The Flip Side (27 page)

Gwen and I exchange glances, but we don't speak. We don't want to jinx ourselves.

Cora rises shakily and hurries over to her coach. He presses his hands into her shoulders, his head wagging as he speaks. Once again she finds her spot at the top of the vault run, shaking off her nerves, focusing on the end result—a perfect landing.

But even perfection can't do much for her now, because her first fall will give her an unimpressive score that can't be overcome when the two are averaged.

I'm not going to ask Gwen if she thinks Cora still has a chance. We both know the answer is,
Not without absolute perfection on everything that remains
.

•  •  •

Gwen raises one leg forward in her signature pre-vault stance. “Gwen!” I yell. “Do it, Gwen! Stick it!”

She strikes the springboard and hurtles through the air. She steps out of her landing, but brings her feet together quickly and presents herself with arms raised, back slightly arched.

I let out a breath. One more vault. “Come on, Gwen,” I whisper.

Her second vault is solid, though she takes two hops on her landing. Still, she throws up her arms, straight and graceful, and smiles. Relief. I know the feeling. One event done.

Gwen's scores flash up on the huge display board above our heads. Gwen Edwards. First vault, a solid 15.5. The second is scored slightly lower at 15.2.

Now it's my turn.

I sweep my arms in circles, keeping my eyes on the vault.
Run. Spring. Arms tight. Stick.

“Charlie Ryland,” the head judge announces.

I present with back arched, arms high over my head, fingers straight, my body in perfect alignment, before stepping to my place on the runway.

I take a deep breath, let it out, narrow my focus until it's just me, the runway, the board, the vault, the mat. There's no crowd, no other competitors. It's just me and this apparatus that if used properly will make me fly.

I take off running as fast as I can. With arms swinging, legs churning, I gather speed, round off to hit the vault with all my power, and spin through the air.
Smack!
My feet hit the mat in unison, my tightly wrapped ankle smarting with the impact.

I throw up my arms. The cheers of the crowd roar in my ears.

Coach Chris congratulates me as I pass him. “Keep it high, Charlie. I need more power, more flight.”

I nod. My second vault rushes by faster. I feel the hiss of wind against my ears as I spin. The ground comes up fast, and I wobble sideways as I land, but manage to hold my ground. Because my ankle rolled slightly during the wobble, pain is shooting up the side of my shin.

I hide my grimace behind a smile, present, and jog off the mat. Coach Chris meets me with a hug. “Nice job, Charlie. Keep it up.”

Then Gwen wraps her arms around me. “That was amazing,” she says.

“You too,” I say.

“I stepped out and hopped. You held on to that last one.”

Just barely. I shake my head slightly. I'm not going to mention how that landing ripped up my ankle. I adjust the sleeves of my leo and reach for my water bottle. My eyes flit over the crowd for a moment, hoping I'll spot Mom and Dad, but there is a sea of faces, none of them recognizable.

My scores flash onto the screen. A 14.9 and 15.4. My first vault wasn't high enough to give me the best score, but I corrected the second. My average score is only slightly lower than Gwen's.

I follow Gwen over to the bars, noticing the thin gold ribbons her mom braided into her hair.

I know everyone is waiting for Gwen's bars. “You know what they've nicknamed you, don't you?” Coach Chris asked before the competition started. He reached out and tweaked her ear. “The Flash.”

Gwen laughed. “Why?”

“Because you're fast and powerful on those bars.”

And it's true. Gwen swings into action. Her legs are perfectly straight, her toes pointed, her body a straight line as she swings up into a handstand and pirouettes. Even though I've watched her routine a thousand times, I still hold my breath. She swings into a giant—her body fully extended as she rotates 360 degrees around the bar—picking up momentum for her famous Kovacs.

Silence ripples through the auditorium. The bars creak as she comes around one more time, rotating her wrists on the bars so that her giant is inverted, and then—bam! She lets go, flips once, twice, above the bar, and grabs hold with a jolt that would throw a normal person off center. But not Gwen. She sails into a kip, rises up into another giant series, and dismounts—a full twisting double. Her feet strike the mat, her hands fly up. She turns her beaming face to me.

