Tumbling (25 page)

Today was about Wilhelmina and Wilhelmina only. And that magic 9.5.

Later, when the meet was over and they were all out to dinner—Wilhemina and her parents and Kerry and, she guessed, Davion and his brother, whose presence would be a surprise to everyone else—she and Kerry would have to accept her family's hugs of congratulations and be grateful to them on top of the impossible-to-avoid disappointment. But then Wilhelmina would
announce her retirement to all of them. She knew her parents wanted the Olympics for her, too. She knew that Kerry had worked as hard as she had, or maybe harder, and that she would love to bring another athlete to the Olympics, even as an alternate. She knew that Davion, while he might be happy, would also be worried that she was leaving this dream behind for him, somehow. That it was his fault. They would all worry that she was just plain quitting, that one day she would regret it. And she would have to explain that there was nothing to be gained for her physically or emotionally or spiritually by busting her butt invisibly while the Olympics happened nearby. They might not understand. They might never understand. But the whole thing would be easier if Wilhelmina made sure that everyone had fun today. Especially Wilhelmina herself.

(And later-later she'd have a different kind of fun. A kissing kind of fun. That would get her through the day.)

Wilhelmina led her new squad of gymnasts out of the locker room and onto the floor, and the crowd erupted as they marched toward the vault. The first thing she did was scan the crowd. It was hard to make out anything up there, in the dark above the lights that shined down on the gym floor, but Wilhelmina found them anyway, in the second row where she knew they would be. Two brown faces in a sea of mostly white ones with two smiles that lit up the stands. Her parents.

She waved. She raised both of her hands over her head and waved like a maniac, a happy maniac.

She'd never done that before. She'd never bothered to think about her parents in the stands when there was a scoreboard to worry about.

Next, she found Monica stretching her legs on the podium. Monica would be up first, but Wilhelmina wouldn't be watching. She liked Monica. Monica was quiet like Wilhelmina but smart like Kerry. Monica had given Wilhelmina the key to getting through this meet now that the dream was dead.

Wilhelmina plopped down next to where Monica was stretching, swinging her feet off the podium.

“Where's your coach?” Wilhelmina asked.

Monica shrugged and looked around. Her eyes landed on Grace, who was sitting slumped in a chair with the two girls' coach leaning over her.

“Oh.” Wilhelmina wanted to tell Monica that she was up first, so Ted should be talking to her. She wanted to tell the girl that she needed a new coach.

But instead she lost herself for a second, studying Grace's skinny legs as they hung off the folding chair. Wilhelmina swore she could see through Grace's quadriceps to her femur. Even when Grace was bent over, her hip bones were visible. Wilhelmina didn't want to know that Grace had a problem, but she knew. Watching Grace toss her entire lunch in the garbage today—and spit out the bite that was already in her mouth—was only the confirmation. Grace might try to claim she didn't eat her full lunch today because of nerves, but Wilhelmina could see all her bones, and they told a different story.
Wilhelmina had seen too many gymnasts end up out of the sport, in hospitals, screwed for life because of what gymnastics did to their relationship with food.

“Does she ever . . .” Wilhelmina tried. Monica looked at her.

. . . eat?

But she couldn't finish the question.

It would do no good. Grace was winning the meet and Katja had pretty much told Wilhelmina she had no chance this morning. If Wilhelmina reported Grace, Katja wouldn't believe her. She'd think it was some sticky political plan. And if Wilhelmina didn't say anything about watching Grace spit that one bite of sandwich into the garbage over the top of her lunch, Grace might . . . She could . . . It didn't matter. Wilhelmina couldn't do anything about it. Besides, today was supposed to be about Mina-Mina-Mina.

“I wanted to wish you good luck,” she finally said.

“You too,” Monica said. She added, “Thanks for talking to me last night, too. I needed to be put in my place.”

Wilhelmina laughed. “You're the one who helped me.”

Monica had opened her mouth, like she was going to question this when they both heard Ted's heavy voice say her name. “Monica. You're up first. Go chalk up.”

