Gold Medal Summer (3 page)

The
beach is perfect this morning. The sun is a big yellow ball hovering against the blue, making the ocean glitter below it. A slight breeze cuts the heat. The sand is almost completely empty of bathers, which is just the way I like it.

This bodes well for practice today
, I think, as I start a series of sprints up and down the wet, hard sand.
And after yesterday, I need all the help I can get.
The sound of the waves makes me feel so centered, so like myself, like nothing can shake me. If only Regionals took place at the beach, I'd be golden. Maybe literally.

When I finish the sprints, I take a break and walk down to the water. Tiny waves splash across my feet and feel like heaven after all that exertion. I decide to allow myself a few minutes of fun, and spend it cartwheeling in water shin deep, loving the way my toes kick up spray on their way over my head and how my arms are submerged to my elbows. My ponytail dips under and then cools the back of my neck when I'm upright again. Doing gymnastics at the beach, even simple cartwheels, always helps remind me why I love the sport and why I work so hard day in and day out. Without Coach breathing down my neck, or anyone else to please for that matter, I just enjoy the things my body can do for what they are. Tumbling in the waves is just an added bonus.

After enough cartwheels to coat my skin thoroughly in beads of salt water, I do a few aerials, starting ankle deep, my head easily clearing the water, then moving farther and farther in until during one aerial, my nose barely misses the surf and I almost collapse into the waves, laughing. Then I remember my workout.

I head back up to my towel and dry off. After dropping a stopwatch onto one of my flip-flops, I kick a handstand and stay still as long as I can before I have to hand walk a bit, a few steps left, then a few right. I shift a little more, muscles tight, toes pointed, briefly noticing a perfect, white shell centered between my hands, the size of a dime and so thin I can see through it. The watch ticks toward six minutes, my goal.

There is nothing like being upside down. If you are me, at least.

“Do you
ever
stop for a breath?”

The voice comes suddenly from above and behind me. I do a half turn, the heels of my hands digging into the sand. There are two minutes and twenty-five seconds still remaining, and I'm not about to let someone mess with my workout.

“Excuse me?” I call out without coming down, my eyes searching the beach for the owner of the voice. The
boy
owner. Then I find the feet, then knees, then shoulders, and finally the face of a boy with light curly hair hanging down across his eyes. Still on my hands, I walk a few paces farther away for a better look.

Uh-oh. He's cute.
Really
cute.

Why's he talking to me anyway?

The boy crosses his arms. Looks smug. “I can wait until you're done.”

“Um, am I missing something here?” My voice is strained as I do my best not to fall. My shoulders are burning up. “Do I know you?”

“Are you planning to have a conversation with me upside down?”

“No one told me about any conversations scheduled for this morning.” Each word requires tremendous effort now. “Please, just give me a sec.” Well, forty to be exact. I watch the final seconds on the stopwatch count down to zero, eager to take a break, though not as eager to have to face this boy when I'm upright.
Ten, nine, eight.
I mean, I don't talk to boys on a regular basis.
Five, four.
Who has time for learning
that
skill when you're training? Besides, Coach Angelo forbids us from getting involved with boys. Too much distraction. If only I was a tiny sand crab and I could scuttle away into my tunnel to hide from this situation. Alas.

Zero appears on the stopwatch, and I can finally come down. “Look out,” I say. My legs slice the air into a split, then my first leg begins its journey toward the sand, my back arching into a front walkover. One foot lands, the other joins it, and standing again, I turn to see the boy.

“You are very focused,” he says.

My breath comes in gasps. “I'm a gymnast,” I declare, then feel like an idiot saying this to some random boy. See, it's proven: no boy-talking skills or experience to speak of in my repertoire.

He's a good six inches taller than me, and even cuter now that I'm no longer upside down. He's smiling too — one of those smiles that shows all your teeth, the same kind I use when I perform at competitions.

“The beach is for hanging out and having fun,” he says, “not for concentrating.”

“Maybe for some people,” I say and roll my head in a circle to work out a kink in my neck. Then I shake out my arms and legs, trying to relieve my sore muscles.

The boy brushes his hair out of his eyes and I see that they are big and blue. “You don't remember me, do you?”

