“Wow,” I said. I had forgotten that it was stuff like that that had made me fall in love with gymnastics in the first place—a move that seemed impossible, until someone found a way to do it, and then someone else found a way to make it even harder and more impressive a few years later. I thought of the full-twisting basket toss that Layla and the girls were trying to get and wondered if they felt the same way about cheerleading. So far, I hadn’t gotten to try anything except tumbling back and forth and learning a couple of their basic chants.
“I should’ve told you that I was inviting those girls to my party,” I blurted out.
“Why did you invite them?” Britt asked. “They were kind of snotty.”
I could see how they could seem that way if you didn’t know them. I still didn’t feel totally comfortable around Stephenie and Ashley, who mostly ignored me. But now that I’d spent some time with her, I could see that Layla could be really nice. She’d bought me a lip gloss at the mall, because, she’d said, it was a crime for lips to be as dry as mine were, and she was always including me in her plans now, like when she thought up those Halloween costumes. It felt nice to be included.
“Cheerleading is really fun,” I said, instead of addressing Britt’s question directly. “I think you’d like it.”
A group of Level Seven girls needed to pass by to find seats, so Britt and I stood up, leaning as far back as we could to make space. After we’d sat back down, it was a few minutes before Britt picked up the conversation again.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t really see the point. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen all the Bring It On movies, and they’re pretty cool. But it seems to me like we already get to do the best parts of cheer-leading every day: the tricks and jumps and flips. So why would I want to bother with yelling at some football player to go for the goal? I don’t care about that.”
“There’s more to it than that,” I protested. If Britt had decided to try something new, I would’ve been nothing but supportive about it. So I didn’t see why I was getting so much flak from everyone—Britt, Mo, Mr. Freeman.
Britt looked like she was about to say something else when I saw Noelle’s image projected on the wall, and we all cheered. She looked different somehow blown up like that, but at the same time, like the quiet, serious Noelle I’d known for years. I realized that I did miss her and Christina; ever since I started high school, I’d felt like I hadn’t seen as much of my old teammates as I used to, or at least that our friendships had been somehow altered.
Mo gestured for everyone to hush so that we could hear the audio.
“Noelle Onesti, from Austin, Texas, is the current Junior National Champion on the balance beam,” one announcer said, and then the other, a woman who was an ex-gymnast herself, added, “You’re going to see a lot of exciting gymnastics from this young dynamo.”
“Dynamo?” Britt repeated. “Noelle’s awesome, don’t get me wrong, but dynamo? I don’t know if that’s how I’d describe her style of gymnastics. Dynamite’s like an explosion—bam!—and she’s more precise than that. She thinks about every tiny detail.”
I shot Britt a sidelong look. “Let me guess,” I said. “You think you’re more the dynamo type.”
She tossed her white-blond head. “I wouldn’t necessarily say that,” she said. “But since you did, then sure. I think that’s a fair assessment.”
Britt grinned at me. It felt good to have my friend back. But it also got me thinking about how I’d be described, if I were ever actually to be featured on TV. My gymnastics wasn’t as breathtaking as Britt’s; she was so tiny that she could really fly. And I definitely wasn’t as graceful as Christina, who actually spent her Sundays off working out at a ballet studio and had the most perfect toe point I’d ever seen. Then there was Noelle, who Britt was totally right about. Noelle considered all the little details. Even now, as I watched her dance across the length of the balance beam, I could close my eyes and picture every single move in her routine, because she had done it so consistently again and again.
“How would you describe me?” I asked Britt.
“Uh, red hair,” Britt said. “Obviously. Freckles, although I know you hate them. Really pretty green eyes…”
“Thanks,” I said, blushing at the compliment. “But my gymnastics, I mean. How would you describe my gymnastics?”
“You’re powerful,” she said. It was true that vault was usually my best event, and I’d gotten the speed and height to do a Yurchenko faster than either Noelle or Christina, but that word still felt to me like a euphemism for stocky. Because I had an athletic body type, everyone assumed I was powerful.
