Letters to Nowhere

by Julie Cross

  Coach Bentley led me inside his town house and up the stairs. He turned the last knob on the right and I sucked in a breath as the door swung open. I knew what I’d see, I knew what I’d have to face, but it still hit me hard.

  Coach cleared his throat as if anticipating a tearful moment and wanting to worm his way out of it. “There’re still a few boxes in the garage and on the bookshelves. They wouldn’t fit. Your room at home must have been . . .”

  I lifted my eyes to meet his—brown and unreadable—before striding into the room. “Bigger. My room at home was much bigger.”

  “Right.” He swung his arms back and forth; the bulk of his biceps from years of ring and high bar routines prevented a normal human range of motion, making this moment even more awkward.

  My bedroom furniture was only about a year old. When I turned sixteen, my mom decided I needed something more mature than the white wicker set I’d had since before preschool.

  I tossed my gym bag onto the bare mattress of my full–sized platform bed and tried not to inhale the scent of home that still leaked from its pores. “I should probably get ready for practice.”

  Coach Bentley’s face snapped back into place, the familiar, serious, down–to–business expression returning. “I’ve got a booster club meeting at the McKays’ house in a few minutes. Jordan can drive you to the gym when he gets home from school.”

  Even after hearing this well over a week ago, I still couldn’t picture him as a father, let alone a father of a teenager. He never raised his voice. Not even when we really pissed him off. How can you parent a teenager without ever yelling?

  Coach Bentley left me alone in my new room that smelled too much like my old one. I changed into my practice clothes and sweats as quickly as possible, practically throwing myself out the bedroom door and into the neutral hallway.

  At twenty minutes to three, I was searching the kitchen cabinets of the three–bedroom town house, digging for something on the list of approved foods for elite athletes when I heard the front door swing open and slam shut. Before I could even get a glimpse of Coach Bentley’s unfamiliar offspring, he was thudding up the steps, slamming a second door and blaring music that would probably vibrate through the shared walls.

  At a quarter to four, I headed upstairs and paced the hallway. I was already late for practice and yet I didn’t have the nerve to knock on my negligent driver’s door. It turned out I wouldn’t need to. Just as I was about to break down and call Coach Bentley, the door flew open and I came face–to–face (well, forehead to face, since I wasn’t quite five feet yet) with a blond, brown–eyed boy—white uniform shirt half tucked in, red tie loosened, top button already unfastened, shoes off. Not exactly the look of someone about to go out again. Like to give me a ride.

  “Oh,” he said, diverting his eyes from mine. “You’re…uh…Cassie—”

  “Karen,” I corrected, voice cracking. My experience with teenage boys was very minimal due to homeschooling the past three years and a girls–only gymnastics team taking up practically my entire life.

  “Right, sorry,” he mumbled as he slid past me toward the stairs.

  I spun around with my mouth hanging open, knowing the words would stay lodged in my throat. Jordan froze with his foot on the first step.

  “Shit,” he said, the heel of his hand making contact with his forehead. “You need a ride, right? To the gym?”

  “Yeah,” I said to the back of his head.

  I followed as he thundered down the steps, whipped the door open, stuffed his feet in a pair of tennis shoes, not bothering with the laces, and headed outside. I hadn’t seen Jordan’s car earlier since he was at school, but I knew which was his right away, despite the nearly full parking lot. It was old, rusty, and a combination of puke green and purple. Something only a teenager desperate for freedom beyond a ten–speed bike would own.

  I immediately opened the door to the backseat and started to get in, but stopped when Jordan shook his head.

  “Seriously? I’d rather not look like a chauffeur if that’s all right with you.”

  Even though my boy experience was minimal to nonexistent, I knew better than to tell him the backseat was much safer, especially when short people and airbags were involved, especially when this hunk of metal was being driven by an unreliable motor vehicle operator. Whenever I rode anywhere with Blair, her mom still made us ride in the backseat of their minivan. But Blair wasn’t old enough to drive yet, so that would obviously have to change soon. I sighed, decided it wasn’t worth making a scene, and climbed into the front passenger seat.

