The Go-for-Gold Gymnasts Read online

  Previous books in the Go-for-Gold Gymnasts series

  Winning Team

  Balancing Act

  Copyright © 2012 by Dominique Moceanu and Alicia Thompson

  Cover illustration © 2012 by Allen Douglas

  Cover design by Tyler Nevins

  All rights reserved. Published by Disney • Hyperion Books, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011-5690. Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-1-4231-5433-4

  Visit www.disneyhyperionbooks.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Previous books

  Copyright

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Gymnastics Glossary

  About the Authors

  To all of you who are facing adversity—keep pressing forward, because the rewards for your loyal dedication are certain to be nothing short of spectacular.

  —D. M.

  For August

  —A. T.

  One

  Do you know how awesome it feels to have a parade thrown just for you? What it’s like to wave toward the sidelines at little girls on their fathers’ shoulders, who are cheering because of something you did, an accomplishment that means so much not just to you, but to your family and your friends and your entire hometown?

  Yeah, me neither.

  Technically, I was on the float, and I was wearing a cheesy red-white-and-blue dress, and my cheeks hurt from smiling. But the parade wasn’t for me—it was for my teammate Britt, who had won a medal on the vault at the Junior National Championships, and it was for my teammate Christina, who had won a medal on the bars and placed in the top ten all around, and most especially it was for my teammate Noelle, who was the number five gymnast in the country and the gold medalist on the balance beam.

  I hadn’t competed at the Junior National Championships a week ago, because I hadn’t qualified. To be completely honest, I hadn’t even tried out, because I wasn’t an Elite gymnast yet and so wasn’t able to compete in the higher-level competitions. I’d missed my chance to make the team last spring, and now I’d have to wait several months before getting another chance.

  Someday, I vowed, I’d get onto a float like this on my own. But today wasn’t that day.

  Britt nudged me. “Are these dresses pure polyester?” she asked, pulling the itchy collar away from her neck. I knew it must be itchy, because it was the exact same scoop neckline that my dress had, and it was all I could do not to tug at it with the hand I wasn’t using to wave to my adoring public. Well, my teammates’ adoring public, anyway.

  “I thought they stopped using that stuff in the seventies,” I said.

  “They should’ve outlawed it,” Britt said. “Especially on a Texas afternoon in early August. I wish they would’ve let us wear our team leotards. At least I’d be cooler.”

  As hot as I was—and it was sweltering outside, so hot that I kept waving partly just to keep sweat from pooling under my armpit—there was no way I’d have felt comfortable wearing only a leotard in front of a crowd like this. On the competition floor it was different. You weren’t focused on everyone looking at you; you were too busy worrying about the judges; that switch leap in your first dance series that had been tripping you up in practice; and your competitor’s score, which was flashing just out of your line of sight, with you thinking, don’t look don’t look don’t look, though you could see her hugging her coach, and you knew she’d done well, maybe even better than you could do. But out here, I was on display. And while I felt kind of stupid in this ridiculous dress, at least I didn’t feel exposed.

  We took the last turn of the circuit, ending in front of the Texas Twisters gym, where we all trained six days a week. There was a huge banner across the front of it, congratulating the Elite girls on their accomplishments. I felt like an actress attending an awards ceremony where I hadn’t been nominated for anything. I could sit and listen to the speeches, but it didn’t mean I’d go home with a little golden statue.

  “Do you think they’ll throw another parade if we win something at the international meet?” Christina asked. “Or will they be, like, we just threw them a parade, so we’re not going to do another one?”

  “The meet’s in October,” Britt pointed out. “So at least it will be cooler then. I mean, not that the parade would be for me, or anything.”

  Both Christina and Noelle had made the National team on the basis of their all-around scores at the Junior National Championships, which meant they had a chance to compete at a camp and earn a spot at the USA vs. the World event. But although Britt had competed at the Junior Nationals and come home with an individual medal, she’d hurt her ankle in the all-around competition and so had placed out of contention to go to the camp. Still, at least she’d had a shot. I’d watched the entire thing from the stands.

  “Maybe it’ll rain,” I muttered.

  Only Britt heard me, and she grinned. “Hey, that’s clever,” she said. “Raining on a parade, ha-ha.”

  “Of course, I hope it doesn’t,” I said quickly.

  I didn’t want Britt to think I was bitter, because really, I wasn’t. Christina had the most beautiful, graceful lines I’d ever seen, and Noelle had worked so hard and dealt with so much stress to get to Nationals, I couldn’t be anything but happy for them. This international competition was between China, Romania, and Russia and us, and it was meant to be like a fun preview of the Olympics. It would even be on TV, although they’d probably show the Senior girls more than the Junior side of the competition. Still, it would be cool.

  Most of the time, you could count on Britt to say something funny, something that would lighten the mood and make you laugh and distract you from whatever you might be dwelling on. But now all she said was, “I know you didn’t mean anything bad,” as she watched Noelle alight from the float and join her family, who were waiting to wrap her up in a hug.