“Then how come I can’t seem to get my double front?” I asked. “A ‘powerful’ gymnast should be able to land that, no problem, but I always come up short.”
“You’ll get it,” she said. But as we both turned back to watch Noelle execute a flawless dismount, it occurred to me that Britt hadn’t really answered my question.
Over the next couple of weeks, Mr. Freeman reviewed material for the midterm we had coming up. I tried to pay attention, because I knew I would need the information, but it was hard to focus on concepts that didn’t even affect me, when there was so much other stuff going on in my life. Sometimes I thought I was listening and then found myself staring out the window twenty minutes later, when class was dismissed, and I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten that way.
“Jessie?” Mr. Freeman said. I realized he’d called my name a couple of times. Everyone in class was staring at me. I brought my hand down from my chin so fast that it slammed against the desk.
It was hard to read Mr. Freeman’s gaze, but I imagined I could see that big red sixty-seven reflected in his eyes. “I asked you to define the implied powers of Congress,” he said.
I knew we’d been over this a million times, and I was pretty sure I knew what the implied powers were. But I couldn’t put my finger on it just then, with everyone looking at me—with him looking at me. “Um…they’re, like, extra powers. Congress has certain powers, and then they have these extra ones.”
That must’ve been close enough, because he nodded slightly. But before I could relax, he asked, “And what is one example of an implied power?”
I knew we had gone over this, too, and could even remember Mr. Freeman’s drawing something on the board. But I couldn’t remember what that something was, which was the really important part. “I don’t know,” I said finally, figuring it was better to admit it than to make a far-off guess that would only embarrass me.
His gaze was level with mine for a moment, and then he went to the whiteboard, drawing a big rectangle with a dollar sign in each corner and a squiggly George Washington head in the middle. Now I remembered his drawing that. He liked to scribble little doodles on the board to help us to learn certain terms or examples. George Washington’s profile had looked just as deflated the first time as it did now.
“Money,” he said, addressing the entire class. “Banks. Congress has the expressed power—that means it’s in the Constitution—to print currency, which means that it’s implied that they have the power to form a national bank to store that currency. That’s only one example, but you might want to keep it in mind, as you never know if it’ll show up on the test or not.”
He winked, and several people snickered. I slouched down in my seat, anxious for the class to end.
When the bell finally rang, I hurried to scoop up my books, in a rush to get out of there before Mr. Freeman could pull me aside. Unfortunately, I wasn’t fast enough. I felt my ears burn as he walked up and leaned over my desk to ask if we could have a little chat.
I didn’t know why he was bothering to ask, since I couldn’t really say no. “Okay,” I said.
“I’m just worried about your grade,” he said. “I know you’re usually a good student, but this midterm is not going to be easy. And if you fail it, it’ll be hard for you to recover before report-card time.”
“I’ll know all of these
definitions by then,” I said. “I promise.”
He leaned against one of the desks, placing his hand on the wooden surface, which was covered with scratched-in initials. “That’s what I’m telling you. It’s not going to be enough to memorize. You’re going to have to be able to tell me things like why these implied powers are important. Do you know the answer to that?”
I really wanted to turn around and run, especially because I knew that the students from the next class would be showing up soon. But I was also determined to get this question right, to prove to Mr. Freeman that I wasn’t some jock who didn’t have a brain. So I paused, giving it some thought before answering him.
“Well, the Constitution can’t cover everything, so the implied powers exist to fill in the blanks. Otherwise, our country would be stuck, unable to proceed with anything. Like that example about the banks.”
Mr. Freeman drummed with his fingers on the desk. “Exactly,” he said. “But they’re dangerous, too. Sometimes it’s easy to say that the end always justifies the means, but that kind of free rein can be a slippery slope. We might say that the government’s ability to regulate banks is a good thing, but where do we draw the line at what the government can do with our money? Or with anything else? Do you believe the end always justifies the means?”
I didn’t know how he wanted me to answer that one, so I just blurted out, “Yes.”
