The Flip Side (22 page)

“No!” Without thinking, I take a step toward her, putting all my weight on my bad ankle. With a gasp I jerk back, letting my foot hang a few inches above the floor.

“That's not good,” Gwen says.

“I just have to pay attention to how much weight I place on it.” I put my hand on her arm. “Gwen, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for you to get into trouble. Does Coach Chris know?”

“I don't think so. But don't ask me for any more favors. I've been a nervous wreck, wondering if I'll get into even more trouble. Coach Chris has been yelling at me all day because I can't get my head in the game.”

“I'm really and truly sorry.”

“I have to focus,” Gwen says in a low voice. “I have one dream—to go to the Olympics. I just have to focus on that.”

She strides out of the locker room. I don't blame her for being upset. She was trying to help me out, and now she's in trouble too. I don't want her to lose her chance to make the Olympic team.

•  •  •

I'm expecting practice to pretty much suck, but, on the bright side, at least Coach Chris lets me practice.

First he chews me out in his quiet, deadly way. It's mostly him talking. I answer his questions with as few words as possible and as much respect as I can muster. He ends with, “I don't know, Charlie.” He presses his palm against his forehead. “This might be the end of your road. Now I've got to get back to people who really want to be here.” He drops his hand and slaps it against his thigh.

I know he'll have a conversation with Claudia Inverso, the head of the national team. She probably already knows that I hurt myself. Will she still want me at trials? Either way, I've got to practice today like I'm still going.

I warm up alone, holding back tears of frustration as my feet pound the mat and pain shoots through my bad ankle. I've been here before, dealing with the agony. I can't ignore it. I know that. It's my body's warning system. But I can adjust how I land on my foot, how much weight I put on it.

Gwen is finishing up with some bar drills when I finally make it over. I swing through a few cast-handstands, but Coach Rachel calls out, “Point your toes, Charlie.”

I nod, but I find it impossible to point the toes on my injured foot, because of how tightly I've bound the tape.

“Let's go, Charlie!” Coach Chris shouts. “Pound out that routine. Drop on your landing. I don't want you injuring yourself any worse.”

I don't want that either. But the question remains: Do I still believe in myself after everything I've done wrong? I've made so many mistakes, misjudged so many things. I didn't trust Zoe or Bobby to hold my secret. Now I have to wonder if I can trust myself to do everything I have to in order to make the team.

I power through a few giants, release my hold on the bar, and drop gently to the mats, putting as much weight as possible on my good leg.

“As soon as you're warmed up, hit routines,” Coach Chris says. “I'm heading over to floor with Gwen, but I'll be watching. How does it feel?”

“I feel okay.” But my stomach is knotted. That full twisting double back dismount, the skill I haven't quite mastered yet, is waiting for me. I anticipate the pain that's going to rip through my ankle when I land.

And that's only working on the bars, the event that's easiest on my ankle. If ever I needed a tight mind, it's now.

I suck in a deep, shuddering breath, counting slowly to release my brain from the panic that seizes me. I need to take my mind off my ankle, off my mom, off Dr. Kwan, off Coach Chris. Even off Coach Rachel, who watches me now with her eagle eyes, as if she's waiting for me to mess up, to lose it, to not be mentally strong enough. And with my injured ankle, maybe to not even be physically strong enough.

“Come on, Charlie,” Coach Rachel calls. “Let's see it.”

I slide the springboard into place and fly into my routine. When I land, pain shoots through my foot, up my leg, and I stumble. I bite down on my lower lip to stop myself from crying out. I can't show any vulnerability or lose my confidence now. Not after everything I've sacrificed and everything my family has given up.

Coach Rachel wanders over. “It looks like that hurt.”

“I can work through the pain.”

“That's what we do, isn't it? But sometimes it's not enough.”

“It'll be enough.”

She gives me an understanding smile. “So I hear there was a boy after all. You couldn't have waited a few more months?”

“You didn't.” I slap my hand over my mouth. “I'm sorry.”

