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Authors: Caela Carter

Tumbling (23 page)

BOOK: Tumbling
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If I disqualify myself, Wilhelmina will be happy, too.

But . . . Mom.

Camille had to keep her mother happy. And healthy. It was Camille's responsibility. All she had to do was vault. A simple vault that would propel Camille into gymnastics fame and glory.

Then the endorsements would roll in, even more than they were now. She'd give up her eligibility. She'd honor her promise to her mother.

Her own desire to join an NCAA team was impossible no matter whom she chose.

“Yes! Yes!” her coach kept yelling as she landed. Camille would smile, slap him five, and jog back to the end of the runway thinking,
I have to go over that vault tonight. I owe it to my coach. To my mom. To myself, my old self.

But by the time she was sprinting down the runway, she was thinking,
If I do this tonight, I'm going to the Olympics. I'm staying on the huge stage. I'm training full-time for another few months: the preparation in Italy, the games, and then the Tour of Champions. I'm staying exhausted and risking more pain. I'm giving up more than Bobby.

Bobby still hadn't called or texted or anything. Camille had tried to reach him several times last night and this morning. He'd gone silent on her for the second day in a row. Camille was starting to get angry. First he had promised he'd be there. Then he didn't show up. Then he dumped her and disappeared at the most important
moment of her life—or her post-accident life anyway. What had happened to the supportive boyfriend she met in high school? When did he change?

• • •

“I made elite again,” Camille had told Bobby last summer. “I'm going to make the national team. Andrew says I might be his first Olympian.” They were sitting in his car in the gym parking lot. She was sweaty and her hair was extra frizzy and it was pointless that Bobby had shown up to take her home because her mother had been in the observation room through her entire practice. But he was here anyway. Because he loved her, Camille guessed.

Bobby didn't say anything. His jaw tightened underneath his rust-colored stubble.

“He said we'd try only on vault. I think I convinced him to let me train floor, too, just for fun. But still, that's only two events,” Camille was saying. “So you don't need to worry, I'll only practice a few extra hours a week. He says with an Amanar like mine I have a chance at it.” Camille tried to sound as enthusiastic as possible, tried to get Bobby to smile. She felt tired. “What would you think of that: an Olympic girlfriend!”

“I thought you were excited to go to NYU with me this fall. I thought I was enough,” Bobby had almost whispered. “I put off college for a year just to be with you in that stupid gym.”

I didn't ask you to do that.

Camille said nothing about the picture that flashed in her brain anytime someone mentioned the word
college
: her, in the crowd of fifteen or so gymnasts in matching leos, her competing in the NCAA. Where the gymnasts seemed to truly love each other. Where they danced in unison on the sidelines as their teammates rocked creative floor routines. Where they trained a maximum of twenty-five hours a week.

Camille as a part of a team. It was a piece of her childhood she'd missed. Teamwork.

She swallowed her dreams in that car with Bobby.

If she could hold him off a little longer, she could make them both happy. First her mom training for the Olympics. Then Bobby with retirement.

Ultimately, it was only herself she'd have to disappoint.

She hadn't expected to have a chance to get to the Olympics with Andrew. Camille didn't know that within a year she'd be considered one of the best vaulters in the world, that she'd make the US national team quickly, that she'd do better in this new gymnastics body than she had in her first one.

Camille hadn't expected any of it.

For the past year Camille's heart had been a piece of putty being pulled and yanked by her mother and by Bobby. It was so out of shape, she couldn't recognize it anymore.

• • •

Camille landed yet another Amanar.

“That's enough for today,” Andrew said with a chuckle. “I think you've got it.”

Camille stopped her jog back to the end of the runway and turned to face her laughing coach.

“We don't want to wear you out, right?” he said.

She nodded. “Right,” she said.

But inside there was a strange queasy feeling. Disappointment.

Camille realized that she'd been having fun with this parade of perfect Amanars.

Had she just turned her last Amanar ever?

It was both freeing and heartbreaking.

GRACE

Grace finished practicing her floor routine. She posed in the far corner with her arms thrown over her head as she always did.

