“Not if I start slipping now. I fell on my Jaeger today and, like, I’m a million percent sure Vera knew it was a fluke, but what if I stumble on floor next time, and like, sit my beam dismount the time after that? That’s all it takes to call my credibility into question. Everyone will say I peaked at worlds last year and I’m done.”
I can’t believe it, but I actually feel bad for Emerson, who seriously looks upset at the prospect of falling apart only months before the competition she’s been training for her whole life.
“You’ll be fine. Literally everyone knows it was a fluke. One fall in your whole senior career won’t be enough to keep you off the team.”
“Thanks. You’re really sweet. I feel bad for being a total c-word to you all weekend.”
“Forgiven,” I brush her off, looking away. It’s almost embarrassing hearing her like this.
“Now that you guys have had your Lifetime moment, can you get a room?” Ruby says as the TV turns to a commercial. “Meredith just shoved her hands into a dude’s chest and there’s some kind of bomb in it and I really don’t want you talking over whatever really emotional things Derek and/or Christina are going to say to her.”
“Dude, this episode is, like, a decade old,” Emerson scoffs.
“Sorry I haven’t seen every episode of every TV show ever. I’ve been kinda busy?”
“Spoiler alert,” Emerson snatches the remote. “They get the bomb out. Meredith lives. The bomb guy explodes in the hallway.”
Ruby grabs her blanket and gets up. “I hate you,” she pouts, only half kidding, before turning to me. “I’m going to FaceTime my mom before bed.”
“See you in a bit.”
Emerson hands me the remote. “I’m actually going to get some stuff done before bed. Thanks for being cool.”
“See ya.” I watch her leave and then switch to a show about murder, though my brain refuses to let go of this bizarre day. Breaking 60 in the all-around, fighting with Emerson, becoming her…friend? Acquaintance? Teammate? Elite gymnastics is weird, but for the first time since I’ve arrived at the farm, I’m starting to feel like I belong.
Saturday, April 16, 2016
111 Days Left
“Thank you, ladies,” Vera says at the last lineup before we’re sent home. Practice that morning was the easiest of the week, giving us a much-needed rest from full routines so we could focus on conditioning and working on individual skills.
“The next time I see you will be at the American Open, which is the last qualifier for nationals. All juniors and seniors must qualify, unless you were one of the six who competed at Worlds last year – Emerson, Maddy, Charlotte, Irina, Sophia, and the absent Kara Lennon. No more direct qualifications from your camp verification scores. However, because she had the highest all-around score in verification, Ruby is an automatic qualifier. Those of you already qualified to nationals are not required to attend the Open, though I suggest you make an appearance so you can get one last practice competition in before nationals and trials. Good work. Train hard.”
“Thank you, Vera,” we chorus, staying in line until we’re dismissed.
Ruby and I trudge over to Natasha, who is checking her phone by the door. After quickly typing a text to her husband, she grabs Ruby and hugs her close.
“Automatic qualification!” she squeals. “I knew it would happen.”
Ruby smiles modestly. “I still want to go to the Open, though. Maybe I won’t do the all-around but I could definitely use the practice.”
“Yeah, of course you’ll go. You know Vera’s ‘suggestions’ are actually law.” Natasha tucks her phone into her purse and fiddles with the handle of her suitcase. “I’m gonna go say goodbye to my mom. She said she had something she needs to discuss. I’ll meet you on the bus in a few.”
Something to discuss? My awesomeness, I hope. Natasha heads to meet Vera in the office while Ruby starts toward the bathroom. “I’ll be out in a minute. Wait for me!”
I check to make sure I have an eye on all of our things – backpacks, duffel bags, and vinyl drawstring carry-ons, all a deep blue with the Malkina Gold Medal Academy logo stamped on. As I’m about to begin lugging our things outside, I spot a guy standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, like a teen heartthrob being introduced in a cheesy 90s teen movie.
Mystery boy is obviously a gymnast – it’s all in the shoulders – but the men’s training camp doesn’t start for another two days, so it’s a little weird that he’s already here. I’m lost in my own mind, hardcore staring at him, which I don’t realize he notices until he makes his way over to me.
“Hey, stalker.” He brushes his long sandy blond hair out of his eyes. “You’re the new girl.”
I take a second to gather my thoughts before responding. “Kinda new to the farm, yeah. But I’ve been a professional stalker for years. You’re the first one to catch me.”
“Amalia, right?” He ignores my lame attempt at a joke. “I’m Max.”
“Yeah, Amalia. Blanchard. Nice to meet you.”
Max laughs. “So formal. That’s hot.”
I immediately blush. There’s no response in my head that doesn’t sound ridiculous.
“Everyone says your beam is insane.” Max is quick to pick things up again. “I can’t wait to see it.”
