Letters to Nowhere (6 page)

By the time I made it back into the gym, the others were five minutes into beam workout and Stacey looked more than livid at my disappearance.

“Did you change leotards?” she snapped at me.

I felt my heart speed up again. I could tell Stacy the truth and I probably should, but for some reason, I freaked out, maybe out of fear that she and Bentley would be concerned about this new change affecting my gymnastics, like with Blair’s growth spurt. “I…uh…spilled Gatorade.”

She let out an angry breath. “Gatorade?! That’s pure sugar, Karen. You know that.”

I leaned close and whispered, “I had diarrhea this morning. I’m feeling much better now.”

She sighed, looking less pissed off and reached in Olivia’s diaper bag, pulling out a banana. “Eat this. It works better than sugary drinks.”

Like I would actually eat something from a bag that holds diapers
.

I watched her bend down to the little car seat resting on the floor by the beams and place a pacifier in Olivia’s mouth. She used her foot to rock the seat back and forth while keeping an eye on Stevie’s beam routine.

Grief heavier than I’d ever experienced in the last three weeks swept over me. Would Stacey be there for Olivia when this happened to her years from now? Most likely she would. The odds were in her favor. And most likely she’d be around for all the events that followed this one.

But my mother had already missed this and everything after. She might have been a little materialistic and self–centered at times, but she would have made this whole period thing so much easier. I could practically hear her voice in my head.

“Yeah, it sucks, Karen, but at least you don’t have to keep worrying about when it’s going to happen.”

She would have done something special, but not humiliating. Like planning a girls’ night downtown. Maybe even stay in a hotel and shop and watch movies all night. She would know exactly how to tell my dad and not have him feel like his little girl was suddenly going to move out and get married to some asshole. And Mom would never let me feel bad about growing up. Not that Coach Bentley or Stacey would out loud, but silently…

Olivia’s little eyes fluttered shut and I couldn’t stand it a second longer. I had to get out of here or I’d fall apart in front of everyone.

My eyes stayed on the banana in my hand. “Actually, I’m not feeling well. I just puked in the bathroom. I thought it would go away, but I’m still really nauseous.”

“Stomach flu,” Stacey said, nodding. “We better get you out of here before it spreads like wildfire. I can’t have all my gymnasts coming down with the runs, can I?”

I shook my head and left to retrieve my stuff. This was only the second time in my life I’d missed practice due to illness, and the first time in my life that I’d faked it. When I returned from the locker room a few minutes later, Stacey had already arranged for one of the other coaches to drop me off on her way home.

T
onight, I opted to ring the doorbell, not wanting a recurrence of last night, since Jordan’s car was parked out front. He opened the door, giving me a bewildered look, but I just strode past him and headed upstairs to retrieve some laundry.

It wasn’t that the washer was all that complicated, but standing in the laundry room with a stained leotard that happened to be the last thing my mom had ever given me, plus the majority of my underwear and sports bras that badly needed washing, I couldn’t help but feel like I was on another planet.

Stay–at–home moms washed their kids’ clothes. Laundry was something I’d do when I got to college.

When I returned to the laundry room later, to switch the load, I realized my mistake right away.

“Oh no! Damn it.” Tears sprung to my eyes. The beautiful jeweled light pink leotard had turned a weird grayish purple, but splotchy. I yanked out my brand new navy sweat pants and tossed them onto the floor before holding my ruined outfit up to the light, examining the damage with shaking hands.

“My guess is that was hand–wash only?” Jordan poked his head into the room, probably after hearing my cry of distress.

His joke hit me a little too hard and I couldn’t control my emotions this time. I tried to wipe away the tears faster than they fell, but failed completely. Jordan stood there in silence, not moving a muscle. He looked like he wanted to say something but either couldn’t or didn’t know what to say. I decided to let him off the hook.

“Just don’t tell your dad,” I pleaded with him, wiping my nose on my sleeve.

“Don’t tell him that your pink leotard is now purple?” he asked tentatively. “Or that your balance beam routine would score higher than your laundry skills?”

I balled the leotard up in one hand and wiped the tears from my cheeks with the back of my other hand. “Don’t tell him I cried about something stupid. Or anything for that matter. The last thing he needs is some emotionally distressed teenage girl to deal with twenty–four–seven.”

Oh God, did I just say that out loud?

Jordan stared at me for a long moment and then flipped an empty bucket over, sitting on it and blocking the door. “You can say it, you know? It won’t freak me out.”

Now it was my turn to be utterly confused. “Say what?”

His eyes locked with mine and I could feel the tension building. “Your parents are dead.”

I held my breath for a few seconds, waiting to feel that awful punch in the gut I’d anticipated. But it wasn’t quite as bad as I thought it’d be. “My parents are dead.”

He nodded. “That sucks.”

I felt a few more tears trickle out, but I was too distracted by the conversation to wipe them away. “Yeah, it totally sucks. Today, even more so than other days.”

Jordan tugged at the leotard in my hand, freeing it from my grip and holding it up like a question.

“My mom got it for me for my birthday.”

“Before she died,” he finished.

“Before she died,” I repeated and then said the worst part over again, “because my parents are dead.”

“Say it one more time,” Jordan said. “It will get a little easier tomorrow and then we don’t have to tap–dance around the great big elephant in the room.”

“My parents are dead,” I said again and for some reason I started laughing. More like crying and laughing at the same time.

