The Go-for-Gold Gymnasts: Winning Team (Go-for-Gold Gymnasts, The)

by Dominique Moceanu

  I knew that that had to be a lie. Who sent invitations to only two people? Like, what, Christina actually went out and bought one of those packets of ten or twenty invitations, took out two, and then handed them to Noelle and Jessie? Yeah, right.

  “Christina—” Jessie began; I cut her off.

  “That’s a relief,” I said, dragging my hand across my forehead in an exaggerated whew gesture. “Saves me the awkwardness of having to turn you down.”

  Christina’s mouth tightened.

  “Sorry,” Noelle said, shooting a glance at Christina. At least she looked a little apologetic. “We always have this big sleepover at Christina’s over spring break. We’ve done it for the last couple of years—it’s kind of a tradition. Maybe next year?”

  Just then, the door opened again, and Christina’s mom stepped out. Whereas my mom couldn’t stay for five minutes to watch me land a move, Christina’s mom had watched our entire practice from the bleachers. And from the way she chatted with parents bringing their toddlers in for tumbling class, and with the staff at the front desk, I could tell she was there a lot.

  “Let’s go, Christina,” she said, putting her arm around Christina. “’Bye, girls!”

  “’Bye, Mrs. Flores,” Noelle and Jessie said in unison. But Mrs. Flores didn’t reply—she was too busy leading Christina toward a shiny red SUV. Christina climbed in, but as the passenger-side door swung closed, I heard: “What was going on with your vaulting today? Hasn’t Cheng told you—”

  The door slammed shut.

  “I’d better go, too,” Noelle said. She was talking to Jessie, but she glanced at me at one point, as if she wasn’t sure whether or not she should include me. Without her little boss Christina around, I guess she couldn’t make decisions for herself. Well, I’d make it for her. I ignored her, pretending that the stripe down the side of my workout pants required my full and complete attention.

  Noelle unchained a bike from a rack on the other side of the sidewalk, and I watched with some envy as she rode away. I wished I could just ride a bike home. Then I wouldn’t have had to sit out here like a big dork waiting for my mom.

  A car pulled up to the curb; Jessie started to open the passenger door before it stopped. “Um, do you need a ride?” she asked, leaning out.

  “No,” I said, a little more harsh than I’d meant to. I was really angry with my mother right now. Why did she always put me in this position?

  Jessie just stared at me for a few moments, as if she was trying to figure me out. “Christina’s not so bad,” she said. “I know you didn’t hit it off today, but don’t worry about her.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I decided to push my luck. “Who knows, maybe she’ll invite me to her sleepover.”

  Jessie smiled. “I don’t know,” she said. “Christina makes this sleepover into a really big deal. It’s not like I haven’t gone over to her house and played Rock Band before. But she plans this thing out like it’s her wedding or something.”

  “If she wants help planning a real party, she should talk to me,” I said. “My friend Dionne and I went paintballing once back home, and it was so much fun.”

  “That sounds fun,” Jessie said. “Anyway, see you around.”

  Jessie got into her car, and as she rode away, I scanned the entrance to the parking lot for my mom’s red Toyota. I knew I would probably be waiting for a while, but that was okay, now that I was alone again. And it gave me more time to daydream about how I was going to make the Texas Twisters see what I could bring to the table. I’d show Mo and Cheng my power and strength and flexibility, and I’d liven up practices and show the girls I could make them laugh. In a couple of weeks, they’d be thinking, How did we ever survive without Brittany Lee Morgan?

  But as I sat there waiting, I thought of all the times I’d done this same thing back in Ohio. My mom would be running late, and I’d sit and wait at one of the picnic tables outside the gym. In April, Ohio was still chilly, and sometimes Dionne would wait with me, both of us shivering in our jackets more than was really necessary, in a silent contest to see who was colder. Occasionally, we would convince the concession stand at the aquatic center to spot us a hot chocolate, which we would split; then we’d beg our parents for the money to pay the concession back.

