The Flip Side (25 page)

“So I decided to go back to public school. I wanted to have friends who weren't gymnasts and who had experiences different from mine. But I didn't want their opinions of me to be based on my gymnastics talent. I didn't want them to say to my face what I was reading on Facebook. I didn't want to find things like this”—I pull out the marked-up cover of
Gymnastics NOW!
—“taped to my locker. So I decided to become Charlotte Ryland, who no one had ever heard of.”

I release a self-mocking laugh. “And that kind of backfired, as you all know. But that's okay. You see, Charlie Ryland wouldn't have had to serve on the student council to bring up her grade. She would have been given a quick and easy project. But Charlotte Ryland had to figure out how government worked, so she had to serve on the student council. I enjoyed it a lot more than I thought I would. It gave me the opportunity to get to know all of you a little bit and to work to give those who went to prom a night to remember. And no matter what else happens, I'm glad for that.”

This whole time I have avoided looking at Bobby. But it's time now. His gaze is on me. I look into his brown eyes. After all, this little speech of mine—it's actually for him. “I'm really sorry, Bobby, that I didn't tell you the truth about me. I regret more than you'll ever know that I was stupid and careless with our friendship. I'm really truly sorry. You deserved better.”

I look over at Kristine. “And with that, Madam President, I yield the floor back to you.”

I sit down. No one says a word. Kristine clears her throat, shifts in her chair. “Uh, is there any further business? No? Then we're adjourned.”

“I knew who you were,” Brandon says as he grabs his backpack and stands.

I stare at him in amazement. “What?”

He grins. “Yeah, my sister's in gymnastics. I've seen you at some meets. You're going to kill them in Montreal.”

I'm so touched. Tears sting my eyes. I smile. “Thanks, Brandon.”

He shrugs and gives me a teasing grin. “But I'd like you more if you'd voted for the Prom Wars theme.”

Laughing, I reach down for my backpack, and realize that Bobby has already picked it up and is holding it out to me.

“Thanks,” I say.

“I still don't understand why you couldn't have just told me all that before.”

“I should have when I realized how much I was beginning to like you. But then there never seemed a good way to say it so that it made sense. So much of my life is about getting scores for how I perform that I guess I think people are scoring me on everything.”

The room has cleared out. Only Mr. Alto is left in the corner, studying his phone.

“I misjudged Kristine when we were going out,” Bobby continues. “I thought I'd done the same thing with you. Wrestling is part of who I am. It's not something I can separate from. For you to be at the level you are, that means gymnastics is part of you. After I discovered you had this double life, I just felt like I didn't really know you.”

“Charlotte and Charlie aren't that different. Not really. I finally figured that out. It's actually a lot easier just being Charlie. More challenging in some ways, but still easier. Which makes no sense.”

“I think I get what you mean.”

I hope he does. “I guess we'd better get to class,” I say.

“See you around, Charlie Ryland.”

I watch him walk out. I'm glad he's at least talking to me again, but I can't imagine that he'll want to hang out with me anymore.

•  •  •

I'm nearly to my locker when I see what appears to be a gaggle of girls gathered in front of it, apparently doing something to it. Defacing it, no doubt. If I didn't need one of the books in it for class, I'd just walk on.

One of the girls turns slightly, her eyes widen, and she begins shoving on the other girls and pointing at me. They turn and start hopping up and down. People stare at them, stare at me.

“Charlie Ryland!” a girl with short blond hair shouts. “We had no idea you were at our school. But then, we're just freshmen and so beneath you, but when we saw the news last night . . . OhmyGod! OhmyGod! Charlie Ryland at our school.”

A girl with long black hair pulled back into a ponytail steps forward. “Can I carry your backpack for you?”

I blink at her. “What?”

“You don't need the extra weight, not with your ankle trying to heal. I wish I'd realized sooner that you were at Jefferson. I would have totally carried your backpack for you all week.”

I guess Zoe doesn't Friend the freshmen on Facebook, or they don't Friend her.

