Jessie’s mom was waiting for us, having headed over directly from her job. She’d brought a couple of bags of chips—“After a long day at work, I need something more substantial than yogurt,” she said—and she offered Jessie the sour-cream-and-onion ones, but Jessie refused.
“I thought they were your favorite,” Jessie’s mom said.
“They were,” Jessie mumbled. “They’re just not anymore.”
It was the first time I’d met Jessie’s mom, so I introduced myself, and when she offered me the bag of chips, I wasn’t about to turn them down. Jessie might not have wanted that sour-cream-and-onion goodness, but I loved it. I’d go straight for the ones at the bottom, that had the most seasoning on them, and then I’d lick it off my fingers. Yum.
Jessie got a cup of 99 percent fat-free white chocolate mousse; Christina got a parfait; and Noelle ordered mango sorbet. Finally, it was my turn, and I chose root beer–flavored yogurt. At least it would be interesting.
Mrs. Flores also ordered mango sorbet, winking at Noelle. “If you’re going to be good, then I will, too,” she said. “Christina, I can get you an extra cup and you can split my sorbet, if you want.”
“No, Mom,” Christina said, rolling her eyes. It was good to know I wasn’t the only one who inspired that response. “I always get the parfait.”
“I know that,” Mrs. Flores said. “But yogurt still has milk in it. Sorbet is just fruit.”
“It still has, like, a million pounds of sugar,” Christina said, but she gave in, canceling her order and asking the attendant for another Styrofoam cup for her half of the sorbet.
I wouldn’t have changed my order, but I still didn’t get why Christina seemed to be so dismissive of her mom. Mrs. Flores actually cared about the skills Christina was learning and how she was doing in practice. And she dressed like a magazine model, with fancy alligator shoes and really heavy eyeliner.
When our orders were up, Mo and the two moms took theirs to one table, and Jessie, Noelle, and Christina sat at another. For a minute I almost considered sitting with the adults, but that was just too lame. So instead, I took a deep breath and joined my teammates.
“Hey,” I said brightly, pretending I didn’t see them glaring at me. “Gotta love frozen yogurt, huh?”
The girls just licked their spoons, like I wasn’t even talking.
“I think frozen yogurt can tell you a lot about a person,” I said. “It’s like a Magic 8 Ball. Want to know what your choices say?”
“What does root beer–flavored yogurt mean?” Christina sneered. “You’re immature?”
I blinked at her. “How is root beer immature?” I asked. “I’ve seen adults drink it. My dad loves root beer. And it has the word beer in it, which is definitely grown-up, since kids aren’t allowed to have beer.”
Christina went back to licking mango sorbet from her spoon, but this time I could tell it was because she couldn’t think of anything to say. Point for me.
“Anyway,” I said, “if you want to know what my choice means, it’s that I’m fun. I don’t pick something superboring, like sorbet. I’m not afraid to try something new.”
“Like a full twist on beam?” Christina snickered.
“Like a full-in on floor,” I countered.
Point two for me.
“What does mango sorbet say?” Noelle asked finally. It seemed as if she’d calmed down since the Sparky incident. She wouldn’t look me in the eye, but because she was now sitting next to me, she didn’t really have to. So it was easier to pretend that she wasn’t still mad at me.
“Hmm.” I let a spoonful of root beer yogurt melt on my tongue while I thought about it. “Mango sorbet says that you’re refreshing. You’re simple, but not in a bad way. It’s more like you don’t believe in hiding behind a lot of crap. And the color of mango sorbet is bright and cheerful, so you’re an optimist.”
“I don’t know about that last part,” Noelle said, letting out a little laugh.
“But I got sorbet, too,” Christina said. “How can it mean the same thing for both of us?”
“It doesn’t,” I said, trying not to sound as if I were just talking off the top of my head. Which, of course, I totally was. “Noelle got sorbet because she wanted it, so it reflects her true personality. Your mom thought it was healthier, so all that shows me is that she cares about her appearance. And you got it because your mom made you, so that makes you kind of a pushover.”