  Now I felt the warmth of the sun on my face as I glanced left and right, taking in the low, flat buildings and the brown grass. My mother had said that I’d be feeling at home in no time, but right now I couldn’t conceive of feeling that way about the Texas Twisters, much less this vast, lonely state.

  So, you liked your new gym?” my mom asked as she dished mixed vegetables out onto my plate. I hate mixed vegetables. Unless it’s a packet of Skittles, there shouldn’t be so many colors in one meal.

  “It was okay,” I said. We’d already been over this in the car, but it was like my mom was a reporter on one of those morning talk shows, and she only had so many index cards with questions on them. How was school? How was gym? What are you watching? Once she rattled through them, she just started back at the beginning.

  Of course, my dad wasn’t at dinner. This was what happened when your mom ran a day care center and your dad was the head chef at a restaurant: your mom raised other people’s kids, and your dad cooked other people’s dinners. I knew lots of kids back in Ohio who’d probably have killed to have parents as completely uninvolved as mine. I mean, it was kind of a bonus that I got to do whatever I wanted, including have my run of the remote control when they weren’t around. But sometimes it got lonely having a house all to yourself.

  “Well, it’s a lot more money than Loveland, that’s for sure,” my mom said. “So I hope it’s better than okay.”

  The doorbell rang, and I sprang from my seat. “I’ve got it!” I yelled, even though there was no need. My mom had barely taken the napkin off her lap.

  I knew who it was before I opened the door, but I still screamed when I saw her. “Grandma!”

  “Miss Brittany Lee,” she said, hugging me tightly to her. “How’s my favorite little acrobat?”

  “I’m fine. How’s my favorite art historian?”

  A corner of her mouth lifted. “I’m doing well, thank you. The weather is nicer here than in Ohio—but wait until the summer!”

  I didn’t really want to think that far ahead. It was still depressing me that I was here right now, so why get all sulky thinking about my long future in Austin?

  “Do we have to start school again on Monday?” I asked. “Lots of the kids have spring break right now.”

  “Are the other girls in your gym on spring break?” my mom asked, coming out into the living room and butting in on our conversation. “Hello, Asta.”

  My parents were all about my grandmother living with us, but she said that she was just too “stuck in her ways.” I don’t know exactly what she meant by that, since, after all, she uprooted herself to move all the way out here. But she is stuck in her ways when it comes to that gross toothpaste that tastes like minted chalk, and the way she always reads the arts section of the paper first, followed by the editorials, and then finishes up with the crossword.

  Both my mom and my grandmother were staring at me, and I remembered that I was supposed to be answering a question. “Oh, um,” I said, “I don’t know, actually.”

  Christina’s sleepover was for the weekend before spring break started, so I figured it must be coming up.

  “Well, do they go to public or private, or are they homeschooled?”

  “I…don’t know.”

  My grandmother laughed. “And you’re the one who wants to take a break from school? Seems like there’s a lot you don’t know.”

  As if there was a whole class I was missing out on, called Introduction to What Everyone Else in the Gym Is Up To. Without studying, I already had a pretty good idea—Christina was probably busy watching Mean Girls to figure out how to act, Noelle was following in her footsteps, and Jessie…well, at least Jessie seemed nice.

  “Have you started read
ing To Kill a Mockingbird yet?”

  The problem with being homeschooled by your grandmother was that she could hassle you about homework pretty much any time of any day.

  “I can’t find my copy,” I said truthfully. “It might still be in a box somewhere.”

  My mom frowned at me. “You’d better find it,” she said, “since I bought you that nice hardcover edition for your birthday.”

  The other problem with being homeschooled. I’d gotten some cool things for my birthday, including a metallic-looking leotard with straps that crisscrossed in the back, but I always received at least a couple of books for school. One Christmas, when my grandmother had wanted me to use a particularly expensive math workbook, it had been wrapped up and put under the tree. I’d almost rather have gotten socks.

  From what I’d read on the back of the book, To Kill a Mockingbird seemed like a downer. It was all about the “pains of growing up,” according to one reviewer. Why did I need to read about that? I was practically living it.

