Tumbling (2 page)

USA Gymnastics
Women's Olympic Trials

ROSTER

SQUAD A: Bars, Beam, Floor, Vault

SQUAD B: Vault, Bars, Beam, Floor

LEIGH BECKER, A:

Prediction: 1st Place in the All-Around

16 years old, 5'1”

Current National Champion, All-Around

Member of the Current World Bronze Medal Team

GRACE COOPER, B:

Prediction: 2nd Place in the All-Around

17 years old, 4'10”

Current World Champion, All-Around

Member of the Current World Bronze Medal Team

GEORGETTE PAULSON, B:

Prediction: 3rd Place in the All-Around

17 years old, 5'0”

Current National Champion, beam, bronze medal in All-Around

Member of the Current World Bronze Medal Team

KRISTIN JACKSON, A:

Prediction: 4th Place in the All-Around

15 years old, 4'11”

Current Junior National Champion

MARIA VASQUEZ, A:

Prediction: 5th Place in the All-Around

20 years old, 5'2”

Current Olympic Champion, All-Around

Olympic Silver Medalist, Vault

Member of the Olympic Bronze-Medal-Winning Team, four years ago

WILHELMINA PARKER, B:

Prediction: 6th Place in the All-Around

19 years old, 5'0”

Junior Nationals and JO World Champion,
All-Around, three years ago

World Silver Medalist, two years ago

ANNIE SIMMS, B:

Prediction: 7th Place in the All-Around

16 years old, 4'11”

National Champion, Bars, 1 year ago

NATALIE RICE, A:

Prediction: 8th Place in the All-Around

15 years old, 5'1”

Current Junior National Runner-Up, All-Around

MONICA CHASE, A:

Prediction: 9th Place in the All-Around

15 years old, 4'10”

American Cup Runner-Up, Bars and Floor

CAMILLE ABRAMS, B:

Specialist, Vault and Floor

20 years old, 5'1”

Worlds Team Member, All-Around, three, four, and five years ago

SAMANTHA SOLOMAN, B:

Specialist, Bars and Beam

22 years old, 5'0”

Current Olympic Champion, Beam

Member of the previous Bronze-Medal-Winning Olympic Team

OLIVIA CORSICA, A:

Specialist, Floor and Beam

17 years old, 5'1”

Current National Runner-Up,
Floor

Minutes Before

The gymnasts gathered at the opening to the arena. From a distance, they looked like a mass of perfectly pressed red, blue, and bright white warm-ups; cheerful hair ribbons; precise makeup; and genuine smiles. But the mood was somber.

Somewhere on an edge of the gym floor in the Baltimore Metroplex, the announcers blathered on about the twelve gymnasts who were embracing each other under the stadium seats in the northernmost corner. They spoke of veterans versus brand-new baby seniors. They spoke of event specialists and all-arounders. They discussed the likely makeup of the final Olympic team—which names were destined to be called at the end of the meet the next night, and which positions were still up for grabs. They talked about comebacks and international debuts and likely breakout stars. Other names they didn't mention: the few who felt lucky to be present, who dared not hope to proceed.

“The top athlete in the all-around tomorrow night is guaranteed her place on the US Olympic team. She'll board the plane to Italy the day after tomorrow,”
announcers explained to television cameras and faceless fans at home. “Katja Minkovski and the Olympic selection committee will choose the other four members of the team. It's like filling in pieces of a puzzle: which five girls have the exact combination of talents most likely to bring home team gold? They may choose one or two specialists, or they may round out the team with four more all-arounders. We predict they'll choose at least one specialist, but nothing is guaranteed. Plus, they'll choose three alternates,” the announcers said.

But all of these lines were drawn far away from the mass of young women inside the gray cave underneath the bleachers. There, among the USA's best female gymnasts, these rules did not matter. The divisions and distinctions, the rivalries and scores would fall on their shoulders as soon as they stepped onto the gym floor. But not yet. Instead, twelve girls faced one another knowing that, by the end of the weekend, five of them would be exalted, placed high above the other seven. Five would have dreams come true, seven would not, and right now twelve stared down the truth of that math.

