The Go-for-Gold Gymnasts Read online

  I realized Noelle was still waiting for an answer. “I don’t know,” I said, rather than voice my true fear, which was that the meeting would be about me, and about how maybe I didn’t belong on the Elite team if I was doomed never to qualify as an Elite gymnast.

  “Well, I guess we’re about to find out,” Britt said, having sprayed some kind of body mist all over herself. She’d been protesting against Christina’s allegations that she would stink up the place if she didn’t change; now she smelled strongly of lemons and coconut. And a little bit of sweat.

  We left the locker room and sat cross-legged on the blue carpet of the floor mat, waiting patiently for Mo to address us. She was over by the front desk talking to a woman we’d never seen before. To our surprise, Mo pulled over two folding chairs, and the two women sat down in front of us. The woman we didn’t know was wearing a polo shirt with the USAG logo on it, which immediately made us all straighten our backs and sit taller. USA Gymnastics was the leading organization in the country for our sport, the one that made all the decisions about what the various skills were going to be worth, what you’d need to do to qualify for the next level, even who would make the Olympic teams.

  Our parents were there, too, which meant that it had to be serious. Christina’s mom was in the gym all the time anyway, but Britt’s mom had taken time off from her busy day-care job, and Noelle’s dad had shown up, since her mother was probably at home with Noelle’s twin brothers. I used to think that his big mustache made him look a little scary, until I got to know him a bit better. It turned out that he was really nice, but very quiet.

  My mom was there, too, and I waved at her. There wasn’t time to do anything else, since Mo was already addressing our group.

  “Two of you make National team,” Mo said, and my heart sank. It was just as I’d thought: she would congratulate Noelle and Christina, tell Britt she should keep at it, and then tell me that, since technically I wasn’t an Elite gymnast, perhaps I should train with the lower-level girls. It was like one of those children’s activity books. Which one of these does not belong?

  “There is much decision that go along with making National team,” Mo continued. “I have here a representative from USAG, who can tell you about it. Ms. Carroll?”

  The woman seated next to Mo started to say, “Thank you. Girls, I wanted—” But before she could finish, Britt raised her hand. “Yes, Brittany?”

  Britt seemed taken aback that Ms. Carroll knew her name. “Just Britt,” she said. “And I didn’t make the National team. So do I still need to be here?” Ms. Carroll glanced at Mo.

  “Everyone need to listen,” Mo said, her lips tightening. We all knew that face; it meant, stop asking questions and just do as I say. I saw it a lot when Mo had me practice my split leaps with weights around my ankles, over and over until my muscles burned. If I asked her when I could stop, she’d get that look, and that was my cue to keep leaping.

  “Britt—” Ms. Carroll glanced at me and smiled. “—And Jessie. You’re both very talented. I have no doubt you’ll join our National team in the next couple of years. So, yes, I think it would benefit you to listen, as well.

  “When you’re one of the top athletes in the country, you join that country’s team. At that point, you’re no longer competing just for yourself, but representing America in international competitions. Noelle, Christina, I know you will both have the opportunity to attend a training camp that will select this year’s team for international events. As you’re both aware, the next invitational coming up is called USA vs. the World, where some of our finest gymnasts will compete against top gymnasts from Russia, Romania, and China.”

  Noelle and Christina glanced at each other, unconcealed excitement on their faces. I picked at one of the blue fibers in the carpet.

  “One of the benefits of being on the National gymnastics team is that USAG offers a monthly stipend to its athletes, to help offset the costs of training. This money goes directly to your parents, and it’s up to them how it is allocated—whether on competition fees, new equipment, or leotards, or your weekly fees to Texas Twisters.”

  I hoped my mother wasn’t angry with me for not doing better so I could earn this money, too. I was already beginning to feel bad enough about it myself.

  “You can choose to decline this money, and if you do, you can always choose to accept it at a later date. It’s yours as long as you’re on the National team.”