I study his face. Rack my brain. “Should I?”

His smile turns into a grin. “Well, I remember you.”

“Are you going to make me guess?”

“Come on, think,” he says, pausing and tapping a finger against his lips. “My hair used to be
really
blond, practically white in summer….”

My eyes narrow. White blond hair?

“The last time we saw each other, you said you didn't think you could make it a week without seeing me. You were upside down then too, on the monkey bars in Oceanside Park. Joey Jordan,” he adds, drawing out each syllable of my name long and slow.

No. Way.

“T. J. Hughes? Is that you?”

“Jackpot,” he says and grins again. “Though I go by Tanner now, not T.J. Are you still Joey or are you Johanna these days?”

“No. Never Johanna. Just Joey,” I say, seeing the resemblance now. The wide blue eyes, and the blond hair that yes, used to be white and is darker now, but still long and everywhere, and that grin … The grin is what jogs my memory most. “I can't believe this. I can't believe it's really you!” I take a step forward, then stop. Are we supposed to hug? Even though I hug my teammates dozens of times in a single practice, somehow, hugging T.J.,
Tanner
, feels like a big deal. “It's been, what, like, four years?”

“Five,” he says. “I was almost ten and you were almost nine.”

“And our birthdays are on the same day, exactly one year apart,” I say, laughing as everything starts to come back. “Which was how we became friends in the first place, because our moms decided we should share a birthday party.”

“When I was turning eight and you were turning seven.”

“They said it was more economical that way.”

“And really it was just a disaster.”

“Because I wanted a gymnastics party and you wanted a baseball party, and all of my friends used the baseball diamond for the floor exercise.” I put my hand over my mouth, laughing harder now.

“My friend Jason hit your friend Sam in the back when he bunted —”

“And I kicked you in the head when you wouldn't get out of my way. Not intentionally, of course. I was doing a back walkover.”

He laughs. “So times haven't changed much, then, have they?”

“Not really. Though I'm even more serious about gymnastics now than I was before. It's pretty much my life.”

“I figured, from what I've seen online. Your friend — what's her name, Alex? — may take the gold a lot, but it's you in all the photographs. The reporters love describing you on beam.”

My cheeks begin to burn. “You've read about me?”

“Obviously,” he says.

I don't say anything this time. I don't know what to say. I think this might be what normal girls call flirting. This is not exactly the simple morning workout I had planned.

“So what are you doing back here?” I finally manage. “Just visiting?”

“Nope. It's permanent. We moved. My mom even got her old job back.” Tanner looks straight at me as he says this. “Mom decided that once you live by the ocean, it ruins you for anywhere else forever, so we may as well give in and return, because why postpone the inevitable, you know?”

I smile at this. I can't help it. “You're here for good? Seriously?”

“Uh-huh.” Tanner's eyes finally shift, scanning the beach, two spots of red dotting his cheeks.

Is he
blushing
? And now I am too. Gah, gah, gah! I need to end this conversation before it makes me any more crazy. Plus the sun tells me it's getting late and I need to be on my way to practice, which, at the moment, makes me feel relieved. “Hey,” I blurt. “So unfortunately I've got places to go, and really soon.”

“I'm sure,” he says, and takes a step closer to me. His skin is already dark from the sun, and I remember how he was one of those blond boys who got tanned, not burned in the summer. “So when do we get to hang out and catch up for real? Got some time later today?”

“Um, no. I have practice.”

“All day?”

“Yeah, actually,” I say, shifting from one foot to the other, the sand rough and shifting under my feet. “Pretty much until I have to go home for dinner.”

“After dinner, then?”

“I have to go to bed by ten. I need my rest.”

“Wow. That's rough.”

“Not really. It's just my life. I'm used to it.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“I do the exact same thing tomorrow.”

He shakes his head. “Wait, let me guess: This is your schedule every day this summer.”

“Just about,” I say, grabbing my towel, backpack, and flip-flops from the sand. “I'm training for Regionals.”

“You don't have a single day off between now and then? A day when you don't go to practice or a competition?”

“Technically, we don't practice on Sundays,” I say, “but I usually go to the gym to work on my technique. The exciting life of a gymnast,” I add with a roll of my eyes.