So each girl reached out for the others, clutching the only people who could possibly understand the momentousness of her night, and the only people who could destroy it.

It was a moment shrouded in destiny and
uncertainty, pressure and determination, and no one outside that little assemblage would understand the question running through each of their brains, the question that would be answered by tomorrow.

Was my childhood worth sacrificing for this dream?

First Rotation

GRACE

Grace stared down the runway and squinted at her enemy. It stood strong, steady, and sure of itself at the end of the mat, like an elephant who would not move to let her cross. It was so confident that it could stop Grace, that it would rejoice in the victory of her landing on her butt or missing a crucial turn in her double twisting Yurchenko. But not today. Today, Grace would defeat the vault.

Vault was her least impressive event, but that was okay. She didn't want to see her name at the top of the scoreboard early in a meet; she liked the sneak-up approach. Of course, with Leigh starting on her own worst event, no one would know who was winning for a while. But by the end of the night, Grace would be on top. She was not allowing a repeat of Nationals earlier this summer and Classics this spring. Both times Leigh had beaten her by mere tenths of a point. And it wasn't that Leigh was better. It wasn't—as some reporters and coaches and commentators were speculating—that Grace had peaked at Worlds, a year ago. It was only because Grace had messed up on the second day of those meets earlier this season. She'd handed Leigh the gold at Nationals and Classics, and—no matter what the sports analysts for NBC predicted—she wasn't about to do it at the Olympic trials.

After each of those two meets, Leigh had morphed back into Grace's best friend and tried to giggle and congratulate Grace like it didn't matter which of them was first and which was second. But it mattered. To Grace, first place was all that mattered. Leigh might get wrapped up in school and television shows and secret crushes, but not Grace. Grace was a gymnast.

Being Leigh's best friend came second.

Grace shook out each leg and clapped her hands together twice, causing little puffs of white chalk to erupt beneath her face. She did not see Georgette exit the platform and hug her coach. She did not hear the crowd cheering for whoever was currently swinging around the uneven bars. She did not think about what her dad-coach was saying somewhere on the gym floor, and for one beautiful minute, she did not feel the organ-crushing pressure on her shoulders to win the Olympic trials.

She saw the vault.

Somewhere at the edge of her vision, the judges raised the green flag. She was dimly aware of the announcer's voice booming her name throughout the Metroplex.

Grace turned to the judges and raised her hands over her head to signal that she was ready. She didn't smile. She squinted at the vault one more time, bounced on her toes twice, and then she was off.

Foot, foot, foot, foot, foot.
Her soles slapped the runway mat one after the other. Then it was
hand
,
hand—
the beginning of her roundoff. Her heels hit the springboard with her back to the horse and her toes exploded off it. Her palms slapped the smooth leather finish of the vault, her elbows and wrists sprung from bent to straight in unison and released her into the air.

Time froze.

She was high, floating, twisting, spinning over the first few bleachers, over the height of the uneven bars, over everyone in the gym. Now, as she rested in the air, she saw everything: her dad on the floor with his fists flung over his head in excitement, the gymnasts by the vault, fidgeting or watching her or warming up. She heard the screams of little girls throughout the bleachers. She swore she could pick out her little brother's voice from the mix.

Then her feet found the ground and, with the tiniest hop backward, she was standing again, her back to the vault. Pain rang through her ankle (remnants of a pesky old injury that wouldn't go away) but it didn't reach her brain. She put on a smile, turned, and saluted the judges. She caught that little nod. The only one that counted. The one from Katja Minkovski, the Olympic team coordinator.

Katja liked her, but Katja always liked whichever gymnast was best.

There
, she thought.
One routine hit. Seven to go. Take that, Leigh.

Grace's face twitched with guilt.

