Tumbling (27 page)

No. He was standing five feet away and ignoring her. Like Grace had wanted to mess everything up. Like she'd done it to punish him.

Grace turned back to her gym bag and opened her phone. Maybe someone who knew nothing about gymnastics would have a nice word for her. Maybe there'd be one person who understood. But, for the first time in six rotations, there was nothing. No message. Even Dylan was disappointed in her.

Grace looked up again and couldn't help catching Leigh's perfect release move in the corner of her vision.

It would be impossible now. Leigh had messed up a little and Grace had wasted the opportunity by messing up a lot. In order to beat Leigh, Grace had to have a higher score on bars. Leigh's degree of difficulty was too close to hers on beam and slightly higher on floor. It would be impossible now.

Unless Leigh
fell.

LEIGH

No, Grace! No!

In the fraction of a second that Grace went weak on top of the uneven bars, Leigh almost screamed. She almost rushed the podium to stand beneath her friend with her arms out, as if she could get there in time to catch the crumbling gymnast. She almost cried.

In that tiny moment, all Leigh could see was the confusion in Camille's eyes an hour ago. The fear. The loss. All she could hear was Camille's voice, choppy like waves during a thunderstorm, saying, “It's hard to make a comeback,” over and over again.

But Grace maintained her grip and Leigh exhaled. When Grace exited the podium after a downgraded dismount, Leigh wanted to rush at her. Leigh wanted to throw her arms around her best friend and say,
Thank God you're okay.

Instead, Leigh walked past Grace silently as she made her way to the chalk bucket. She knew better. Grace didn't understand Leigh, but Leigh sure understood Grace.

Grace didn't ever think about life without gymnastics. Grace didn't sit in her high-school Algebra II class and stare at the girls who were passing notes and wonder what it would be like to be the kind of high-school
girl who would pass around her secrets on folded up pieces of paper. Grace's brain never left the gym. There was no way she realized how close she almost came to leaving it forever.

If it was that hard for Camille, who was well-rounded and smiley and rock solid, it would be impossible for Leigh's friend Grace.

I'm going to win now
, Leigh thought. She knew it in her gut. And though she was being nice enough to feel sympathy for Grace from the sidelines, Leigh would win. Letting Grace win was not the kind of nice she wanted to be.

Leigh felt calm as she stood beneath the high bar for the second time in this meet. She remembered the series of crippling fears that had rattled her bones the previous evening, but today they were absent. She might mess up. She might miss a connection or slip on a handstand or fall on the dismount. But she would be herself.

She was Leigh Becker. National champion. A girl so close to making the Olympic team. A girl so close to her dream.

And she was also Leigh Becker. Public high-school student. Friend. Daughter. Confused, closeted lesbian.

Leigh couldn't talk about all the parts of herself but she would still
be
them. She'd win this meet being her whole self.

The flag turned green. Leigh signaled the judges. It was like her entire body was smiling.
Here we go.

She ran at the springboard, grabbed the high bar
with both of her hands, and swung herself into a handstand.

The bars were her enemy. The bars were her servants.

Leigh swung around in a giant, then sailed over the high bar, folded her body in half across her straddle, and flipped in her first release move. She reached to re-clasp the bar and found herself with her arms spread, ready for contact long before necessary. She was sitting in the air. She was actually flying.

The crowd awarded her with happy gasps and hoots.

Yes!
Leigh thought.
I've never gotten that reaction on bars before.

She performed a Pak salto to the low bar. Her legs were straight and tight together. Her toes were pointed.

She transitioned right back to the high bar, once again flying higher than necessary. One handstand, double pirouette, two giants before her dismount. She nailed them all. The crowd whooped and clapped and enjoyed.

From her final giant, Leigh used her elbows and biceps, wrists and forearms to catapult her body as high as she could above the high bar. Then she swung her feet over her head and twisted twice. She felt the floor coming toward her backside so she rushed her final twist. Her feet found the floor.

She hopped forward about four inches but found her balance easily. The smile for the judges was already on her face.

