The Flip Side (15 page)

Yellow-and-black warm-ups. The frozen yogurt store is full of them. “Uhh . . . maybe this isn't such a good idea.”

“You are not backing out now!” Gwen cries.

A quick glance at her face tells me she has no idea why I'm stalling. For all she knows, I'm doubting our decision to pig out on froyo this close to trials. I check over my shoulder. Sure enough, there's a big yellow school bus parked at the back of the lot.

I size up the situation inside the shop. There's a mixture of boys and girls, it seems, all in yellow and black. What I don't get is why they're here. Gwen and I have been to FroYoLicious a dozen times, and I've never in all those times seen another person from Jefferson. In fact, mostly, at this time of night, we have the place to ourselves, which is why I thought it would be perfect for a clandestine meeting.

There have to be at least thirty Jefferson kids here tonight, crammed into the small shop, all at different stages of dispensing and eating their frozen yogurt. I scan the crowd for someone I might know. Mostly they're strangers, but I do spot a kid who sits a couple of rows behind me in Spanish. And a girl I recognize from U.S. government. Is that Alison from AP Lit? Or her twin? I can never tell them apart.

I slip through the doorway, dipping my head and trying not to make eye contact. My hair is firmly back in a messy bun, and my face is glasses-free. Even if there are kids here from my classes, they're not used to seeing me with my hair up, dressed in my warm-ups, so maybe they won't recognize me.

“Wow, it's crowded,” Gwen says. Her voice is loud over the jumble of conversations. We grip each other's sleeves as we weave our way through the crowd. “What are all these kids doing here, do you think?”

“They must've had some sort of competition,” I say.

“What school are they?” Gwen asks.

I cough and speak at the same time. “Jefferson.”

“Jefferson? Your school?”

We've reached the yogurt machines and wait in line behind a couple of girls. I'm not sure I want to answer her when we're standing so close to other people. “Yes,” I whisper, “but don't make a big deal about it. I don't really know any of these people. Not well, anyway.”

Gwen bounces on her toes. Her eyes skim the crowd. She seems super-excited to be around this many other high school kids. Maybe it's all the boys. Our gym doesn't have a boys' program, so her opportunities are limited.

“Why are they all over here? This isn't exactly near Jefferson,” Gwen says.

The girl in front of us turns and gives Gwen a once-over. “We had a meet at Rosa Parks.”

“Oh, cool. What kind of meet?” Gwen asks.

I pretend to be reading the flavors on the yogurt machine. I don't think this girl recognizes me from school. I don't recognize her. Thank goodness.

“Track-and-field,” the girl says, inching forward in the line.

“That's so cool!” Gwen says. “How'd it go?”

“A lot of us won our events,” the girl says, finally offering Gwen a smile. “Where do you go?”

“Oh, I do online school,” Gwen says, sending me a nervous side glance. I grit my teeth in a smile, hoping the girl doesn't ask me the same question, but she starts talking to the friend in front of her and seems to forget all about us.

We fill our cups and add toppings, but after we've paid, there's nowhere to sit.

Gwen and I lean against the wall, angling away from a cluster of girls who are sharing the same wall. “Note to self,” Gwen says. “Don't come to FroYoLicious when there's a track-and-field meet in town.”

“No kidding,” I say.

Gwen licks yogurt off her spoon. “I guess if someone found out you did gymnastics, it wouldn't be the end of the world. They wouldn't know what level you were. It wouldn't change anything.”

I shrug. Maybe she's right, but they
might
figure out I'm actually pretty good, and that makes me nervous, because I would have to deal with explaining my double life to people before I'm ready. Talk about a distraction before trials. I need to take things one step at a time: trials, Olympics, loss of anonymity at school.

“Oh my gosh! Mom, look!” exclaims a small voice.

A mom and double-daughter combo are approaching us. I know they're talking about us, because they have that look on their faces—the shining-eyed, excited look.

“It's Charlie Ryland and Gwen Edwards!” The mom is practically yelling. “Hi, girls!” She reaches a hand out to pump mine. “My girls go to your gym. We've seen your pictures and followed all your meets!”