Monica climbed the podium and Wilhelmina turned her head. She heard the crowd clap politely when the announcer called Monica's name, but she didn't register anything else. She paced with her back to the vault and meditated on her own Amanar. She'd be next.

She wouldn't watch anyone else. She wouldn't think about anyone else: not their gymnastics, not their fan pages, not their eating disorders, not their boyfriends. She'd only have one thought all day:
nine-point-five, nine-point-five, nine-point-five
.

Then Wilhelmina was on the podium, her toes lined up on the end of the runway, staring at the vault.
There you are, old friend
, she thought. It seemed impossible that she had stood in this exact position only twenty-four short hours ago with stars in her eyes and dreams so big, they didn't fit in her heart. How many times had she stood on a vaulting runway like this for the past twelve years? How many times had she stared down the mat and envisioned herself landing a perfect ten, the way she was right now? How many times had she dreamed those big dreams?

And it came down to this: to these ten seconds that were about to begin the last meet of her life.

MONICA

Monica felt her smile disappear as soon as Wilhelmina's feet hit the mat and stayed right where she put them. Monica was clapping. But her heart was sinking farther into her tiny frame until it was almost hiding behind her spinal cord.

It would be harder than she thought, competing with this squad, she realized.

She turned to glance at Ted and Grace, their heads bent together, Grace's perfect black braids so shiny they almost reflected Ted's blond crew cut.

She had been repeating her goal in her head:
One person. Beat at least one person.

She'd performed her DTY well and then said it to herself again and again.
One person. One person. One person.

But the people she had a chance to beat were far away on bars. And she was here with the stars on vault. Monica knew it was flattering to be placed in this squad. Just like it was a compliment when Katja had mentioned her last night. She knew that Katja had big plans for her one day, and that was thrilling. But it was all sort of weird and uncomfortable and embarrassing.

Everyone
was wondering why Monica was in this squad.

But she only had to keep her mind on her own goal
.
She only had to fake her confidence. She only had to pretend.

Monica saw Ted release Grace's shoulders from his grasp and send her toward the podium.

Go wish her good luck
, Monica told herself. She had to make up for the way Grace had scared her in the lobby of the hotel. She had to make sure Grace knew she couldn't destroy her.

She's your teammate!
Monica reprimanded herself.
Get over it. Go talk to her.
Grace was hugging Leigh. They were right next to her. In less than a minute, Grace would
climb onto the podium and Monica would be relegated to cheering like a fan instead of whispering good wishes like an equal.

Monica had proven herself as close to equal as she possibly could. Monica was placed in Grace's squad. The better squad.

Monica turned when Grace and Leigh pulled away.

You have to stop being so afraid of these people.

Finally, just before Grace took her first step up to the podium, Monica pulled on her elbow. “Good luck, teammate,” she squeaked.

God, why did she have to sound so pathetic?

Grace smiled with too many teeth. “Thanks, you too. And”—she shrugged—“sorry your rotation got switched. I hope you're okay competing with Natalie and them from across the gym. You know, it was really hard on my dad yesterday when we were so far away from each other. They must have figured it would be easier on him if they put you with us.”

Grace gave her another smile and Monica tried to imitate it.

Grace was being mean, but still.

All of that was probably true.

“You should be able to beat them, though, you know. You should be our alternate,” Grace said. It was like she'd forgotten all about the threat she'd leveled on Monica only a few hours ago.

Was that a real smile or a fake smile? It was so rare for Grace to smile in the gym that, even though they
practiced in the same building for six to eight hours a day, Monica didn't have a frame of reference for what Grace's smile should look like.

“You have a chance at alternate, really,” Grace said. “Just do your best and don't watch the scores, right?”

Monica nodded. She made herself say, “You too.”

But she didn't mean it. Was this what it was like to be Grace?

GRACE

Grace stood at the end of the runway, smoothing the chalk over the soles of her feet while her body buzzed with adrenaline or nerves or weakness. Grace couldn't tell the difference anymore. It felt like her blood was running in teeny zigzags through her veins. Was that normal? Was this how she always felt at the start of the meet, full of nerves and excitement, tingling with anticipation? Or did the buzzing mean something else?