Then she hopped off the podium and reached for the water bottle in her father's hand. Her stomach was rumbling despite the five apple slices and tablespoon of peanut butter her father had forced her to eat at breakfast.

“Nice job, Grace!” Monica piped up. She'd gotten taller or something ever since that stupid interview last night. Like it counted for something. Like Katja wasn't just saying Monica's name to put down the other gymnasts.

Grace gave her a look. They were the only two present who had to share a coach and Grace was sick of it. She wasn't used to her father splitting his time. She had been looking forward to the break from his constant scrutiny during this meet, but she thought they would split her father's attention 80/20 or 70/30. Now, it was feeling like Monica was getting close to 50 percent of his time, and it wasn't fair. Because, first, Grace was more than his gymnast. She was his daughter. And second, Grace was better.

The worst thing about the morning was the compliments. First, there were all the compliments that her father kept giving Monica. After almost every routine he would say, “Good job, kiddo.” And that was it. Even when Monica's toes weren't pointed. Even when there was a separation between her legs. Even when her beam routine was full of so many balance checks, she looked more like a Mexican jumping bean than a gymnast. He'd still say, “Good job, kiddo.” And when she fell, on beam once and bars twice, he said, “It's okay. Get up there again, kiddo.”

Then there were the constant compliments that Monica was giving Grace. She was making herself look better, superior. What made her think she could decide what a “nice job” was? Who was Monica to judge Grace?

“That was pretty good, Gracie,” her father said. “You need to watch that bobble on your landing. And keep your knees straight when you pike.”

Grace nodded.
Seen and not heard.

She was sick of him acting like Monica was the talented one. There was only one way in which Monica was better than Grace: she was smaller.

And by the end of the morning practice, it felt like that was all that mattered.

Grace toweled off her face and took a few gulps of water before pulling on her sneakers and heading into the locker room. She put her hand on her stomach and told it to shut up.

She'd had a good workout. Her dad had said almost one-third positive things. That was well above average. And Grace had to admit that she might be steady because of the protein in that tablespoon of peanut butter.

Grace needed to be consistent tonight. Katja had pretty much said that to the world.

So, Grace left the gym determined to eat a regular lunch. She'd eaten a regular breakfast and gotten through the entire workout without one moment of a wobbly heart. She would force herself to have a few bites of meat, a full serving of vegetables, a little skim milk. Then, she'd shower and chill out in her bed in the air-conditioning, her wet hair feeling refreshing against the back of her neck.

Grace was not going to let her heart or her stomach interrupt her tonight. She'd seen Leigh fall over and over again on beam in practice. If she went into tonight as steady as she had this morning, she might be able to beat her, TTY and
all.

There would be no stupid message distracting her. Even if Dylan started messaging her again before or during the meet tonight, Grace would not look. There would be no focusing on being Leigh's friend or on food or on anything. She'd think about gymnastics.

But lunch was not a buffet. Instead, the gymnasts were seated and the staff of the hotel brought them turkey sandwiches on whole wheat bread, oranges, full glasses of skim milk.

Grace sat across from her father and stared at the food on her plate. She wished for the thousandth time that she was allowed to eat with the other gymnasts so she could see what they were doing. There was no way they were all going to eat two full slices of bread. It was loaded with pointless carbs. And there was no way they were going to eat an entire orange, with all the fructose.

Beside her, Grace heard crunching. Monica had taken a bite of the sandwich like it was no big deal.

But what were the older, mature, wise gymnasts doing? What were Wilhelmina and Leigh and Maria and Samantha doing with this meal? She wanted to eat like a normal gymnast, not like a normal person. She didn't want to eat so much that it coated her stomach, hung in there like a weight, and made her hit her hips against the bars.

“Don't get distracted, Gracie,” her dad said when she turned to look at the other gymnasts behind her. “Eat.”

Monica crunched beside her. Grace wanted to elbow her in the ribs.

Grace peeled the top layer of bread off. She figured if she ate the lettuce and turkey out of the sandwich, that would be good. She wished there were more vegetables. She had been ready to eat a full serving of celery or broccoli or cucumber or carrots, not a full serving of meat or bread.