After she dashes off the mat, we give each other a quick hug, then keep our eyes on the board, awaiting her score. I'm aware of the cameras pointed at us. Coach Chris stands behind her, hands gripping her shoulders.

When the score comes up a 16.050, the noise in the auditorium is deafening. I long to scream along with them, but I'm already pacing myself through my own routine. I don't have a Kovacs, but my new dismount should add to my difficulty level enough to keep me in the running.

As I head to the bars, Coach Chris keeps pace with me. “How's the ankle?”

“It's holding up.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” I'm not going to tell him how it felt on vault, how it's still pulsing with discomfort beneath the wrapping.

“You can go to the simpler dismount,” he says. “You've practiced it a thousand times. You can pull it off and make it clean.”

“I need the new dismount,” I say. “If I have any hope at all of making the team. We both know it. I didn't come this far to give up now.”

“You're limping, Charlie.”

“No, I'm not!” I straighten up, force myself to step on my foot as if it doesn't hurt.

“Okay,” Coach Chris says. “But you've got beam and floor coming up. I need you at your best.”

“I will be at my best,” I say firmly.

“Show me what you've got,” he says, slapping my shoulder as I cross to position the springboard.

I take off, and everything passes by in what seems like merely a second. I'm on autopilot, going through the moves, feeling everything lining up. What I end up with is a pretty clean routine on bars, close to the best I've ever done . . . and a landing that makes me grind my back teeth to keep from screaming in pain.

I have to limp off the floor. No amount of bravado can cover this up. But I did it. I nailed my full twisting double back. Against all odds.

Coach Chris claps me on the back. I'm grateful that he doesn't mention my limp. He knows what that routine cost me. “That was solid,” he says. “You pulled it off.”

My score proves that I did pull it off. A 15.85. It's just a touch lower than Gwen's, even with her Kovacs.

“Are you okay?” Gwen asks. “It looks like your ankle is giving you trouble.”

“I'm fine.”

Coach Rachel thrusts an ice pack at me. “Ice it while you wait. You've got some time before beam.”

I take the ice gratefully and sink into a nearby seat. A cameraman closes in on me, but I don't pay any attention. We're not expected to. My thoughts need to be on beam now, my next event, not worrying about news footage.

I close my eyes. I wish, just wish I could look up into the stands and catch a glimpse of Mom and Dad. That would give me the lift I need right now.

I raise my eyes, scan the crowd. One of my other teammates from nationals, Anna, is doing her floor routine. Her music blares over the sound system. She flips a triple pike, lands with a step out into a side straddle jump.

And then I see them. Mom holds an American flag high and dances to the pulsing floor music. A large purple flower glows in her hair. It's the same shade of purple as my leo. Dad is wearing his
CHARLIE'S DAD
sweatshirt. Josh is beside him, looking down at his phone. With an obvious laugh, he elbows the person next to him and points to the screen on his phone.

My heart freezes as that person leans over to see what Josh is trying to show him. It can't be. I must be hallucinating. But no.

It's Bobby. I'd know his build anywhere, not to mention his hair.
What is he doing here?

“How's the ankle feeling?” Coach Rachel asks, crouching next to me.

“Oh—um—I hardly notice it anymore.”

“You looked like you were in a lot of pain after that dismount. Do you want the doc to look at it?”

“No, I'll be fine.”

“Okay,” she says. “If you're sure.”

Anna finishes her routine with a flourish, chin tipped back, hands crisscrossed over her head. The crowd goes wild. Mom bounces with her American flag. Dad leans around Josh and says something to Bobby. It looks like he laughs in response. He lifts his phone, possibly snapping a few pictures. With it, he scans the auditorium . . . and seems to pause when he reaches me.

He waves.

I wave.

Mom, Dad, and Josh wave.

Then I notice who is sitting in front of them, because Zoe jumps up and starts to wave wildly. Beside her, Michael is a little less enthusiastic but still waving.