“Thanks…I haven’t seen any of your routines yet.” Stupid, idiotic, dumb, dumb, dumb.
“Yeah, you know, when they aired nationals last year you could kind of see me on floor in the background when that human dildo Sam York was on vault.”
I laugh, realizing I know absolutely nothing about men’s gymnastics and have no idea who this Sam guy is even though Max thinks I do. “I’ve never been on TV in my life, so…you win this one?”
“It’s okay,” Max says, putting his arm around me. “We’ll run the show this summer. Every journalist will fight over us and NBC will show replays of our routines as if the other gymnasts competing don’t exist.”
I laugh again, but less at his joke and more because the physical intimacy of his arm touching my shoulders makes me feel giggly. Ugh. Our faces are so close, we’re basically an inch away from kissing, so I turn away and catch a bemused Ruby watching from the water fountain.
“I think I have to go…sorry.” I twist underneath his arm to escape. “We’re supposed to be on the bus, like…five minutes ago.”
“Yeah, yeah, planes to catch, coaches to bitch at you the whole way home…”
I roll my eyes knowingly, though I know Natasha will ignore her notes until practice on Monday, preferring to savor her wine and America’s Next Top Model marathons on long flights.
“See you soon?” Max asks.
“Yeah. Uh, at nationals, I guess. It was nice to meet you.”
“My pleasure, Lady Blanchard,” Max responds in an exaggerated British accent, mocking my formality. “May your flight be safe and your ass-chewing be brief.”
He walks over to one of the in-ground trampolines and starts jumping in place. Why? I have no idea. Mid-bounce he notices me staring for the second time in a matter of minutes. He grins, his blue eyes sparkling, before casually tossing a double front into the foam pit. I know almost nothing about him, but I’m hooked.
“Has Mal finally noticed the opposite sex?” Ruby smiles gleefully, making her way back to our bags. “Max and Amalia sitting in a tree…”
“Are you six? Shut up. He was just being nice to me. It’s like a pity thing.”
“Are you stupid? He thinks you’re hot. And he wants dat boo-tay.”
“You’re high.” I grab my duffel bag in one arm, my backpack and carry-on in the other, and lead the way out of the building.
“No, for real, he’s a player,” Ruby whispers, close behind. “He’s like, fourth generation Russian but thinks he’s Prince Andrei.”
“I one hundred percent don’t understand that reference.”
“Hello? War and Peace.”
“You’ve read War and Peace?”
“Um, do I look like I have time to read a book as long as Oksana Chusovitina’s career? I watched the movie during my brief but inspirational Audrey Hepburn phase. There’s a triangle between Audrey and two guys, and Prince Andrei is the hotter one. As hot as Russian dudes could get in 1812. I cried for a week after he died.”
“Spoilers!”
“That book is a hundred and fifty years old. I think that passes the statute of limitations for spoilers.”
“He is cute, though. Max, I mean.” I exhale dreamily.
“Ew, no. He is gross. I’ve known him since I was three. We trained at the same starter gym before we moved on to bigger and better things. Besides, I’m not even kidding, he’s a total slut. I’m like the only one on the national team he hasn’t hooked up with, not for his lack of trying. Just trust me. He’s pretty on the outside, but is all vapid, narcissistic frat boy in his soul.”
I scowl, absent-mindedly playing with the straps on my carry-on as we board the bus.
“You’re literally one of the top gymnastics prospects for the Olympic Games, inches away from a full athletic scholarship to Stanford, and you’re pouting because I told you this boy is a creep? Priorities, Mal.”
I’m the first to admit I’m a little immature when it comes to boys. I’ve never even really had a crush outside of Grey’s Anatomy’s McDreamy, who is admittedly about 30 years too old for me and also not a real person. But like, who am I supposed to find attractive? The other 15-year-olds in my grade who laugh for hours at chair noises that sound like farts? The boys at my gym who smell worse than the foam pit and spend more time flexing in the mirror than actually training? Or Jack, my nerdy neighborhood best friend who is super smart but is basically dating Minecraft?
Max is the second teenage male I’ve ever spoken to who doesn’t make me wonder if one entire half of the human species is devoid of intelligent life. And he’s also super-duper-with-a-cherry-on-top cute. But Ruby is my life guru and if she says he’s bad news, I listen.
Besides, every cheesy Lifetime movie about gymnastics is true. You literally can’t train this hard with an Olympic goal in mind if you’re distracted, and boys are a distraction. You make a million sacrifices if you want a chance at the Games, with every inch of your life planned by the professionals who can take you all the way. Eat lean protein, sleep eight hours a night, drink 70 ounces of water a day, get massages and see the chiro twice a week, don’t go skiing or ice skating or anything else that leads to career-ending injuries, rest on weekends, no partying ever, and most of all, forget about boys.