She ran to the edge of the podium and jumped
directly into Phil's arms. He swung her around, yelling, “That was it! That was it!”

He put her down and leaned over to whisper in her ear. “If that's Leigh as a nice gymnast, I'll take it.”

She smiled back at him. “I wasn't being nice to the bars.”

They both laughed.

Then she felt a warm hand on her shoulder. She turned.

“Great job, Normal Girl,” Camille said. Then she was being hugged. Again.

“Thanks . . . I mean, thank you. You know, for coming over here. For . . . Thanks.”
Shut up, Leigh!

Camille smiled but it was only a half smile. Did she know? Did she suspect?

“I need to talk to Mina,” she said. “But I caught that routine and . . . Wow.”

Leigh bit her lips to keep herself from
I mean-
ing all over this beautiful girl one more time. She nodded.

Then Camille was gone and everything else was the same. Phil was smiling at her. Her scores were high. She was winning. And it seemed like, once again, no one noticed, no one guessed her secret.

It was an almost-perfect moment. But part of Leigh wished she could steal that microphone right from the announcer and claim that final part of herself. She would declare to the whole stadium, “I am Leigh Becker; I am winning this meet; and I like girls. Deal with
it.”

WILHELMINA

Grace had almost melted on bars. She'd almost dripped into a bloody puddle on the purple mat beneath the high bar and Wilhelmina felt like only she knew why. She'd kept her back turned to the bars the whole rotation until that gasp from the crowd made her head pivot without thinking. And what she'd seen was a girl breaking in two, a person whisking into nothing, a gymnast dissolving. Why was she the only one seeing this?

Wilhelmina could not report Grace.

Grace would be right: Wilhelmina didn't like Grace. Wilhelmina didn't want Grace going to the Olympics, stealing her own destiny. But Wilhelmina didn't want the girl to shatter, either.

And what if Grace broke like that, and somehow Wilhelmina won the meet? She'd be going to the Olympics with Katja hating her the entire time. Would it be worth it?

It was so unfair.

Don't think about this today.

Wilhelmina squeezed her eyes shut and tried to meditate on the 9.632 execution score she'd gotten on vault. She tried to picture it on the scoreboard next to her name. She'd heard it announced but she hadn't looked at the standings. She was focused on her own
gymnastics. She was good at avoiding the scoreboard until the end of the meet.

Bars would be her hardest test. Judges were picky on bars, and they weren't built for girls like her anyway. In order to get that 9.5 or better, she'd need to keep her legs glued together (as much as possible, considering her bulging quadriceps). She'd need to keep her toes pointed. She'd need to nail each handstand, landing exactly perpendicular to the high bar. She'd need to fly on her release moves and catch the bar at the exact right second. She'd need to be strong and sturdy, like the bars were an extension of her own limbs.

And bars were hardest for another reason: if Wilhelmina did get that 9.5, she'd have the highest score on bars today, on
bars
, on her worst event. She'd have the highest score on her worst event on the second day of the meet. And even if that happened, she still wouldn't get chosen. She was never going to be chosen. She had to win the meet or else she'd be out. And unless terrible things happened to Grace and Leigh and Georgette, it was impossible for her to win the meet.

Wilhelmina had to keep the bitterness from stinking through her sweat glands. She had to focus on her gymnastics.

Later, she'd complain to Davion. And he'd hug her. And she'd kiss him. And he'd kiss her back. They'd sit on the hood of his car and his arms would be around her waist and . . .

All right, so Wilhelmina was
mostly
succeeding in
her quest to think only about her gymnastics.

The announcer called her name. Wilhelmina stepped up to the bars feeling like Babe Ruth must have on the mound. Like she knew exactly how to do what she needed to do. Like she controlled not just her muscles but gravity and physics. Like she could make all the forces that would want to pull her body down irrelevant by the sheer determination to succeed according to her own definition, the sheer destiny of 9.5.

She mounted the low bar and, ninety seconds later, she was halfway to her daily goal.