  I was careful stepping down from the float myself, because I was wearing platform sandals that were hand-me-downs from my stepsister, Tiffany, and didn’t fit me that well. I was paying so much attention to not twisting my ankle that I almost ran right into the man standing at the bottom of the float.

  “Whoa, there, Tiger,” he said. I looked up, because there was only one person in the world who had ever called me that.

  I hadn’t expected to see him there, and I threw my arms around him instinctively. “Dad! What are you doing here?”

  “My favorite daughter is being honored in a parade,” he said in his Texas drawl. “Where else do you think I should be?”

  At work. On vacation in the Cayman Islands. Visiting my stepmonster’s family in Vermont. Getting new hardware installed on the doors in his house.

  These were all of the excuses I’d heard recently for why he hadn’t been able to make it to my last competition, or why he couldn’t come to the weekly therapy sessions I was forced to have now, or why he couldn’t take me camping like he’d promised. But I decided not to think about it too much; it was nice to have him here this time, no matter what.

  “I’m your only daughter,” I reminded hi
m, giggling. This was an old routine we’d done since I was four years old. “So how can I be your favorite?”

  “That’s tricky,” he said. “Why don’t we debate it over some finger food? I saw pigs in a blanket inside.” He looked uncomfortable for just a second, so brief I almost missed it. My father was one of Austin’s top news anchors; he’d reported out of a shelter the summer of the bad hurricanes, and he never got flustered. “I’m allowed to say that, aren’t I, Tiger? Pigs in a blanket?”

  “Sure,” I said awkwardly. “That’s what they’re called, right? Hot dogs and cheese in a pastry thing?”

  “Right,” he said. “I didn’t know if I was allowed to say that with…you know. Your mother says you’re in therapy.”

  My cheeks burned as I realized what he was getting at. Only a few months before, I’d entered a treatment program to help with my eating disorder. I felt like I was making a lot of progress, but everyone acted like I was a time bomb waiting to explode if they used words like food or weight or calories in the wrong combination.

  My mom approached us, and she had that tight smile that she wore when telemarketers called.

  “Hi, honey,” she said, leaning down to engulf me in a hug. When she straightened up, she said tersely, “Hello, Mark. Good of you to make it. Where’s Vicki?”

  “My favorite daughter is being honored in a parade,” he said, repeating word for word what he’d said to me earlier. He didn’t acknowledge my mom’s question about his new wife. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  I could see written on my mother’s face her memories of the countless events he’d missed over the years, and I willed her not to say anything to spoil this occasion.

  Maybe the telepathy worked, because all she did was pull me close to her and say, “Well, it’s so exciting. I still have this picture in my head of you when you were little, doing floor routines in our living room. Do you remember that? We had that big rug, and you used it for a floor mat, and you would turn somersaults and spin around to an eighties music compilation. That was the theme of your seventh birthday, practically—you showing off your gymnastics for all your friends.”

  I remembered it, too. It was weird to think that there’d been a time when I used gymnastics as something to impress people at school. The other girls loved it when I flipped around on the monkey bars at the playground, or turned a cartwheel when the teacher wasn’t looking. Now sometimes, it felt like my sport was a state secret, and the less my peers knew about what I was doing, the better.

  “‘Abracadabra,’” I said.

  She leaned back to look at me, as if checking to see if my face was flushed with fever. “I’m sorry?”

  “That’s the song I would do my routine to,” I reminded her. “It was called ‘Abracadabra.’”

  “That’s right.” She smiled, lost in reminiscence. “And now, to think that you’re only five years away from possibly competing in an Olympics. It’s unbelievable.”

  In fact, I couldn’t believe it, but not because it was so amazing and incredible. It just seemed very unlikely.

  “Speaking of which…” my father said, but he was addressing me, not my mother. “Jessie, would you mind coming with me outside? The film crew is here and would love to feature you for a spot on Channel Thirteen.”

  “Oh, Mark,” my mother said, “I should’ve known. You’re here for work?”

  “I’m here for my daughter,” he said stiffly, correcting her. “But yes, I work for one of the main news outlets in the state, and I happen to have a very newsworthy daughter. Can I help it if my public might be interested in such a talented young lady?”

  “Your public?” my mom sneered. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my stepfather, Rick, approaching, apparently thinking that my mother needed some help. “You are so pompous sometimes—”

  “Stop!” I said. I could count on one hand the number of times my parents had been in the same room together since their divorce, and now I could see why. “I’ll do it, okay? It’s not a big deal.”

  “That’s my Tiger,” my dad said, smiling down at me. “Perhaps you could grab your friends, too? The one with the ponytail won a gold medal, right?”

  “Sure,” I said, trying to avoid my mother’s gaze. Rick was at her elbow now, and I knew he would calm her down. “I’ll meet you outside.”

