The Flip Side (24 page)

“Have you had a quiet day,” Mom asks, “or have the reporters been all over you, too?”

I guess she hasn't had a chance to talk with Josh. I tell her about the after-school fiasco.

“Sorry I couldn't get there,” she says. “I was in a meeting with a client, and it turned out to be more complicated than I expected. I just couldn't get away.”

“It's okay. It was good practice for what I might have to face before we leave for trials in two days. And Josh really came through.”

I don't check my phone. I don't want to know if any reporters have my phone number, or if anyone's tried to text me. Everything can wait. One more day of school, and then I'll escape all this. In Detroit the Olympic trials will be the news, not “Local Girl Loses Dream.”

When we walk through the door half an hour later, Dad and Josh are watching TV. Dad clicks it off as soon as he sees us. He rises quickly from the couch and comes toward us to plant a kiss on Mom's lips and then on my head. “Eventful day, huh?”

“Looks like you got rid of the reporters who were trying to camp out on the front lawn,” Mom says.

There were reporters trying to camp out? This is insane!

“Yeah,” Dad says. “I warned them that I was president of the homeowners association, that we don't appreciate them being in our neighborhood, and that we won't hesitate to call the police.”

“Good job, sweetheart,” Mom says. “They were near the gym, too, and Charlie says a couple of reporters came up to her after school.”

“We're on the news, Charlie,” Josh says from the couch. “You should watch it. Apparently they didn't give up after we left. They interviewed Zoe.” Josh doesn't make eye contact with me. “And Kristine.”

“Kristine?”

“And then they've got us speeding away, as if we're bank robbers or something.” Josh chuckles.

“It's not funny, Josh,” Mom says.

“No. Honestly, Mom, I don't care,” I say. Because I don't. My heart's already ripped up. Josh laughing at the news story about me is kind of a relief, actually. It breaks the tension. “What did Zoe say?”

“Watch it yourself.” Josh points at the screen. “Dad DVRed it.”

Mom drops her purse onto the bench by the door. “We've been trying to avoid—”

“No, I want to watch it.” I also want to hear what Zoe says, and what Kristine says, and what Josh and I look like speeding away in the car. But I won't admit any of that out loud. I'm morbidly curious.

“But, Charlie—” Mom protests.

“She's tough,” Dad says. “Let her watch it.”

I settle on the sofa. Mom edges in next to me. Neither of us lean back. We hold hands, our backs straight, as if we're ready to spring off the couch at the first sign of danger. The curtains are already closed. Dad flips off the porch lights and locks the front door.

Josh starts the playback of the news. An anchorwoman's face fills the screen. “Edwina Huang caught up with gymnast and Olympic hopeful Charlie Ryland at her school in Columbus today. Reports reached our newsroom that Charlie has been—get this—
living a double life
to protect her identity at school. Edwina, tell us more.”

There's Edwina, walking next to my high school, holding her microphone. The lapel on her suit jacket ripples in a faint breeze. “Thanks, Trudy. Charlie's secret was violently exposed on Saturday when she sprained her ankle at Jefferson's prom and pictures on the Internet went viral. Charlie wasn't too keen on talking to us on camera, but I caught up with some of her best friends at school to hear their side of the story. . . .”

The shot flips to Zoe standing beside the flagpole. There's a crowd around her, hooting and jumping, jostling her. The Network Four News microphone is shoved into her face. “Oh my gosh, well, I actually never knew that Charlotte was an Olympic gymnast, even though we were best friends. I really, really hope she gets healed up quickly and can go win the Olympics.”

I catch that Zoe says we
were
best friends, instead of that we
are
best friends. My heart sinks, even though I'm grateful that she's rooting for me.

“So she didn't tell you, her best friend, who she really was? Why do you think she kept her true identity a secret?”

Zoe furrows her brow, shakes her head. “I don't know. Maybe she was afraid it would get all weird, because it has kinda gotten weird around here.”

“How so?”

“All you reporters hanging around, for one thing.”

I want to reach through the TV and hug Zoe.

“Are people treating her differently?” Edwina asks from off camera.

“I don't know.” Zoe squirms, looks guilty. “I guess.”