“So am I never going to get to catch up with you?”

“That would be nice,” I say, as another bloom of red warms my cheeks. “But right now it's ten thirty-five, and if I don't leave, I'll be late for practice and have to face the wrath of my coach. I hope we run into each other again, though.”

“Good to know,” he says. “Me too.”

I smile big this time. “See you soon, then,” I say, and start on my way, my feet stepping and slipping toward the path that cuts through the dunes. The smile stays on my face all the way to the gym.

There
is a word — no, a
name
— scrolling through my mind on repeat, and the repetition is making me kind of giddy.

Tanner, Tanner, Tanner.

My friend Tanner has moved back to town. And somehow he turned
gorgeous
between the last time I saw him on the playground and today. And he wants to see me again!

But I can't. Shouldn't.

Sigh.

This is no time for boy-obsessing, because practice is about to start, and practice is serious. Distractions lead to falls and injuries and the end of a gymnast's career. This is exactly why Coach has a No Boys Allowed policy. Boys are dangerous to a gymnast's concentration. It's true too.

Despite this, my mind goes right back to where it was before:
Tanner, Tanner, Tanner.

“Why the dreamy smile, Joey?”

It takes a minute to register that someone is talking to me. I turn to see Trish leaning against the wall of the gym a few yards from the entrance, next to a mural of a leaping gymnast in a blue leotard. The toe of her front leg points straight at Trish, as if to say,
Live gymnast here!

“Hey, Trish,” I say, heading over to give her a quick hug. I'm suddenly envious of the way her long blond hair, gathered into a ponytail, falls in soft curls to the middle of her back. My dark hair seems so boring in comparison.

“So what were you thinking about, hmm?” she asks, her eyes curious but sweet.

I could tell Trish about Tanner and she wouldn't tell another soul, because her heart's so good that she's immune to even the juiciest gossip. But I worry that if I say something out loud to another living, breathing person, then the temptation to keep Tanner on my mind will only get worse. “Oh, I was just daydreaming about sticking my beam routine.”

She gives my arm a squeeze. “You can do it, Joey. You
will
. Next competition, it will happen. I'm sure of it.”

“Thanks, Trish,” I say.

She glances around the parking lot. “Where's Alex today?”

I shrug. “Not here yet, I guess. Maybe she's taping up her ankle — I'm sure it's hurting after yesterday.”

“Do you think she's coming?”

“Of course. Just because you win gold doesn't mean Coach gives you a day off,” I say with a laugh. The bloody rip at the center of my palm suddenly stings, a reminder of the pain I'll have to block out on bars today.

“I guess,” Trish says. “I wouldn't know anything about winning gold, though.”

“Your time will come too, Trish.”

She smiles. “So are you going to wait out here for Alex?”

“Probably.”

“I'll see you inside, then,” she says, pushing off the wall and heading toward the entrance, her ponytail swinging from side to side with each step.

Now it's my turn to wait by the painted, pointed toe at the end of the gymnast's leg. Since I'm shorter than Trish, the gymnast's foot reaches toward my jaw, as if she wants to kick me in the head. After a minute, I check my phone for the time. 10:55
A.M
. Where is Alex? An SUV turns into the lot, followed by an old gray pickup truck. One of the younger girls — Susie, I think — gives her mother a peck and opens the door of the SUV, blocking the truck from pulling into the only open spot left.

As it sits there idling, I notice Alex in the passenger side. Her mother drives a tiny silver Toyota and her father, a Jeep. I know this because I've been getting rides from Alex's family for as long as I can remember. Before I can check out the mystery driver, the SUV takes off and the truck swerves into the parking space. Through its dusty back window, I can just make out Alex's outline. It's weird that she's wearing her curly hair down this close to the start of practice. The person next to her is definitely not her mother, her father, nor even her older brother. But it's definitely a guy, and he's definitely young, though obviously not too young to drive. Alex and he are just sitting there, staring at each other, her profile edged with the sun's glow.

Is Alex with a
boy
? A boy she
likes
? Is today National Boys-Talk-to-Gymnasts Day or something? I can't believe she hasn't said anything to me.