I glance around to see if anyone's taking notice of us. A Jefferson girl near us makes eye contact with me and gives me an odd look, but then goes back to her froyo.

The woman's daughters are only slightly shorter than Gwen and me, but they're probably only ten years old, max. Though, sometimes it's hard to tell with gymnasts. We do, generally, tend to be on the shorter side. They flutter their fingers at us sheepishly.

“Hey, girls. Great to meet you!” Gwen says, flashing her sunny smile. She pumps hands with the mom and then each of the girls. I, on the other hand, glance around the shop, trying to assess if anyone is paying attention to what's going on over here or if we can be heard. But it doesn't seem as though anyone is aware of us, which makes me feel a little silly and paranoid.

“We're such big fans,” says the mom. “Do you think they could get something signed by you? I'm not sure we'll ever see you at the gym when you're free.”

“Sure!” Gwen cries. Of the two of us, she's definitely the PR person at the moment, while I'm working to keep a low profile.

“We don't have pens or anything,” I finally contribute. “I'll check with the cashier. Maybe she has one we can borrow.”

“Don't go to that trouble. I'll see what I can find in my purse,” the mom says, beginning to rummage. “Thank you so much!”

I nod, smiling, wishing I hadn't let the presence of students from Jefferson unsettle me. As a result I haven't been paying attention to these two young girls, who are obviously starstruck. I would have died at their age if I'd had a chance to speak with an elite gymnast.

“What levels are you in?” I ask, positioning myself so that I'm giving them my full attention and not worrying about the Jefferson students any longer.

The girls nudge each other. “You answer,” one says.

“No, you!”

“They just started at Gold Star,” the mom answers for them. “We were at a different gym before. Both did level four last season.”

“Are you twins?” Gwen asks.

“No, no,” the mom says. “Fifteen months apart. But they started gymnastics at the same time.”

“How cool to do gymnastics with your sister,” I say. “That must be awesome. I wish I had a sister to do gymnastics with. But I only have a brother, and he just likes to play video games.”

“Do you play with him?” one of the girls asks.

“Nope. Can't sit still for that long. I'd rather do cartwheels.”

“Me too!” the other girl says. “I love cartwheels.”

The mom holds up a pen. “I found one! Here . . . let's use a napkin.”

“What about my hand?” chirps one of the girls. “They could sign my hand!”

“Oh, but that would rub off, honey,” the mom says, bustling away to find a napkin.

“What is your favorite event?” one of the girls asks, barely daring to look at Gwen.

“Mine is definitely bars,” Gwen says. “How about you, Charlie?”

“Beam.”

“My favorite is beam too!” says the girl. I give her a high five.

“Mine is bars!” says the other girl.

The mom returns. “Thank you so much!” she exclaims. “You two are such an inspiration to my daughters. I can't tell you how much it means to us to run into you.”

“It's fun to meet younger gymnasts,” I say, trying to make up for my distraction earlier. “Did you have a good season in level four, girls?”

They nod in unison.

“What level are you doing next year?” I ask.

“Level five,” says one girl, who looks like she might be the older one. “Tamara's still working on her flyaway, though.”

“I still need a spot,” says Tamara sheepishly, referring to the fact that she needs someone to be there to catch her if she falls, and to help her get back into the routine.

“There's nothing wrong with a spot,” I tell them. “We all need a little help sometimes. Flyaways are hard when you first try them.”

The girls grin at us.

“You're both awesome,” I say, signing my name with a flourish. “Keep up the good work and never give up, okay?”

The girls each give us a thumbs-up as they walk off with their mother. Watching them leave, I realize that the place has pretty much cleared out and all the Jefferson High students are gone.

“Whew! So much for a relaxing bit of frozen yogurt after practice,” Gwen says. She takes a bite of yogurt, studies me. “So why are we really here?”

Busted. She knows something's up. “Let's sit down.”