“Just eat, Grace,” her father said again. “This is a good lunch. Eat it.”

He glanced at her plate. He almost looked suspicious. And she couldn't let him know. He could never find out. If he found out that she was only on the top because she was barely eating . . . If he knew she was a total fraud . . .

Grace took a small bite of the sandwich. At first her taste buds rejoiced at the flavor of the grain and the freshness of the turkey. The lettuce crunched between her teeth. A bit of mustard slipped onto the tongue, a spicy surprise. But her throat closed against it when she tried to swallow.

She had to talk to it. She put her hand on her larynx and said,
Swallow it. It seems bad for you, but it will be good for you.

But she didn't believe her own words. If she ate this entire meal, she'd consume more calories than she'd had in a single meal in weeks.

Grace played with her phone. She untied and retied her shoe.

The food from her first bite was still stuck between
her molars when Monica finished off half her sandwich.

“Grace,” her dad said. “Eat.” His eyes were wide. It was a command.

So, Grace took small bites and was sure to chew them until they were nothing but a flavorless paste in her mouth before swallowing. She took several sips of water and a small sip of milk between each bite.

A plan hatched in her brain but she didn't let it distract her from eating as slowly as possible.

Grace knew her father's patience was limited. She could stretch this out. She would outlast him.

Monica finished most of her sandwich and a few bites of her orange and all her milk before Grace had eaten five bites of her sandwich. Grace would not eat the orange.

Monica left. Most of the other gymnasts and coaches left.

Her father finished eating and started fooling around on his phone while Grace took another slow bite.

Finally, when Grace was about a third of the way through the first half of the turkey monster, her father gave up on her.

“Finish eating and get some rest. Make sure your head is in the game, okay?” he said.

She nodded. She took another small bite for good measure.

Then, her dad did something remarkable. Shocking. He stood up, walked to Grace's side, and leaned over and kissed the top of her head.

“You're so close to winning this thing. If we do it like yesterday, like this morning, you're winning. I can feel it. I can taste it. I'm so glad you're my kid.”

Grace nodded, this time telling her tear ducts to suck the tears back in.

That kiss woke up the part of her brain that she had almost succeeded in shutting down completely: Grace as a non-gymnast daughter. Where was her mother?
Why isn't she here? Why do we have to stick Max with a babysitter? What's wrong with me that I could lose my own mother?

Her dad was gone. Grace turned off those thoughts like it was as simple as spinning a faucet.

Grace looked down at her plate. She'd eaten close to half of the first half of the sandwich. She'd drunk a quarter of the milk. It was more than she'd consumed in a long time.

She had to do it like yesterday. Like this morning. Like her dad said. He thought she needed to eat, but he had no idea how little had been in her system yesterday. She had to stop eating.

Grace looked around. She was the last person in the ballroom except for a few of the staff who were cleaning. Slowly, she stood. She walked her almost-full tray to the garbage can and, with only a millisecond of hesitation, she dumped it. She spat the bite in her mouth out and into the black hole for good measure.

She would win. She had
to.

It was only when she looked up that she saw the two eyes watching her through the doorway.

Wilhelmina.

MONICA

Monica was terrified. But she didn't look it.

She looked ready. She had never looked more ready.

There was someone watching her. Katja had followed her career.

She had to treat herself like she mattered. She had to believe she mattered.

Katja had used Monica's career to insult Wilhelmina. Monica couldn't let that be what her gymnastics was all about.

Monica snapped the sleeve of her bright blue leotard in place on her wrist and studied herself in the bathroom mirror. Thanks to one of the USAG volunteers, her dark hair was done in twin French braids that twisted in the back of her head and formed a bun at the bottom of her skull. Her blue eye shadow matched the blue of her leotard and made her usually dull skin look creamy and mysterious. The star-patterned gemstones on her leo's sleeves glistened in the light of the bathroom. And her butt glue was carefully applied and would do a better job than yesterday. She hoped.

BOOK: Tumbling
12.25Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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