I can’t resist commenting. “But you won Nationals,” I say. The seat belt cuts across me, straining to yank me back. “You could have come back from the injury and you chose not to. You had a shot at Olympic gold, and you didn’t retire. You quit.” This last word I whisper, so taboo in the world of gymnastics that you almost never risk saying it aloud. Its hushed sound hangs in the air. I know I am not being nice and sympathetic to Julia like she is being to me, but sometimes having a superstar older sister makes you say mean things.
Julia meets my remarks with a long silence. Slowly, I return to my slouch in the backseat, wishing I could disappear like a wizard, or one of those people with magic rings that make them invisible.
“Um,” Madison says awkwardly. “Sorry to bring up a sore subject.”
Julia flicks her hair from her right shoulder to her left. “Don’t worry about it. Ever since Joey got serious about gymnastics, she’s had a difficult time understanding my decision to retire.”
My eyes are glued to the window and I play with the button that opens it. “I’m right here, you know. Listening to every word.”
Julia ignores me. “Like she said, I won Nationals when I was sixteen,” she says, while navigating the windy, pothole-ridden street that leads out of the town center.
I resist clapping my hands against my ears to block out Julia’s voice. It is almost too painful to listen.
“It was thrilling,” Julia goes on. “Truly. But the thing about gymnastics is that the better you get, the worse everything about being in the sport gets. Once you are at the point where you are competing at meets like Regionals and Nationals, your skill level needs to be really high. The higher the skill level, the more difficult everything is physically, sure, but even worse is how difficult it all gets emotionally. Gymnasts develop fears about certain moves and get hang-ups about doing routines at meets or anxiety about certain rivals who can psych them out. And all those fears and hang-ups and anxieties, they not only put a damper on how you feel about what you are doing, but they can put you in danger too. Fear makes you weak, and weakness gets you injured. It’s kind of ironic, right? The better you become, the less you love doing gymnastics.”
Yup, I’m thinking in the backseat. I can totally relate to all of the above. But even though I’m smarting about my disappointing loss today, I know I’m like the opposite of Alex. The more she wins, the more her love of the sport disappears, and the more I don’t quite win, the more badly I want to realize my dream.
“So there I am, up on the podium, listening as they play the national anthem, and I’ve got the gold medal hanging around my neck, my dream come true. But even though I was happy in that one moment, my body was in so much pain — because that’s what gymnasts do, you know? They compete through the pain. Somehow everything I’d done to get to that place, all the years nursing injuries and working through the psychological hurdles and training without having any sort of a social life, and never seeing my friends and family or having a boyfriend, just literally having gymnastics as my entire life and nothing else — all that stuff was up there with me too.”
“That’s kind of intense,” Madison says.
“It was. But even more intense was the idea of trading any more of my life and maybe permanent injuries to my body for this one spot on the podium. And that was it. I knew right then I was done. That I’d just competed for the last time and I’d walk away a national champion, and this one moment would have to be enough.” Julia sighs, her eyes on me in the rearview mirror. “The moral of the story, Joey, is that the sacrifices aren’t always worth it in the end. I gave up so much. And as much as I want you to win gold too, sometimes I hate watching you follow the same path.”
“It’s not your decision which path I follow,” I say, not quite loud enough for Julia to hear.
“I think it’s amazingly mature you made that decision,” Madison says. Everyone feels this way about Julia. “I can’t believe you never talk about it. I mean, at school, it’s like you were never a gymnast at all.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a long time ago. And I have a very different life now. A life I really love. And friends I really love —”
“And boys you really love,” Madison whispers with a laugh.
“I have no regrets,” Julia says. “And Mom and Dad practically threw a party for the entire town when I told them I was done. They were so relieved.”
Madison turns to face me in the backseat. “Joey, you’re thirteen, right?”
“I’ll be fourteen by the beginning of next school year,” I respond. “In September.”
“That means you have exactly two years and two months before you get to retire too,” she says and laughs.
“Madison,” Julia says in a low voice. “Don’t.”
“Oh, um, well,” Madison stammers. “Joey, I’m sure you have a long career ahead of you as a gymnast —”
“No, really, it’s okay,” I say, my voice angry and frustrated. “I’m used to being reminded that I’ll never catch up to my sister’s success — that I’ll never be as good as Julia. She could always impress the judges with her power and her tumbling, and that’s why she won and I never will.”
“Oh, Joey,” Julia says, swinging the car left into our driveway. “Today is just one bad day.”
The second she stops the car, I’m going to get out.
As if she knows I’m waiting, she slows the car to a crawl so she can fit in a few more words of so-called wisdom. “And there’s more than one way to impress people,” she says, finally turning the key so everything goes quiet. “It’s not just tumbling. You know that.”
“Tell that to the judges,” I say, opening and slamming the car door. My bag bumps against my hip as I cross the front lawn, head held high, shoulders back, chin up, chest out. Even as the posture mantra scrolls through my mind, everything about me feels hunched and curled and slumped, my feet dragging the ground with every step. Another car door slams and then another. I can feel my sister and Madison watching me as I open the screen door. Julia says one last thing just before I get inside.
“You have to show them what they’re missing, Joey,” she calls as the screen bangs closed behind me.
“Joey, is that you?”
“Yes, Mom,” I call back, wanting to escape up the stairs to the parent-free quiet of my room.
“How did it go?” she asks, appearing from around the corner where she’s obviously been working in her studio. Paint of all colors is slashed and dotted across her jeans and T-shirt, while most of her auburn hair is gathered up into a ponytail, wisps escaping here and there to frame her face.