For a moment, he looked truly disappointed. Defeated, even. But then the door burst open, a crush of chattering students poured into the classroom, and he stood up. “I know you’ve been working toward one goal your whole life,” he said. “Just keep in mind that there are many ways to get there, okay? Some better than others. And try to pay more attention in class.”
I promised, but I would’ve said anything to get out of there. I had too many other things to worry about without Mr. Freeman’s cryptic little statements bouncing around in my head.
Twelve
When Britt called on Halloween night, I was standing in front of the mirror in my room, slicking lip gloss on with my finger. I’d tried to apply it directly from the stick but kept smearing it on my teeth or in the corner of my mouth. I thought about asking Tiffany to help me, but didn’t want to risk her laughing at me when she saw me in my tight black dress.
I didn’t even check the screen before answering my cell phone, and was surprised to hear Britt’s voice.
“What’s up?” she said.
“Oh, um…” I tried to think of something to say. Even though Britt and I were doing a lot better after the USA vs. the World event, it was still awkward to talk about the cheerleading squad with her.
“Christina and Noelle just got back,” Britt said. “And we were thinking about all hanging out for Halloween at Christina’s house. We don’t need to trick-or-treat or anything like that, since we can’t eat any of the stuff anyway. But we’ll still dress up; watch a movie or something.”
“I don’t have a costume,” I said, cringing at my reflection. Layla was going to do the vampire makeup at her house, so right now I looked like I was going to a club instead of out for Halloween. I’d have to wrap myself in a coat before I stepped out of my house, or else my mom would never let me leave.
“That’s okay,” Britt said. “We don’t really, either. Christina is wearing a flapper dress from last year, and Noelle has a traditional Romanian skirt that her aunt sent her. It’s pretty warm out tonight, so I may just go as a gymnast, with one of my leotards and a pair of workout shorts.”
“I don’t know,” I began, but Britt was still talking.
“—Back home, I always went as a gymnast,” she continued, “because then, if they asked me to do a trick, I could do a standing back tuck, which was good for another candy bar, easy. Of course, that was back when I used to be able to eat candy.”
“I think I may stay here,” I said. “I’m not feeling that well.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Okay,” Britt said. “Well, if you change your mind…call Christina.”
“I will,” I promised. I snapped my cell phone shut, staring back at the strange girl in the mirror with her straightened red hair and shiny pink lips. Even without the fangs, I already felt like I was in costume.
“Your hair is awesome,” Layla gushed when she showed up at my door. Her older sister was waiting impatiently at the curb, her car idling.
“Thanks,” I said. I did think I looked fairly good, for once. The hair made me seem older, less like Little Orphan Annie and more like a grown-up. “I borrowed my stepsister’s hair straightener.”
I didn’t know if borrowed was the right term. I had given it back, but then again, she didn’t know I had taken it in the first place, and she’d have been livid if she’d found out I had invaded her space. I’d been worried I would fry a strip of my hair off, but in the end it wasn’t that hard to figure out: I just dragged the straightener through my hair until the strands lay flat.
I called out a quick good-bye to my mother over my shoulder, and then I was climbing into Layla’s sister’s car, wedging myself into the backseat between Stephenie and Ashley.
“We were talking about hitting up Spanish Trace,” Layla said, naming the swanky subdivision where Christina lived.
I paused in the act of buckling my seat belt. “Why would we go there?” I asked, my voice squeaking a little. “I mean, your neighborhood is really nice. Or we could even trick-or-treat around here.”
“No offense, but this neighborhood is mostly old people,” Layla said, turning in her seat and catching Stephenie’s gaze; Stephenie laughed. “And I live on like, three acres. It’s too spread out. Spanish Trace has the best candy; I heard they give away whole Three Musketeers bars.”
“Not that you can afford to eat many of those if you want to do your basket toss,” Ashley pointed out. Layla shot her a nasty glare.
“I’m not going to stuff myself the way you do,” Layla said. “Although you have ways of taking care of that, don’t you?”
