The Flip Side (26 page)

I don't see her until I'm at the gate. As if to confirm my fears, Gwen turns away when she sees me, chatting with her mom, who flew in from Georgia last night. Her dad, brother, and little sister are all flying together straight to Detroit. Gwen rests her head on her mom's shoulder. And ignores me.

There's an open seat next to her. I sit down and pull my duffel bag onto my lap.

“Well, hello, Charlie,” Mrs. Edwards says. “How's the ankle?”

“It could be worse.”

Mrs. Edwards nods. “Well, I was very sorry to hear about your accident. I'm glad you're on the mend. Although, I wasn't too pleased when I learned about the mischief you and Gwen got into.”

“It was totally my fault, Mrs. Edwards. Gwen never thought it was a good idea, but she went along with it because I wanted to go to prom so badly. But now I'm not sure I even want to go to public school next year. I think I want to do an online program, like Gwen.”

Gwen stares at me. “Why? The Olympics will be over.”

“It's weird enough at school now. It'll be even weirder next year. Besides, I've got to get my priorities straight.”

Gwen shifts in her seat. “Seriously?”

“That's funny,” Mrs. Edwards says, “because Gwen was just talking to me about going to public school next fall after the Olympics in August. You know, she's done online school since first grade. How is this child going to handle a strict schedule of classes and homework assignments?”

“Mom!” Gwen whispers, jabbing her.

“No, I understand,” her mom continues. “You see your friend here doing all these high school things. You think you're missing out on something big. Well, honey, let me tell you . . . No, better yet, let Charlie tell you. Is there anything special about high school that Gwen will miss out on if she doesn't go? I've told her she's missing out on a whole lot of nothing and heartache.”

I mentally go through a checklist of my public school experiences. “It has its moments. I've met other people, other friends. There are extracurricular activities that can be surprisingly fun. If I do stay at Jefferson, I might run for the student council.”

“I thought student council was a lot of work,” Gwen says.

“It was. The good kind.”

“See, Mom?” Gwen says. “Plus it'll be my senior year. What if I just want to
experience
it?”

“That's fine,” Mrs. Edwards says. “But you've got to realize that your gymnastics might suffer. Here you've been going so strong for so long. It would be a pity to mess all that up.”

Gwen slouches miserably. “But it'll be four years before the next Olympics. I'll be in college by then. It just seems like at some point in my life I should go to a public school before I head to college.”

“And if you go to public school, you might get a text like this.” I hold out Bobby's latest for Gwen to see.

She leans forward in her seat. “Bobby told you, ‘You got this'!”

We both laugh, because he unintentionally tapped into our private joke.

“Oh, wow, I hope that's not a prophecy or anything!” Gwen cries. “I mean, are you totally going to bite it on your Amanar?”

As long as my ankle can withstand the impact of my landing on the mat, I'm pretty confident that my vault is not going to totally bite. “I better not! I'm struggling enough with other stuff as it is. At least give me a decent vault!”

Our laughter dwindles. Talking about my struggles probably reminds us both about my injury and how I got it.

“I'm really sorry, Gwen,” I whisper. “I shouldn't have gotten you involved in my drama.”

Gwen leans toward me now, away from her mom. “Truthfully, it was kind of exciting. I was so afraid we were going to get caught. But I wanted to be there with you for the whole night.”

“I wish you could have been. I'm so sorry that you got grounded because of me.”

The corners of her mouth turn up slightly. “It's only for another couple of days, but you do owe me now.”

“I'll pay up anytime.”

Gwen's eyes soften. “Like I told you before, I was a little jealous. You manage all this stuff all the time, and I can manage only one thing. Okay, two things—gymnastics and school—and you've got a whole social life and a boyfriend and—”

“Bobby's not my boyfriend,” I say.

“But he
wants
to be your boyfriend.”

“Not anymore.”

“What happened?”

I fill her in on all the details about prom night and the Facebook debacle.

Gwen's eyes narrow. “But he sent you the text.”

“He was just being nice.”

“What did you text back?” Gwen asks.

