The Flip Side (4 page)

“Hey!” she exclaims. “Are you back yet?”

“I am.” I can't help but smile at hearing her voice. Her unbridled excitement is refreshing after a couple of days of my sometimes being too tired to move.

“Can you come over?”

I emit a little groan. It's only seven thirty, but . . .

“I can't. You know my parents don't let me go out on a school night.”

“They are so rigid.”

I can't let them take the full blame, especially when I support the reason behind the restriction. “Even if they said yes, I have way too much homework to catch up on after being at the ranch all weekend.”

“You didn't tell me it was a girls' weekend. How was it? What did you do?”

“We got massages.”

She sighs. “I'd love to go to a spa.”

I did get an athletic massage, but it wasn't really a spa experience. No scented candles and calming music. No long, soothing strokes that make you want to drift off to sleep. It was mostly deep tissue work to keep the muscles loose. Sometimes it hurts a little, although I'm always glad afterward that I went through it.

“So what did I miss at school today?” I ask.

She releases the tiniest of squeals, and I know this is why she called earlier, that she's been sitting on this news, waiting to share. “Michael said hi to me in study hall. Actually he said, ‘Hey there.' ”

“That's great.” I'm going to have to pull out last year's yearbook and look this guy up.

“I know, right? I mean, he didn't sit by me or anything, and he only said the two words, but he gave me a smile that was kind of shy. And so cute.”

“What did you say to him?”

She moans. “ ‘Hey.' I couldn't think of anything else. My mind went totally blank.”

“You should have asked him how his dog was doing.”

“Brilliant! Why didn't I think of that?”

I've been interviewed a few times by gymnastics magazines and shows, and have even had some media training on how to get around questions I don't want to answer, so I have a little experience with thinking fast. “Now that you know he might say hello to you, write down some questions to ask him so you'll be prepared next time. People like when you show an interest by asking them about themselves.”

“I'm definitely interested.”

“Just don't”—how to say this without being mean or giving the impression that I have no faith in her ability to interest a guy?—“you know . . . get hurt.”

“Read too much into a little attention?”

“Yeah. I mean, he'd be the luckiest guy in the world to have you as a girlfriend—”

“But he can have anybody. I get it. You're right.”

“No! That's not what I meant.” I don't want her to get hurt, but then, there are always risks when you reach for your dream. Gwen and I could fall short of making the Olympic team—and it'll be devastating if we don't make it—but that doesn't mean that we stop working toward our dreams. “If you really like him, do what you can to get his attention. Go for the gold!”

Her laughter tinkles over the phone. “Maybe I will. It's kinda scary, though.”

I know that feeling well. “But it'll be worth it. Even if it's only practice for the next guy.”

“You're right.”

We hang up, and I stare at the ribbons and gold, silver, and bronze medals displayed on the opposite wall. All reflections of my achievements. I really hope my advice to Zoe helps her achieve her goal, because I know how painful it is not to always get the gold.

Or in the case of government, how painful it is not to know the right answers when the teacher calls on me or when I'm taking a test. I drag myself off the bed and sit down at my desk. I pull out the study sheet, pick up a highlighter. Time to get busy. Two questions later my gaze drifts over to my computer.

I could use a break. I bring up my Charlie Ryland Gymnast Facebook page and read some of the comments on the latest video I posted. I have 450,000 followers—people who love gymnastics as much as I do, who keep track of our competitions and offer encouragement and support. I love my Team Charlie supporters, and I enjoy knowing that so many people care about my success. Gwen has more than a million followers. She was featured in
People
magazine last year as the gymnast most likely to make the U.S. team. She became a celebrity overnight. While I think it would have been awesome to be featured, Charlotte Ryland would have been outed as Charlie Ryland. All the inattention I enjoy at school would have faded away. And I might have heard unkind comments directed at me in the hallway, the same sort of comments I'm reading now.