She angles her head thoughtfully. “Nooo, I didn't. I was seventeen and wanted it all. I ended up with nothing.”

“Do you regret it?”

“My life is different from what it might have been, but you can't hold on to bad decisions. Let it all go, Charlie. Focus on the now. Not the past, not the future. Just the now. Do the routine again. Try to stick the landing without coming down on that foot too hard. Don't punish it for the mistakes you made this weekend.”

I nod. “Thanks, Coach. I appreciate the support and the advice.”

“You're good enough to make the team, Charlie. Your injury will make it more challenging, but it doesn't make it impossible. Just be sure to listen to your body.”

“I will.”

I get into position, run through the routine. My landing isn't perfect. But it's better. Still, I know I'm a long way from making the Olympic team.

“How was practice?” Dad asks that night when we're almost finished with dinner, as if everything is normal, as if I don't have my ankle stuck in a bucket of ice water beneath the table. We talked about normal stuff at the beginning of dinner. Questions like, how were our classes? Do Josh and I have any special projects coming due as we near the end of the school year? Was Dad able to work out the schematics for his new and improved spark plug idea? How did it go with Mom's client meeting this morning? Boring, normal questions that felt great to talk about. Because they helped me to forget for a few minutes the lousy mess I've made of things.

“It was okay,” I say, stirring my macaroni soup. “I'm still struggling with my bars dismount, but I'm closer.” I don't know if I'm close enough to have it polished before trials. Coach Chris hasn't called it off yet, though, so there's still a sliver of hope. Without that dismount, I don't feel like I can compete. I saw what the other girls were working on at camp, and everyone is ratcheting their skill level up a notch.

“Did your ankle feel all right?” Mom asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “I mean, it hurts, but I always have problems with this ankle, so . . . I'll stay off it as much as I can except during practice.”

“Maybe I should get you excused from school for the time remaining before you leave for trials. It would give you a chance to stay off the foot. You could do your assignments at home, take any tests when you get back from Detroit.”

It would be nice to check out of school. I could work at home in the quiet, and probably get a lot more done. I'd miss my last student council meeting on Wednesday.

But . . . there are only three more days before I leave for Detroit on Thursday. And I've never been a quitter at anything. I shake my head. “No. People will think I'm hiding.”

“Why would they think that?” Mom asks.

“Because Charlie Ryland was outed,” I announce.

“It's my fault,” Josh says.

“No, it's not,” I reply quickly.

“Care to explain yourself, Son?” Dad asks.

Josh explains about Zoe posting the photo and Morgan tagging it with the Charlie Ryland Gymnast handle. Josh runs through why he told her who I was.

“So practically everyone at school knows,” I tell them. “And I don't want them to think I'm ashamed or running, so not going to school isn't an option for me.”

Mom is quiet for a moment. “It was about to happen anyway, right?”

“Absolutely,” I say. “After this weekend, when I make the team, everyone is going to know.” Even if the way it happened wasn't exactly how I envisioned it. Fame comes with a price I'm willing to pay.

•  •  •

The next morning I have just finished breakfast and am setting my bowl in the sink when Mom's phone rings. “Just a sec,” she whispers as she accepts the call. “Get your shoes on, and I'll meet you in the car.”

It takes Mom forever to make it out to the car. I'm checking my phone for the time, stressing that I'm going to be late to school. Our morning routine is a little out of whack because Coach Chris instructed me not to come in for morning practice, to take it easy and give my ankle a small chance to recover from yesterday's workout. Mom finally opens the door and slides into the driver's seat.

“That call was from a newspaper,” she says, fumbling with her seat belt. She's so flustered, I have to help her buckle it. “They've run a story about you in this morning's paper, and they're trying to do a follow-up for tomorrow.”

“What?”

“I guess they tried to call me last night after I had my phone off.”

“A story about me? About—okay, I think I know.” It hurts to swallow. Mom wouldn't be flustered if it were a good article. “Is it really bad?”

