuck them all. And they piled into one kid’s Porsche and drove away.
One night this summer, Victor and I left Pav’s and a man stumbled across our path, face bloodied. “Ayúdame, hermano.”
Victor stared ahead.
“¿Me explico?”
“I don’t speak Spanish.” Victor pulled me forward. “Sorry.”
He was Uncle Patrick at that moment.
I am not as wise as my brother, I guess. Otherwise I wouldn’t get so upset on behalf of others so easily.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
ISTARE AT the letter until Emery honks outside. It makes my heart ache for tiny Marcos and Victor in Texas, saying goodbye to their parents. For Marcos now, who carries the shadow of fear that’s hardened over time.
Cassie, my oldest and best friend, won’t let me in. When she does, it’s in patches and angles, all of it on her terms, and then she shuts down as quickly as the shutter on her camera.
In those pages, Marcos has finally let me in.
“Ready to rock this, champ?” Emery has the bass thudding and the G-man pumping.
I slide in next to her. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
THE FLOOR EXERCISE is filled with bodies: tiny girls in sparkly leotards and perky ponytails, older girls with knees and ankles and wrists bound by tape and braces. They stretch in precise lines, holding handstands, leaping, and turning.
I want to run out the door.
“What took you so long in the bathroom?” Emery’s glittery eyelids narrow. With her brown hair pulled slick into a tight bun and her ratty shorts replaced by the blue-and-silver long-sleeved leotard, she looks like a different person. She pulls me to the beam landing mats, the only free space in the gym. “I thought you made a break for it.”
“And blow that seventy bucks? No, thanks.”
“Thank God for your cheapness.”
Sitting down to stretch makes me feel almost normal. I bury my face in my knees and close my eyes, relishing the deep pull in my hamstrings.
“We’re starting on beam, F.Y.I.”
Awesome. One event, followed by three hours of nothing.
Matt crouches next to me. “How’s the knee?”
“Okay,” I say. “No weird cracking yet.”
When it’s time for march-in, we stand on the floor with the other teams. We wave when the announcer says, “South Ocean Gymnastics!” A few people politely applaud. The national anthem plays–a slow, dramatic rendition. On the perimeter of the floor, Matt stifles a yawn.
I always used to make a wish at this time, as if “The Star-Spangled Banner” was equivalent to “Happy Birthday.” Maybe “prayer” is a better word. Either way, I’d give my last-minute shout-outs to karma or whoever else was listening.
Please let me stay on beam, and also let me qualify, and don’t let Vanessa yell at me while you’re at it.
Today it’s simple: Please don’t let me break.
THE WORST THING about competing beam? The warm-up.
Emery and I are the last to compete out of twenty girls in our squad. The other eighteen are from Express Gymnastics, so cleverly named for its location near the Long Island Expressway. They wear shiny black leotards with two yellow stripes down each arm. Ridiculous, if they weren’t so good.
On the warm-up beam, the first Express girl crams all her skills into two minutes. Then she goes to the competition beam, where in between competitors she gets a generous thirty seconds–the touch warm-up– to practice. Then it’s time to compete. Feeling shaky? Beam not to your liking? Too bad–you’re up.
Express Girl #1 scores a 9.575.
Express Girl #2 scores a 9.6.
Express Girl #3 scores a 9.4 and her coaches shake their heads.
By the time the fifth Express Girl salutes, my attention’s roamed to the girl who just stuck her vault. Then the tall girl whose legs bend wildly on her giants. Then the tiny one on floor who taps her toes in time to “Friend Like Me” from Aladdin.
Vanessa used to swat my ponytail if she caught me watching other gymnasts. “Get in the building, Savannah!” she’d hiss.
Back then, I’d get fired up. I can beat them, I thought when I watched the Express gymnasts bang out identical perfect routines. No despairing like my teammates did. “That was so good,” they’d lament. “I’m not gonna place.” Meanwhile, I’d see a girl stumble on floor. Got her, I thought.
Today, I only feel dread. What am I doing here?
Wrist guards. Preemptively taped ankle. The Beast. At this rate, I’m more “walking physical therapy ad” than human. The goddamn Beast draws everyone’s attention. All of the Express girls–they’ve seen me compete throughout the years, and they can tell that this is new. Some of them were probably at Regionals when my knee imploded.
“South Ocean,” calls the girl holding a stopwatch next to the warm-up beam.
I’m not ready. Not today, not six weeks from now. Cassie was right. Hell, Vanessa was right. Coach Barry had every right not to reply to my last-ditch e-mail. He too knows I’m a sham. Olympians don’t trifle with people like me.
My feet slip as soon as I climb up on the beam. I fall on every layout step-out. My leap looks like a large step, but not for mankind. Spectators gasp as I stumble out of my full turn and catch myself an instant before my face hits the beam. Now my wrists hurt, and this isn’t even the real competition.
Under normal circumstances, this would be funny. I almost want to laugh now, except I see Emery’s face. Her cheeks bulge from the straight, set line of her mouth. She’s worried. Sure, judges are “objective,” but I’m slated to compete before she does, and if I go up there and perform like that, I’m setting the tone that South Ocean Gymnastics is a joke.
