The Flip Side (7 page)

“No. But I need to be at school during lunch.”

Mom slips her phone into her purse. “We'll stop to grab a quick bite when I'm taking you to school after the interview. I'll talk with the principal, make sure you're excused from your morning classes. This is kind of a big deal, sweetie.”

“I know, but, Mom . . .” I did not want my parents to find out about this. “I have to
do
something during lunch.”

Mom leans back against the counter and studies me. “During lunch? During lunch you eat.”

“I have to go to a student council meeting today.”

She looks thoroughly confused, and I can't blame her. “Why?” she asks.

I release a deep sigh. “It's for extra credit. For government.”

“Why do you need extra credit? Is your teacher not allowing you to make up work when you're out of town? Do I need to have the principal speak with him?”

“No, Mr. Alto is good at taking my work late. And I've been there for all my tests. It's just that I'm not doing so well on those tests. I'm afraid I'm going to get a C in this class if I do poorly on one more exam. So I spoke with him. I'm going to serve on the student council for a couple of weeks. The meetings are at lunch, so I have to be there for lunch.”

“Why didn't you tell me about this?”

“I didn't want you worrying. My grades are my responsibility. I can get my grade up.”

“I'm going to worry anyway. You take on so much.”

I shrug. “That's why I didn't say anything.”

“Do you want to do the interview?” she asks.

“I do. If I can get to school before lunch.”

“We'll make it happen. Now go grab your favorite leotard and makeup bag. I'll run you over there.”

•  •  •

I would have preferred to skip my morning workout, but Coach Chris never lets us miss a practice. So when I'm finished, I take a quick shower, scrape my hair up into a severe ponytail, and add a deep-purple scrunchie that matches my favorite deep-purple leo. I rush to apply eye makeup that also matches my leo. Then I head to the area of the gym where the journalist is waiting and the photographer has set up a white backdrop, with lights illuminating it. Gwen is standing there. She smiles at me, gives me a little wave.

“I'm Marcia,” the journalist says, shaking my hand. “This is Todd.”

The photographer looks up from whatever adjustments he's making on his camera to give me a smile and a nod.

“We're glad you could make room in your schedule,” Marcia says. “I understand you go to public school. That's a bit unusual, isn't it? Aren't most gymnasts homeschooled so that they have more time for practice?”

I don't think this is part of the interview. She's just trying to put me at ease. “Many do,” I confirm. “But I enjoy the public school experience. My parents and the school administration are very supportive when it comes to working out a schedule that allows me to do both.”

“Lucky girl. Before we get to the interview, we'd like to get a couple of photos with you and Gwen—best buds and all that. I know she needs to get to practice.”

“No problem, but just so you know, I only have about an hour before I have to leave for school.”

“We'll make it work.”

I prance over to Gwen, give her a quick hug. Then Todd has us face each other, raise one arm, put the other hand on our hip, bend one leg—

Click, click, click.

He poses us side by side, back to back, and when he's finished taking those, he tells us to just do what we want. We go for sexy, presenting our backs, looking over our shoulders. Then for some reason we just start giggling. All the while, Todd is clicking away.

Finally they send Gwen to her practice, and Marcia approaches me, holding up her phone. “Mind if I record the interview?”

“Not at all.” I prefer it, actually. There's less chance of being misquoted.

“Great. Why don't we get comfy over here? It shouldn't take too long. Then Todd can get some shots of just you.”

I'm not sure if she's being sarcastic about the comfy part, because we end up sitting on the floor. There are very few chairs in the gym. But she seems okay with it as she opens a small spiral-bound notebook and studies what looks like a list of questions.

“When's this story coming out?” I hazard to ask while she's reading her notes.

“Next month. In time for Olympic trials.”

“Cool. Did your interview with Gwen go well?”

“Yeah, she has quite the story, doesn't she? Moving all the way out here from Georgia. She mentioned that you two are best friends. I tried to work it out for you to have your interview and shoot together, but your coach said that wouldn't work because of your schedule, but we got the photos of you together, and that's probably just as good. How is it competing against one of your best friends?”