“You know,” Christina said, dropping her spoon into her cup of sorbet so hard that drops of orange splattered on the table. “I used to look forward to this.”
I don’t know how I manage to mess everything up, but somehow I do. “Sorry,” I said. “I was trying to make conversation, that’s all. No big deal. Let’s just eat our yogurt.”
For a moment it seemed as if I’d accidentally said, “Let’s whittle the tips of our plastic spoons into points and stab each other in the eye,” because that’s totally what Christina looked like she was going to do. But she just sighed.
“Whatever,” she said.
For the next few minutes, we lived up to the Li family motto that silence is golden. The only sound was that of Jessie, slurping slightly on her spoonful of yogurt. I think it was the same one she’d started with, and she still hadn’t eaten it all.
“Noelle,” I said, because I can always be counted on to break up an awkward moment. Or to create one. “Is there any story to your name? I was just wondering, because I think it’s really cool.”
“Oh,” Noelle said. It was obvious that she was struggling with her natural politeness and her simultaneous desire never to talk to me again; the politeness won out. “Um, actually, my first name is Nicoleta. My parents made my middle name Noelle, because I was born on Christmas. So that’s just what I go by.”
“Nicoleta?” I repeated. “Wow, that’s even cooler. What is that, French or something?”
“Romanian,” Noelle said, and for the first time she met my gaze. “My mom was an Elite gymnast back in Romania. My parents defected to the States just a year before I was born.”
“No wonder you’re so awesome at gymnastics,” I said. Now that she mentioned it, she looked Romanian, too. I’d seen some footage of Nadia Comaneci on the internet, and that was what Noelle looked like—straight brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, serious brown eyes. “What’s your last name?”
“Onesti.”
I had to ask her to spell it, which was good, because it was completely different from what I would’ve guessed. Based on the pronunciation, I probably would’ve spelled it Ohnesht.
After that, I asked both Jessie and Christina for their full names. I think names also tell you a lot about a person, possibly more than dessert choices do. Jessie mentioned that her name was Jessica Marie Ivy, which fit her. Her eyes were the color of ivy, so the last name would be easy to remember.
I could tell Christina didn’t want to answer, but that she knew it would seem too rude not to, after the other girls had. So she told me her name was Aurelia Christina Flores. How’s that for a crazy cool name?
“How come you two go by your middle names?” I asked.
Noelle shrugged. “My parents just started calling me Noelle,” she said, “and I guess it stuck.”
“It’s very common in Mexican culture to go by your middle name,” Christina said, almost belligerently, as if I was stupid for not knowing that. “Aurelia’s my grandmother’s name, but I’m called Christina so we don’t get confused.”
“Neat,” I said.
Nobody asked me about my name, but I didn’t care. At least they were talking to me a little bit.
“So…are you still having that sleepover?”
Christina made a face, twisting a long strand of her black hair around her finger. “No, it’s totally off.”
“Wow, that was quick,” I said. “Well, maybe we can have one at my house instead. When is your spring break again?”
I knew Christina elbowed Jessie in the ribs, because I saw J
essie wince. “Of course it’s not off,” Christina said. “I was being sarcastic. It’s next weekend, and it’s going to be an absolute blast. Sorry—it was kind of planned before you came here.”
“Otherwise I’d be invited for sure,” I said, finishing her sentence for her. “Right, I got it. It can be hard to work in—what, one more person?—on such short notice.”
“Well, it’s kind of a Texas Twisters party,” Christina said. “You know, our last really big thing before the competition season starts and we have to get more serious.”
It was hard to imagine them becoming more serious. Although my mom had put me in some tumbling classes at the local YMCA, I hadn’t really considered doing gymnastics as a sport until a friend of mine had her fifth birthday party at a gym. We got to play around on the equipment, just walking the length of the beam or swinging from the lower bar, and ever since then, that’s what gymnastics was for me. Playing. Having fun.
“I’m a Texas Twister now,” I said, even though I’d meant to drop it, not wanting Christina to think I was begging to go to her stupid party.