No big deal. When I signed on to the elite level, I chose to follow all the rules. I make the sacrifices. I never cheat my conditioning, I don’t eat pizza, and I live as pristinely as a 15th century nun. Someday the reward will be worth it, and I’m not going to jeopardize my future because a cute boy was nice to me for three minutes.
Ruby finds a pair of seats and pulls on her big headphones to settle in for the ride. The farm is in the middle of nowhere, just outside a little town called Shell Lake, Wisconsin. The trip to the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport takes two hours, mostly through the back roads of the dairy state before we get to civilization.
I watch Natasha climb aboard just as we’re getting ready to roll. She looks annoyed, but that’s pretty typical after a conversation with Vera. She and her mother are known for their little spats and disagreements, especially back when Vera was coaching Natasha. Natasha may seem all grown up on the outside, but deep down she’s still very much a stubborn little girl who wants to challenge everything her strict, old-school, stereotypically Russian mother says. They’re the mother-daughter embodiment of the Cold War, bickering back and forth for years with the anxious anticipation of eventual full-out nuclear attacks.
I reach for my calc textbook, and randomly realize as we’re pulling out of the driveway that Emerson hasn’t made it to the bus. Kinda relieved, to be honest…I wasn’t looking forward to an awkward goodbye.
“Ruby.” She’s deeply invested in her music and doesn’t answer. I wave my hand in front of her face, feeling more like an annoying little sister than a maybe future Olympic athlete. “Should we be worried that Emerson isn’t here?”
“Chicago’s not that far from here,” Ruby explains. “She doesn’t need to fly, and besides, she prefers the limo the gym rents for her and her team. Gotta keep her happy lest another gym steal their star!”
She goes back to her music and almost instantly falls asleep against the bus window. I crack my calc text, staring at pages upon pages of derivatives but nothing makes sense. That never happens. When I look down, my notebook is full of doodles instead of problem sets, and I see that I’ve written my initials paired with Max’s inside a small heart, something I haven’t done since the fifth grade when I had an imaginary boyfriend named Keanu.
I hate myself for behaving like the kind of girls I actively hate, the girls who give up everything they love and are good at because a boy gave them the time of day. Come on, brain. We were on the right track until about ten minutes ago. Is now really a good time to realize boys exist? I rip out the defiled sheet of paper, crumple it into my backpack, and slam my notebook.
Focus. That’s what I need. I close my eyes and visualize. Me, on the Olympic stage, sticking my beam dismount in front of millions. American flags everywhere. A score of 16.0 flashing on the overhead LED screen. A gold medal around my neck. No boys in sight.
***
Four hours of practice, two hours on the bus, three hours before boarding the plane, a three-and-a-half-hour flight, and a half hour shuttle ride up through Seattle to my hometown of Lynnwood, Washington. I’m more than ready to crash.
I split up from Ruby and Natasha at the airport after Natasha reminds me to be at the gym at 6 a.m. on Monday. She and Ruby take the train into the city, Natasha to her Lower Queen Anne neighborhood and Ruby to the Bainbridge Island ferry.
Though she’s 19 and technically an adult, Ruby is completely incapable of living on her own; 40 hours a week in the gym taught her how to do a double-twisting double layout, but she can’t do laundry or remember to turn off the oven. She’s super smart but has the common sense of a hamster, so a family with three young kids at MGMA hosts her in exchange for free tuition.
Many elites I know wind up in host family situations. There are only a handful of really good elite gyms, and while a few gymnasts move across the country with their parents to train with the best coaches, most moms and dads can’t uproot their lives for their child’s sport.
I lucked out. I grew up about 20 miles from MGMA, so when I left my YMCA for greener pastures, all I had to do was jump on the 535 bus. My parents try to make the drive when they can, and they pulled some strings so I could transfer to a school closer to the gym, but overall our sacrifices are small compared to the girls who end up moving thousands of miles away.
My shuttle ride home goes by quickly thanks to YouTube. Is it normal to watch roughly 20 videos in a row of small children falling off escalators? At least Max has all but vanished from my thoughts, thanks to my wonderfully fickle brain.
My mom and dad are waiting on the walkway with open arms when I get home, first for hugs, then for bag collection. My parents – Matthew, my dad, is a high school principal and Kate, my mom, is a legal secretary – were mostly supportive of my decision to take on the Olympic track. Their one demand was that I stay in public school and keep my grades up, though this has never been a problem. I take all AP and honors classes and had Stanford University offering a full ride after I won the level 10 title last year. That’s way more impressive to my parents than Olympic gold.
“How did it go, Mal?” my dad asks as we walk into the house. “Did you make the Olympic team yet?”
“I came in fourth in verification, which is like…a mini-competition at the farm against the whole national team,” I explain. “So yeah, it went well, but I still have to qualify to nationals.”
Finding Our Balance Page 4