The Flip Side (23 page)

“I was doing it for extra credit to get my grades up,” I admit.

“So he's cutting you some slack on your grades?” she asks. “That's not fair.”

“I asked for an extra project to bring up my grades. I had to do the work. He didn't
give
me anything.”

Just as the bell rings, Mr. Alto bustles in. “Have you all seen the newspaper?” he asks excitedly. “Someone you may know is in there.” He holds up the
Columbus Courant
and taps the front page. “Miss Charlotte Ryland. How does it feel to be famous?”

I manage a weak smile as students shift at their desks to get a better look at me. I'm tired of telling people that I'm not famous. The truth is that in some gymnastics circles I'm a little famous. Earning medals at the World Championships will do that for you. “Weird.”

“How's the ankle?” he asks.

From where I'm sitting I can't see everyone in the class without turning around, but I can feel all the stares. Or at least I think I can. Maybe I'm just being paranoid. “It's getting better. Thanks for asking.” I want him to talk about something else.

“It's a good photo.” Mr. Alto studies the picture intently. “It's the same one as on the cover of that magazine. You should be proud of your success, Charlotte. Sit up straight and smile. Enjoy yourself.”

Instinctively I straighten. But I can't force a smile anymore. Zoe has twisted slightly so her back is to me. Usually she turns around and at least sympathizes when Mr. Alto goes on one of his cheerful rampages. But she's madly scribbling something in her notebook.

“Olympic trials are coming up this weekend,” Mr. Alto continues. “You should all watch and cheer for Charlie. Is it okay for me to call you Charlie?”

“I guess so. If you want.” Because Charlie is the real me. And I'm getting the distinct impression that as my façade fades, everyone can see straight inside me for the first time. It makes me want to cover up and hide.

But no. Being out in the open, being exposed, being a curiosity, is part of what I asked for when I went elite, when I accepted the invitation to the national team. Charlie isn't my secret identity double anymore—Charlie is the total of who I really am. She's always been the gymnast. And now she's the student at Jefferson High. She's the real me.

I just wish I felt more comfortable with her.

After the final bell rings, I make as quick a stop at my locker as possible, considering I'm still maneuvering on crutches, before heading out to the pickup zone in front of the school. Students waiting to be picked up are mingling along the sidewalk. I comb my gaze over the steady line of cars meandering along the circular drive, searching for Mom. She's usually at the front of the line waiting for me, but I don't see her. I check my phone to see if she might have texted me that she's running late.

“Charlie Ryland?” I turn to see a stranger hurrying from the opposite end of the parking lot. She wears a suit, heels, and a wide smile. “You're Charlie Ryland, right?”

“Yeah.”

A couple of students near me go still, watching as the woman teeters to a stop in front of me.

“Hi, Charlie.” She extends her hand as though she's going to shake mine, but then seems to realize that I'm not letting go of my crutches. “It's so nice to meet you. I'm Bonnie Thatcher from the
Columbus
Courant
. I was hoping to run into you.”

A reporter? I tighten my hold on the crutches and swing my gaze back toward the line of cars. It's shorter now. There are still students waiting to be picked up. A few ease closer to me like they're curious. “My mom's on her way. I have practice.”

“Can I ask you a few questions while you wait?” Her smile is blindingly brilliant.

“I guess.”

She holds her phone out, like it's a microphone. “I see you're on crutches. Is your ankle going to be fully recovered by the time you go to trials?”

“I hope so. I'm trying to keep as much pressure off it as possible.”

“What does your coach have to say about your accident?”

“Uhh . . .” I check the surroundings for Mom again. Why is she so late? “He was upset, of course. But now we've both put it behind us and are ready to work hard again.”

“So, your ankle isn't preventing you from practicing?”

I try to ignore the students who are standing around staring at us. This information really isn't something that I want to share, especially if it's going to show up on the front page of the paper. “I've worked through pain before.”

“That's amazing,” the reporter says. “Good for you.”