Matt says nothing to me. He doesn’t have to. I couldn’t possibly have done worse.
Get in the building.
The thirty-second warm-up is much less disastrous, yet I still feel unsteady, like landing will make my knee crumble within the Beast.
Now there’s only one gymnast ahead of me. I don’t watch her; I learned one thing from Vanessa. Instead, I read the glittery posters that a few boys lift after a girl dismounts bars. I smell the hot dogs from the concession area. Feel the pulse of energy as one section bursts into cheers while another lets out a disappointed “ohh.” The crest and fall of the wave.
Normally I’d see my parents in the middle row–not up front with the hardcore parents, but not in the back where they couldn’t see. Worksheets to be graded on my father’s lap. He never got through much grading.
I could have told them.
Nope.
Matt nudges me toward the beam. “You can do this. Confidence and attack, okay?”
“Yeah.” It’s a whisper. The ghost of the formerly cocky kid.
I stand next to the beam as the judges scribble their scores from the previous routine. I’m sure they don’t have much to deduct. I’m sure they don’t need to confer about their scores. I’m sure this doesn’t
need to take ten minutes.
I could walk away while they’re writing. Walk past Matt’s hand reaching out to stop me, past Emery’s protests–
“Savannah?” The head judge–salt-and-pepper hair, dark-blue glasses that match her navy blazer– raises her hand.
I raise my arms and flash the tense smile of prom photos. No turning back now.
I press up to a handstand. I don’t hold it for as long as I can, but a few people applaud. I’m on.
My movements feel crisper than practice, a sharpness born of fear. I lift one hand up and flick the wrist, the same way Vanessa made us practice in the mirror when I was ten.
Pike jump, straddle jump. The beam reverberates beneath me.
Now for the flight series. I raise both arms over my head with my stomach clenched and the Beast squeezed behind my left leg. I pause long enough to think, Oh, God.
As soon as I lift in the air for the layout, I’m crooked. Save it save it save it–left foot hits the beam, right foot reaches to the ground, and I’m off.
Dammit!
“Get it back, Savannah!” Emery calls.
Get what back? I’m allowed thirty seconds to remount, but I’m already up on the beam again, ears burning. My full turn wobbles so severely that I look like a surfer on a tsunami. I stay on and hear applause.
Screw their clapping. Pose. Pose. I shouldn’t be here. Pivot turn. Jumps. Leap pass. Split jump-back tuck with a wobble so huge, the beam’s shaking might register on the Richter scale. Pose. Get off. Get out of here.
I run to the end of the beam, punch with two feet, flip and twist once, land on my ass.
A smattering of hands as I salute the judges. Matt walks toward me and I sidestep him. Why did he make me feel like I could do this? Was Vanessa right, that this was his dream and not mine?
His hand reaches for a low-five. “Way to stick it.”
I walk to my gym bag and pull on my warm-ups a little too ferociously. The armpit stitches pop out to create a nice hole.
“What are you getting uppity about?” Matt says. I try to focus on someone’s Requiem for a Dream floor music instead of listening to him. “You’ve been practicing full beam routines for three weeks. What did you expect?”
Not to fail.
“This was about getting yourself back out there, physically and mentally,” he continues. “It’ll be easier next meet.”
Next meet, seriously? I’m not going through this again.
Matt’s attention turns to Emery. “Bring it home, Em,” he calls. I give a half-assed clap.
Well, she brings it home big time. She nails every move in her routine, and as she lands her dismount, my inglorious 7.5 lights up the electronic scoreboard.
“Good job, Savannah,” she says as the Express girls pass by and offer her their compliments. “You have serious cojones.”
“Right.”
Emery grins. “Reenacting the Snowflake Invitational hissy fit all over again?”
“That was totally justified! Monica spilled Gatorade on my grips.”
“The grips that you said didn’t fit you?”
“So?”
“Then you placed third.”
True. My last recorded success on bars.
Her gym bag bounces against her hip as she walks. I jog to keep up. “If it weren’t for your knee, I bet you’d do a killer floor routine to make up for it,” she says.
“What are you trying to say?”
Emery stops. “Nothing.” Her green eyes are wide. “You just never back down. It’s awesome.”
Mean it? Her gaze stays steady. Sincere. Not trying to trick me into anything the way Matt did.
“Thanks,” I say.
Her 9.825 is posted and everyone near the beam bursts into applause. Yep, that’s how you get a full ride. Matt high-fives her. “Let’s keep the ball rolling on floor.”
If my father were here, we’d make eye contact from across the gym. He’d lift his head as if to say, Next event. Get going. Except today, I don’t have a next event. I have at least three more hours of watching everyone else compete.
I sit at the edge of the floor and feel the shake of each tumbling pass. The thud-thud-pause-thud. This floor is so springy that Emery nearly bounces off when she lands her double back. She looks concerned. Matt signals her to get her ready for the next turn. He knows she’ll be fine. Funny how I can believe Matt believing in Emery, but not in me.