She was glad they were starting on vault, though it bore an advantage for Leigh. Grace had managed to finish yesterday as the leader, but only by a hair. And Leigh was so good at vault, if she did a triple twisting Yurchenko like yesterday, she'd pull ahead in this rotation.

And
, Grace thought,
if they wanted to keep any mystery to these new rotations, the committee should have changed which apparatus the squads were starting on.
It was clear that all the leaders, all the best gymnasts,
were put into the same heat. Having this squad move through the meet in Olympic rotation made it more obvious. Grace had basically been placed on the Olympic team already.

That wasn't enough. She needed to win the meet.

But, despite all of those logical issues and disadvantages, Grace was glad to be starting on vault. Even if it meant Leigh would be beating her for at least one rotation. She was glad to be starting on vault for one reason: vault was the shortest.

And Grace wasn't sure what was going on inside of her right now. Was this buzzing a sign that her body was betraying her again?

It wasn't fair. Grace had eaten. She'd had all of that peanut butter at breakfast and then so many bites of turkey sandwich. She'd had the equivalent of at least three normal-people bites. Grace looked down at her legs and she swore she could see the peanut butter on them already, coating the inside of her thighs in a layer of fat that brought them closer to touching. Clearly, if she'd eaten enough to see the fat obliterate her bones and muscles, she must have eaten enough to keep her body calm, to keep her heart in one piece, to keep her organs under her control.

Just before she knew the judges would raise her green flag, Grace pressed her hands together, squishing the zinging veins in her left wrist against those in her right.
Calm down
, she told them.
Act normal.

For so long, for months and years and in some ways
for as long as Grace could remember, her focus had been her food. Her focus had more than made up for the calories she cut. It had kept her graceful and helped her add new tricks and kept her on top.

Her focus filled her up. There was no Monica or Dylan Patrick in the back of her brain. There was no confusion over Leigh flirting with boys. There was no fear over Leigh making other friends. There was no missing mom. There was no food. There was nothing in her brain or her body except gymnastics. That's all Grace was: focus and gymnastics.

The green flag was raised and Grace took a deep breath.
Let's do this.

She took off down the runway. By the third step she was calm again. Her blood ran normally. Her vision lasered in on the vaulting table in front of her. She felt the mat press against the bottom of her toes and the air rushing by her face as she ran.

And then she was over it, safely on the other side with heavy breath and a toothy smile for the judges. She'd done it. Not a hop or a stumble. Not a single organ out of rhythm or splitting into pieces in the air. Grace was Grace again. She'd done so well, her dad gave her a big hug.

Leigh would still catch her this rotation, but Grace should be able to get her lead back by bars and then keep it.

Clearly it had been only nerves. Her focus was still on target. Her body was perfectly happy with her.

LEIGH

Leigh was mortified. Too mortified to focus on her vault even as her competitors went over it one by one and her turn got closer. Why had she sounded so corny? Why had she given Camille that hug?

Why couldn't she ever shut up?

When Leigh had approached the veteran gymnast, she was sure Camille was upset about being placed in the other squad, the B squad. She'd thought of a few things to say. She had reminded herself of Camille's help at the beam earlier that day and talked herself up until she managed to approach her crush.

She hadn't been ready for what Camille said.

It made Leigh think more about what she and Grace had discussed before going to bed.

It made Leigh think more about the normal girls who were her friends from school. Or they were kind of her friends from school. They were friends because they talked about homework and complained to each other about teachers. Leigh knew who their boyfriends and best friends were. She sometimes knew what they did over the weekend. Maybe, if they happened to ask on an off day, Leigh might go to a movie with them. They were nice girls because they let Leigh be a periphery friend. Because they still invited her places, even though she said no eleven times out of twelve. Because they shared
tidbits of their lives, like what their boyfriends got them for Valentine's Day or why their mothers grounded them, without insisting that Leigh also share things about her own outside-of-school life. And Leigh never did. Because she couldn't. Because regular girls who think about boyfriends and movies and groundings would never understand what it's like to be a professional sixteen-year-old. Sometimes it felt like she only bothered trying with those normal girls because it made her parents happy.