“Yeah,” Christina said, wrinkling her nose. “But, you know. Not really.”
“I’m an Elite, aren’t I?” I shot back. “Whereas you—”
“Hey,” Noelle cut in, glancing anxiously back and forth between Christina and me, “you never told Jessie what her yogurt flavor says about her.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well…she picked white chocolate mousse, so that tells me that she’s very decadent.”
“Decadent?” Jessie asked, pausing in midbite.
My grandma uses that word all the time when she takes me to museums, to describe baroque artwork, so I forget that not everyone my age knows it. “Yeah, decadent. You enjoy nice things. You don’t have a problem treating yourself to something really rich and, um…decadent.”
Jessie slowly lowered her spoon back to her cup. All of a sudden, her face looked as white as her yogurt. “Excuse me,” she said, and then she pushed her chair back and headed for the restroom. Jessie’s mom reached out to stop her, then shrugged at Mo as Jessie brushed past.
I just stared at the spoon, which had a small pat of yogurt in it that was now turning into a puddle. “That was weird.”
“Not really,” Christina said. “So far, you’ve made Noelle and me cry, so why not Jessie, too?”
That stung. I hadn’t meant to make anyone cry; why did I seem to upset every single person I spoke to? Especially Jessie, who was the only one who’d been semi-nice to me. “I don’t get it,” I said. “What’d I say?”
Christina shrugged. “With Jessie, who knows? She can be sensitive sometimes.”
You mean, a girl who sobs because of a stupid gymnastics move, or a girl who makes a fool out of herself because of a stuffed animal? I wanted to say that, but I didn’t. Instead I just got up, tossing my empty cup into a nearby trash can. “Well, I’m going to go see what’s up,” I said.
I knocked on the outer bathroom door, even though I knew it was the kind that had a bunch of stalls and I could have just walked right in. I didn’t want Jessie to feel as if I was crowding her.
“Jess?” I said, stepping inside. Okay, so she’d never told me I could shorten her name even more than it already was, but that’s just how I rolled. I made someone cry for completely random reasons, and then I overstepped the bounds by using a nickname. I liked to think it was part of my charm.
“Jess?” I said again, leaning down to look under the stall doors. In the handicapped stall, I saw the yellow flip-flops that Jessie’d been wearing, but they weren’t flat on the floor. Instead, it looked as if she was on her knees. “Jess? You okay?”
There was a quick flush, and then the stall door opened. Just to be sure I hadn’t imagined it, I glanced at her knees. They were red and had lines imprinted on them from the tiles.
“Everything all right?” I asked. “Sorry if I made you upset. I don’t know what I am saying half the time.”
She crossed over to the sink and splashed cold water on her face. When she lifted her head, our eyes met in the mirror. “It’s cool,” she said. “Don’t worry about it. It was nothing you said.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “Because all of a sudden you just got up and left . . .”
“I’m fine,” she said, smiling. Her face was ruddy, and it almost looked as if she’d been sweating. But of course, she’d just splashed water on her face. So that must have been it. “I just didn’t feel well. It was probably the yogurt—I usually don’t eat that much.”
“You barely ate any.”
“Because I wasn’t feeling well,” Jessie said slowly, as if she was talking to an idiot. “Come on. Let’s get back out there.”
“Okay,” I said. “If you’re sure that we’re cool. Honestly, you’re the only one who’s actually been nice to me, so I’d hate to think I’d screwed that up somehow.”
“You haven’t,” Jessie said, putting her arm around me. “But, look, let’s not talk to Christina and Noelle about this whole thing, okay? I don’t want to gross them out with my illness while they’re trying to enjoy their dessert—especially Noelle; she’s got such a sweet tooth. It would suck if I ruined the one treat she enjoys every week.”
“Totally,” I said. It just felt really good to have someone on my side, finally. “I won’t tell.”
“Promise?”