  I set down my plate, which was stacked with food I hadn’t actually touched, and went in search of my teammates. Christina wasn’t hard to convince; as soon as she heard she’d be on TV, she’d made a beeline for the bathroom to check her hair. Noelle looked uncertain—I knew she hadn’t been totally thrilled at being featured on the news before the championships, when another reporter from Channel 13 had done a piece on us. But finally, she went to tell her mom and promised to be outside in five minutes. Britt was the only one who took some persuading.

  “So, that’s your dad?” she asked, craning her neck to see him still standing, arguing with my mother.

  “You’ve seen him on TV before,” I said peevishly. “Come on, let’s just get this over with.”

  “He looks ruddier in person,” she said. “Must be the makeup they have him wear for TV.”

  Britt used the weirdest words sometimes.

  “Ruddier?” I said.

  “Yeah: redder. What, public school doesn’t teach vocabulary anymore?” Britt was homeschooled by her grandmother and never hesitated to remind us of how much more well-rounded her education was because of it. “I guess I’ll find out soon enough,” she added cryptically. “Look, if you don’t want to do an interview, then don’t do it.”

  I wanted to tell her that I knew what ruddier meant, I’d just been surprised to hear her say it. I wanted to tell her that the last thing I was up to discussing just then was gymnastics, given that I wasn’t even sure I deserved to be there.

  I settled for heaving a big sigh. “Are you coming or not?”

  Outside, there was a white news van with CHANNEL 13 painted across it in huge letters. My dad must’ve really planned this whole thing.

  There was a lady who told us all where we should stand, and once we had our places, my dad emerged from the gym. I could tell, when he got closer, that he’d put a little makeup on, because his cheeks had a cakey quality to them. I was torn between hoping that my friends didn’t notice this embarrassing detail and wondering why he hadn’t offered me something to cover up my freckles.

  “Okay,” he said. “You girls smile big now, all right?”

  He turned his back to me so he was facing the camera, and the cameraman gave the signal that they were rolling.

  “You may not recognize me away from the anchor desk, but this is Mark Ivy with Channel Thirteen News, doing a very special field assignment. My daughter is one of four gymnasts being honored today at a parade here in downtown Austin, along with…”—I saw him glance down at an index card hidden discreetly in his palm—“…Christina Flores, bronze medalist; Britt Morgan, silver medalist; and Noelle Onesti, who finished in the top five all around and won a gold medal on the balance beam.”

  Now he was thrusting the microphone toward us, and I froze. I wished I had thought to ask what kinds of questions he would throw at us. I didn’t want to come across as being stupid if I stuttered over the answer.

  But I didn’t need to worry, because first, he leaned in toward Noelle, giving her a big smile that showed his teeth. “Noelle, how does it feel to win a gold medal at the Junior National Championships?”

  Noelle tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “It feels really good,” she said. I didn’t know if I was still on camera, and my cheeks were aching from smiling.

  “Well, I know I speak for all of Austin when I say that we are so proud of you,” my dad said. “All of you.” He inclined his head toward the four of us, and even though my gaze was on him the whole time, he never glanced at me specifically. His face held its expression for just a moment too long, almost as if someone had paused the tape, and then the cameraman gave a thumbs-up.

  “We g
ot it,” he said.

  “Excellent,” my dad replied, his face finally relaxing after that frozen smile. “Thank you, girls. Enjoy the rest of your party.”

  Noelle, Christina, and Britt split off and headed back inside, but I stayed behind. “Is that it?” I asked. “Are you leaving?”

  My dad rumpled my hair. I’d sprayed it before I left the house with some smoothing serum of my mom’s, and so I hoped that it wasn’t springing around my head like a halo in the Texas heat. “Sorry, Tiger,” he said. “I have to get back.”

  It was only after I watched him get into his sports car and drive away that I realized he’d never said why he had to go, or what was more important than this moment. I realized he’d never told me he was proud of me, his daughter. I realized that in his twenty-second news piece, I was the only one he’d never even mentioned by name.

  Two

  “So, I heard you were in a parade.” Dr. Fisher smiled at me. This was one of her therapist tricks—rather than ask a question, she would make a statement and expect you to elaborate. In my head, I planned on holding out and not saying anything at all, to make her ask a question. But I always caved.

  Today was no different. “It was hot,” I said. “Did you go?”

  She hesitated. “No,” she said, pursing her lips. “But I’m sure it was nice.”

  There was probably some rule in the therapist handbook that said, You must not support your clients by attending any function in their honor. Well, I could’ve told Dr. Fisher that she didn’t need to worry—it hadn’t been in my honor in the first place.

  I was supposed to see Dr. Fisher every week as part of my treatment. Once, she’d asked me to draw an outline of what I thought my body looked like, and then we’d talked about how I was perceiving myself as fat when really I should have been able to see that I was a normal, healthy girl. Other than that, though, we didn’t talk much about my eating behaviors or the way I used to make myself throw up sometimes to keep my weight down. Instead, we talked about other stuff, like gymnastics, and how much pressure it was, and even my dad. I didn’t see why we focused on those things when I was supposed to be seeing her because of the eating thing, but in a way I was relieved.