The Flip Side (6 page)

I don't want to admit that I kind of wish he did. I head for the door. “He was just being a good friend to Michael.”

She catches up to me. “But I saw the two of you talking.”

“It would have been rude to ignore each other.” I shove open the door and step out, and immediately see Zoe's sister sitting in a car at the curb.

“You won't say anything to my sister about Michael, right?”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

“Thanks. You're the best friend in the whole world.” She leans in, a mischievous glint in her green eyes. “And admit it—it was exciting having a date.”

“It was exciting in the way that having a heart attack is exciting. I was totally unprepared.”

“Okay. Next time I'll give you some warning.”

“There better not be a next time.”

Her sister honks.

Laughing, Zoe sings out as she races to the car, “We'll see!”

I rush over to join her, a part of me hoping that there will be a next time.

“I can't believe she did that!” Gwen exclaims with a laugh.

“I know. It was totally crazy. But that's Zoe.”

I'm sitting with Gwen on a soft leather couch in the near dark in the Gundersens' media room, sipping a kale shake, trying not to remember the soda I had the night before. The room has an awesome sound system, and we use it when we're trying to select the music we want to use for our floor routines. Everyone in levels one through five has the same floor music and the same routine. It's not until the optional levels, six through ten, that gymnasts get a chance to choose their own music. Gwen and I take choosing our music very seriously. But before we started listening to various possibilities, I told Gwen about the unexpected date night.

“She seems like so much fun,” Gwen says. “I'd love to meet her sometime.”

Doing something with my two best friends would be awesome, but—

“It might get complicated trying to come up with an explanation for how I know a famous gymnast.”

She snorts. “I'm not famous yet.”

“But if she did an Internet search on your name . . .”

“What if she does one on yours?” Gwen asks pointedly.

“Searching for ‘Charlotte Ryland' brings up pages for only Charlotte Ryland. ‘Charlie Ryland' brings up results for Charlie and Charles. No Charlotte. So I don't think people are going to connect thick-framed-glasses Charlotte with ponytail-wielding Charlie.”

She laughs in disbelief. “You actually did a search?”

“I started worrying about it.”

Gwen releases a scoff that echoes with disapproval. “I don't know why you're not proud of your accomplishments.”

We've discussed this ad nauseam. “I am proud of them. I just like having a safe place where I don't have to deal with the pressures of pending fame every minute.”

“Search engines will probably connect the two names when you're standing on the podium at the next Olympics,” she says.

“I know, but until then I have a little bit of anonymity.”

She starts to chuckle.

“What so funny?” I ask.

“I'm imagining someone at the breakfast table, looking at your picture on a cereal box, grabbing a marker, drawing black glasses on your face, and announcing, ‘OMG! That's Charlotte Ryland!' ”

Laughing, I slap playfully at her arm. If we do well at the Olympics, endorsements will definitely be in our future. “That is not going to happen. Plus, at school I wear my hair so that part of my face is covered.”

She laughs, and so do I. We both realize that's a pretty lame attempt at a disguise. “Okay, so then they'll grab a yellow highlighter—” she begins.

I push on her, get up out of my seat, and raise my kale shake. “Stop! Or I'll pour this on you!”

Sobering, she places her hand on my shoulder. “Things are really going to change, Charlie.”

I settle back down. “I know. Endorsements, speaking engagements, being invited to huge charity events.”

“We're going to be pulled in all directions.”

“Does it scare you?”

“Sometimes.” Gwen sighs. “All I really want is to do gymnastics.”

I grin. “The endorsements pay better.”

Nodding, she smiles too. “Yeah, they do.”

“I'd like to be a spokesperson for a worthwhile cause,” I admit.

“That would be cool.”

Sipping on my shake, I imagine it: the lights, the attention, the cameras constantly flashing. It's not the reason I got into gymnastics, but it's where the road I'm traveling leads.

“Everyone at your school will know who you are, Charlie,” Gwen says.

“Yep. I won't be the last person picked as a science project partner anymore.”

“You're not the last person picked now.”

“But I'm not the first. Suddenly I'll be the first.”

“And you'll get all these guys asking you on dates—”

“That's why I don't tell them.” I twist around to face her. “I don't want a guy to ask me out because I'm on a cereal box or in a sports clothing commercial. I don't want someone to be my friend because they think hanging out with me makes them important.”

She nods. “I get it. But you're not going to be able to hold on to the anonymity forever.”

“I just want to hold on to it for now.”

•  •  •

On Tuesday afternoon I'm getting my books out of my locker when Zoe suddenly appears at my side.

“Hey!” She squeezes my arm, leans down slightly. “Michael sat beside me in study hall yesterday. Then he texted me last night to say good night. So romantic.”

I shut my locker door, trying not to wish some guy were texting me. Though, her excitement is contagious. “That's great! I'm happy for you, Zoe.”

“And guess what else?”

“He sent you flowers?”

She shakes her head. “
Someone
wants your phone number.”

My pulse spikes. But I focus on bringing it back to normal. “Who?”

She rolls her eyes. “Bobby. Who else? So, can I give it to him?”

I shake my head quickly. “No.”

She blinks at me, clearly not expecting that answer. “Why not?”

“My parents aren't going to let me date.” I'm pretty sure that's true. Either way, I don't have time for a boyfriend.

“But you can talk to guys.”

“I just think it would give him the wrong idea.”

“That you're interested? Aren't you? I thought you thought he was nice.”

“He
is
nice. But I have a lot going on right now with that off-campus program I'm in.”

A lot of students are involved in off-campus programs such as internships or classes at the community college, so I use “off-campus program” as a vague reference to explain why I have to be excused every day for tardiness. Of course, I actually spend the time at the gym working out. Fortunately, Zoe has never asked for details ever since I mentioned that the program involves the practical harnessing of physics principles. Which is true, since momentum and aerodynamics have a role in gymnastics, but I didn't have to go into those specifics because Zoe cringes away from any science-oriented discussions.