There's no room for friends on the gym floor
, she reminded herself. Her dad's rule.

• • •

Last night, Leigh and Grace had been lying side by side on Grace's bed in their shared hotel room. They were roommates for the weekend. They had always been roommates, every meet, every place, for years. They had been sharing Leigh's earbuds, blasting Out of Touch songs into Grace's right ear and Leigh's left ear as the boys in the boy band danced on Leigh's laptop screen.

“You still think Dylan Patrick is hottest?” Leigh asked, mischief in her eyes.

Grace had flipped over onto her back. “Of course!” she squealed. “Look at his arms! His face! His moves!”

On the screen, Dylan Patrick put one foot across the other and spun around. He was dancing behind Greg Thompson, who was the lead singer and most popular heartthrob in the group. But something about Dylan's quiet ways, his humbleness, spoke to Grace. He was sort of Grace's opposite, she thought.

At long last, after seventeen years on the earth, Grace had a crush.

Dylan did a split and Grace squealed again.

Suddenly Leigh sat up, yanking the earbud out of Grace's ear.

“Hey!” Grace said.

“Sorry!” Leigh said. She pulled the computer onto her lap. “But I have an idea. Go in the bathroom! It'll be a surprise!”

Away from her Dad, Grace could never resist Leigh's cheerfulness. So she smiled back at her friend and disappeared into the bathroom.

“Okay!” Leigh called after a few minutes. “Come out!”

Leigh was standing outside the bathroom door. She shoved the computer at Grace before Grace had even fully stepped back into the room. “Check your fan page! Check your fan page!” Leigh squealed.

And there it was. A message from the real Dylan Patrick, confirmed and everything.

Good luck tomorrow, Gymnast Grace Cooper. I'll be cheering for you.

• • •

Grace had stared at it, stunned for a second, while Leigh squealed. “I just wrote on
his
page telling him how his number one fan is competing in the Olympic Trials tomorrow and seeing if he'd wish you good luck.” Leigh was talking so quickly. “Look at that! I didn't think he'd respond so fast!” Then she paused and studied Grace's face. “What's wrong?”

“We've never done this before. We aren't those—”

Leigh interrupted her. “We've never been at the Olympic Trials before! We're about to get a whole
lot more famous, Grace! And it starts with Dylan Patrick.”

“If my dad sees it . . .” Grace's voice trailed off.

“Oh, come on!” Leigh said. “Your dad won't see it! It'll get lost in all the messages from all the boring people who always reach out before the Olympic trials. The politicians and old talk show hosts and stuff. And even if he does see it, who cares? This isn't a big deal, Grace, but we can act like it is, because that's the fun of being on television. Be a normal teenager for once. Dylan Patrick just messaged you. The. Real. Dylan. Patrick.”

Leigh was right. He had. He said he'd be cheering for her. Dylan Patrick—Grace's one and only crush in her entire life, who she never thought would ever even know her name—was cheering for her. (Well, maybe not. Probably it was just a silly thing he did for a silly fangirl. But Grace would pretend he meant it.) Dylan Patrick of Out of Touch wanted her to win the Olympic trials!

So Grace gave herself over to squealing.

A minute later Leigh was pumping Out of Touch songs through her computer speakers without the earbuds and the two of them were dancing between the beds and it was friendship and joyful and perfect.

• • •

But that was last night. Last night didn't matter to real life.

Grace jogged to the edge of the platform and her father grabbed her under her armpits and swung her off it.
She could feel his fingers on her rib cage as if she were all bone.

“Your legs weren't as tight as they could have been,” her father whispered as he hugged her.

I know, Dad
, she spat back. But only in her head.

Grace had watched enough meets on DVR to know that on TV the announcers would be talking about how her dad-coach was congratulating her, about how happy they should be with whatever score she was about to receive. Whether they guessed he was congratulating or consoling, the TV announcers were wrong. He was always critiquing, always talking about how Grace could have been perfect but was always a millimeter short.

