CHAPTER SEVEN
February 12
Jordan,
There’s still one magazine under the bathroom sink. I’m afraid to tell you because I have a feeling you’ll tell me it’s a rite of passage into adulthood to look at porn and not have to cover my eyes, but I’m not sure I can do that. Also, do you really need to shave Every. Single. Day? If you’re trying to impress me with your manly ability to grow hair quickly, I’d rather just have the extra 15 minutes in the bathroom.
Thank you, Karen
P.S. After reading your essay on Catcher in the Rye from last year, I’ve decided that you are most definitely smarter than me. And I really, really hate knowing that.
“Have you done any goal planning or mental toughness exercises in gymnastics?”
Jackie smiled after seeing my startled expression. She’d told me awhile back that I had to translate gymnastics for her, so the last thing I expected was for her to understand the mental training required at my level.
“You look surprised,” she laughed. “In grad school I worked with collegiate athletes and did my thesis on the results of mental training programs. Mostly cross–country, soccer, track and field. No gymnastics.”
“We do weekly goal setting and mental toughness exercises with Stacey, our beam coach.”
“Perfect,” Jackie said. “Then go ahead and tell me some of your short–term goals.”
I twisted my hands in my lap. “Well, I’m leaving for National Team training camp tomorrow. I’d like to do well there.”
“And if you do?” she prompted.
I shrugged. “Guess I’m not sure exactly what will happen, but the committee could select me to compete in the American Cup in April. That’s a pretty big deal and it would be my first senior international meet, but they’re only picking three girls, so it’s a long shot.”
“And if you don’t get picked, then what?”
“Keep training,” I answered without hesitation. “The camps are a chance for them to check in and see how everyone’s skills are looking and how the coaches are doing. It’s cumulative and we have another one next month.”
Jackie x–rayed me with her therapist laser–beam eyes. “Does the fact that you’re supposed to be heading to UCLA in June hurt your chances with these National Team Committee people? College gymnastics is like retiring for you, isn’t it?”
I drew in a deep breath. Grandma must have told her about UCLA. I looked down at my hands again. “I don’t know. The last camp I went to was before we announced that I’d signed on with UCLA.” Stacey had gone with us to the last couple of camps and she hadn’t mentioned UCLA to anyone. Neither had Bentley. It was Coach Cordes who had let the cat out of the bag right before Christmas by posting something on the Bruins’ gymnastics team Facebook page.
“I see,” Jackie said. “I’m giving you another assignment. I’d like you to bring in a list of your long–term goals beyond this training camp and beyond June.”
Long–term goals. Like the plan Dad had made me and Mom write down. And the compromise plan he’d come up with. The plan I was currently debating whether or not I should void in their absence. Just thinking it made me feel guilty. And yet, I still wanted everything I’d wanted that day in the kitchen with my parents. If anything, the dream was even more alive in their absence. It represented a part of my past that included them.
***
After two weeks of living with my coach and his teenage son, I still hadn’t been able to bring myself to sleep anywhere in my new room but the closet. A couple nights ago, I did fall asleep on the living room couch watching TV.
Today, my four teammates and I were on a plane headed to Houston for our first National Team training camp since early November, and none of us St. Louis Gymnastics Institute girls were exactly in the best condition at the moment. My right shoulder was really sore and Ally, our athletic trainer, was already planning to schedule an x–ray and possibly an MRI for me next week. Ellen was getting over the flu. Blair’s shins had been killing her for the last week and she would probably be in the running for an MRI as well.
And Stevie hadn’t competed at Nationals last summer because that was during her retirement, so she wasn’t even ranked. She and Coach Bentley had to submit a video to the National Team staff proving she was at least at eighty percent of where she was prior to the last Olympic trials. The problem was—Stevie had to know this—twenty–five girls in this country were equal to Stevie’s eighty percent, pre–retirement self. She was on this trip because of her past success. Most likely, this weekend would be her only chance at a second chance.
“You think Jordan will be okay on his own for three days?” I asked Bentley after the plane had taken off. He and I were seated in row ten, while the other three were all the way back in row twenty–nine. The four of us girls had huddled in the airport bathroom, drawing straws to see who had to sit by the coach. Honestly, I didn’t think it was fair that I had to be in this contest, considering I lived with the guy now. But of course, I drew the short straw.
“Oh, he’s not alone,” Bentley said, thumbing through the airline magazine. “Mrs. Garrett is staying with him until Sunday night.”
I had to snort back laughter. Poor Jordan. Mrs. Garrett was the seventy–five–year–old receptionist at the gym, and it wasn’t like Jordan would be able to be mean or disobedient to an old woman.
“Actually, I’m glad you’re up here with me,” Bentley said after the first hour of the flight. “There’s something we need to discuss before we get to camp.”
I shut my book and stuffed it in the pouch of the seat in front of me. “Okay?”
“Word travels fast in gymnastics. You know that already, I’m sure?” I nodded, figuring he was talking about UCLA in June. “It’s possible some of the National Team staff might be aware of the new skills you’ve been working on.”
Wait, what?