Jordan stood up again and let me exit the laundry room, following me. “So, I’m guessing you’re not really sick? My dad called and said to check on you. See if you needed me to clean up vomit.”

“That was nice of him. He gives you all the best chores.”

“No kidding,” Jordan grumbled. “You aren’t going to barf, are you?”

“Between you and me—no. But—”

“If my dad asks, it was coming out of every opening possible,” Jordan finished.

I wrinkled my nose. “Eh, thanks?”

***

“I’m making spaghetti. Do you want any?” Jordan asked after finding me in the kitchen writing in my notebook.

I snapped the book shut before he caught a glimpse of my list or any of the letters. “What should I do?”

He dug for a big pot under the sink and then turned to face me. “About dinner?”

“About the fact that your dad’s going to be home in the next two hours expecting me to be violently ill.” I couldn’t hide the panic in my voice.

“Why are you asking me?” He ran the hot water, filling the pot.

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “You seem to be experienced in the field of lying to adults, which I’m not. Other than today. I could just tell him that I lied to Stacey about being sick because I was upset about…”

“About…?” Jordan prompted, trying to get me to say it again.

“About my parents being dead,” I whispered, keeping my eyes focused on my hands. “So tell him I lied to Stacey?”

“Stacey.” He stared dreamily over my shoulder. “Stacey is hot.”

I rolled my eyes. “She’s also married and has a baby.”
And stretch marks and leaking breasts…

“Good point.” He refocused his attention on me. “Yes, you could tell him the truth. That would make the most sense, which clearly means you’re not going to do that. Maybe go to bed early and wake up fully recovered?”

I shook my head right away, knowing I couldn’t spend any extra time in that room. Plus, what if Coach Bentley came in to check on me and found me in the closet. Explaining that would be worse than the truth.
I really have to get myself out of that closet
.

Jordan turned his back to me, reaching in the cabinet for the box of pasta. I watched his hamstrings flex in response to his every movement. In my mind, I passed it off as athletes’ admiration, because hamstrings are so hard to build.

“Just do what all the chicks in my school do to get out of PE.
Female problems
. Best excuse ever. No male teacher wants to hear any details. They just wave them off to the bleachers and pray the discussion is over.”

My face flamed up instantly, but Jordan’s back was still to me. He couldn’t possibly know what had happened earlier? It had to be a coincidence. God, I’d die of humiliation before telling Coach Bentley that I started my period today…
for the first time
…one day after moving in with him.

“Although, you’ve probably got gymnastics spies watching you, giving him all the details of your life,” Jordan mused, oblivious to my current distress as he tossed a handful of salt into the pot of hot water. “He gets reports in the mail every time you guys go to those team training camps in the middle of the forest or wherever it is.”

“Houston,” I said. “What reports?”

“I don’t know what’s inside. Just an envelope that says, ‘Karen Campbell monthly evaluation.’”

My heart started pounding faster, my palms sweaty. The US Gymnastics committee was like the CIA, apparently. Before I even had a chance to absorb the shock, Jordan was sliding toward the built–in desk in the kitchen, bending over and flinging a file cabinet below the desk open, revealing a folder with my name. I stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen, listening to him read the top paper on the thick stack of pages.

“Karen Louise Campbell
—
”
He scrunched up his nose. “Louise? Really?”

“It’s my grandmother’s name,” I snapped.

He held up his hands as if to say sorry and continued reading. “
Four foot eleven and three quarters…ninety two pounds—”
His gaze jerked up from the page and he bent over to stuff it back in the folder. “We’ll both be murdered if he catches us looking through his shit.”

“What did it say?” I begged. “You read something, didn’t you?”

“Just don’t mess with it.” He turned back to the pasta. “I was being stupid. Never follow my example.”

I couldn’t leave it at that. “Does it say, Karen sucks, she’s hopeless and has no chance of making the World team?”

Jordan sighed. “Of course not. Even if it did, you think my dad’s just going to throw in the towel after reading that report? He does possess the ability to think for himself.”

I dove down on the floor under his leg, reaching for the handle of the drawer. Jordan was quicker than I expected, squatting down and slapping his hand to the top of the cabinet so I couldn’t pull it open.

“Okay,” he conceded. “It says Karen Campbell has clean routines, which everyone knows is code for ‘safe routines,’ as in non–risk taker. You should probably work on that.”

“I’ll start right now.” I shoved him with my shoulder, throwing him off balance and seconds later, the paper was in my hand, my eyes scanning the front page quickly.

Primary amenorrhoea. I knew that term. Delayed menstruation.

Treatments: Recommend calcium supplement and increase fat in diet.

Was there a chance that Jordan had no idea what that meant? Why would he have stuffed the paper back in the cabinet if he didn’t know?
Maybe he thinks it’s something else?
I didn’t want to read any more. My mom had told me there was nothing wrong with me. She’d told me it wasn’t a problem that things hadn’t happened yet, but I guess it didn’t really matter anymore because now they
had
happened.

I returned the paper to the drawer and closed it tight. Jordan had already stood up and was busying himself with the nearly cooked pasta. God, there was no end to my humiliation in front of this boy. I decided that I might as well embrace it after the day I’d had. Hiding would only make the situation worse. And it wasn’t like I really needed to, or even could, impress Jordan or anything.
He’s just a boy
. And I was just a girl his dad coached.