I know I shouldn't take trolls seriously, because there are some people whose main goal in life seems to be to make other people feel bad.

She really needs to do something different with her hair.

Gwen Edwards is still my favorite. Charlie doesn't hold a candle to her.

She looks pudgy. Needs to tighten up.

I miss the good old days of gymnastics, when gymnasts were actually
good
and they cared about style and weren't trying to do all the tricks!!!!

Of course, there are a lot of nice comments too.

She's amazing!

Go, Charlie!!!

So excited to watch her in the Olympics!!

I actually clicked Like on that one. I hardly ever Like comments, but sometimes I want to show my gratefulness to the positive people of the world.

Still, the critical ones mess with my brain. When I've finally had enough of doubting myself, I close Facebook and return to the boring domain of U.S. government.

In spite of what Josh and Gwen believe, keeping my two worlds separate is pivotal to my sanity. I don't want to hear ugly comments as I'm walking down the hall. I don't want people saying some of the unkind things to my face that they are willing to post on the Internet.

School is a no-gymnastics zone. I need to keep it that way.

The school hallway is jam-packed as I thread my way through the crowd. This is one disadvantage to being short. Making my way through a herd of people is like being in a corn maze. I've got to have a pretty good sense of direction to even find my locker.

I'm almost there, having sustained only one bump to the shoulder, when Zoe materializes in front of me. She has a habit of doing that—hopping out from behind some random hallway walker and exclaiming “Hi, Charlotte!” directly into my face.

“Hey, Zoe!”

She wraps me in a huge hug that, taking both our backpacks into consideration, blocks about a fourth of the hallway. Since she's considerably taller, my face is smashed into her chest. People continue to move around us, like we're a boulder in the middle of a stream. “I'm so, so glad you're back,” she says, rocking me back and forth. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” I say, patting her back. “Have you seen you-know-who yet?”

Straightening, Zoe glances up and down the hall, studying faces, as if she's expecting to locate him immediately. “I wish. Our paths never cross until study hall. But I've got my questions ready.”

“That's great.”

“We'll see.”

“Think positively.”

She grins. “Will do. So in between your massages, did you get a chance to study for the government test?”

U.S. government is our second class after lunch. I groan. “Not enough.”

“I wish your parents weren't so strict. If you could have come over last night, I could have helped you. I'm actually good in this class. I mean, it's almost like we exchange personalities when we walk through the door of that room. Usually I'm the one who needs help, and you're—” She breaks off with an awkward giggle. “Sorry, that sounded mean.”

“No, it's not mean. It's true. I don't know what my problem is. Maybe I just don't care enough.”

“How can you not care about government?” Zoe asks me with awe. “I mean, like Mr. Alto always says, it's the most important class in school, because it matters. We've all got to vote someday.”

“Yeah.” It still doesn't sound that interesting. I mean, I love my other subjects. I've always been a voracious reader, so my lit classes are fun. So is history, because I get to learn about other times and people. Then there's math and science, which are fascinating to me. After gymnastics and high school, I totally plan to go into premed and become a doctor. I haven't narrowed down which kind yet. But it's just another reason why I want to go to a real school, and not be homeschooled. I figure it'll be easier to get into a college that has a top-ranked premed program.

But halfway through the government test, I'm really wishing that I had gone over to Zoe's to study. I don't know why I'm struggling with this. Other than the fact that I absolutely do not care about politics at all. Is there anything more boring? I'd rather watch grass grow.

I've only just started on the final essay question when the bell rings.

“That was a snap,” Zoe says as she grabs her backpack and stands up.

I promised my parents long ago that my grades wouldn't suffer if they allowed me to compete at an elite level. I have a sinking feeling that my all-As track record is a thing of the past, that after everything they've done for me, I'm going to let them down.

•  •  •

“Are you okay?” Gwen asks during bar workout.

“I'm fine.” But I can tell that my reply doesn't fool her.