I sat up straighter, turning toward him. “Really?” Excitement flooded through me. I’d love to be able to throw some of my new stuff and make an impression.
“I need you to promise me you won’t confirm anything. You don’t have to lie, just brush it off as nothing big or important, understood?”
That dampened my spirits. “So, I guess that means I won’t be performing any new skills either?”
Coach Bentley gave me a sad smile. “I know I’ve made this hard for you, but what you have to realize, Karen, is that all of you have been branded by the National Team staff.”
“What’s my brand?” I asked, though I had a pretty good guess.
“The consistent one. Someone that could be put on the Pan American team or the World team to go first or second on an event, get the team started off on a positive note.” He sighed and leaned a little closer, lowering his voice. “I’m not saying we can’t change that, but if you do throw something new into the mix, it has to be perfect. You’ve got to keep your reputation as a clean gymnast, beautiful form—international judges are looking for that. This year is a whole new ball game for you and it’s my job to set you up for the best position possible.”
International judges? Not college judges.
“Does that mean I’ve earned back my layout Jaeger privileges?” I asked.
He nodded. “Starting Monday on a strictly probationary basis.”
“What about June?” I asked tentatively. “What about UCLA?” What about the plan I swore to follow?
Coach Bentley sat quietly for a minute before saying, “How about we put that on the back burner for now? I really don’t think you’re done with elite gymnastics yet, Karen. Besides, June is long ways off.”
I leaned back in my chair, releasing a breath I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding. A hundred–pound weight lifted off my shoulders. With that one sentence, Bentley had basically made it okay for me to keep pushing myself toward the top. Over the last month, my drive had tripled. I’d gained this hugely competitive edge I’d never had before in my entire life. I’d always focused on my routines and working to make them cleaner, but now I found myself watching my teammates, trying to constantly one–up them. And I wanted to one–up myself and my current routines by adding more. If the “Karen’s life plan” conversation had taken place today with my parents, I would have fought harder to get my way and probably wouldn’t have accepted my dad’s compromise.
February 13
Coach Bentley,
Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU!!!! I won’t let you down.
—Karen
P.S. You aren’t planning on talking to Coach Cordes about our little secret plan, are you? Not sure he’d be on board with that.
***
We always had physical abilities testing the second we arrived at the National Team Training Center, which was literally in the middle of nowhere. I was one of the lucky few who got cell phone reception.
I pushed through the rope climb, leg lifts, and sprint tests with really good scores. There were twenty–eight girls here this month, both seniors and juniors. A few of the other elite gymnasts had injuries that prevented them from attending, but other than that, everyone came. No excuses. We ranged in age from twelve all the way up to twenty–two.
Right before the press handstand test, Bentley walked over to me and whispered, “We can sit this one out if you think it’ll aggravate your shoulder.”
I knew it would aggravate my shoulder, but I wasn’t about to bail out of it and look like a baby before camp even started. The first two press handstands hurt like hell, but then it was tolerable. It was also my lowest scoring test. As soon as I finished, Blair was right behind me, rubbing my shoulder.
“That hurt me just to watch,” she whispered.
“How are your shins?” I whispered back to her.
“Bad,” she admitted. “It was just a dull ache, but when we were doing jumps in warm–ups, it turned into a sharp pain, right along the bone. Do you think it’s a stress fracture?”
Worry for my best friend overtook my own pain. We usually dropped our workout competiveness at training camps because any success from our gym improved all of our chances. It made Coach Bentley look more capable and more likely to produce multiple stars. Plus, we really were like sisters and needed the support in emotionally draining situations like these.
“I don’t know, but you should probably tell Bentley. He’ll be pissed if you don’t.”
She sighed, looking defeated. “I know.”
When Blair left to talk to Bentley, Ellen and Stevie joined me to stretch out. Ellen looked pale and was clutching her stomach. “I feel like I’m gonna barf.”
Ellen’s brown curls were clinging to her face and she looked even younger than usual.
“Try putting your head between your knees,” Stevie suggested.
“Maybe drink some water,” I added.
“Oh God,” Ellen groaned. Then she leapt up from the floor and ran over to a garbage can by the side door and puked in it, just in time, her fingers gripping the sides, holding her up.
Stevie and I both covered our eyes at the same time. “Poor thing,” Stevie said.
“She hasn’t been able to keep anything down all week. Blair’s shins are really bad. She went to tell Bentley.”
“Man,” Stevie mumbled. “I’d hate to be Coach Bentley right now. His team is a mess.”
We watched as Bentley left Blair mid–sentence and ran over to Ellen, who was still heaving into the garbage can. Nearly everyone in the gym had their attention on Ellen as we wrapped up the strength testing. Bentley helped her over to the bleachers and another coach brought her a tissue to wipe her mouth and face. Then I saw Bentley rest a hand on her forehead before calling the team doctor over.
Stevie and I finished our cool–down stretches quietly, listening in on the discussions around us. It was decided that Ellen, who was running a fever of a hundred and three, would be sent to bed with fluids and Tylenol. Then they spent several minutes deciding to put Ellen in her own room so she wouldn’t infect any of the others.