Ashley just narrowed her eyes and stared out the window, ignoring Layla. I glanced between the two of them, wondering what the history was there. Was it possible that Ashley had struggled with her own eating problems, the way I had? Maybe that was something we could connect over and talk about. It’d be nice to feel like I wasn’t alone.
I asked Layla when she was going to do my vampire makeup, and she tossed back an opened package of face paints. “Just put the white all over your face, and use the red to make blood,” she said. “Steph, let Jessie use your compact.”
The passing cars’ headlights revealed that Stephenie’s and Ashley’s makeup looked perfect—their faces were ghostly white, with thin drips of blood coming from their red lips. It occurred to me that I should’ve used a red lipstick instead of the pink lip gloss that Layla had given me. I’d been looking forward to Layla’s doing my makeup for me, because I’d had so little experience with it myself, except for the small amount my mom put on me for competitions.
I thought suddenly of Britt and Noelle and Christina, who were probably getting ready right now. Britt would have done something crazy with her hair, like using temporary dye to put a blue streak in it, or putting it in a ponytail at the very top of her head. Christina would be pushing some mushy romantic movie, Britt would be fighting for horror, and Noelle would be trying to mediate the whole thing. It would be way more fun than what I was doing right now.
I felt disloyal again. After all, Layla hadn’t had to invite me out tonight. She’d suggested that I wear this really pretty dress and included me in her group with its themed costumes. I couldn’t complain about that. She considered me a friend—a friend forever, if the photo-booth pictures were to be believed.
So, when Layla’s sister dropped us off at the gate leading to Christina’s neighborhood, I vowed to be fun and interesting and to have a great time. And for the first twenty minutes, I did. We perfected our group pose for when people opened their doors, accepted our huge candy bars with smiles,
and then giggled once they shut their doors, before moving on to the next house.
“These are going to help me with my PMS for the next year,” Stephenie said, surveying her bag of chocolate.
“I don’t know,” Ashley said with a sly grin. “Aren’t you PMS-ing like, twenty-four-seven?”
Stephenie swung her bag at Ashley, who spun out of the way. “Shut up. If I’m in a bad mood when I’m around you, did you ever stop to think that maybe it’s because I’m around you?”
“You guys already have your periods?” I asked. I couldn’t believe that they were talking about PMS so casually, like it was just another part of life.
Layla stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, her black-rimmed eyes wide and incredulous. “You don’t?”
I guess I should’ve expected that question. “I’m an athlete,” I said awkwardly. “I train too hard for my body to get it, I think.”
As soon as the words were out, I regretted them. I hadn’t meant to imply that Layla was less of an athlete, just that when you trained like it was a full-time job, certain things were different. I knew that Tiffany got her period, because she would be all shifty-eyed when she had to throw a box of tampons in the shopping cart, especially when Rick was pushing it. But I’d never experienced even the slightest bit of spotting.
Then there was also the possibility that they would think I was a little kid, which was apparent when Ashley snickered. “Maybe Jessie’s in the wrong costume,” she said. “She should be wearing a bright orange pumpkin with felt leaves on it, like I did when I was seven.”
Layla laughed, but oddly, it was Stephenie who stuck up for me. “Whatever,” she said. “I would trade all of my Twilight stuff if it meant I didn’t have to deal with that anymore. Seriously.”
I hadn’t expected Stephenie to come to my rescue, but I was glad she did, because it immediately defused some of the tension.
“She has a point,” Layla agreed. “Periods can be such a pain.”
Ashley motioned as if she were placing an invisible crown on her head. “Then crown me Queen Pain!” she said, and even I had to join in the laughter at that one. The rest of the time we spent trick-or-treating, I didn’t even need to pretend to have fun. When Layla, Ashley, Stephenie, and I skipped down the sidewalk arm in arm, I wasn’t pretending. I felt like I got what Dr. Fisher had been talking about. It was nice to have a different group of friends, friends I could relate to in a way that didn’t always include gymnastics, and who could show me more about being a regular teenage girl.
The Go-for-Gold Gymnasts Page 9