Mom starts the car. “Honey, you're famous now. Instantly famous. ‘Olympic Hopeful Involved in Skating Mishap at Jefferson Prom.' Banner headline. It might make for a rough day at school. If you want, I'll call the principal and tell him you're sick today.”

“I can do it,” I say. “You always taught me to finish strong, even when it was hard.”

Mom nods. “Okay, then. Off we go.”

•  •  •

As I'm lumbering on crutches down the hallway to my locker, I'm very aware of the whispers, the pointing, and the stares. I hear an occasional giggle and spot the wide, curious eyes.

“Hey, Charlie!” a girl I don't know calls out. She gives me a big smile and waves her hand frantically as she walks by—like she wants everyone to think we're friends. I give a halfhearted wave.

I'm almost to my locker when two girls suddenly jump in front of me. I jerk back, nearly lose my balance.

“Can we get a selfie with you?” one of them asks.

I tell myself that this is no different from when I'm at a competition and someone wants to have a picture taken with me—but it still feels very strange and very different. I'm not used to being Charlie Ryland within these walls.

I force myself to smile. “Sure.”

One of the girls bends her knees so she can place her head close to mine, holds up her phone, and takes a picture. Then her friend moves in and does the same.

“Good luck, Charlie! We're counting on you!” they shout as they rush down the hallway.

Counting on me when I'm not sure I can count on my ankle 100 percent.

I notice some people looking at me oddly. I guess not everyone got the memo about who I am. I feel a little awkward because I don't know if I should announce my truth or try to explain why a couple of girls wanted to take a picture with me. I decide the best thing to do is just carry on. Eventually everyone will know and no explanations will be necessary.

When I get to my locker, I stagger to a stop and my heart sinks. The cover of
Gymnastics NOW!
is taped to my locker door. Someone used a black Sharpie to draw a mustache above my lip and circles around my eyes. Scrawled across the bottom in large letters is
GYMNAST OR FREAK?

I pull the cover down and wad it into a ball, glancing around me to see if anyone's looking suspicious. But nobody makes eye contact. A couple of people shuffle away quickly. I can just imagine the anger or disgust that's reflected on my face.

What a roller-coaster ride. Enthusiasts wanting selfies. Haters mocking my achievements with childish artwork. I'm not going to let unkind jerks unsettle me. I'm going to focus on those who think that what I do, what I'm aiming for, is as cool as I do.

I try not to think about the fact that Zoe is nowhere around, that she hasn't come up to me to ask how I'm doing. I keep darting a glance toward her locker, searching for her, but I don't see her. I miss her bubbling over with excitement about some gossip, or sharing her dreams. She never gave up on going to prom or having a boyfriend.

I can't give up on earning a place on the Olympic team.

•  •  •

When I walk into my government class, I spot Zoe already sitting in her seat. Our gazes clash for a heartbeat, before she buries her face in her textbook. No smile, no wave, no indication that she's glad to see me. I know I hurt her feelings by not telling her who I am.

I take my seat beside hers. “Hey.”

“Hi,” she says without looking at me.

“How are you doing?” I ask.

“Okay.”

“Zoe, can we talk after class?”

She turns a page in her book. “I have to get somewhere right after class.”

“I know you're mad.”

“I'm not mad.” She looks at me then, and I see such sadness that my chest tightens. “I'm hurt. And I don't want to talk about it.”

“I'm sorry that I didn't tell you.”

Shrugging her shoulders like she's shrugging off my apology, she goes back to studying her book. I may have lost her friendship forever, and that hurts worse than my ankle.

The girl who sits in front of me turns around, studies me. “So you're some big-deal gymnast?”

I shake my head. “I'm not a big deal.” Not yet. Not as big a deal as I might be.

“You're going to the Olympics,” the guy behind me says.

“Maybe,” I admit. “It depends on my ankle and how well I do my routines.”

“Kristine says that's why Mr. Alto let you be on the student council,” the girl says. “Because he thinks you're special.”