  “Wait, why would anyone turn it down?” Britt blurted out, then raised her hand. “Sorry. But I’d be cashing that check faster than you could say Nadia Comaneci.”

  Noelle tugged on the end of her ponytail, something I knew she did when she was thinking about something. “If you take it, you can’t compete in college,” she said. Then she flushed. “Scott told me about it. He had to say no to the money so that he could get his scholarship.”

  Scott was an older gymnast whom Noelle had had the biggest crush on for forever. But ever since the summer, she’d been kind of flirting with a guy from school, although she had vowed not to date him until she won an Olympic gold medal. Still, Scott had come back to the gym a couple of times, and he and Noelle were still friendly.

  “That’s right,” Ms. Carroll said. “The NCAA doesn’t allow its athletes to accept money for their sport, and that includes this stipend. So if you wanted to compete at the college level, you’d have to retain your amateur status.”

  My stepdad, Rick, watched a lot of sports programs, and I remembered hearing about this kind of thing before. Football players got in trouble for living in houses that other people had paid for and for getting free dinners and cars. But it seemed unfair to apply this rule to gymnastics, since football was a sport that guys could play in high school for free, while gymnastics was an expensive sport that wasn’t offered at most schools. At least, not in the Austin area.

  “I’ll be seventeen at the next Olympics,” Britt said. “And after I win my gold medal, I’m going to do one of those big tours, where you get to wear costumes and do routines to songs with words in them. So I’m not really worried about college, anyway.”

  Ms. Carroll cocked her head, as though considering what Britt had said. I noticed that beneath her smooth dark hair were dangling earrings shaped like ballet shoes. “That’s certainly a factor,” she said. “If you decide to compete in professional exhibitions, you’d lose your eligibility anyway, so you might as well accept the stipend. But keep in mind that, although the Olympics may be your goal, only five girls in the whole country get to be part of that team, and you could be injured, or be a bars specialist when they need a beam worker, or just have a bad day. So it could be smart to keep your options open.”

  Ms. Carroll went on to discuss more hypotheticals, and Christina’s mother interrupted with several questions, but I tuned it all out. After all, what was the point? My chances of making the Olympic team seemed pretty slim; I wondered if any colleges would even want me.

  Ms. Carroll took one final question from Mrs. Flores and then finished her talk, and she was packing some papers into her briefcase when I approached her. The other girls had moved away and were busy chattering about everything they’d just learned. Even Britt’s eyes were shiny with anticipation. She’d almost definitely make the team next year.

  “Thank you,” I said to Ms. Carroll, because I thought it was the polite thing to do. And then, on a whim, I added, “I like your earrings.”

  She touched her fingers to one sparkling slipper, as though reminding herself which ones she had on. “Well, thank you,” she said.

  “Were you a ballerina?”

  “Ballerina, cheerleader, rhythmic gymnast, you name it,” she said. “I was never great at one thing, but I was fairly good at lots of things to make up for it.” She laughed. “Did you have any other questions?”

  I wasn’t sure if I was even fairly good at the one thing I’d chosen to do with my life. But that was a question that she couldn’t answer. “No,” I said. “No more questions.”
r />   Six

  Usually on Friday afternoons when we got out of practice, everyone went to get frozen yogurt—the four of us, Mo, and our parents. Britt’s mom tried to make it when she could, but Friday evenings were busy for her at the day care, and Britt’s dad was some big-time chef who’d had a small bit on a cooking show once, and so he was always working at peak dining hours. My parents worked, too, and so they often couldn’t come, and Noelle’s family ran their own store. Sometimes Noelle’s mom would bring the four-year-old twins and have yogurt with us, but usually it was just Christina’s mom, Mrs. Flores, who never missed a gymnastics function.

  I’d meant to say something all through practice about missing out on frozen yogurt that afternoon, but I didn’t know how to bring it up. So instead, I waited until my mother arrived at the gym for me.