“Thanks. That's okay. I've got it,” I say. “But I do need to get to my locker.”

“Oh, sure. Absolutely.”

The girls part like the Red Sea, and that's when I see what they've done to my locker. Tears sting my eyes. My chest tightens. There are starbursts and glittered signs taped to the door.

GO, CHARLIE!

WE BELIEVE!

CHARLIE ROCKS!

YOU CAN DO IT!

A string of balloons has been tied to the handle. They've decorated my locker like the cheerleaders decorate the lockers of the football and basketball players before a game.

“We just think you're amazing,” the blonde says.

“Totally amazing,” the dark-haired girl says.

I figure they are the voice for the group. There has to be at least eight girls, smiling at me.

“Thanks so much for doing this,” I say, waving my hand over my locker, like Vanna White revealing a puzzle on
Wheel of Fortune
. I imagine them working on the signs, gluing and glittering. “It means more to me than I can say.”

“Oh, totally,” another of the girls says.

I get my book out of my locker and close the door. I can't help but smile at all the enthusiasm taped to it.

“I've got to get to class,” I say, regretting that I don't have more time to get to know them.

“Oh, we do too,” the blonde says. “But we'll be watching the trials on TV.”

“And rooting for you,” one of the other girls says.

“Thanks.”

I'm still smiling as I head to class. This fame thing is a mixed bag. They reminded me that it's not all bad, that I can bring excitement to others' lives, that all I've been working for isn't just for me. It's for anyone who has ever had a dream.

•  •  •

I have one more thing that I need to do before I leave school today, before I head into the most important weekend of my life so far. I have to talk to Zoe.

She's been incredibly skilled at avoiding me in the hallways and at our lockers. But she can't escape me in Mr. Alto's class, because he has us in assigned seats. When I walk into government, I'm glad to see Zoe hunched over her desk, scribbling in her notebook. That's been her usual posture in this class since Monday.

I hobble over to my desk, take my seat, remove my book from my backpack, and then slide the backpack beneath my injured foot so that I can keep my ankle elevated as much as possible. The swelling is way down, but my ankle is still tender.

The seats around us are empty. I lean over slightly toward Zoe. “I saw you on the news last night. You handled the interview really well.”

Without looking at me, she lifts a shoulder, drops it back down, keeps scribbling.

“It means a lot to me that you still want me to go to the Olympics,” I say. “I wish I'd told you the truth about me, that I'd had your support all along.”

With her head still ducked, she peers over at me. “Why didn't you tell me? I tell you
everything
.”

“I just felt like I needed to keep my two lives separate. My life is so totally crazy right now. I wanted someplace that was gymnastics-free.” Which isn't the entire truth, and I know I have to be completely honest with her if I want to regain her friendship. “Plus I was afraid things might change between us.”

Straightening, she twists around to face me squarely. “Like how?”

“I don't know.” The bell is about to ring. Students are rushing in. Desks scrape across the floor as people throw themselves into the seats around us. “Can we talk after class?”

She glances around, sees that we've lost our privacy, and nods.

The bell rings. Mr. Alto strides in and announces a pop quiz. I groan. Maybe I'm not going to have an A in this class after all. I've barely studied over the past two nights.

He gives a stack of quizzes to the first person in each row, and the sheets are sent back. I take one and pass the remaining pages to the person behind me. I read the first question.
Name the three branches of government.
Easy enough.

I'm starting to write out my answer, when Mr. Alto is suddenly taking the paper from my desk. I look up at him.

He winks. “You're exempt, Charlie.”

I shake my head. “I don't want to be exempt.”

“You've earned your grade with the extra credit you did by serving on the student council. You need to be focusing on this weekend now, your upcoming trials.”

I can feel a couple of the students' gazes boring into me.

“I don't want to be treated differently, Mr. Alto.” I hold out my hand. “I need the quiz paper back, please.”

“But you are different, Charlie.”

“Not in school. Please, can I take the quiz?”

He chuckles but sets the paper back on my desk. “I've never had anyone ask to take a quiz. Good luck, Charlie.”