We settle in at a small round iron table with two iron seats. Not the most comfortable. Gwen turns her unblinking eyes on me and licks her spoon. She's waiting. Patiently. Now that the moment is here, I'm not quite sure how to explain.

“You know more about me than anyone else,” I say. “I tell you everything. You're my best friend. I need a favor a week from Saturday. I need you to drive me somewhere, and I don't want my parents to know.”

Her brow crinkles. “That sounds ominous. What's going on?”

“Bobby invited me to prom, and I want to go really badly, but Mom said no.”

She shakes her head like what I've said makes no sense. “You want to go to prom a week before trials?”

I sigh with frustration. “I don't know why we always have to choose gymnastics over everything else. I think I can do both. Life as we know it is going to get crazier if we make the team. How can I handle the stress of the Olympics if something as simple as going to prom throws me off-kilter? Mom told me to embrace my crazy, and this is part of it. Not sacrificing everything, but doing as much as I can to enjoy this wild ride I'm on.”

She studies me, and I see the concern in her eyes. “I get what you're saying. I really do. It's just one night, but what if something goes wrong? I know I'm a broken record, but I can't stop thinking about what happened to Coach Rachel.”

“Gwen, nothing bad is going to happen,” I hastily assure her. “You'd know that if you met Bobby. He's really nice. And it's my only chance to go to prom before I hopefully make the Olympics, which means I'll be stepping onto the world stage and everyone will know who I am whether I like it or not. Plus I'll get to see the results of all the hard work the student council did to create one romantic starry night in Paris.”

“Paris?”

“That's our theme. Paris is such a romantic city, known for people falling in love. It was my idea.”

She sets aside her cup of melting yogurt. “Coach Chris will have a fit if he discovers you're not a hundred percent focused on trials.”

“That's what I'm trying to explain. I'm going to think about it whether or not I go, so I might as well go. Besides, he's not going to find out.”

“If he learns that I was an accessory—”

“It's not a crime,” I point out, holding back the need to laugh at her legal terminology. “But again, he's not going to find out.”

Leaning back, she crosses her arms over her chest and stares off into the distance. “Prom,” she grumbles.

“I know you don't approve.”

Shaking her head, she shifts her attention to me. “To be honest, I'm a little jealous. I wish I were going to prom. When we walked in here tonight and there were all those guys . . . Did you see how buff some of them were?”

I smile. “I saw a couple of them looking you over.”

“You were too worried about them figuring out who you were to notice them looking at me.”

“Not true. Trust me, a couple of them were interested.”

She blushes with obvious pleasure. I've never seen Gwen blush.

“So this escape to prom that you're planning, how would it work?” she asks.

“I'd tell my mom that I'm spending the night with you so that we can begin psyching each other up for trials. I'd go ahead and have my dress and everything at your house so I could change there. Then I'll just tell Bobby that I have to meet him at prom. You drive me there. I'll have him drive me to your house when it's over.”

“We'll have to figure out a way for Mrs. Gundersen not to get suspicious. I'll think of something.”

I can't believe what I'm hearing. “So . . . you'll do it?”

“I've got your back, Charlie.”

I almost whoop with joy. I can't believe that I'm going to be able to pull this off and go to prom. “Thanks, Gwennie. You're the best friend ever.”

When I arrive at Mr. Alto's classroom for the student council meeting, I slide into the empty seat next to Bobby. My heart does a little somersault because he looks so glad to see me.

“Did you get things with the family situation worked out?” he asks.

“Almost. But I'll need to meet you at prom.”

“I thought we'd do dinner first.”

“I can meet you at the restaurant.”

“You don't want me to pick you up?”

He looks confused, a little suspicious.

“It's a long story, but I'll be—”

“I'm calling the meeting to order,” Kristine says harshly. “Secretary, call the roll.”

I do. Then we approve the minutes. Each committee is called on to report. When we get to the food committee, I share the information from Tasty Bites. It gets a resounding approval—even from my committee members, who I figure are just glad they don't have to discuss it anymore—and Mr. Alto is asked to present it to the administration for a final approval.