A Network Four News van screeches to a stop beyond the parking lot, in a no-parking zone.

“Are you feeling confident to perform at Olympic trials this weekend?” Bonnie Thatcher asks.

“I'll do my best. That's all I could do anyway.”

I watch two people leap from the van. A guy yanks the doors open and pulls out a huge camera. A woman holding a microphone starts racing toward the school. The guy quickly follows. My stomach tightens into a painful knot. I have a feeling they're here for me. I don't want my face plastered all over tonight's news.

“My mom's going to be here any minute.” I start edging closer to the pickup zone.

“Well, we'll just keep going until she gets here,” Bonnie says, matching my steps. “Now tell me a little about the accident.”

I squirm. “It wasn't really an ‘accident.' Just a little fall.”

“Can you describe exactly what happened?”

“I'd rather not. I don't like to replay negative things. It's not good for my concentration.”

“Sure,” she says. “Well, how about this? You went to prom with a guy, and your best friend and her date. How was that? Was it your first time to prom?”

“We had fun. It was a really good evening until I fell down.”

“Witnesses say that a guy wearing Rollerblades crashed into you. Was it intentional? Do you think there's someone at Jefferson who doesn't want you to compete at the Olympic Games?”

“Charlie Ryland!” the woman from the van yells just before stepping in front of the other reporter. “I'm Edwina Huang from Network Four News.”

The camera guy balances the camera on his shoulder.

“We're in the middle of an interview,” Bonnie says, providing the distraction I need. I pull away from them, scan the pickup zone for Mom. Only a few cars remain. Parents are getting out to watch the circus.

Edwina Huang shoves her microphone into my face. “Wait, Charlie. I have just a few questions. I promise not to take up much of your time.” I hear her hiss in the camera guy's direction, “Roll tape!”

I make a beeline for the flagpole. Where is Mom? Why is she late on the one day I desperately need her?

“What's your favorite event, Charlie?” Edwina throws the words at me while she and the cameraman follow, hot on my heels.

I stop walking. Because it's pointless. With crutches I can't outrun them, and even if I could, there's nobody to pick me up. “Beam. Always.”

“That's right,” Edwina says. “You were beam champ at the World Championships both last year and this year. Do you think you'll be able to compete at the same level for trials?”

I don't know. With my ankle compromised I know that competing at all is going to be touch and go, but I can't admit that—not to a reporter, not to the world, and most of all not to myself. “I hope so. I'm going to give it a hundred and ten percent.”

“Even with your ankle?” Edwina pushes.

Why can't she leave it alone? Why do reporters have to focus on the negative? Why do they have to keep throwing it in my face that physically I'm not at 100 percent? I have to provide a positive spin. “I won't let my ankle slow me down.”

“Charlie!” I'm startled to see Josh jogging toward me.

“Are you ready?” he asks, steering me toward his car. The pickup lane is wide enough for vehicles to go around each other. He stopped his car near the flagpole and is now blocking anyone in line behind him from pulling around.

I can hear the TV news crew trundling behind us. “Are you Josh Ryland? How does it feel to have a famous sister?”

To my surprise, Josh casts a quick glance back but doesn't answer. He guides me toward his car, his arm protectively around my shoulders. He opens the passenger door and helps me climb in, takes the crutches, and tosses them into the back.

“Charlie, are you going to sue the guy who crashed into you at prom?” Edwina asks.

I stare at her.

“Don't answer that,” Josh says as he slams the door shut. Then he runs around to the driver's side and slides in.

“Thank you for your time, Charlie!” Edwina calls out as Josh pulls away. I hazard a wave in her direction.

“Your first paparazzi! That was exciting.” Josh grins at me.

“It was a newspaper reporter and a TV news crew. I'm not sure that counts.”

“You probably need to get used to it,” Josh says. “There will probably be a lot of microphones and cameras shoved into your face when you go to the Olympics.”

“If I go.”

Josh darts a quick glance in my direction. “Why wouldn't you go?”