I don't know if he's talking about the quiz or the Olympic trials, but it doesn't matter. For right now I have to concentrate on this one hour, this quiz, one question at a time. I finish just as the bell rings. I'm actually feeling pretty good about my answers as I limp to the front of the class and drop off my paper.

“Good luck, Charlie,” Mr. Alto says again.

“Thanks.”

When I walk out into the hallway, Zoe is waiting for me. I can't describe the relief that washes over me.

“That was weird,” she says as we start walking toward our lockers.

“I know. It gets worse. He wants me to get him a Charlie Ryland T-shirt.”

She staggers to a stop and stares me at me. “You're kidding?”

I bite back a huge smile as I shake my head.

She rolls her eyes. “Okay, so maybe everyone didn't need to know you're Charlie Ryland, World Championship gymnast—but I should have known.”

“I know, Zoe. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you, but I can see that I did. We don't have to be best friends, but I hope we can at least be sort-of friends.”

“Sort-of friends don't want to punch Kristine. Only best friends want to do that. I couldn't believe the things she was saying during the interview yesterday.”

“She has an issue with Bobby taking me to prom.”

“She has issues period.”

“So are we friends again?”

She skews up her mouth like she's thinking. “Depends. Will you get me a T-shirt too?”

I laugh. I want to hug her, but I don't know if we're totally there yet. “Absolutely.”

Growing serious, she looks down at my wrapped foot. “Are you going to be able to compete well enough to make the team?”

I tell her the truth, because she deserves it and because I'm going to tell her only the truth from now on. “I don't know, Zoe. I honestly don't know.”

I have a sprained ankle, and I'm not sure what's going to happen with my bars dismount, but I'm going to Olympic trials anyway. I carefully fold my new leotard, shimmering purple with pink-swirled sleeves, and place it in my carry-on. I don't trust it to checked luggage.

Things between Zoe and me aren't perfect, but they are on the mend.

I also have to give some serious thought as to whether or not I'm going to public school next year. Mom said I would find normal boring. I can categorically say after the past few days that my life is anything but normal. It's bordering on weird, with some people embracing who I am and others resenting it. I don't know if I want to deal with the roller-coaster ride that school could become after the Olympics. If I make the team. And if I don't, I'm not sure I want to deal with people like Kristine saying that I didn't have what it takes to be an Olympian.

A familiar tap sounds on my door. Mom pokes her head in. “Are you ready?”

“I'm as ready as I'll ever be.”

“You've got your toothbrush, your leo, extra athletic tape?” she asks.

The list has always been the same, to every meet, for forever. There's comfort in knowing what I need to pack.

“And all my hair stuff. We'll just have to get more hair spray when we get there.”

“Got it,” Mom says. “I'm getting my shoes on.”

I hoist my duffel bag onto my shoulder. I'm heading down the stairs when a text comes in from Josh, who wasn't excused from going to school today. He's sent me a picture of the marquee that stands outside the front of the school. The lettering reads:
GOOD LUCK, CHARLIE
!

I text him back.
Thanks for sharing!

Dad is already in the car with the motor running, anxious to make sure that Mom and I get to the airport on time. He and Josh will drive up after dinner tomorrow. Because Coach works to keep us focused on our goals, I probably won't get a chance to visit with them until the competition is over. Another text comes in as I'm opening the car door.

I glance down, and my heart trips. It's Bobby.

Hey. Safe travels. You got this.

I smile. “You got this” is my inside joke with Gwen. Funny how it makes me feel that maybe everything will be all right.

•  •  •

Normally when we fly, Gwen and I sit together. We share snacks, talk about boys, and share earbuds. But as I walk to the check-in counter, I realize that this trip might be different, because Gwen is so totally focused on this weekend. She comforted me during my blubber-fest after I got cornered by the reporters at school, but other than that she has stayed pretty much to herself. I'm not sure she has quite forgiven me for involving her in my prom plot, which resulted in her being grounded.