  “How wonderful that your mother could make it,” Mrs. Flores said as she saw her walking toward us. My mom was coming from her job as an office manager, which meant that she was wearing her standard button-down shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, and a pair of black pants. Mrs. Flores, on the other hand, always wore something striking and different, like the black-and-white print dress she had on today. I saw her gaze sweep over my mom and wondered what she thought.

  “Oh,” I said. “Actually…”

  My mother came up and put her arm around me, leaning down to give me a kiss.

  “Hi, Mrs. Flores,” she said, smiling at Christina’s mom. “Hello, girls. Jess, are you ready to go?”

  “Should I ride with you?” Britt asked us. “I have my stuff in my bag.”

  I’d forgotten all about Britt spending the night. With everything going on—the first week of school, grueling workouts at gym, and Ms. Carroll’s talk—we hadn’t had much time to discuss it.

  My mom looked puzzled; I jumped in to clarify the situation. “Actually, I have something else I have to do today,” I said. “So I can’t go this time.”

  Everyone stopped and looked at me. This was our weekly team-building time, and Mo treated it almost like an extension of our practice. People had missed before, but usually only because a relative was in town, or someone was sick, or a big competition kept all of us from being able to go.

  Noelle’s eyes turned sympathetic. “We understand,” she said. “That’s okay.”

  I realized that she must have thought that the other commitment was related to my therapy, and so she wasn’t going to press the issue. I would’ve considered letting it go at that, except that Christina asked outright, “What is it?”

  Before I could think about how to answer that question, my mom squeezed my shoulder. “Jessie’s trying out for the cheerleading squad,” she said. “We have to get going if we’re going to make it.”

  Everyone was just staring at me; I gave them all a weak smile. “Tell Mo I’m really sorry,” I said. Mo had already left to run an errand and was going to meet everyone later, and although I was relieved not to have to talk to her about this face to face, I was dreading her reaction.

  “So…are we not hanging out tonight?” Britt asked, and she had that look on her face, the one that said that she wasn’t mad yet, but she was hurt, and that could almost be worse.

  “We can,” I said quickly, hoping to salvage something from the situation. “Mom, I’m sorry, but I forgot to ask. Can Britt come over tonight?”

  My mother agreed. Mrs. Flores offered to drop Britt at my house, since it was on her way home from the yogurt place, and Britt looked slightly mollified.

  “We’ll talk tonight,” I said.

  “We’d better,” she replied. “Seems like there’s a lot of catching up to do.”

  Britt’s words seemed ominous, but I didn’t have time to dwell on them as I left the gym, the knots in my stomach tightening with every step. For as long as I could remember, I had considered myself a gymnast. Now, I was about to see if I could be a cheerleader as well.

  “So nice of you to join us,” Layla drawled when I was finally crossing the wide wooden floor of Birchbark High’s basketball court. Next to her, a girl snickered, but Ashley gave me a smile, which surprised me. Had I missed something? Had Ashley known who I was last year and thought that I was someone worth smiling at?

  “Sorry,” I said. “I have gym practice pretty late, so this was the earliest I could get here.”

  Layla looked intrigued in spite of herself. “How many days a week do you practice?”

  “Every day but Sunday,” I said.

  She tapped her pencil on the clipboard in front of her. “So, you must be pretty good,” she said. “Show us that full twist.”

  I was a little taken aback at being asked to do something right on the spot, with no mats and no opportunity to stretch. Normally, I was careful about that kind of thing. But I wanted to impress Layla and I didn’t want to make any excuses. I took a deep breath and launched myself into a round-off full twist.

  My knees had been bent—a detail that Cheng would’ve surely called me on, if he were there. Or at least he would’ve given me that look, the one that said he was watching and knew I’d made a mistake. But the corners of Layla’s mouth turned down, and she nodded. “Not bad,” she said.

  In the corner, I noticed a woman who must have been the cheerleading coach; she was writing something on the clipboard in front of her. I hoped it was good.

  “Let’s hear a cheer,” the girl next to Layla said. Her voice was less than friendly, and I remembered that she was the one who’d laughed at me earlier, when I mentioned gymnastics. She was in my English class—I thought her name was Stephenie.