“Can you give us a play-by-play of that night at prom? You were there, correct?”

“Yeah, I was there.” Zoe looks like she wishes she were somewhere else. I don't blame her. “I didn't see her
fall
. I heard the screams and shouts, so I went to see what was going on. She was sprawled on the floor, and her date was trying to help her.”

My stomach tightens as the events of that night rush through my mind. I know it's not possible, but it feels like my ankle aches more, like it's remembering too.

The shot changes, and Kristine's face fills the screen. She squints under the lights. Behind her Tasha bobs her head as if she's trying to get into the shot. Jane stands stalwartly at Kristine's shoulder, smiling into the lens. “Yeah, it was pretty shocking,” Kristine says, flipping her hair over her shoulder. Next to her, Jane nods in agreement. “I mean, you think you know someone, and then you find out they have this double life. Like, I can't imagine that she's actually that good at gymnastics—”

Edwina Huang interrupts her from off camera. “She's won two World Championship gold medals on beam. She's one of our nation's best.”

“Yeah, but you'd never know that by looking at her,” Kristine says. “She doesn't
look
like an athlete. She doesn't
act
like an athlete. I know. I play soccer. You've got to have focus. I doubt she has what it takes. I mean, if she were taking gymnastics seriously, she should not have gone to prom.”

Beside her, Jane holds a hand over her mouth to cover her laughter. Then she leans toward Edwina and the microphone, blocking the view of Kristine. “Prom was disastrous for Charlotte,” Jane says snidely. “Let's just be honest.”

“Hmm, yes, indeed,” Edwina says, turning to the camera. “It seems like Jefferson High School, even among her friends, is split about whether to support Charlie Ryland as she pursues her Olympic dream. We'd like to know what she was doing at prom with a gymnastics event of this magnitude right around the corner, but Charlie was unwilling to comment. Chris Betts, her celebrated two-time Olympic coach, also declined to speak with us. USA Gymnastics said they have a press release forthcoming.”

“Oh no!” I say hoarsely. I turn to Mom. “Is that true? Have you heard anything?”

She shakes her head. “No one has told me about any plans for a press release, but I'm sure they are going to be supportive. If anything, they'll just want to let people know that you are still able to compete.”

“Here I am, saving the day,” Josh interjects gleefully, obviously pleased with the spotlight. He can have all of it, as far as I'm concerned.

I jerk my attention back to the TV in time to see Josh shepherding me into his car and then driving us away. As we pass the camera, I'm covering my face like a criminal being led to jail. “Back to you, Trudy and David.”

“Thank you, Edwina,” says Trudy, shuffling papers.

“What an interesting turn of events for that young lady,” says the male news anchor, David, who happens to have painfully sideswiped hair. “I wonder why she felt like she had to keep her gymnastics career a secret.”

“Friends say she's a private person.” Trudy smiles. “We'll see how she does under Olympic pressure. But we wish her the very best in her endeavors. It would be wonderful to have a local Olympic athlete to root for.”

“And now,” David says, “another sports story that's a lot less perplexing and a whole lot more inspiring. Let's visit the Columbus Dog Show and meet Mitsy, a very special poodle with a whole lot of attitude. . . .”

I bury my face in a sofa pillow and groan.

It's three days before I'll know if I made the Olympic team, and my last day at school for a while. My last day
ever
as fill-in for student council secretary. I carry a carefully piled stack of papers, separated neatly with paper clips. I'm going to earn my A in U.S. government class, even if it means being awkward with Kristine and resisting the urge to punch her in the face.

I've given a lot of thought to my last day before I head out for trials, my last student council meeting. I have something in mind that I want to accomplish. I even did some research on parliamentary procedure so I'd know what to say to make things go the right way.

Mr. Alto looks up from his desk when I limp into the room without my crutches. As long as I'm mindful of how much weight I'm putting on my bad ankle, it's not giving me too much trouble.

“Charlotte, when am I going to get an autograph from you,” he says. “And I want an Olympic T-shirt with your name on it. Can you make that happen?”

“Sure,” I say halfheartedly.