I take my rep—we're working on dismounts into the foam pit. I'm still thinking about that stupid government test. Because it contained a series of essay questions as well as multiple choice, I know we won't get the results back until next week. I almost asked Alto to grade mine right then and there, when I handed it to him. But I would have been late to my next class.

“Let's go, Charlie! Kill it!” Gwen's voice rings out, with all the energy she brings to every practice.

I don't quite make the last rotation on my full twisting double. As I come up for air out of the foam, Coach Chris looms above me.

“You with me today?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes.”

“Try it again. I need a tight mind from you, Charlie. Tighten up.”

“Got it.” I climb out of the pit, ignoring Gwen's worried expression.

“Let's go, Charlie.” Coach Chris's voice is deathly quiet. “One more time.”

The other girls waiting for the bar shuffle back to give me room. I adjust the hand grips I wear to prevent me from slipping, and take a breath. It's not unusual to have everyone's eyes on me. Besides, these are my friends, my teammates, my most ardent supporters. Why does it feel like they're adding stress today?

Before I can climb back up, Gwen seizes my shoulders and flips me around to look at her. “You are so going to nail this, girl!”

I nod. But even as I climb, I can't feel it.

Focus on this moment,
I tell myself.
It's all that matters.
I have to flip this attitude, concentrate. Keep the gym and school separate. Don't let one bleed over into the other.

I release, tighten my body as I flip—once, twice . . . and face-plant into the foam.

If this were any other year, I might come up laughing at myself. But it's not any other year. The summer Olympics will be held this August—that's only three months from now. But I can't jump that far ahead. I have to take it one step at a time. I have to give it my best at the trials and make Team USA. Then I can focus on what I need to do for the Olympics.

“All right,” Coach Chris says, jaw tight. “Rachel, take over here. We'll try to at least get her double polished.”

“But I need a full twisting double,” I protest. “I can do this, Coach!”

“Not today.” He doesn't make eye contact with me. “Gwen, get up there and show her how it's done.”

I glance at Gwen. She looks apologetic as she climbs for the bar, but she has to do what Coach Chris says. I know he pits us against each other so that we'll push ourselves to get better—but neither of us like it. I'm thankful for a best friend who's humble enough not to let it go to her head when she's the one on top. She casts me one more pleading look before swinging into her kip, the piked swaying motion that gives her the momentum to begin her routine.

“All right, Gwen. Go, girl,” I call out, but my voice sounds halfhearted.

Coach Rachel, who's been standing on the sidelines, arms folded across her chest, nods. “Come on, Charlie. Let's see what we can do.”

Gold Star consists of two huge warehouse-style buildings. I spend all of my time in the building used by the elite gymnasts and the optional gymnasts who compete using routines of their choice. Rumor has it that the building used to be a Sam's Club. I doubt that's true, but those are the kinds of dimensions we're talking.

I follow Coach Rachel to the set of practice bars away from the foam pit, my stomach queasy. It's not that I dislike her. But this is a demotion. Coach Chris is sending me a message—
Perform. I'm not going to waste my time
. There's no challenge in a double dismount. I had that in my level-nine routine when I was eleven!

“Having an off day?” Coach Rachel asks when we're out of earshot of the group.

“I don't have time for off days.”

“We all know you can get the full twist in there,” Rachel says. “You've got to get your head back into the game.”

I nod. I know how dangerous it is to lose focus. Coach Rachel knows too. I've never talked to her about what happened to her own Olympic dreams when she was a gymnast, but I know she was an elite on the national team twelve years ago. I've also heard the rumors that she didn't have the mental toughness to pull through during crunch time, that she let herself get distracted by the uproar those topless photos created. She's still well-known in gymnastics circles. She went on to have an incredibly successful college gymnastics career, and she's a well-respected coach now. But there's always that hint of shadow when people talk about her, like everyone knows she didn't live up to her full potential. Ever since I started training with Coach Chris and Coach Rachel, I've been determined not to follow in Rachel's footsteps.