“The one that gets you out of first period?” she asks now.

“That's the one. We have to do a lot of stuff after school. My life is just crazy.”

She shrugs. “Okay.”

I don't quite trust how easily she gave up, but I'm grateful that she's not going to pester me about it. Gwen's right. I can't be distracted by a boy until after the Olympics.

As we head down the hallway, Zoe asks, “So, you heard what happened to Mandy Carrigan yesterday afternoon, right?”

“Mandy?”

“Yeah. She plays soccer.”

“Uh . . . maybe?” I have no idea who she's talking about, but that's typical. Zoe follows school gossip like it's a sport, and I'm usually a little more out of the loop. “What about her?”

“Word is going around that her appendix burst. She had to be taken from the nurse's office in an ambulance!”

“How awful!” I say. “Poor thing.”

“I know.” Zoe pulls her curly red hair back, then releases it. “And for it to happen at school! That has to be the worst! I heard she threw up in the middle of her civics class and was burning up with fever. You know Wilson, right? Wilson James? Football player? He carried her to the nurse, and the whole time was just like, ‘I hope she's not contagious.' But she wasn't, of course, because it was an appendix.”

“Wow,” I say as we reach the classroom. Mr. Alto sits at his desk, bent over a stack of papers. Looks like he's finally finished grading our exams.

“I'll tell you the rest later,” Zoe whispers as she darts to her desk.

“All right, all right.” Mr. Alto's voice scrapes like sandpaper. He claps his big hands. “I've got exams to return here. And today we're starting our projects, which are twenty percent of your semester grade.”

I slide into my seat and set my folder on the desk. A project that's twenty percent of my grade? I have to take a deep breath, hold it, and exhale slowly to calm my galloping heart.

When I ease open my eyes, Mr. Alto's standing next to my desk, handing me my exam.

I stare at the C- written in red marker at the top of the paper, and groan. My parents aren't going to be happy. They're going to want to meet with my teachers, let them know about my “special circumstances,” and ask for considerations like giving me assignments in advance, making exceptions when it comes to taking tests and quizzes. Basically treating me special. Kids are going to start wondering why rules are changed for me, and Charlie Ryland is going to find herself exposed. I need to handle this before my parents feel a need to get involved.

After class I sidle up to my teacher's desk. “Can I talk to you, Mr. Alto?”

“Of course, Charlotte,” he says. “Pull up a chair. What's on your mind?”

I settle on the edge of the seat he's patting. “I've been monitoring my grades online, so I know that the score I got on the exam you passed out today is going to hurt my overall average. Is there anything I can do for extra credit?”

Mr. Alto rubs his chin with a blunt-tipped finger. “It might help if you didn't keep daydreaming in class.”

“I don't know why I can't stay focused. Government is just so . . .” I don't think it'll help my cause if I confess that I find it boring. “Not my thing.”

“Because you don't understand it. Let's look at your grade situation more closely.” He opens his laptop, taps a few keys, leans in. “Here we are. You've currently got an 82 average.”

“I need to get an A, though.” I know it sounds ridiculous, but it's true—at this point any other grade will raise flags at home and potentially get in the way of my college plans. “Can I retake any of the tests?”

Mr. Alto shakes his head. “I don't allow retakes in my class.”

“Is there anything else I can do? I want to keep up my GPA.”

“Have you got big plans?” he asks.

Besides the Olympics? “Premed . . . hopefully.”

“Those are big plans.” He pats my forearm. “I think part of the problem is that you need to see government in action.”

“Okay,” I say slowly. If he's going to make me go on a field trip to Washington, DC, I honestly do not have time for that.

“Student council,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“We have a fine student council at this school, and I happen to be the adviser. I'd like you to get involved, see how it works. Do you know Mandy Carrigan?”

I lift a shoulder. “Does she play soccer by any chance?” This has to be the same girl Zoe was telling me about.

“That's the one. Mandy's our student body secretary. But she's recovering from appendix surgery. There were apparently some complications, so she may be out for a while. We're looking for someone to fill in for her for a couple of weeks. I'm offering you the chance to earn some extra credit, and an opportunity to learn about government in a hands-on way. Tomorrow at lunch you'll attend the meeting and begin serving as temporary secretary until Mandy returns. If you take this on and get good grades on future tests and projects, it could be enough to bump your overall grade up to an A. But no guarantees.”

There's no guarantee that I'll make the Olympic team either, but that hasn't stopped me from working my butt off.

“I'm in,” I tell him. I hope I won't live to regret it.

“Charlie!” Mom cries as soon as I walk into the kitchen the next morning. She grips a piece of toast in one hand and her phone in the other. Her large purse, already slung over her shoulder, overflows with papers. “Charlie, Coach Chris just called.
Gymnastics NOW!
magazine has a reporter and photographer at the gym. They're interviewing Gwen and want to interview you, too. It'll be great exposure for you and the gym.”

Gymnastics NOW!
Wow! That they want to feature me is a big deal. A really big deal. It means I'm on their radar as a true Olympic contender. They think I have a chance. My stomach is flipping, my heart pounding. It's practically a gymnastics meet inside my torso.

The last time I was in a photo shoot, Gwen and I had just found out we'd been chosen to compete at the World Championships, and we had to pose for a series of photos that would become our official publicity shots for events. Nobody could've wiped the smiles off our faces that day if they'd tried. Now those pictures hang, larger than life, high up on the walls of Gold Star's optional/elite gym.

But . . . “This morning?”

“Yes. As soon as you finish your workout. The shoot shouldn't take more than a couple of hours. Do you have any tests this morning?”