The only empty seat in the circle is between Brandon and Alex. Bobby's eyes dart over to me just long enough for me to know he's aware that I'm here. His arms are crossed over his chest. He looks wonderful, as always. And at least he's not sitting by Kristine.

I've caught glimpses of them in the hallway together, have wondered if they're going out again.

Out of the corner of my eye, I'm aware of Kristine whispering to Jane and Tasha. I busy myself with walking around and passing out the packets I made. The perfect secretary.

“Mr. Alto,” I say as I hand him his packet. “Just to avoid any confusion, I need to make sure that you know this will be my last student council meeting, because I'll be out of town for the next couple of weeks.”

Mr. Alto takes the packet and looks it over. “Very nice job here, Charlie.”

“I'm sorry I can't finish out the year.”

“Oh no, that's all right.” He rubs his nose with the back of his hand. “You've done a terrific job filling in for Mandy. We're winding down the year anyway. I think you've earned that extra credit.”

“Thank you, Mr. Alto.”

“No, no,” he says. “You have a nice time in Detroit. And you go to Montreal and win us a gold medal, you hear?”

“I'll try.”

Kristine raps her desk. “I'm calling this meeting to order.”

I take my seat.

“Okay, where is the agenda?” She flips through the papers I handed her. “Where are the minutes from last week?”

“The minutes are on top,” I say. “The agenda is beneath that.”

“By now you should know I prefer the agenda on top. I guess maybe you were just distracted trying to be an Olympic gymnast.”

“At least I'm not distracted by being interviewed on the evening news.”

“The people deserve to know the truth,” she says, flipping her hair back over her shoulder. “I was doing my civic responsibility. Now please call the roll.”

I could argue with her, but there is nothing to be gained, so I call the roll. Everyone is here. I turn to a blank page in my notebook. My chest feels tight, but I breathe to control it. Twenty more minutes, and I'm out of here, forever. I'm surprised by how much I'll miss being part of this group. I won't miss the Kristine aspect, but I will miss working toward accomplishing something. In spite of everything, I feel a sense of satisfaction that I had a role in helping with prom.

Kristine reports on prom, claiming it as a huge success for the student council. I have to agree. Except for my little accident, it was a wonderful night. Then a couple of action items are discussed. Finally she says, “If there is no further business to come before the assembly—”

The moment I've been waiting for and dreading just a little. I raise my hand. “Actually, there is. I have something to say.”

“Are you presenting a motion?”

“Yield me the floor.”

She glances around, and I know she doesn't want to. She has no idea what I'm going to say. She clears her throat. “You really should have talked with me about this before the meeting.”

“Actually, that really is not a requirement. Yield me the floor.”

“She's correct, Kristine. Yield her the floor,” Mr. Alto says.

If looks could kill, I'd be drawing my last breath.

“The chair recognizes
Charlie
Ryland,” Kristine says.

“Thank you.” I stand up, balancing carefully on my good foot. “As you all know, it was recently revealed that I'm an elite athlete with Olympic aspirations. I know some people feel betrayed because I kept my hopes and dreams a secret. Some people are judging me because of it. But they don't have all the facts. So . . .”

Everyone, even Bobby, is looking at me. I see curiosity on their faces. I clear my throat. Performing in front of a crowd of thousands is one thing. Talking to a group of twelve is more unnerving.

“Charlie Ryland has four hundred fifty thousand followers on Facebook. Charlotte Ryland has thirty. Some people adore Charlie, and some people hate her. She can come away with the gold, and there are people who will still find fault with her performance, her dismount, the position of her feet, the color of her leotard. That's fine. Everyone has an opinion. But I have to look at their opinions only when I go to Facebook.”

A couple of people nod as though they can relate to getting criticized on social media.

“I used to be homeschooled. And I missed sitting in a room with people. I missed laughing with someone or groaning because the teacher announced a pop quiz. The only people I ever interacted with were other gymnasts. And they were all girls. They were all ambitious, determined, and talented. They all had the same dream that I had. But I was getting a skewed perspective on the world. Because not everyone thinks it's normal to want to spend seven hours a day in a gym flying through the air and landing on your back more times than you land on your feet.