  Later that night, after I heard the sounds of my mother and grandmother talking in the living room die down, I grabbed the portable phone from the hall and took it into my closet.

  Even though every kid I know has a cell phone, my mom says children under the age of thirteen should not be dependent upon new technology. Whatever that means. But my friend Dionne has a cell phone, and I quickly dialed her number, hoping that she had her ringer turned down so her parents wouldn’t go ballistic over the lateness of the call.

  After a few rings, she finally answered.

  “Hey,” I whispered.

  “Hey,” Dionne whispered back. “How’s the new life?”

  “Sucky,” I said. “How’s the old one?”

  “You know. Nothing’s changed, it’s all the same old thing.”

  We were quiet for a few moments. I don’t know what Dionne was thinking about, but I was remembering the time that we tied fishing wire to one of the rhythmic girls’ hoops, and, when she tried to reach for it, kept pulling it away from her. It was the funniest thing.

  Now, my new gym doesn’t even have rhythmic gymnasts, and I doubted the others would be able to appreciate a good prank like that.

  “How’s your new gym?” Dionne asked, as though reading my mind. Best friends are good at that.

  “Tough,” I said. “Everyone’s so serious. And the girls are total snobs.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Like this girl Christina—she had a complete meltdown because I could do a full-in and she couldn’t. I’m surprised she didn’t slap my face with a glove when we were in the locker room together.”

  There was some miniseries on TV all the time, starring a guy in a top hat and these really tight pants tucked into boots, who smacked another guy’s face with a glove after an insult about a woman. I don’t think I’m ready for a boy to feel that strongly about me, but when I am, I guess that’d be a nice way for him to show he cares.

  “That’s dumb,” Dionne said. “Like it’s your fault you’re awesome.”

  “Plus, she’s really good on the bars,” I said. “And the beam. Like, really good. She looks like a professional ballerina or something, the way she points her toes and spins so perfectly.”

  “So maybe she’s just full of herself.”

  “She’s not getting any gold medal for congeniality, that’s for sure,” I said. “And then there’s this other girl, Noelle. She seems all right, but she’s, like, Christina’s sidekick. As long as Christina decides to give me the stink-eye, Noelle will hate me, too.”

  “Is there anyone worth hanging out with?”

  I thought about Jessie. Not only did she seem a little more laid back than the other girls, but she’d actually been nice to me today. But for some reason, I didn’t want to mention her—just in case she turned out to be a snob-in-nice-girl’s clothing. I’d have hated to look pathetic, talking her up now only to find out she was just like the rest of them. “Maybe,” I said. “We’ll see.”

  “You’re probably getting up insanely early to train, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  At Loveland, I didn’t start training until eight o’clock, since I was homeschooled and also the only Elite girl there. So I’d gotten a lot more one-on-one time with the coach, while all the other gymnasts were at school. At Texas Twisters, training started at six thirty sharp, and all the Elite girls were expected to be there. They also didn’t do a whole lot of private sessions with only one gymnast, because apparently they thought that “an atmosphere of cooperation and competitiveness pushes gymnasts to be their very best.” Believe me, if they had done one-on-ones, I’d be all over it by now.

  “Hey,” Dionne said. “I have an idea that will help you make friends there. Try a prank.”

  I rolled my eyes, even though Dionne couldn’t see me. “It’s not really that kind of gym, Dee.”

  “Only because they haven’t experienced the true genius of one of Brittany Morgan’s practical jokes. Remember that time you switched the sugar with the salt, and Coach had to gulp down that whole Gatorade just to wash out the taste of salty coffee?”

  I smiled at the memory. It had been truly classic, but I still couldn’t see Mo or Cheng having a good laugh about a joke at their own expense. They’d probably just make me do a hundred push-ups and run around the gym a billion times.

  “Just think about it,” Dionne said. “It could break the ice.”

  “Okay,” I promised. “If a good opportunity presents itself, I’ll consider it.”