“Nothing.”

“You didn't text him back?” Gwen cries. “You need to text him!”

“We talked yesterday. I apologized. It's over.”

Gwen tips her head. “You really like him, don't you?”

I shift down in my seat, fighting off the disappointment about things ending between Bobby and me. I liked him a lot, but I'm not sure there is any point in admitting it. “I don't know. It doesn't matter anyway.”

Gwen wraps her arms around me. “Since when have you been a quitter?”

“This is different. I'm facing reality.”

“He wants you,” Gwen says. “I saw how he was looking at you when he picked you up for prom.”

I lean my head on Gwen's shoulder. “I'll worry about it after trials.”

“No, you will not. You're going to text him now.”

“What do I even say?”

“Tell him he's hot. Tell him he's your bae.”

I jab her in the ribs. “I'm not telling him that!”

“Okay, then tell him your friend Gwen has a huge crush on him.”

“Do you really?”

“No.” She giggles. “He's cute, looked really good in that tuxedo, but I don't know him. I'm just trying to get the conversation started for you two. Although, I wouldn't mind if you ask if he has a friend who is in need of a girlfriend.”

I can't blame her for the interest in guys. With online schooling, she has had very few in her life. “But what do I say? I don't want to seem desperate.”

“Say ‘thanks,' ” Gwen says. “He wished you luck the only way he knew how. You say ‘thanks.' ”

“Okay.” I pull out my phone and type grudgingly.
Thanks.

“Put a smiley face.”

I add a smiley face.

“Put those big lips.”

“No!”

Gwen laughs. “Just kidding.”

I press send.

“There,” Gwen says. “Was that so hard?”

“I'm not getting my hopes up. I really think I blew it.”

Gwen shakes her head. “You're impossible! Just relax, okay? See if he texts back.”

“Okay.” I lay my phone in my lap. Gwen and I both stare at it.

“I hope he texts soon,” Gwen says after a few long moments.

“He's probably in class.”

“We've got to tighten up our minds,” Gwen says. “Focus on what's ahead. Podium training.”

I nod. “Podium training.” For large meets all the apparatuses are placed on podiums so that the audience has a better view of the events. We'll get a chance to work on the equipment before the official competition starts, so that we have an opportunity to get used to the way it feels.

“What would you text back if someone just said ‘thanks' to you?” Gwen asks.

“Uh, I don't know.”

“Exactly. You need to text more.”

“What else do I say?”

“What does he like to do?” Gwen asks. “Ask him a question. Then he has to answer.”

How's wrestling going?
I type. “How's that?”

“He's a wrestler?”

“A really good one.”

Gwen gapes at me. “Girl! Why did you not tell me that?”

“He's too perfect. I am so dead.”

“It's going to be okay.” Gwen grips my shoulder. “You asked him a good question. He's going to text back soon.”

We slump back into our seats. I set my phone on my knee. We stare at it.

“Look up there,” Gwen's mom says, pointing at the television screen mounted to the wall. “Y'all are famous.”

“Is that the
Today
show?” Gwen cries. “Whoa. This is big- time!”

Our smiling faces flash across the screen. They used our national team photos and the spreads from
Gymnastics NOW!
Closed-captioning scrolls below the images. It's a mess of typos, not to mention time-delayed, but Gwen reads it out loud. “ ‘What a contrast between these two young athletes. Best friends. Competitors. One who leaves her family to fly across the country to join a coach who can take her to her Olympic dreams, the other who leads a double life, hiding her true' . . .” Gwen's voice trails off. “That's mean,” she mutters.

I avert my eyes just as Coach Chris bounds over to us.

“We've got to stay focused, girls,” he says, squatting in front of us. “You're going to see a lot, you're going to hear a lot. You're going to have reporters crawling all over you from now on. You keep cool, you keep smiling, you let me and USA Gymnastics take care of it. You'll get official word if you're going to be part of an interview, if you're going to talk to anyone publicly about anything, all right?”

Gwen and I nod in unison.