It seemed like a weird thing to promise. I don’t know why, but for some reason I remembered a girl at Loveland, Kim, who’d tried to tell Dionne and me about these laxatives she’d bought from the pharmacy, and how great they worked to help take the weight off. Dionne and I both thought that was pretty gross, and then Kim begged us not to say anything to our coach. As if we’d want to talk about bowel movements in any form, especially premeditated diarrhea, which seemed awful.
So I didn’t know why I would want to talk about Jessie’s puking in the first place, but I would’ve said just about anything at that moment to keep her almost-friendship. “Promise.”
Okay, girls,” Mo said after we’d finished our morning stretches. “Line up at edge of floor. Tallest to smallest.”
We’d gotten the day before off—our one free day of the week, but now it was Monday and time to work again. Even that one day off was enough to make me feel extra achy and a little out of it. Sometimes, with gymnastics, the best thing to do is power through it. You’ll hurt somewhere every day, but at least you won’t have time to stop and think about it.
In a way, it had been nice to have a day away from the drama at the gym, but Dionne hadn’t been around any of the times I’d called, and my mom had had to go in to the day care for some inventory thing. The day went by really slowly, and by the end of it I found myself craving interaction of any kind, even if it meant hanging around people like Christina, who hated me. I must be nuts.
Now, luckily, I was as far from Christina as possible, since she was the tallest of the four of us and I was the shortest, so I didn’t have to intercept her dagger glares. Having to line up in order of height made no sense to me, but I fell into line anyway. I swear it was just a way to bring attention to the fact that I was still a good three inches shorter than Noelle, who was the second smallest after me. Whatever.
For a few moments, Mo just looked at all of us, her eyes sliding from one girl to the next. When she got to me, I resisted the urge to stick out my tongue.
“Elite qualifier is in one month,” Mo said. Cheng came to stand next to her, his eyes on the blue floor mat as he nodded. This must have been important, because the only time we usually saw Cheng was during bars and vault practice, or when we ran through tumbling passes on the floor. I got the impression he did a lot more behind-the-scenes stuff than Mo did and was busier.
“Britt and Noelle, you do not have to qualify,” Mo continued. “But you need to get ready for the Classic and Nationals, which are coming up in next few months. So I want half routines, with increased numbers. Understand?”
I said that I didn’t, for
once not because I was trying to be funny or clever. I really didn’t understand. At my old gym, we’d trained competitively, of course, but I’d never been given this kind of structure.
Mo explained what Noelle and I were supposed to do. She wanted ten flawless first halves for our beam routines, followed by ten flawless second halves. Then we would be expected to stick three beam dismounts and to do five first and second halves on bars, both perfectly, with three stuck bars dismounts. On floor, we were to do one routine focusing on our dance, with simple layouts for our tumbling passes, except for our big last pass, which would be practiced in the pit. Then we’d do one full routine with connection passes on floor and our big final pass in the pit. As if that wasn’t enough, we were also supposed to do twenty competitive vaults. That would be our practice schedule for the next four weeks.
“We will be giving more attention to Jessie and Christina,” Mo said, “but that does not mean that you can rest.”
No kidding. The only thing that kept this place from being a sweatshop was that we didn’t make anything. But if nasty rips on our palms and sore hamstrings could somehow be packaged and sold, we’d have been in trouble.
“Jessie and Christina, you will also do twenty competitive vaults,” Mo said. “But instead of half routines, you do full. Five on bars and beam and two on floor.”
This time, it seemed like she looked at all of us at once. I don’t know how that’s possible, with us spread out the way we were, Christina on one end and me on the other, but she did it. It felt like there was no escaping those intense black eyes.
“No falls,” she said. “Only perfection counts.”
“Yes, Coach Mo,” all the girls said in unison. I must have missed the memo about when to reply and when to keep my mouth shut.
Mo reminded the other girls about the extra ballet classes they were supposed to be taking once a week to hone their dance skills. My mother was all over me to sign up, too, but I just couldn’t see the point of mincing around in a little skirt and waving my arms in the air. Who needed grace when you had raw power?
The Go-for-Gold Gymnasts: Winning Team (Go-for-Gold Gymnasts, The) Page 5
