by Julie Cross
Eventually, he sat down across from me, holding two plates, each containing a sandwich. He slid a plate over to my side of the table. “I made you one, too. Thought you might be hungry.”
Okay, he’s definitely worried about me squealing on him. I stared at the deadly–thick, forbidden slices of white bread wrapped around cheese and meat. Would it be rude to ask for whole wheat pita bread?
Jordan jumped up and grabbed a can of Coke from the fridge, offering me one. I shook my head and nodded toward my water bottle resting beside my plate. He drank half the soda in about five seconds and started on his sandwich.
A hunger headache was already forming, along with an allergic reaction to paperwork. I rubbed my temples and sighed before finally conceding, throwing out any amount of manners I’d been taught in my sixteen years. I tossed the top piece of bread off my sandwich and removed both slices of cheddar cheese, setting them beside the bread before picking up a slice of turkey and munching on it, my focus still on the paper in front of me.
I could feel Jordan’s gaze on me, but he didn’t comment. Not a word. Not that I was really surprised. You could practically hear his internal debate in the near silence, always returning to the same words that followed me everywhere…dead parents, dead parents, dead parents. It wasn’t like he could ask me why I was acting so weird and get a better answer than…dead parents.
And nobody wants you to actually say that answer out loud. In fact, most people would do everything in their power to avoid hearing me speak those words. I could probably get away with murder. Or kidnapping. Or underage drinking.
Coach Bentley came home when I had just finished my third slice of turkey and Jordan was down to only the crusts of his sandwich. Bentley stood in the kitchen, sifting through a stack of mail in his hands, not looking up at either of us.
“Did you make it to practice okay?” he finally asked me. “Jordan was here when you got home, I hope?”
I swallowed my last bite of turkey, washing it down with a large gulp of water, while Jordan’s eyebrows lifted, waiting for my answer. “I got to practice just fine. And he was here when Stevie dropped me off.”
I could have sworn I heard Jordan let out a breath, but I wasn’t sure. Coach Bentley nodded his approval and started to walk out of the kitchen. He stopped suddenly and moved toward the table when he saw me picking a fourth piece of turkey out of my sandwich.
“I’m sorry,” Coach Bentley said quickly. “I didn’t think to ask what you liked to eat. McDonald’s is around the corner. I’ll run and grab you something else.”
Wow, he really is the complete opposite of Coach Cordes.
I scrambled to put the sandwich back together and tapped the pen nervously against the table. “It’s not that I don’t like it.” I spun halfway around to face him. “But some of it’s not on the diet and…” I trailed off, hoping this would spark some kind of recognition.
“Diet?” Bentley’s forehead wrinkled and he scratched the top of his bald head.
“The team nutritionist’s diet. She meets with the elite girls and our families every six months and we get detailed menus to follow.” How did he not know about this? And here I was worried that he’d crack the whip on the food issue and he was seconds from buying me a Big Mac and fries.
“Maybe I do remember someone mentioning the nutritionist,” he said finally. “Does Stacey know the details?”
“Uh…yeah.” She was the one who got on us when any of us tried to cheat, like at competitions when we traveled as a team and went out to dinner together. Stacey was convinced that one meal without a leafy green food would ruin our immune systems forever. And white bread would make us all fall off the balance beam instantly. “It’s just empty calories,” she always said, and, “It doesn’t leave any room for good food.”
I could honestly say that I’ve rarely cheated on my diet. I liked all the foods that were recommended to us. But I’ve seen Blair go home after practice and eat nothing but two candy bars and a bowl of Lucky Charms, then work out again for four hours later that day. Everyone else cheated, but we’d never rat each other out. Ever. It was part of the teammate bond.
“I’ll talk to Stacey,” Bentley said. “She can fill me in.”
Jordan rolled his eyes and got up from his chair, tossing his plate into the sink with a loud bang. Coach Bentley sighed as his son left without a word. Obviously, this wasn’t a hugging kind of father/son relationship.
January 29
Mom,
Complete and utter humiliation. That’s what happened to me tonight. I hadn’t even been close to prepared to walk in on Jordan and his prep school girlfriend. Maybe if they had been vertical instead of horizontal it would have been twenty percent less embarrassing? Now I have to think about that every time I see him. This is going to be so much fun. If you could answer this, I know you’d have something funny to say that would help me feel a little less like an ignorant homeschooled girl. I’m not ignorant, it’s just new to me. Boys in the house. Boys in the house kissing girls…
Love, Karen
***
After finishing all the paperwork, I finally made myself walk up the stairs. Jordan’s bedroom door was open, his body stretched across the bed, textbooks and notebooks spread out in front of him as he scribbled on a page. Remembering Blair’s concerns, I knocked lightly on the door frame and he looked up right away.
“Is it okay if…if I use the shower? You don’t need to go in there now…do you? Because I can totally wait or whatever.”
He looked mildly amused with my obvious distress. “The bathroom’s all yours, Karen.” As I started to turn away, he added, “Just don’t mess with those magazines under the sink.”
My eyes widened. Jordan laughed and looked down at his notebook again. “Kidding.”
I let out a breath before walking away.
“I removed all traces of porn this morning before you got here,” he said to my back.
Being an only child had left me highly unprepared for a number of situations. I was clearly in over my head. Not something I felt often.
The shower went without any indecent exposure, but even gobs of fruity shampoo and body wash couldn’t keep the smell of home out of my nostrils the second I walked into my new bedroom. It hit me right in the gut and for a minute, I thought I might be sick. I didn’t dare open the box that held my sheets and comforter. Instead, I opened the door to my new bedroom closet. With an extra blanket and pillow from the upstairs hall closet, I slid the closet door shut, pressing the blanket into the tiny space under the door, before curling up on the tan carpeted floor.
CHAPTER THREE
When I woke up after my first night in Coach Bentley’s home with a sore neck and aches in my lower back and stomach, I didn’t think anything of it. I had slept on a closet floor after all. And I was a veteran when it came to sore muscles.
Blurry–eyed, I glanced at my cell phone: 5:28. Too early for a check–in call to Grandma and too late to fall back asleep, not that I could with all these aches.
After crawling out of the closet and hiding the blanket and pillow on the top shelf, sealing the door shut to keep it clean until tonight, I allowed myself thirty seconds to find a pink leotard and a pair of sweats before heading into the bathroom.
Coach Bentley was already in the kitchen when I got downstairs. A large silver bowl filled with apples, oranges, and bananas now sat on the table. He pushed around what looked like scrambled eggs in a skillet with one hand. With his other hand, he opened the fridge, reached in and produced a paper bag, holding it out to me.
“It’s your lunch,” he said. I took it out of his hand, setting it on the table. “You have that appointment at eleven thirty. The one your grandmother set up for you. We won’t have time to come back for lunch.”
The shrink. I’d almost forgotten. It was part of the agreement to let me stay here. I had to see some woman who had a PhD in talking about dead parents.
“Right, the appointment.” I picked up an appl
e from the bowl and bit into it, just to kill the silence. There had been no apples in this house yesterday. Coach Bentley must have talked to Stacey and gotten up early to shop for groceries.
He piled slightly runny eggs onto a plate and set it in front of me. I was so hungry from yesterday’s lack of food I ate them all despite the gooeyness. I also finished my apple, moved on to a banana, then followed it all with a big glass of milk.
Around six thirty, Jordan stumbled into the kitchen, his hair sticking up in all directions and nothing but boxer shorts on. I looked anywhere but at him. However, there was no avoiding noticing the fact that he was definitely not a couch potato.
I don’t think Jordan even noticed me or Coach Bentley sitting at the table. He went right for the fridge, chugging milk straight from the carton. I eyed my nearly empty glass. Gross.
Coach Bentley looked over the morning paper at his son. “Damn it, Jordan! Put on a shirt.”
And pants?
Jordan glared at his dad but snatched a black hoodie from a hook by the back door and threw it on. Coach Bentley glared right back and turned to me. “Be ready in ten minutes?”
I nodded, indicating I was ready to leave anytime, then I returned to watching YouTube videos on my phone. There was a release move on the uneven bars that I wanted to learn, even though Coach Bentley probably wouldn’t let me try it. He was too obsessed with perfection to let me take a big risk. And honestly, I’d never been a risk–taker until recently. It was like an itch I couldn’t scratch.
Jordan nudged the gooey eggs around in the skillet, made a face, and reached in a high–up cabinet, removing a box of sugar–filled cereal. He plunged his hand right into the box and stuffed his mouth full of fruity pebbles.
What would I have to do to disinfect this food? Spray it all with Lysol? At least I wouldn’t be eating that cereal, but who knew what he’d get his hands in (literally) when I wasn’t around to watch?
I distracted myself from pointless germ thoughts and went back watching videos again.
“No way,” Jordan said with his mouth full.
I jumped and glanced over my shoulder at him, now standing right behind me. “What?”
“You can’t do that.” He pointed to the video on my phone.
“I know that.” I stuffed the phone in my gym bag and got up from the chair. “I like to watch videos of crazy moves when I’m bored.”
Jordan plopped right into my abandoned spot, his disheveled hair looking slightly more attractive than you’d think it would. He had dimples that popped up when his mouth wasn’t too full, too. “A crazy move that my dad used to do.”
Now it was my turn to lift an eyebrow. “Yeah, I heard that, too, but I couldn’t find a video of him performing it.”
Jordan tossed his feet up on the empty chair. “Because he tore his bicep doing that release right before the World Championships and never competed it.”
“That explains a lot.” Maybe this wasn’t the worst place to be living while training. It was kind of like a home court advantage.
“Ready, Karen?” Coach Bentley called from the foyer.
“I’ll be in the shower in a few minutes,” Jordan whispered loudly. “Just in case you need to know. Don’t want you to accidently walk in on me. We should probably post a schedule or put an alarm on the bathroom door.”
I closed my eyes and turned around, feeling completely mortified.
“Karen?”
“Uh–huh,” I said, not looking back at him.
“Thanks for not saying anything. About yesterday…”
Which part? Forgetting to give me a ride or the girl you were feeling up on the couch last night? I let out a breath. “No problem.”
January 30
Coach Bentley,
Thanks for the scrambled eggs and for making my lunch this morning. I promise not to even so much as make a face during strength training today.
Thanks again, Karen
Jordan,
Can you please not drink out of the milk carton? I know it’s your house but seriously, it’s so gross. Also, you have really nice abs. What kind of core conditioning are you doing?
Your bathroommate, Karen
***
“Should I just come back in an hour?” Coach Bentley asked, when he pulled up to the shrink’s office.
I opened the door, the cold air hit my face, and I drew in a slow calming breath. “Uh…sure. I’ll watch for you. You don’t have to come in.”
He had already left a mound of paperwork on his desk just to get me here. He didn’t need to go out of his way any more than that or my extra presence in his life would be wearing thin very soon.
After I checked in with the secretary, I sat down and opened the lunch sack Coach had given me this morning. Inside was what looked like a whole wheat bagel, a small tube of peanut butter (my very favorite food), a container of yogurt (but no spoon), and a banana. For some reason, a lump formed in my throat. There was something so personal in this gesture by Coach Bentley, and yet it made me ache inside. My mom would have never forgotten the spoon.
“Karen Campbell?”
I stuffed the bagel back into the paper sack and glanced up—way up—at the nearly six–foot–tall woman with willowy legs and a long neck. She looked young and trendy—brown flat–ironed hair and bangs. Her smile was warm and inviting, like she wanted to be my best friend or sorority sister or something. And I began to immediately doubt that we’d get anything remotely therapeutic accomplished, but at least I could make my grandma feel a little better about leaving me here. Not sure what I’d do about the possibility of more panic attacks, but I’d have to come up with a new plan for that problem.
I stood up and followed her into her office. I did take note of the fact that she didn’t wear the dead parents face. Maybe you get desensitized to stuff like that when you have to hear sad stories all the time? “Dr. Carson, right?”
“Technically, yes.” She sat behind the desk and pointed to a large armchair for me to occupy. “But you can call me Jackie.”
Okay, I totally called this one. Jackie and Karen: best friends for life.
“And don’t let me keep you from eating lunch. In fact, if you don’t mind, I might eat my sandwich, too.” She opened a drawer and removed a reusable lunch sack, pulling out a pita sandwich and a container of fruit. I took her cue and resumed eating my bagel, but decided against the peanut butter for now because it would make speaking impossible. “I talked with your grandmother last week. Very nice lady. She told me a little about you and what kinds of things you were hoping to talk about with me, but not much. I’d love to hear your version.”
“I’m sure she got it right.” I wasn’t sure why we needed to rehash what she already knew.
Jackie nodded and took a swig from her Diet Coke. “Fair enough. So, you’re not in school? You’re homeschooled?”
School…I can talk about school. “I take virtual classes online.”
She scribbled lazily in her notebook, waving her other hand as if it was a silent question. “Subjects?”
I rattled off a list of subjects between bites of my bagel.
“Senior classes, right? But you just turned seventeen, which would make you,” she said, studying something on a different page, “a year ahead?”
“With online classes you can go faster. When I started three years ago, I did the first year of courses in one semester. Then I did another semester in the summer.” So far, easy as pie. I could do this all day.
“Is it required for elite gymnasts to stop going to regular school?”
I shook my head. Media training at National Team Camp had prepared me for all of these questions. “A lot of elites go to regular school. But at my gym, this is what everyone does. My other teammates, too. Something my old coach started a few years ago, before he left. He wants us to be able to have a life outside gymnastics and if you’re in school all day and then practicing until nine or ten at night, it doesn’t allow time for normal teenage activities.”
Jackie’s eyes beamed into me, like she could x–ray my thoughts or like she somehow knew that the answer was very scripted, though it was mostly true. “Tell me about your teammates.”
Still easy. I had finished the bagel and started on the banana. “There’s four of us right now. In a way, we’re a lot like sisters.”
Jackie’s eyebrows lifted. “Sisters? You mean you’re close like sisters?”
That would be the media answer, but I thought about what I meant more carefully and decided it would be safe to explain it to a shrink. She wasn’t NBC or anything. “Yes, we’re close, but I think ‘sisters’ describes it better than best friends, because secretly we want to beat the other three. Sisters are always compared to each other. It’s like that. But we have a bond that’s pretty unbreakable.”
Jackie didn’t write anything down, but nodded again. “Are you all the same age, grade…?”
I shook my head. “Ellen’s the youngest. She’s thirteen. She won Junior Nationals last summer.” I paused for a second, thinking of the best way to describe her to a stranger. “She’s the cute one. You know, still one hundred percent little girl as far as her physical appearance.”
“I think I’ve got a good mental picture,” Jackie said, smiling. “Who else?”
“Blair is fifteen and she’s the one I’m most likely to hang out with after practice.” I swallowed hard, knowing how little I’d done that in the past few weeks. “And she’s really talented but going through a growth spurt right now—”
“So, growing is bad? It’s better to have the little girl body, like Ellen?”
“No, not really.” Stacey had always explained this to us very frankly, so I said, “Gymnasts come in all shapes and sizes. Especially now that we can’t compete in the Olympics until we’re sixteen. So, growing is fine. It’s going to happen to all of us, but if you have a big change in height or weight over a short amount of time, it throws off your center of gravity and you have to relearn a lot of your skills. It’s not impossible by any means, just sets you back a little bit, like injuries do.”