  I tugged on my seat belt five times before accepting its correct positioning. When Jordan backed out of the parking lot and took off toward the main road, I felt my fingers searching for the sides of the well–worn seat, gripping them until my knuckles turned white.

  The traffic light in front of us switched to red and Jordan hit the brakes, jolting us to a hard stop. I squeezed my eyes shut, holding my breath and willing away the sound of glass shattering, metal crunching against pavement, screams—high–pitched like sirens.

  Please, no more panic attacks. Not now.

  The car jolted into motion again. All I could hear were the ten beats my heart pumped out for every single rotation of the tires. Air continued to move in sharp, jagged motions through my lungs, letting me know I wouldn’t pass out.

  The car had been stopped for at least thirty seconds when I finally opened my eyes. The sandy–haired boy was staring at me, looking as though he had no idea what to say and like he wanted out of this situation ASAP.

  “Um…are you…?” he stuttered without finishing.

  My face burned as I flung the door open and mumbled, “Mental choreography. I do it before every practice.”

  God, I’m a dweeb. But it wasn’t like I hadn’t seen that look before—the one plastered on Jordan’s face right now. I’d been seeing it everywhere for the last three weeks.

  I didn’t give him a chance to respond. My feet moved toward the front doors of the gym, and within a minute, I had my bag stuffed in my locker and had joined my three teammates running around the blue carpeted gymnastics floor.

  Normally, on the few occasions I’d ever been late for practice, our second coach, Stacey, would cross her arms, avoiding eye contact, and say sharply, “You’re late.”

  Then we’d all find ourselves doing extra sets of pull–ups, v–ups, and leg lifts before getting to our first event. Today, Stacey looked right at me, the sympathy wearing thin but still relentlessly hanging on in her expression, and said, “Glad you made it, Karen.”

  And she said this completely free of her usual sarcasm. To be honest, Stacey’s behavior might not have been one hundred percent sympathy driven. She knew Coach Bentley was responsible for getting me to the gym on time now, and Coach Bentley was her boss.

  Even though Stacey was a total hard–ass and had no tolerance for any typical girl reactions and emotions when it came to gymnastics, two years ago she might have been a better option than Bentley for providing me a temporary home. But the summer before last, she got married to an accountant and now she had a baby attached to her boob almost 24/7, leaving no time to raise an orphaned teenager.

  Gymnastics was a tough sport, especially at the elite level, and I couldn’t make it a day without the support of my teammates, but during practice we were more competitors than friends. That was just how it had to be, and I never appreciated this more than I had in the last few weeks. The dead parents look never entered any of their faces until we were dismissed by Coach Bentley or Stacey. This was one big reason why I was so determined to stay in St. Louis.

  ***

  January 29

  Dad,

  Since you’re the lawyer and know a lot about anger and bargaining, maybe you can help me with grieving stages 2 and 3 (anger and bargaining). How do I get to 3 if 2 hasn’t happened yet? I can’t be angry with you and Mom. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t want to leave me. I know that. And I don’t see ho
w I could ever feel any amount of anger toward you. Not for the accident. Maybe I’m supposed to be angry at the world? But what does that even mean? It sounds like those pageant queens that want world peace. It’s not tangible or concrete. Right now, I need concrete.

  I couldn’t go home. I know I told you that already, but it was really bad. Grandma had to hire movers. I’m sorry. I know how you always think I’m so strong, but that’s because I do all my crying and whining in front of Mom. I like that you think I’m above all that girly crap, even if I’m not.

  Love, Karen

  Stacey ended up coaching us the entire evening practice since Bentley had that parent meeting. After the awkward exchange earlier in the day, I couldn’t say I was disappointed by the head coach’s absence.

  As expected, right after practice, while my face was still as red as my hair and twice as sweaty, Blair turned back into “best friend Blair” and drilled me immediately with all her concerns. She had no internal censor whatsoever.