“Fantastic, actually. We push each other to do our best. I don't think I'd be where I am in gymnastics without Gwen.”

Marcia laughs. “That's pretty much what she said about you, too. So how long have you been doing gymnastics?”

I start the story I've told during at least half a dozen interviews for blogs and magazines like this one that appeal mostly to gymnasts and those interested in the gymnastics world. I've never been too concerned about anyone at school reading the interview and figuring out that Charlie Ryland is Charlotte Ryland. The gymnastics world is just so insular—people outside it don't tend to pay attention. Still, it's a weird sensation, feeling so excited for something, like being featured in a magazine—practically famous!—but with this underlying hope that no one I know actually sees it.

When I'm finished, she asks, “What's your favorite part of gymnastics?”

I smile. “That's easy. The travel. I've been to places that I might not have gone to otherwise—Belgium, London, Paris, Canada, Australia. Plus all the various cities in the States. I love meeting people from all around the world. Even at competition, when I meet gymnasts from other teams, I feel an instant connection because I know how hard they worked to get there.”

“Sounds like you have a lot of respect for your competitors.”

“I do. Coach Chris tells us that the only one we're really competing against is ourselves. Our performance determines whether we stand on the podium.”

“Being an elite athlete is pretty much a full-time job,” she says. “Plus you're going to school. How do you keep the pressure from getting to you?”

“Family and friends are essential to keeping things real. I spend time hanging out with Gwen or Zoe—”

“Who is Zoe?” she asks, her brow furrowing.

I wasn't thinking. I didn't want to bring my school life into the interview, but now it's already there. What I told her earlier might be off the record, but I'm pretty sure she's going to mention that I go to public school. “My best friend from school.”

She smiles broadly. “How does she feel about hanging out with an Olympic hopeful?”

I can't answer truthfully, can't say Zoe doesn't know that my dream is to make Team USA. Because that would lead to a whole other set of questions and would start us down a path I don't want made public. I remember my media training and how I learned to respond to a question without actually answering it. “Zoe keeps me sane, makes sure I have something to think about other than gymnastics.”

“She sounds special.”

“She is.”

She moves on to the typical questions: What is my favorite skill? What am I working on? What are the judges going to see from me at the Olympic trials that they haven't seen before?

“More confidence,” I assure her on the last one. “A better command of each apparatus and the floor routine. I've been working hard. This is my year.”

She grins, her eyes reflecting warmth. “Based on what I'm hearing, I believe it is, Charlie. Good luck. Now let's get some more photos.”

Todd has me stand in front of the white backdrop. I strike a pose, arms up, one leg extended like I'm about to run across the mat for my floor routine.

“All right, beautiful! Let's see those dimples.” Todd hops sideways and then darts forward to move a piece of stray hair out of my face. “Perfect. Relax. Keep that smile. There you go.”

The camera shutter chatters.

I bring my arms down, extend them out, make them parallel with the floor. I toss my head back. I've posed for enough photos to know my good side.

“Love your shining eyes! You're made to be in front of a camera, you know that? You sparkle.”

He's a total cheeseball, but I
do
feel pretty sparkly.

“Let's get some on the beam,” Marcia says. “That's her strong suit. You don't have to actually do a routine. Simply balance yourself on the beam.”

“But where's the fun in that?” I ask saucily.

So I do a couple of forward flips, backflips, and a few other maneuvers. Todd's laughing, telling me he's getting some great shots. I'm having so much fun hamming it up that I forget about the time. It's only when my mom-radar picks up her face peering anxiously at me through the glass of the parent viewing area that I remember there's a time limit.

“Oh gosh,” I say. “I've got to get to school. Did you get enough shots?”

Todd lowers the camera and steps back, flipping through the images on his camera. “What do you think?” he asks Marcia, who moves in to better see the photos. They talk among themselves for a minute as he flips through the shots.

“You did great,” he finally says. “Sure, if you've got school, you've got school.”