“Hey, Mom,” Julia says, zipping by us with Madison right behind her. They head through the family room straight out to the backyard and the swimming pool.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Mom says without breaking her stare on me.
“The meet was fine,” I say, because what other choice do I have? She’s not letting me go anywhere without a conversation. “Are you having a good painting day? Feeling inspired?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. But you’re not changing the subject that easily. Tell me.” She sounds enthusiastic, though I can hear the worry layered underneath her sunny tone. “How did your beam routine go? Did you stick it?”
Any other day, hearing Mom say stick it would send my eyes rolling, but today her question simply stings. “Hang on,” I tell her and make a left into the kitchen to get some fluids in me. I don’t want to dehydrate, and getting a glass of water gives me a little more time to avoid her questions.
Mom and Dad pretty much exhausted their ability to watch gymnastics with Julia. Seeing her compete injured just about killed Mom, and while Dad had more of a stomach for the situation, the way Coach Angelo always pushed Julia, despite the pain, eventually sent him over the edge too. After she retired and I wanted to pursue my own gymnastics dreams, my parents made a deal with me: They would pay the bills, of which there were many; and they would outfit me in whatever I needed. Otherwise, they were o
ut. Mom can’t sit through a meet without experiencing serious anxiety and constantly wondering things like, Is my youngest daughter all in one piece? And Dad can’t control his urge to yell at Coach.
So I go it alone. Mostly.
I get it. I mean, I understand my parents’ rationale. Sometimes, I even believe I’m better off without them watching at every meet, especially when I see the stage moms and dads traumatizing my teammates and competition. But occasionally, I wish Mom and Dad could handle themselves better and just come out and be supportive. I want them to see me shine, the way I smile when beam is going just right and how I flirt with the crowd on floor and they eat everything I give them right up. Though, as my parents often remind me, they are really supportive on the financial front, and I am lucky that my mother is as crazy successful as she is with her art. Selling one painting can usually pay for an entire year of gymnastics, and she sells way more than one a year.
After popping a couple of ice cubes into a Slurpee-sized plastic cup I find hiding behind some coffee mugs, and filling it at the sink, I down a third of it, my body so thirsty for water I can’t stop myself from chugging. Then I take a deep breath, readying myself to chat with Mom. She always wants the play-by-play after the fact, as if this makes up for her absence.
When I come around the corner, I see her settled on the wood floor of the living room, sitting cross-legged by the opened sliding glass door to the deck. A warm breeze coasts through the screen, making everything smell like summer.
I say, “If you must know, and to sum up, my beam routine was a disaster. I fell.”
Mom’s brow furrows with concern. She doesn’t say a word, though. Just pats the floor next to her, inviting me to sit, waiting patiently for me to go on.
After setting my cup on the coffee table, I peel off my warm-up jacket, throwing it over the arm of the couch. I slide into a straddle split, the skin on the balls of my feet squeaking against the wood on the way down, leaving enough room between Mom and me so I can lay my body flat against the floor for a moment and feel the satisfying stretch in the muscles along the length of my legs. The sound of Julia and Madison gossiping and splashing in the pool travels through the open door, along with the breeze that runs across my skin. I close my eyes, but as soon as I do, I picture the beam, my left foot slipping and skidding down the side and my body crumpling to the mat.
I don’t want to see this image again. That’s how hang-ups and fears are born. I sit up again and focus on calming my breathing. From the way my mother is staring at me, I know she’s mentally sketching me sitting effortlessly in a way that for ordinary humans amounts to contortionist activity. Mom once did an entire series of gymnastics paintings featuring Julia. They practically flew out of the gallery. She’s never painted me, though.
“Okay,” I say. “My back layout landed me on the mat instead of the beam. Simple as that.” Notice how I simplify what happened? It’s best not to overdramatize things with my parents.
“Oh, sweetie,” she says, her gaze shifting back to that of a concerned mom. “Are you okay?”
She means mentally and physically, I know. “Yeah. I’m fine, I guess.”
“But you’re not. I can tell.”
“No. Really. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“What do you think happened?”
“It’s the same old story. I choked.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I lean forward enough to set my elbows on the floor and rest my chin on my hands. “Not really. Coach will be sure to exhaust the issue tomorrow at practice, so I think I’ll take a pass right now.”
“Angelo is so harsh on you —”
“On the bright side,” I cut in before Mom can go off on a tirade about Coach, “my All-Around score qualified me for Regionals in August. Alex and I are both going — she won the gold for All-Around today, actually.”
“Honey, that’s great! I’m so happy that you’ll have such good company at Regionals. Competitions like that place so much pressure on you girls. You need each other for support.”
Translation: Mom hopes that because Alex and I will go to Regionals together, she will be exempt from attending. Winning Regionals automatically qualifies you to compete at Nationals. In other words, it’s a big deal, which means I get to make Mom go if I decide I want her there.
These thoughts are interrupted by Dad’s return from his daily run. His sneakers squeak against the floor.
“How’s our little champion?” he asks with cheeriness that even a five-year-old would know is fake.
“Not so much a champion as a bronze medalist on beam,” I say. My slide backward does not dissuade my father from giving me a sweaty hug.
“Well, that’s not so bad, Chewy,” he says, using the nickname I wish he would forget. When I was little, Joey was apparently too difficult for me, so it came out sounding like Chewy when I said it.
“Joey qualified for Regionals today,” