Letters to Nowhere

by Julie Cross

  “Stomach flu,” Stacey said, nodding. “We better get you out of here before it spreads like wildfire. I can’t have all my gymnasts coming down with the runs, can I?”

  I shook my head and left to retrieve my stuff. This was only the second time in my life I’d missed practice due to illness, and the first time in my life that I’d faked it. When I returned from the locker room a few minutes later, Stacey had already arranged for one of the other coaches to drop me off on her way home.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Tonight, I opted to ring the doorbell, not wanting a recurrence of last night, since Jordan’s car was parked out front. He opened the door, giving me a bewildered look, but I just strode past him and headed upstairs to retrieve some laundry.

  It wasn’t that the washer was all that complicated, but standing in the laundry room with a stained leotard that happened to be the last thing my mom had ever given me, plus the majority of my underwear and sports bras that badly needed washing, I couldn’t help but feel like I was on another planet.

  Stay–at–home moms washed their kids’ clothes. Laundry was something I’d do when I got to college.

  When I returned to the laundry room later, to switch the load, I realized my mistake right away.

  “Oh no! Damn it.” Tears sprung to my eyes. The beautiful jeweled light pink leotard had turned a weird grayish purple, but splotchy. I yanked out my brand new navy sweat pants and tossed them onto the floor before holding my ruined outfit up to the light, examining the damage with shaking hands.

  “My guess is that was hand–wash only?” Jordan poked his head into the room, probably after hearing my cry of distress.

  His joke hit me a little too hard and I couldn’t control my emotions this time. I tried to wipe away the tears faster than they fell, but failed completely. Jordan stood there in silence, not moving a muscle. He looked like he wanted to say something but either couldn’t or didn’t know what to say. I decided to let him off the hook.

  “Just don’t tell your dad,” I pleaded with him, wiping my nose on my sleeve.

  “Don’t tell him that your pink leotard is now purple?” he asked tentatively. “Or that your balance beam routine would score higher than your laundry skills?”

  I balled the leotard up in one hand and wiped the tears from my cheeks with the back of my other hand. “Don’t tell him I cried about something stupid. Or anything for that matter. The last thing he needs is some emotionally distressed teenage girl to deal with twenty–four–seven.”

  Oh God, did I just say that out loud?

  Jordan stared at me for a long moment and then flipped an empty bucket over, sitting on it and blocking the door. “You can say it, you know? It won’t freak me out.”

  Now it was my turn to be utterly confused. “Say what?”

  His eyes locked with mine and I could feel the tension building. “Your parents are dead.”

  I held my breath for a few seconds, waiting to feel that awful punch in the gut I’d anticipated. But it wasn’t quite as bad as I thought it’d be. “My parents are dead.”

  He nodded. “That sucks.”

  I felt a few more tears trickle out, but I was too distracted by the conversation to wipe them away. “Yeah, it totally sucks. Today, even more so than other days.”

  Jordan tugged at the leotard in my hand, freeing it from my grip and holding it up like a question.

  “My mom got it for me for my birthday.”

  “Before she died,” he finished.

  “Before she died,” I repeated and then said the worst part over again, “because my parents are dead.”

  “Say it one more time,” Jordan said. “It will get a little easier tomorrow and then we don’t have to tap–dance around the great big elephant in the room.”

  “My parents are dead,” I said again and for some reason I started laughing. More like crying and laughing at the same time.

  Jordan stood up again and let me exit the laundry room, following me. “So, I’m guessing you’re not really sick? My dad called and said to check on you. See if you needed me to clean up vomit.”

  “That was nice of him. He gives you all the best chores.”

  “No kidding,” Jordan grumbled. “You aren’t going to barf, are you?”

  “Between you and me—no. But—”

  “If my dad asks, it was coming out of every opening possible,” Jordan finished.

  I wrinkled my nose. “Eh, thanks?”

  Mom,

  I just said it out loud. I can’t believe how real it felt. And now my leotard is ruined because I have no clue how to do laundry. Well, I must have some clue because it didn’t take long to figure out that I probably should have separated the light and the dark clothes. Why didn’t you teach me any of this stuff? Did you anticipate being around all the time? Are you invincible? Obviously not. Don’t you think it might have been a good idea to teach me certain important life skills like laundry? If you had, I wouldn’t have ruined my birthday present. I wouldn’t have had to stand in Coach Bentley’s laundry room crying. What if Jordan tells his dad and then Bentley decides that he can’t handle me and sends me to Grandma’s?

  Love, Karen

  Jordan,

  Thank you for making me say it out loud. Your mom is gone, right? What happened? Did you know her very well or were you too young when she died?

  ––Karen

  List for Jackie—Possible reasons Coach Bentley let me live with him

  It’s much easier to have 4 elites in the gym than 3…odd numbers are terrible for partnering during conditioning. The coach always has to pair up with one of us.

  His chances of getting an athlete on the World Championship Team are doubled if I stick around.

  Stevie could decide to retire again any day now and he’d only have two kids to coach.

  He needed someone around to tattle on Jordan.

  ***

  “I’m making spaghetti. Do you want any?” Jordan asked after finding me in the kitchen writing in my notebook.

  I snapped the book shut before he caught a glimpse of my list or any of the letters. “What should I do?”

  He dug for a big pot under the sink and then turned to face me. “About dinner?”

  “About the fact that your dad’s going to be home in the next two hours expecting me to be violently ill.” I couldn’t hide the panic in my voice.

  “Why are you asking me?” He ran the hot water, filling the pot.

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “You seem to be experienced in the field of lying to adults, which I’m not. Other than today. I could just tell him that I lied to Stacey about being sick because I was upset about…”

  “About…?” Jordan prompted, trying to get me to say it again.

  “About my parents being dead,” I whispered, keeping my eyes focused on my hands. “So tell him I lied to Stacey?”

  “Stacey.” He stared dreamily over my shoulder. “Stacey is hot.”

  I rolled my eyes. “She’s also married and has a baby.” And stretch marks and leaking breasts…

  “Good point.” He refocused his attention on me. “Yes, you could tell him the truth. That would make the most sense, which clearly means you’re not going to do that. Maybe go to bed early and wake up fully recovered?”

  I shook my head right away, knowing I couldn’t spend any extra time in that room. Plus, what if Coach Bentley came in to check on me and found me in the closet. Explaining that would be worse than the truth. I really have to get myself out of that closet.

  Jordan turned his back to me, reaching in the cabinet for the box of pasta. I watched his hamstrings flex in response to his every movement. In my mind, I passed it off as athletes’ admiration, because hamstrings are so hard to build.

  “Just do what all the chicks in my school do to get out of PE. Female problems. Best excuse ever. No male teacher wants to hear any details. They just wave them off to the bleachers and pray the discussion is over.”

  My face flamed up instantly
, but Jordan’s back was still to me. He couldn’t possibly know what had happened earlier? It had to be a coincidence. God, I’d die of humiliation before telling Coach Bentley that I started my period today…for the first time…one day after moving in with him.

  “Although, you’ve probably got gymnastics spies watching you, giving him all the details of your life,” Jordan mused, oblivious to my current distress as he tossed a handful of salt into the pot of hot water. “He gets reports in the mail every time you guys go to those team training camps in the middle of the forest or wherever it is.”

  “Houston,” I said. “What reports?”

  “I don’t know what’s inside. Just an envelope that says, ‘Karen Campbell monthly evaluation.’”

  My heart started pounding faster, my palms sweaty. The US Gymnastics committee was like the CIA, apparently. Before I even had a chance to absorb the shock, Jordan was sliding toward the built–in desk in the kitchen, bending over and flinging a file cabinet below the desk open, revealing a folder with my name. I stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen, listening to him read the top paper on the thick stack of pages.

  “Karen Louise Campbell—” He scrunched up his nose. “Louise? Really?”

  “It’s my grandmother’s name,” I snapped.

  He held up his hands as if to say sorry and continued reading. “Four foot eleven and three quarters…ninety two pounds—” His gaze jerked up from the page and he bent over to stuff it back in the folder. “We’ll both be murdered if he catches us looking through his shit.”

  “What did it say?” I begged. “You read something, didn’t you?”

  “Just don’t mess with it.” He turned back to the pasta. “I was being stupid. Never follow my example.”

  I couldn’t leave it at that. “Does it say, Karen sucks, she’s hopeless and has no chance of making the World team?”

  Jordan sighed. “Of course not. Even if it did, you think my dad’s just going to throw in the towel after reading that report? He does possess the ability to think for himself.”

  I dove down on the floor under his leg, reaching for the handle of the drawer. Jordan was quicker than I expected, squatting down and slapping his hand to the top of the cabinet so I couldn’t pull it open.

  “Okay,” he conceded. “It says Karen Campbell has clean routines, which everyone knows is code for ‘safe routines,’ as in non–risk taker. You should probably work on that.”

  “I’ll start right now.” I shoved him with my shoulder, throwing him off balance and seconds later, the paper was in my hand, my eyes scanning the front page quickly.

  Name: Karen Louise Campbell

  Rank: 6th, Junior National Team

  Status: Training, shoulder injury healed, sat out first senior season last year

  Medical Concerns: Primary amenorrhoea

  Primary amenorrhoea. I knew that term. Delayed menstruation.

  Treatments: Recommend calcium supplement and increase fat in diet.

  Was there a chance that Jordan had no idea what that meant? Why would he have stuffed the paper back in the cabinet if he didn’t know? Maybe he thinks it’s something else? I didn’t want to read any more. My mom had told me there was nothing wrong with me. She’d told me it wasn’t a problem that things hadn’t happened yet, but I guess it didn’t really matter anymore because now they had happened.

  I returned the paper to the drawer and closed it tight. Jordan had already stood up and was busying himself with the nearly cooked pasta. God, there was no end to my humiliation in front of this boy. I decided that I might as well embrace it after the day I’d had. Hiding would only make the situation worse. And it wasn’t like I really needed to, or even could, impress Jordan or anything. He’s just a boy. And I was just a girl his dad coached.

  “So,” I said, trying to sound totally casual. “Which is worse? Talking about dead parents with me or talking about female problems?”

  He removed the pot from the burner and spun around to face me. “I had no business reading that. Honestly, I’ve never given it a second thought until tonight. I was just trying to impress you, so you’d think I had all kinds of insider information to share.”

  I folded my arms across my chest. “Like for bribery or something?”

  “No bribery.” He laughed. “Just because guys often do very stupid things to impress girls. Even someone who doesn’t go to school should know that.”

  I ignored the comment because it would make my face turn red again if I tried to respond. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Neither option is very appealing, but I doubt your dose of TMI regarding the said female problems will inflict any actual harm to me. Torture, yes, but no long–term damage.”

  I twirled my pen around my fingers, not able to make eye contact. “Let’s say, hypothetically, that report is no longer accurate and, hypothetically, the change was very recent. Very recent. Knowing your dad, should I just update him or avoid mentioning it like the plague?”

  “I’m not sure…he and I…we don’t really…we don’t talk about much.” Jordan took a deep breath and looked down at his hands. “You probably know him better than I do.”

  “That can’t be true,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. “And I don’t want to sit around and chat about womanhood with him or anything, but I am living here and I might need certain—”

  Jordan’s mouth formed a big “O” of comprehension. “We’re all going to squirm if you tell him. I’ll take you to the store. We can go now. We’ve got at least an hour before he gets back.”

  This wasn’t exactly my idea of a fun evening, but honestly, there were a few other things I needed to pick up and I’d never ask Coach Bentley for yet another favor on top of carting me to practice and the shrink all the time.

  And how many plug–in air fresheners would it take to get rid of the scent of home in my new bedroom?

  “Make sure you turn off the burner before we leave.” I pointed to the stove top and Jordan jumped into action, spinning the knob until it clicked off.

  He glanced at his cell phone. “Let’s get back in forty–five minutes, just to be safe.”

  ***

  Jordan froze in the center of the grocery store aisle, allowing his eyes to travel up and down the row of feminine products. “Who knew it was so complicated to be a girl.”

  “You could just wait in the car,” I hissed under my breath. “Seriously.”

  He shrugged like this wasn’t totally weird or anything. I turned my back to him and scanned the displays, looking for what I needed. He was right. It was complicated. Why did they have so many different colored boxes, and which applicator was easiest to use? All of them claimed to be the best, so how would I know?

  “Wow, there’s extra long and super extra long.” Jordan held a giant package of pads in each hand. “I wonder what the difference is in inches. Should we open them up to compare?”

  Oh. My. God.

  “And how does one know if they need wings or not?” he asked. “Have you ever tried flying one of these like a paper airplane?”

  I covered my face with my hands, sure that it would permanently match my red hair after tonight. “Can you not talk so loud, please?”

  He stuffed the packages back on the shelf. “Sorry.”

  The slightly guilty expression he now wore made me think he might have actually been trying to make this more comfortable for me, though he failed miserably. But he probably hadn’t intended to humiliate me. I grinned when I saw what was now right in front of me. I snatched a box of condoms from the shelf and tossed them at Jordan. He caught it midair with catlike reflexes.

  “Better safe than sorry,” I teased. “You might not have me to interrupt you next time.”

  “You could have given us hours more and I still wouldn’t have needed these.” He examined the box closely. “Besides, they’re not extra large.”

  I snorted a laugh.

  I found the correct size/style/color/scent of tampons and moved on to
the beauty care aisle to get hair ties, gel, and bobby pins. Jordan kept fairly quiet, but seemed unable to stop himself from touching every item on the shelf like a four–year–old.

  It occurred to me after a few minutes that maybe he was nervous, though I couldn’t imagine why.

  “So, what’s he like?” Jordan asked after the weird silence had fallen on us for much too long. “As a coach, anyway?”

  “Your dad?” He nodded. “He’s different from my old coach.”

  “Like how?” He sounded totally casual, but I could hear something hidden behind his words. Something more than curiosity.

  “He’s quiet. So much that sometimes I’m screaming corrections inside my own head just to fill the space.”

  “He knows exactly what he’s doing, too,” Jordan said. “By not saying anything. It’s like my head is spinning sometimes, trying to gauge how pissed he is or if he even gives a shit at all.”

  “Exactly.” My eyes met his, knowing that even though we had these thoughts in common, all this was different for me. I didn’t need Coach Bentley to give a shit about me. But Jordan did. It’s his dad. It was also none of my business, so I redirected the conversation. “He totally screwed with my head today. It was genius. Complete genius.”

  I explained the deal we had made with the new release move and all the requirements that now rested on me.

  Jordan laughed really hard as the checkout lady bagged up my items. “Oh man, he’s good. Very good.”

  “I know, right?”

  In the car, I decided to distract myself by asking him some personal questions. “So what’s her name? Your girlfriend?”

  He laughed again, glancing at me with shining eyes as another car’s headlights beamed into us. “I’m assuming you mean Sara. And she’s not my girlfriend. We were supposed to be doing a project together.”