Mom waves me over. “How was it?”

“Fantastic!”

“You're glowing.” Mom touches the tips of my hair. “You look beautiful, honey. I'm sure it will be a gorgeous spread with you and Gwen.”

I nod. “I can't wait.”

As I hurry to the locker room to change from Charlie back into Charlotte, I can't curb the tingles that reach to the ends of my fingertips. If I make the Olympics, I'll be doing this sort of thing all the time—but it won't be limited to media coverage that only gymnasts know about. It'll be broader outlets that appeal to a wider audience. I'll be public, out in the open. My life will never be the same. . . .

I'm not sure if I'm excited or terrified.

I arrive at school in time to hear the bell signaling the beginning of lunch. Before making a mad dash for Mr. Alto's classroom, I have to check in and get an absent slip for the two classes I missed. Because I didn't have a lot of time, at the gym I changed out of my leo into a long T-shirt, leggings, and sandals. In the car I swapped my contacts for my glasses and brushed out my hair so that it now flows past my shoulders.

I'm out of breath and a little nervous when I finally make it to Mr. Alto's classroom. Not too tardy, but I'm apparently the last to arrive. I have no time to settle in and get comfortable with this situation.

Most of the desks have been pushed back, leaving room for a dozen to be arranged in a circle. Seven girls and four boys are occupying the seats, and the students all look at me, those with their backs to the door turning around. I stare in disbelief. Bobby Singh is glancing over his shoulder at me. His mouth spreads into a wide grin.

Mr. Alto is sitting on the edge of his desk. “Come on in, Charlotte,” he says. “Take your seat.”

Which must be the empty one, the one directly across from Bobby. Trying to hide the fact that I'm flustered by his presence, I drop into place. I let my hair fall into my face as I slowly unfold the top of my paper lunch bag and draw out my mostly squished turkey sandwich and my hulking bag of fresh veggies.

Mr. Alto clears his throat. “Everyone, say hello to Charlotte. She's agreed to fill in while our secretary's out of commission.”

There are a few murmurs, but the only voice I really hear is Bobby's saying, “Hey.” I don't know why I'm so tuned in to the sound of his voice, except that it's deep and rich and shivers through me.

“Charlotte, you probably know who everyone is, but if not, you'll learn their names when you call roll.” He hands me a sheet of paper with a list of names on it.

“Is this within the rules of our student government?” a girl sitting beside Bobby asks, giving me a small smile of acknowledgment. I know who she is. Everybody does. Kristine Altman is student body president and captain of the girls' varsity soccer team. “I mean, can someone just come in here and fill in for someone without being elected?”

Kristine's words aren't mean-sounding, but they are pointed, as though she's truly challenging the legalities of my substituting for the secretary. I wouldn't have even thought to care if it was okay for someone to replace someone else without an election.

“I'm your adviser,” Mr. Alto says, his big voice filling the classroom. “The bylaws state that yours truly has to approve a fill-in, and since I'm appointing the fill-in person, I'm pretty sure it's okay.”

“But shouldn't we get to choose?” another girl asks. I have no idea who she is, but she and the girl next to her have their hair arranged in matching topknots. They're also wearing matching yellow-and-black Jefferson High Yellow Jacket hoodies with a soccer emblem on the shoulder, signaling that they're also on the soccer team. Their desks are so close to each other, their shoulders touch. “I mean, I can think of tons of people who would love to fill in. What about them? This doesn't seem fair.”

I take an awkward bite of sandwich. I so wish I weren't sitting in this room right now. Maybe Mr. Alto should have warned them about me before I actually showed up.

Bobby is shaking his head, tightening his mouth as though to stop himself from speaking. He seems impatient with the questioning of my right to be here. I wish I'd paid more attention to the student council. If I'd known he'd be here . . . Well, I still wouldn't have said no to the opportunity to bring up my grade, but I wouldn't be sitting here wondering what he thought when Zoe wouldn't give him my number. Since he smiled at me, he couldn't have been too upset.