“My ankle isn't getting better, Josh.”

“It just needs a little more time.”

I nod and look out the window. Unfortunately, time is something I don't have.

I held it together for that reporter, the TV news crew, and Josh, but once I'm in the familiar locker room that's more my home than my home is, all my pent-up frustration and anger over my situation is released, like opening the sluice gates on a dam.

I bawl ugly, snotty tears. A few other girls wander in, stand around me, and pet my shoulder, my hair. “You're going to be okay, Charlie.” I'm not sure who's even talking most of the time. Someone hands me a tissue, and I wipe my eyes.

Through my blurred vision I spot Gwen standing at her locker door. Uncertainty plays across her face. Finally she walks over and sits on the bench beside me. “Tough day?” she asks.

Which only makes me start to cry again, harder. “Everything is so messed up.”

“I saw the article in the paper. Thanks for keeping my name out of it.”

I release a strangled laugh and take a swipe at my tears. “I didn't have anything to do with that. They didn't interview me. But if they had, I wouldn't have said anything. I just don't get why everyone is making such a big deal out of this. You're the one they should be talking to. You're the one most likely to make the Olympic team.”

“But your story is more interesting. You've got scandal, a wounded gymnast, a secret revealed. They'll probably make a movie about you.”

“I hope not.”

“Come on, girls.” Coach Rachel's voice rings from the locker room entrance. “Five minutes!”

Gwen stands up. The other girls step back. I look up at everyone, grateful that here at least I have people who understand me—who
get
me. “Thanks, guys. Sorry I fell apart there.”

“If you can't fall apart with us,” Gwen says, “where can you fall apart?”

They all leave. I grab the leo from my bag and limp to the changing room, scraping my hair up into a ponytail as I go.

Once I'm out on the floor, Coach Chris swiftly approaches me. “What's up?” he asks, looking deeply into my puffy eyes. Splashing cold water onto them didn't really help. “Are you going to be with me today?”

“Yes, Coach.”

“If I get one hundred and ten percent from you today, we're good. If I don't, there will be problems.”

“I know.” I'm longing to ask him if Claudia Inverso had anything to say about me, if I'm still welcome at trials, but he doesn't offer the information, and I don't ask.

“Okay.” He nods abruptly. “Let's go!”

•  •  •

“I don't want any reporters in the building today!” Coach Chris yells to Coach Rachel as a group of people with cameras presses up against the window of the viewing room. I've never heard him be so loud before. “You tell them I'm calling the police if they don't get off gym property!”

Coach Rachel gives him a thumbs-up and scurries away to take care of dispersing the reporters.

His forbidding them to be on gym property saves me, actually, because they're waiting across the street when I leave the building. Lights flare, camera shutters chatter. There's not an army of them, but a few. Enough.

Mom's waiting for me in a parking spot near the entrance. The crutches slow me down as I get into the car. I slam the door in frustration. I've decided to retire the crutches when I get home. Time to start letting my foot get used to constant weight again. I won't put my full weight on it, but I can put some weight on it.

“Well!” Mom's face is pale under the dome lights. “Good news. This day is over!”

I laugh. Despite everything, I had a fairly good practice. I blocked everything out and performed. My ankle killed me every single step of the way, and my bars dismount wasn't flawless, but my drive was there. Maybe Gwen was right. I was too distracted before, pulled in too many directions. But now that I haven't heard a word from Bobby, I can let him go.

Which sounds so easy when I'm in the gym, focusing on gymnastics. Now that I'm in the car, the evening twilight embracing me, the radio tuned to Mom's favorite classic rock station, her phone turned over in the console, on silent, gently vibrating, there's room for thinking. And as I'm thinking, I identify a dull ache in my chest. It's the empty space where I used to hold all the hopes that there might be something more than friendship between Bobby and me. I'm not sure that I even admitted to myself that I wanted more—until I couldn't have it. But I've ripped out all possibilities for something between us, and it hurts.