  “What if you’re, like, walking to the bathroom and Coach Bentley is coming out of the shower or whatever and you get a glimpse of him naked?” Blair had her head flipped upside down as she forcefully ran a brush through her long black hair. “Do you think that image will ever leave your head? How is he going to coach you after you’ve seen his bare ass or worse—”

  “God, Blair!” Ellen groaned, “Ew.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m not going to see him naked. Besides, I’m sure we’re both mature enough to deal with accidents that aren’t preventable.”

  Okay, so I was totally not mature enough to deal with seeing Coach Bentley’s unexposed skin, but you could bet I’d do everything I could to prevent the incident from happening.

  My clothes were on in record time and I skipped any amount of grooming to make a break for the lobby and end this conversation. By the time I checked Coach Bentley’s office and scanned the parking lot for his car, Blair and Stevie were walking out of the locker room. Stevie (pronounced Stevee—a nickname for Stefani, but I was pretty sure she’d had it legally changed because I hadn’t heard anyone use her full name in years) was my oldest teammate.

  “Karen!” Mrs. Martin, Blair’s mother strode quickly toward me; cue dead parent face. “Coach Bentley is still at the McKays’, we can give you a ride, honey.”

  Blair’s mom was second only to Ellen’s as the scariest gym mom ever. Maybe it was her Asian heritage that caused her to push and push and obsess over every detail of her daughter’s career, but even before losing my parents, I had found it suffocating. Now it was even more so, because being around her reminded me of houses and families and things I didn’t want to think about.

  From the corner of my eye I saw Blair’s face brighten. “Awesome! Can we get sushi, Mom? Maybe Karen can just sleep over?”

  I sucked in a breath, feeling my heart race. Right after Coach Bentley had made his offer, the Martins had wanted me to stay with them, and Blair was still stung by my refusal, though she wouldn’t admit it, because you can’t be pissed off at your best friend after her parents died. It was like the best get–out–of–jail–free card ever.

  Before things got any more awkward, Stevie spoke the most magical words ever. “I can take her. It’s on my way.”

  I stared at her, wondering how she knew where Bentley lived.

  After a serious injury right before Olympic trials and a yearlong retirement from gymnastics, Stevie had just come back to the gym two months ago, and I hadn’t really spoken to her outside of practice much. She was almost twenty now, and I kept thinking about her spending over a year out in the real world, and she’d seemed like a stranger. And Coach Cordes had been so broken up by Stevie’s abrupt departure that it’d become a silent rule that we didn’t bring up her name. Of course Bentley, the new guy, had no history of coaching her and welcomed her back to the group with ease.

  Avoiding eye contact with Blair, I hurried behind Stevie as she opened the door, calling over my shoulder, “Maybe tomorrow. I haven’t even unpacked.”

  Stevie’s brand new silver sports car was a much smoother ride than the rusty putter of Jordan’s vehicle, and I found myself relaxing into the seat. Stevie, a former world champion and daughter of an Olympic gold medal sprinter, was all business all the time, and I had no worries about her bringing up my parents or any other uncomfortable topic.

  “So where does Bentley live?” Stevie asked, laughing. “I don’t know if it’s on my way or not, but you looked like you needed a Plan B.”

  I blew air out of my cheeks, nodding before giving her the address and basic directions. I totally needed a savior in there. Stevie’s very perceptive.

  “Bars are killing me,” she said after a couple minutes of driving in silence. She lifted a hand from the steering wheel to check out her calluses. “If I had known what a year off of gymnastics would do to my hands, I might have stuck it out.” She laughed and I made an effort to join her. “They’re letting me go to training camp next month,” she added.

  “Really? You’re going to Houston with us?” Both junior and senior elite gymnasts had to endure four–day training camps under the judgmental eye of USA Gymnastics Coordinator Nina Jones. It wasn’t exactly your fun kind of camp, despite the woods and the animals on the property. It was a test. A four–day–long exhausting test, both mental and physical.