“Your right elbow bent a little more than your left on the vault. That's why you landed toward your left. That's why you hopped.”

Grace nodded. She wandered over to her gym bag and pulled her warm-up pants on over her leo. It was red with three lines of crystals running from her left shoulder to her right hip and the USA insignia stitched on the side of her arm in gold. It wasn't her lucky leo. She'd need that one tomorrow.

Grace turned to hug Georgette and Annie and the others who each squeezed one arm around her and told her
good job
.

She said, “Thanks,” “Thanks,” “Thanks.” Then she was alone again.

Who would Grace talk to today? Her dad hated
hearing her voice in the gym. And Leigh was in the other rotation.

Grace squinted across the arena to find her friend. Leigh was sitting in the folding chairs next to the bars, a whole football field away from Grace. But Grace could still see her head leaning close to the girl next to her. Grace squinted deeper.

Monica. From GymCade, Grace's own gym. Leigh was palling around with Monica now, making Monica laugh and relax. Grace was sure they were having a great time. It still seemed impossible that Leigh had chosen her—stiff and sullen Grace—as a best friend.

Grace didn't understand how she could miss Leigh and also be so desperate to beat her.

Grace turned to her gym bag and closed her eyes. She didn't want to see her dad anymore, and she didn't want to see her score until the end of the first rotation. Grace and Leigh were determined to be numbers one and two. They talked about it all the time. And unless someone fell or messed up big-time, they all but surely would take the top two spots. Georgette would be close behind, but no one would know the exact order for hours at this point.

But what Grace didn't tell her best friend was that number two was not good enough. She'd only be happy if there was a one by her own name and a two by Leigh's. She didn't just want to go to the Olympics. She didn't just want to be one of the two Americans who qualified for the individual all-around there.

She needed to go to the Olympics as the favorite for gold.

Grace wouldn't watch Leigh on the bars or Camille on the vault or anyone else. She wouldn't talk to anyone. It was lonely, but she performed best when she could be a gymnast in a vacuum.

That's how it always used to be.

• • •

At Gym Camp USA—the sprawling campus adjacent to Katja Minkovski's New Mexico farm where the national team gymnasts, and those aspiring to qualify, were required to attend weeklong gymnastics training events throughout the year—Grace had been alone for years, secluded in her gymnastics. At home it was just her and her dad and her brother. Camp always felt overwhelmingly girly. Plus, Grace couldn't pull her mind off the beam or bars long enough to remember to smile at another girl in the dining hall or to sit with someone on the floor during team meetings.

A lot of the girls Grace had gone to Gym Camp with ever since she was eight years old were in this stadium right now. Maria and Samantha and Olivia and Annie. Grace remembered listening to them whisper and giggle into the darkness of their cabin while she lay on her side and repeated her mantra:

Don't worry. You'll beat them. Don't worry. You're better.

The mantra—and the loneliness—only
stopped when Leigh started attending camp. Only Leigh had been able to pull Grace out of her singular-gymnastics mind, and Grace wasn't so sure that was a good thing anymore, now that Leigh was starting to prove that you could go to school full-time and have non-gymnast friends and big, juicy secrets and still win.

• • •

“Camille will have the highest score.” Her dad was behind her again, whispering strategy in her ear. “On vault.”

Don't look at my fan page
, Grace pleaded with her eyes. He usually looked at all her social media every day, but today he probably wouldn't. Today he'd be too obsessed with winning. If her dad did look, he'd be so angry. Even though it wasn't her fault. Her dad never understood a minute of her life outside the gym. Grace knew part of his harsh reactions to all-things-normal-teenager was guilt: guilt that there was no mom, guilt that he wasn't enough. He was enough for her gymnastics, so that's all there was. After her mom left when she was nine, gymnastics was the only thing they could talk about.

But he was only talking strategy, not social media: “Camille does the Amanar, and as long as she stands it up, it'll beat your DTY. Some of the other girls have an Amanar, too.”