The girls cease tumbling and practice their dance: quick spinning turns, sharp straddle jumps, leaps that stretch beyond a full split. The smallest Express girl struggles to keep up. She stumbles out of every jump. Her face reddens. The curls slip from her ponytail. Each attempt progressively worsens until the coach yanks her arm and says, “If you don’t cut the crap, I’m scratching you from floor.”
Scratching you? This kid who can’t be more than ten and surely nervous enough to pee her leotard, just because of a few jumps? What does it matter if she bombs the warm-up? What does it matter if she bombs one floor routine on one afternoon in one gym? What happens when she grows up and breaks an ankle or tears every ligament in her knee and wishes she had one more routine left for one more day?
Suddenly my breathing comes quickly. I shed my warm-ups as Matt walks over. “You’re first,” he says. “Get that salute ready.” The rule is that even if you’re scratching an event, you still must officially present yourself to the judges so you can earn that zero.
I feel the carpet under my feet as I step onto the floor. My legs wobble. Get going.
“Savannah?” says the judge, a young blonde.
I raise my arms and smile. Now I’m supposed to turn and walk off the floor, letting Emery take my place and earn more near-perfect scores.
What kind of girl are you? That’s what my father wanted to know.
My right toe points behind me, my right arm covers my face, and my left arm stretches behind me. My breathing is so loud that surely the judges can hear it.
This kind.
A long, long pause. Then Matt says to the music person, “Put it on Track 3.”
Although it’s been months since I heard this music, my arms strike the violin chords just as they used to. My jumps snap up and down. I pivot into the corner, stare down the diagonal, and sprint like there’s no way in hell I can fail.
Please don’t let me break.
I lift into the air–oh God oh God oh God–pull in my arms–spin twice–land with such momentum that I bounce over the white line. Out of bounds, an automatic one-tenth deduction.
Emery screams, “Yes!” Applause from all sides of the floor. “Go, Savannah!” voices shout. Who is cheering and why? Who am I to them?
My leaps are high and fast the way they used to be. Everything is right. Everything is the music and motion and hitting every beat. Until I stand in the corner for the final pass as the music hits a crescendo and my vision turns blurry and I feel the leaden cry of every muscle that wants to collapse.
As I start to run–jog–a tremendous wave of noise erupts from the bleachers. The sound of dozens of feet pounding the metal. “Let’s go, Savannah!”
I rise on that wave. Close my eyes, bring my knees to my chest, flip and land with a stumble, leap to the ground, pose. Music ends.
When I stand to salute, chest heaving, the wave is even louder. Marcos. Marcos and the entire varsity soccer team stand in the bleachers, pumping fists and high-fiving each other like I’ve just scored the winning goal. Like I’ve done something worth celebrating. Around the floor, every Express girl applauds.
Emery jumps on me with a hug so ferocious that I almost fall over. “You are my hero!” she shouts in my face.
Matt’s hug is just as tight, if more dignified. “Surprised?” I gasp out.
He shakes his head. “Never surprised. Just impressed.”
Dimitri and Andreas wave frantically as the meet director walks over to shush them. “Sa-van-nah!” they chant in unison.
My legs cramp so tightly that I can hardly walk. T
hen again, I shouldn’t consider walking when I can’t even breathe without gasping. Emery’s music starts and I try to watch, but my vision’s still rocky and my mind runs faster than my breathing.
Did that just happen? And did I really just survive it?
One more routine on one more day.
I VAULT, TOO. A front handspring with a full twist, where I hit the table with my hands, pop off, spin once, and land on my feet. No flips, no frills. It’s a vault I haven’t played with since I was ten, but it achieves my second-highest score of the day: 8.3. Five of the Express girls faceplant their vaults. So does Emery. But she stands up and laughs.
I attempt a bar routine that merits a shocking 8.425. The soccer team whoops in approval the way they have after all of my routines. The stands have cleared out around them. “You qualified for States!” Matt exclaims, spinning me around.
“What? No.”
“Yes.” He places me on the floor and the gym wobbles. “32.225.”
After he punches the numbers into his phone and shows me, I take it and tally the scores myself.
A year ago, I would have been aghast. A 32 all-around? An 8.0 on floor? I would have been praying that Coach Englehardt didn’t search the Internet for my scores.
Today, they feel like a gift.
Matt takes the phone back. “I gotta text Vanessa and let her know to start looking for hotels in Brockport.”
I can’t stop smiling.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
TOMORROW WILL BE hell on my knees, but the lightness hasn’t left. I want to gallivant in the road, spin in the sand, wave the Beast over my head, and let loose a mighty holler.
“Marcos faked a stomach virus this morning, but he has to work the dinner shift,” Andreas told me after the meet. “He says you need a cape to complete your superhero look.”
“That was freakin’ awesome,” Dimitri added. “How do Dre and I sign up?”
Out of the whole soccer team, they seemed the most wowed by the experience. (Although I also fielded several, “Your friend Emery–she single?” remarks.
Lessons in Falling Page 23