Focus, Charlie, focus!

But I'm doing well. I'm second in the standings after Gwen, even with my bad ankle. And I have beam and floor coming up, my best events.

Mom blows me a kiss. I blow one back.

Enjoy the ride,
Mom always says.
Embrace your crazy.

Can I embrace the fact that Bobby drove a little more than three hours to watch me compete at trials? I long to tell Gwen, but she's staring at the floor with her headphones on. She's doing what she's supposed to be doing—staying in the zone—while I wave and smile and stress about Bobby being here.

Coach Rachel leans close to my ear. “They're calling us over to beam.”

Gwen's beam scores aren't her highest ever, but she's still holding firmly to first place, thanks to her unbelievable performance on bars.

When it's my turn, I mount the beam using a springboard, careful to land on my good foot. I slide through my first dance sequence, spinning into my leg-up double turn. During my leap sequence, my ankle twists as I'm coming down from my switch-ring. I wobble, but hold it. That'll cost me a few tenths.

My dismount crunches my ankle again, but I still manage to nail my landing.

Coach Rachel crosses to hug me as I step off the mat, and ends up having to help me hop to a seat. I cringe as I sit down.

“We're getting the doc to look at this,” she says.

“No, please! I have one more event. Then I'll rest it and ice it and do everything I need to!”

“Charlie . . .” Her voice is firm.

“I know what I'm doing. I know how to listen to my body. I've lived with this injury for more than seven years. Dr. Kwan confirmed that it's just a sprain.”

“You're doing fine in the standings. You go easy out there.”

“There's no such thing as going easy,” I say to remind her and myself. “I'm going for the Olympics. If I go easy, someone else is going to take my spot. Floor is one of my best events. I can do this.”

Coach Rachel stares me down. “You won't be able to
walk
if you severely injure your ankle and keep competing on it. Then you might not be able to compete at the Olympics at all.”

“I know I'm not pushing it too far. It's tender, yes, but the pain isn't bad. I promise that I'm not taking a risk I shouldn't. If the pain gets bad, and I know that I can't push through it without causing serious harm, I'll stop. But I can't give up now, when I know there's no reason to. Not yet. I came here to get onto the Olympic team. I can't walk away without giving it my best.”

•  •  •

Gwen performs amazingly during her floor routine. Her only big mistake is a step outside the boundary lines during one of her back passes, which will cost her. It's an uncharacteristic miscalculation for her—she usually sticks her landings and knows exactly where she's sticking them. But she still comes off the floor with radiant joy. Her 14.55 holds her first-place spot.

I find my starting position on the floor. Strike my beginning pose.

The music charges forward. I run, leap, straddle, only to have my ankle give out in my landing. I stumble sideways but catch myself before I fall completely. There's an audible gasp from the crowd.

I collect my wits, but my brain is scrambling.

Breathe,
I remind myself. It's not the first time in my life that I've stumbled. It's not the first time I haven't stuck something. I can do this routine in my sleep. I have to keep believing in myself, keep moving. If I quit now, there will be no Olympics, ever.

I plant myself in the corner of the floor and prepare for my next pass. But even as I begin running, I can feel that something is off. My first front tuck is too high, the spin too great. I rebound into my second and feel myself sprawling.

Tight!

My brain screams the word. It's what every good gymnastics coach I've ever had, since I was a little kid, has always reminded me—
Tighten up, Charlie. Tighten up!

I tighten up now, hit the floor with my one good foot, and rebound into a split leap.

The music courses through me. I dance with abandon, throwing back my head, flinging away the pain.

My last tumbling pass.

My hands form tight fists, and I grit my teeth in a tense-lipped smile. No turning back.

I lengthen my body into a twisting layout, followed by two whips and a full twisting double. And land it firmly on my safe foot. But when I step back, my ankle rolls, loose like jelly.

I fling my weight forward, sidestepping into the final moments of my dance.

I kneel, bend back, my ponytail swinging against the soles of my feet, my arms outstretched to the auditorium ceiling, and . . .