  Stevie rolled her eyes, acknowledging the lack of excitement revolving around this event. “Yep. It’s now or never, right? Either they welcome me back or tell me I’m a disgrace—too old, too fat, too slow, too sloppy, too weak…what else is there?”

  I laughed nervously, not sure if it was a rhetorical question. “Or completely unnoticeable, like me,” I said, thinking about my last training camp, when Nina Jones gave individual corrections and comments to nearly everyone except me. I’d done the same routines for years, she knew them well enough already. I had nothing to wow her with.

  “Well, that’s not happening this time,” Stevie said. “It’s Bentley’s first National team camp.”

  “Yeah but—”

  “I know, I know, he’s coached elite guys and pre–elite girls,” Stevie interrupted. “He’s plenty experienced, but you know how obsessed Nina and the rest of her committee are with Ellen, so they’ll be watching Bentley’s every move to make sure he’s coaching her to her full potential.”

  I wasn’t sure if this revelation made me more excited for next month or less. Probably less if they were looking for a reason to criticize our coaching in an effort to protect Ellen, the thirteen–year–old phenom and current Junior National champion.

  “At least we have time to mentally prepare for that.”

  The conversation ended there because we’d arrived at Bentley’s place. I shouted thanks to Stevie and crunched through the week–old snow on my way to open one of an entire row of identical red front doors. I unlocked the door with the key Coach Bentley had given me this afternoon and quietly stepped into the foyer, leaving my coat and boots by the door.

  My stomach growled loudly in the near silence, steering me through the living room on my way to the kitchen. I let out a much too loud and very un–cool gasp when my eyes took in the two tangled bodies on the living room couch. Jordan’s red striped tie lay on the floor and his khaki pants were twisted around skinny, spray–tanned, carefully shaven legs, his hand inching toward the hemline of the red and blue plaid skirt.

  “Oh God!” slipped out of my mouth as my eyes unwillingly traveled up to the brunette’s hair, which was covering Jordan’s face and keeping me from seeing their mouths locked together. “Sorry— God…uh…totally sorry.”

  I dove into the safety of the kitchen, wanting nothing but to crawl under the table and never come out. Instead, I knelt down on the floor and stuck my head in a cabinet full of pots and pans, pretending to look for something really important. I could hear voices talking softly, then the girl’s laughter, followed by the front door closing. A few seconds later, Jordan was in the kitchen, flinging open the
fridge as if nothing had happened.

  My face was hotter than hell and I must have looked like one big mess of chalk dust and sweat, but I wasn’t too chicken to at least apologize. I mean, this was his house and I’d just walked right in. I should have knocked or something. The key was probably for emergencies, like when nobody was home. Why else would Jordan lock the front door while he was inside? Obviously he had wanted to prevent situations like these.

  “Um, sorry,” I said, standing quickly and turning to lean my back against the counter. “I should have knocked or rang the doorbell or something.”

  He shrugged and tossed several items from the fridge onto the counter. “Don’t sweat it. She had to leave, anyway.”

  “It won’t happen again,” I promised, crossing my fingers that he wouldn’t find something to complain about to Coach Bentley and have me shipped off to the Grandma’s or Blair’s house. Mrs. Martin was too much of a mom and Mr. Martin too much of a dad. I wouldn’t last a day in that house.

  Jordan gave me a lopsided grin that was too genuine to be fake. “It’s fine. Really.”

  It occurred to me, right then, that maybe he was concerned about me getting him in trouble. He had gotten caught in a pretty intense make–out session.

  Coach Bentley had left a huge stack of forms for me to fill out, finalizing my change of address and insurance and a whole bunch of small details that no one ever thinks about when they decide to live with a nonrelative. I grabbed a pen and sat at the tiny kitchen table, which I just noticed had only two chairs, and went to work on filling in my social security number five hundred times. My stomach continued to grumble as I worked. I hadn’t eaten since eleven thirty, right after morning practice, and it was now nearly eight at night. I gulped down half of my water bottle while Jordan continued to mess around in the fridge and kitchen cabinets.