  “I don’t think I know any,” I said.

  “You must know one,” she said snidely, as though that knowledge was something that everyone was born with. Two eyes, a nose, a mouth, and the ability to spit out at least one cheer on demand.

  I tried to think back to cheers I’d heard Tiffany do. She was a flag girl now, but she’d been a cheerleader for youth football, and it seemed like I might’ve heard one of her old cheers around the house.

  “Oh!” I said. “I have one.”

  The three girls looked at me, waiting.

  “Ready? Okay!” I said, clasping my hands in front of my chest. That seemed like a safe way to start.

  “Florida oranges, Texas cactus,” I chanted. I wasn’t sure what to do with my hands, so I made a circle for the word oranges and held my arms up like a cactus for the second part.

  “We think your team needs a little practice!” That part was a little easier, since I could point at my chest for we, out at them for your, and then do a little shimmy on the word practice. As if they were practicing dancing? I didn’t know, but I knew cheer-leading meant more than just standing in one place, so I was trying to act it out.

  “Put ’em in a high chair, feed ’em with a spoon…” I squatted, as though sitting in a high chair, and mimed eating with a spoon. But then I hesitated, unable to remember the next line.

  “Something something something something,” I said weakly, doing a disco dance to the beat of each word. I decided to end with a flourish, to make up for my mess-up. I kicked one leg high in the air, my knee almost touching my nose, and said, “And kick ’em to the moon!”

  For effect, I did a straddle leap and landed with my arms in the air, shouting, “Go, team!” waving my fingers like I saw cheerleaders do sometimes on TV.

  For a second, all I could hear was the sound of my own breathing, as the three girls stared back at me. And then, so quiet I almost didn’t hear it, there was a small snort from Stephenie as she hid her mouth behind her hand.

  “We’ll be in touch,” Layla said.

  Britt was waiting for me when I got home. I could see all of the questions in her eyes.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go to my room.”

  “So,” she said once she’d cleared herself a spot on my bed. To my mother’s never-ending chagrin, my room always looked like it had just been hit by a hurricane. “Let’s start with the big stuff. Cheerleading?”


  I shrugged one shoulder awkwardly. “It seemed like something fun to try. It’s not that far off from gymnastics, you know.”

  “Except that you wear kicky little skirts and shout stupid rhymes,” Britt said. “And they do those split leaps that just look silly.”

  “They’re called hurkeys,” I said, because I’d watched a couple of videos on YouTube to prepare for the tryouts. “And it doesn’t matter, because I don’t think I made the team.”

  Another friend might’ve asked what had happened, but Britt just waved her hand. “Good riddance,” she said. “Like you have time for cheerleading, anyway.”

  I didn’t know if I was relieved or offended by her dismissal. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “So, let’s get to the important stuff,” Britt said. “Namely, that you’ve been holding out on me. How is it that you never told me how good school food is?”

  Most people were still uncomfortable talking to me about food or weight; I was glad that Britt was able to be so casual about it. I decided that I didn’t need her to back me up on the cheerleading thing; she was probably right. It had been a dumb idea. I had more than enough going on with gymnastics, and I would never make the National team or even the Elite squad if I didn’t devote myself to it completely.

  After I let Britt know that she was crazy for thinking that the school’s bland grilled chicken was anything but gross and rubbery, we moved on to talk about other school things. She seemed interested in Norman, just as I thought she’d be, although she refused to be impressed by the fact that he’d used the word unanimous. She said that if everyone voted for one person, then there was no other word to use, so it wasn’t that formidable, a word that I thought she might be using incorrectly, though I wasn’t sure.

  At one point, Britt reached under her back to retrieve something she’d been lying on. “What’s this?” she asked, pulling out a card, but before I could grab it from her, she opened it.

  “Birthdays are special, it is true, birthdays are special, and so are you,” she read; but she didn’t read the signature, for which I was grateful. I knew what it said by heart: Happy Birthday, Tiger! Love, Dad.