Wilhelmina turned immediately from the judges to Katja.
How do you like that?
she asked the old lady in her head.
I bet you want that bars routine representing America.

But Katja was staring back at Mina with an expression so cold, she was sure it would freeze the blood in her veins if she looked at her for too long. Katja hated her. In the frigidness of that stare, in the aftermath of her threats, it became clear to Wilhelmina in a new way. Katja would hate her more and more the better she did. And if Mina somehow managed to make the team, Katja would make her life miserable.

Not. Today
, she told herself.

Wilhelmina kept her head twisted away from the scoreboard as she ran through the obligatory hugs and thank-yous that come after a successful routine. Camille was at the end of her receiving line.

“What are you doing over here?” Wilhelmina said.

“I wanted to cheer you on,” Camille said. She followed Wilhelmina over to the folding chairs and plopped down as Wilhelmina rubbed lotion over her knees. “And”—Camille's voice got quiet. Wilhelmina looked up at her—“I want to apologize. I'm sorry. For what I said yesterday and this morning. About Katja. I shouldn't have stuck my nose in it. I shouldn't have—”

Wilhelmina shook her head. “You were right,” she said.

Camille shrugged. “I wasn't trying to hurt you or mess you up or anything. It just popped out of my mouth.” She paused. “And who really knows what Katja's thinking? I didn't hear what she said last night, but it sounds like she might not have meant it. You still have a chance . . .”

Wilhelmina squinted.
What would have happened if Camille hadn't said that yesterday?
she wondered. She would still be jittery. She'd be staring at the scoreboard. She'd be trying to control Leigh's and Georgette's and Maria's and even Camille's performances. She'd be so concerned about Grace's DODs that she wouldn't see her failing body. She'd be thinking about the Olympics all day, and then it would still be over.

“It's weird,” she said to Camille. “But it actually helped me.”

Camille bit her bottom lip like she was nervous about something else. “So . . . are we friends? Because I could use
one.”

Wilhelmina stopped her eyes from rolling. She stopped herself from saying no. There was more to life than gymnastics; there had to be or hers wouldn't be worth living after today. She wasn't going to focus on the rest of them—Grace or Camille or Monica or anyone—as gymnasts today. But that didn't mean she couldn't think of them as people.

Wilhelmina nodded. She sat next to her friend and focused on her face, making sure Maria and the bars were totally out of her vision.

CAMILLE

Camille spilled her guts. She let all the words fall out of her and pile up at Wilhelmina's feet: how she was always worried about her mother, how she was always disappointing Bobby, how she never knew the right thing to do.

How Bobby had dumped her and then showed up out of nowhere.

Camille didn't know why she was talking. She'd never said this stuff to anyone. Not even the people she trusted the most. But now, Camille wasn't sure if she cared whether any of this got repeated. She'd been balancing them alone for too long now: her mother and her boyfriend. She felt like she lived her life standing on her left foot with her arms spread outward and her hands
turned upward. Her mother sat on one hand. Bobby sat on the other.

She'd been thinking so much about what they wanted, she'd never even stopped to think about what she wanted. Until Leigh beat her on vault. Until she'd almost gotten it.

She wanted the NCAA. But that would hurt both Bobby and her mom.

Somehow, she had lost her right foot and the ability to stand still and balanced.

She didn't—she couldn't—tell Wilhelmina anything about the real debate going on in her brain: to vault or not to vault? She couldn't tell that to anyone. But she wasn't sure she could figure it out without talking to Bobby first. She needed someone to give her permission to break the rules, sneak into the bathroom, and call him.

“He's up there,” Camille said. She nodded to the stands behind them and they both turned to look.

There he was. His curls bouncing as he waved his phone at her.

“He wants me to call him,” Camille said.

Wilhelmina shook her head. Her words came slowly, like she didn't really know what to say. “You're in the middle of a meet. You're not allowed to talk on your phone.”

Camille sighed. “I know. But he came all the way here and—”

Wilhelmina cut her off. “No. He's a selfish jerk. Don't ruin your meet over him. Get your butt over the vault.”