  “Well, I have to get going—as cool as my mom is, she’d ground me from my cell phone if she caught me talking on it after ten at night.”

  “It’s only nine fifteen,” I said, glancing at my alarm clock.

  “Man, it’s true what they say about homeschooled kids, huh?” Dionne said. “You go on field trips to museums and spend hours talking about philosophy, but when it comes to time zones, you’re clueless. You know how TV shows always say ‘eight, seven central’? You’re in central now.”

  Of course. How perfect that Dionne had already moved on, while I was stuck in the past.

  If I had to rank the four gymnastics events in order of real-world practicality, it would have to go like this: floor, vault, bars, beam. Floor makes the most sense, considering it’s basically another version of what humans walk on all the time. Sure, ours has springs under it and a white line all around that you’re not supposed to step past, but otherwise it’s the same. We just do more flips on ours.

  Vault is pretty logical, too. What if you had to jump over a fence? Not because you were a criminal or anything, but maybe because you were running from a criminal. Or a mean dog. Vaulting teaches me to run superfast and jump over something, but also how to twist and turn in the air so I look cool while I do it. That’s clearly helpful.

  Bars are more of a stretch, but I can still see some sort of point to them. If I ever had to hang from a tree limb for a really long time—like if I was climbing out of a burning building or something—I could totally do it. My hands are all calloused and ripped up from swinging on the bars, so the rough bark probably wouldn’t even hurt that much. And with my upper body strength, I could pull myself up on the branch to wait out the fire if I needed to. Although I hope the tree’s not too close to the burning house in this scenario, considering that wood is highly flammable and all.

  But beam? I just don’t get it. It’s like: here, balance on this four-inch-wide surface, and while you’re at it, throw out crazy tricks that are bound to make you wobble or fall. And then, of course, you’ll lose massive points from your score if you do fall, even though only a moron would’ve tried to do a full twist on that narrow a surface anyway.

  So, of course I was thrilled to find out that beam was our first morning event after warm-ups.

  “This is cruel and unusual punishment,” I muttered as I rummaged through my gym bag for my beam shoes. I tried to say it low enough that Mo wouldn’t hear me and so that it would
seem as if I was just talking to myself, but at the same time loud enough that one of the girls would hear.

  Okay, if I were being honest, I kind of hoped they would hear. After all, if there’s one thing any gymnast can bond over, it’s how much morning practice really sucks. Especially on beam.

  But if Jessie and Noelle heard me, they didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, they climbed up on two of the beams and started their tiptoe walks from one end to the other. It’s an exercise that’s supposed to help with balance, but it also bears a striking resemblance to torture.

  Christina heard me, though. Just my luck. “If you don’t like it,” she said, “don’t do it.”

  She climbed onto a beam, leaving me alone on the floor, clutching my beam shoes. A lot of the girls at my old gym had used them, but now I saw that I was the only one here who did—the three other girls were barefoot. I wondered if they thought beam shoes were babyish.

  Whatever. If any of them tried to say something about my shoes, I decided I would just point out the stuffed Dalmatian I had seen poking out of Noelle’s bag. I mean, if that was okay, then beam shoes, by comparison, were the height of sophistication.

  I glanced around the gym, but Mo was over by the front desk, talking to someone who was hidden by one of the pillars. Try a prank. That’s what Dionne had told me. It’ll break the ice.

  Before thinking it through, I swiped Noelle’s stuffed dog and shoved it into my bag. Later, when the girls weren’t watching, I’d find something really hilarious to do with it, like putting it in the middle of the vaulting table or setting it up to look like it was manning the front desk. It’d be classic.

  “What’s so funny?” Jessie whispered to me once I’d climbed up on the beam next to her. But Mo was coming, and anyway, I really wanted to see the look of surprise at my comic genius on everyone’s face. So I just shook my head, stretching my arms straight out from my body as I began my tiptoe walk down the length of the beam.

  The other girls stopped and turned to look at something, but I just concentrated on keeping my balance, feeling every muscle in my calves pulling as I reached the other end of the beam.