Blair was checked out by the team doctor next and restricted to only bars and beam—no tumbling, vault, or dismounts for the entire weekend. Needless to say, none of us were in good spirits by the time we headed to our rooms.
But I was pleasantly surprised to have a text from Jordan waiting for me on my cell phone. This led to a long exchange over the next several hours between dinner, showering, bringing Ellen my fuzzy slippers, and a team meeting.
JORDAN: Mrs. Garrett’s teeth are soaking in a glass on the kitchen counter…can you pls break your ankle or something and come home early?
ME: Omg! Ew. I’ll try to help you help out. Maybe I’ll throw a triple back on floor tomorrow
JORDAN: Thanks! How’s camp so far? Do they really have llamas there?
ME: Yep. There’s a llama and a few bulls and some chickens. I think it’s gonna be a rough weekend. Ellen’s sick. Blair might have a stress fracture…Stevie’s under way too much pressure
JORDAN: Stevie’s a pro. Don’t worry about her. She’ll come through. Besides, I thought we were feeling sorry for me right now. Not you. What do you think Mrs. Garrett wears to bed? It’s gonna be scary, isn’t it?
ME: Right. I apologize for not focusing 100% on Jordan Bentley’s problems
JORDAN: Apology accepted
ME: Can I ask you something?
JORDAN: Sure…
ME: You go to Catholic school, right? You have church or mass or religion class or whatever?
JORDAN: All of the above
ME: This is a stupid question, so don’t answer it if you don’t want to…but what do you believe? As far as afterlife goes? I know it’s stupid. You can ignore me.
My phone rang about thirty seconds after I sent the last text. I answered it with a pounding heart. I had gone too far this time. Jordan would probably tell me I needed professional help, though technically I was already getting help.
“Hey,” I said after the third ring.
“Hey,” Jordan said, and just the sound of his voice put butterflies in my stomach. “It’s not a stupid question, I just didn’t want to answer it by text.”
“I’m not pondering this twenty–four–seven or anything, it’s just…sometimes . . .”
“You think about it,” he finished for me.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know, Karen.” He sighed. “I’m not sure what I believe. I want to think about my family in Heaven, but it’s so out there. So much fantasy and not enough reality. Hell seems more believable than pearly gates and angels floating around in clouds.”
“That’s my problem, too.” I slid under the covers and pulled the blanket up to my chin.
“Maybe I believe in ghosts…not that I have any evidence or proof, but it seems a lot more possible than Heaven or Hell.”
“Memories are like ghosts for me,” I said.
Silence fell over both of us for a long moment, then Jordan finally spoke again. “New subject?”
I laughed. “So…have you seen any more of Sara? Or had any other random make–out sessions lately? Or should I say study sessions?”
“I did mention there is currently a very old lady residing in my home, didn’t I?” he said. “Besides, we’re young. We’re supposed to kiss a lot people, figure out who’s superior. I’m sure someone like you can appreciate that. You probably give scores.”
My cheeks flared up even though no one was around to see me blush. “Okay, you’ve obviously learned nothing at all from me,” I said, laughing. “Think about it, Jordan…do you really think I have any experience with this subject whatsoever?”
“Wait,” he said. “You mean you’ve never kissed anyone?”
“Not a nonrelative,” I said. “It’s not like I go around advertising this to people, but I figured you would get that I’m a little behind in that area. If I had known you thought otherwise I probably would have been happy living a lie just to avoid this conversation.”
“Seriously? Not even during an innocent game of spin–the–bottle? Or seven minutes in heaven?”
“No,” I said more firmly this time. “Nothing. I went to parties with kids from gymnastics and we talked about Disney Channel movie star crushes and gymnastics—that’s it. No boys. No spin–the–bottle or whatever that other game you mentioned is.”
“Well,” he said. “I think it’s cool.”
“No you don’t. It’s weird, even I know that, but I’m okay with it.”
“Really, it’s kinda cool.” His voice held no hint of the patronizing tone I’d expected. “I wish I could have my first kiss all over again, but better. Or just that feeling of anticipating something that seems so ordinary to me now. Once you cross that line you can’t take it back.” He laughed. “And I don’t mean that in an abstinence, wait–for–marriage kind of way, but in the sense that…I don’t know…it’s like the feeling you got on Christmas morning, as a little kid, looking at all the wrapped gifts and endless possibilities that came with not knowing what was in them. Once you open the gifts, that feeling is gone.”
“So what you’re saying is, anticipating a first kiss is better than the kiss itself?” I asked.
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Depending on who you’re kissing. But I think my jealousy of your lack of experience stems from my resistance to the whole growing–up concept. I’d rather not. Just between you and me.”
I smiled to myself. “I’m sure ninety–nine percent of people our age feel the same way. But I doubt many are able to admit it like you have or even realize it at all.”
“Admitting you have a problem is the first step, right?”
“Right,” I said, smiling again. “I should get some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be hard enough without adding sleep deprivation.”
“Talk to you later, Karen.”
I hung up my phone and tucked it under my pillow, my ears still lingering on the sound of my name…Jordan saying my name…it rolled off his tongue, smooth and fluid and I was pretty sure I’d be happy listening to him saying it over and over again.