Suddenly, I feel like I'm intruding on something private. But I can't make myself turn away either. If Alex has a real boyfriend, someone she hangs out with enough that he drives her around, she could get booted off the team if she isn't careful. And she's not being careful, letting him drop her off like this. What if
Coach
saw her? One time, he caught our former teammate (emphasis on
former
) Ashley November kissing a boy a few blocks away from the gym. Coach drove by and saw them. He gave her one chance to break it off, and when she didn't, bye-bye, Ashley. But Coach would never do that to his current Gansett Darling. Would he?

And what do
I
do? Wait here? Or leave Alex to her, um, whatever he is?

Better to go inside and pretend none of this happened, I decide, and I leave the painted gymnast without anyone to point to. My mind spins around the possibility of boys, boys, boys in our lives, and the way they've shown up so fast, when only moments ago, they didn't seem to exist at all.

 

The rush of air-conditioning after so much heat raises goose bumps on my arms. I hurry through the lobby to the changing area in the back, stripping off my T-shirt and stepping out of my shorts as I go, doing my best to ignore the sting of so many photographs of my sister along the way. Julia winning the gold medal at Regionals. Julia winning the gold medal at a local rivalry competition. Julia winning another gold medal at another Regionals, and of course, Julia up on that top podium when she won gold for the All-Around at Nationals, tears of joy streaming down her face.

There is a chorus of “Hi, Joey!'s” from some of the younger girls when I reach the cubbies. Everyone is putting away their things, and some of them are in front of the mirrors applying lipstick.

“Hi, guys,” I say. I want to tell them that gymnasts do
not
wear makeup to practice, only at important competitions, and that putting on lipstick before practice is a sign that they are not and never will be serious medal contenders. Then I remember the way my head has been in the clouds about Tanner for the last half hour and wonder whether I should be doling out advice. Alex still hasn't come in, so I shove my T-shirt and shorts into my cubby on top of my flip-flops and head inside the gym to begin warming up without her.

Coach Angelo shakes his head when he sees me, meaning he's still disappointed about my fall from beam. I hate the first practice after a competition. It's always about paying for your sins of the day before.

Trish is stretching in the far corner of the floor and I make my way to her, stepping over my teammates like they are driftwood littered along the beach. “Where's Alex?” Trish whispers.

“I don't know,” I lie, getting down into a straddle split. The clock on the wall reads 11:01
A.M
. Alex is officially late. Coach will not be pleased, but he doesn't seem to have noticed yet. He's standing in front of the far wall, deep in conversation with our assistant coach, Maureen, right under the blue and white banner that says, A
T
G
ANSETT
, W
E
A
RE
A
LL
S
TARS
! in gigantic block letters. Without fail, those words make me roll my eyes. Scattered across the long cinder-block wall, above the runway for the vault, are more signs with your standard gymnastics wisdom. J
UST
S
TICK
I
T
! is up there a number of times, along with F
EAR
I
S
N
OT
A
LLOWED IN THIS
G
YM
! and G
YMNASTICS
I
S
M
Y
L
IFE
! The sign that reads N
O
P
AIN
, N
O
G
AIN
! is the biggest one, and has the place of pride right next to the main banner. Every time you land — or don't land — your vault, when you turn to go back up to start again, you have to face these words.

“Hey, Joey,” says Heather Aronson, who's warming up a few feet away from Trish and me. “Too bad about that fall yesterday.” Her eyes blink wide and innocent.

I count to ten in my head. “Yeah, thanks,” I say calmly. Almost no one on our team likes Heather. She's constantly reminding everyone about what went wrong at competitions, lording it over us as though she's always perfect. Which she's not. But she has a nightmare of a mother who constantly criticizes her, no matter how well she does at a meet, and who's so invested in her daughter's gymnastics career that she even chooses her floor exercise music, which, most recently, is some sort of boring, tinkly opera piece. This doesn't excuse Heather's annoying qualities, but when I have to deal with her, it helps to remember how difficult her family is.