Coach hops to his feet. “All right, then. It's time to board.”

“Did they call our seats?” Mrs. Edwards asks, scrambling to collect her things. “I didn't hear.”

“Our seats weren't called, but we're boarding anyway. I talked to the flight attendant. I want to get these girls in a safe, closed environment where they won't be bombarded by the news.” He heads off to take care of things.

“That's smart.” Mrs. Edwards stands and throws her satchel-like purse over her shoulder. “I like that Coach Chris. Always thinking.”

I don't mean to glance at the screen, but I do. It's a picture someone took at prom. Bobby is looking up at me from where he's crouching on one knee. I'm looking down at him, my face tight with pain but a slight smile playing on my lips as I try to be brave. Under the photo scrolls the text,
The question remains: What was Charlie Ryland thinking? Has she sabotaged her gymnastics career?

“Come on, honey.” Mom tugs me to my feet, the skin around her eyes wrinkled with concern. “Time to go.”

But that question keeps rolling through my mind. Have I sabotaged my gymnastics career?

“How does that feel?” Coach Rachel asks, patting my bound ankle.

It's Saturday evening, and we're in the arena locker room. The do-or-die moment is rapidly approaching. “Tight,” I tell her.

“Exactly what it should feel like,” she says. “Let's see you point.”

I obediently point my toes.

“All right. You're set. You get 'em today, okay?”

I nod. It's hard to find words. Only routines are playing through my mind. Last night I had a difficult time falling asleep, because my mind was working, going over and over my passes, rehearsing every move, every pivot, every flip and pirouette. It didn't want to rest, didn't want to sleep. But I knew I needed sleep more than anything else.

After warm-up I stand shoulder to shoulder with Gwen, ready to march into the auditorium. She reaches for my hand and squeezes. We don't speak. There aren't any words for this moment. Everything we could say has fallen away.

When the girls in front of us move forward, we follow, striding in perfect tempo into the huge auditorium. The lights are brilliant, the crowd loud. Flags wave. I slow my heartbeat with my breaths. I breathe the pain in through my injured ankle, which I refuse to limp on, and out again through the same ankle, letting it go.

Tight mind,
I remind myself.
This is it. Everything comes down to this.

“U-S-A! U-S-A!” The chant fills the high ceiling, reverberates around us, echoing and repeating. The stands are a blur of faces.

We're introduced. We wave to the crowd. Camera shutters buzz like cicadas.

I see Coach Chris standing off the floor with Rachel, clapping along with the crowd. He catches my eye and gives me a brief nod and a rare smile of encouragement. Tonight is the finals. Everything we've worked for comes down to the next couple of hours. Our scores will be combined. First place has an automatic “in” on the Olympic team. Apart from that guaranteed spot, the Olympic committee will handpick the rest of the team, looking for those who stand out, both all around and in individual events.

Behind Coach Chris, in the stands, I catch a glimpse of Mrs. Edwards waving an American flag, with a garland of red, white, and blue carnations around her neck. I wonder if my parents are nearby.

Focus. Breathe.

This is just like any other competition. Except it's not.

•  •  •

Gwen and I are assigned the same rotation, beginning on vault. She's ahead of me in the lineup. Our teammate from nationals, Cora, goes first.

She points and flexes her toes as she waits for the call from the judges. When it comes, she gracefully raises her arms and arches her back, a perfect line from her toes to her fingertips, presenting herself to the judges before taking her position at the top of the vault run. I half-watch, but my brain is focused on my own vault. I'm attempting my Amanar today. I desperately need its level of difficulty to get an Olympic placement.

“Come on, Cora!” I shout, my voice ringing along with the voices from the crowd. “Come on, girl!” But I'm not focused on her. I'm mentally rehearsing my own routine so thoroughly, I don't notice Cora's vault until I hear the cry of alarm from the crowd, followed by a shocked hush. When my eyes focus, I see that she's flat on her back on the mat on the other side of the vault. It's clear that she's not injured. She just had a crummy landing. We all have them at one point or another. It was just bad timing for hers to happen tonight.