I'm done with my split stretches, so I bring both legs together, my toes pointed, and press my torso flat against my thighs, my body like a folded up jackknife. When I straighten up, I see Alex approaching. Her face is flushed, and I doubt it's just from the heat outside. She is smiling too, despite the fact that she is limping, and clearly oblivious to the stares from our teammates. Whether they're staring because Alex is late or because of yesterday's win or because, as always, she is the Gansett Stars Darling, I'm not sure.

Was my smile like that after I saw Tanner?

The mere thought makes me shudder. My job is to focus, train, and win, not swoon over some stupid boy.

Alex slides down into a split next to Trish and me. “Do you think Coach noticed I'm late?” she whispers.

Trish just shrugs.

I arch into a back bend, my arms pressed against my ears, straightening my legs to curve my body into a half-heart shape, and hold myself there, my eyes on Alex even though I am upside down. “Coach always notices,” I tell her. “You know that.”

Alex sighs, but the smile doesn't leave her face. “Sometimes I wish …”

“You wish what?” I ask before straightening up. I want Alex to pull me aside and confess everything, but she's staring into space as if I hadn't spoken at all. A minute goes by before I give up. “Listen, I'm warmed up already, so I'm going to head to beam before Coach yells at me to get over there.”

Alex comes out of her daydream to give me an encouraging look. “Show him you can stick the layout, Joey. You can do it,” she says, her tone fierce.

I smile back, grateful for her support, sure, but more relieved to see the Alex I know and love again. I get up and walk straight past the row of low practice beams that sit barely an inch off the ground, to the one high beam set out in front of all the other ones like a showpiece along one edge of the spring floor.

I hop up, walk to one end, and before I can become nervous or psych myself out or even remember my fall from yesterday, I stare down the ends of my fingertips, arms outstretched in a straight line just below eye level. I swing them up and over my head into a perfect back handspring, right into the highest, most confident back layout I've ever thrown on beam.

And I stick it.

“Woohoo! Go, Joey,” cheer Alex and Trish. A few other teammates whistle their appreciation.

My arms rise up over my head in a flourish, posed and proud. When I turn to dismount, Coach Angelo is standing on the blue mat below, his arms crossed, clipboard pressed against the left side of his body. His face is expressionless. I freeze.

“Where do you think you're going?” he asks, his voice cold.

“Um, I just … I knew you'd want me to do my back layout first thing, so I thought I'd get on it before you needed to tell me to.”

“Joey, what
exactly
did you fall on yesterday? Was it a back handspring back layout?”

I hesitate, the inside of my stomach doing flip-flops. “Well … no.”

“Don't play games. You're wasting time. Answer me.”

I take a deep breath. “It was a back handspring, back handspring into a back layout.”

“So what made you think that doing a single back handspring into a back layout would cut it?”

I open my mouth and close it, then open it again. “Nothing, I just —”

He raises a hand to cut me off. “Before you come down from that beam, Joey Jordan, you are to stick twenty tumbling passes without a single bobble. Do you understand?”

I swallow. Nod.

“You want to win, don't you?”

“Yes, Coach,” I say, then decide to go for broke. “But, well —”

Angelo's glare halts my words. “But what?”

“Um, ah,” I say, stumbling, yet still determined. “I was thinking that maybe I'd do better, um, if we changed my routines to reflect my strengths.”

Coach meets this challenge with a cold silence. “Ms. Jordan,” he says finally, his voice sharp with anger. “Twenty passes. Now. Your feet will not touch this floor until you are done.” He gives me a long, hard look before turning and walking away, as if I'd said nothing at all. “Alex,” he barks. “Come here!”

The only sound is Alex's hurrying feet. Everyone else has gone silent. I don't need to look to know that all my teammates are watching me, waiting to see how I react. Inside, I know that my instincts are right, that with changes to my routine, I'd have a real chance at winning. But here at this gym, Coach's orders are law, so there is nothing else to do but obey. I walk to the very end of the beam, my bare feet pressing against the rough, springy texture, my toes gripping the edge with each step, and once again, I am staring down the ends of my fingertips, my arms outstretched, ready to launch into my first of twenty back handspring, back handspring, back layout passes — that is, twenty if I stick every single one in a row. I could be here for the full six hours of practice if I can't pull myself together.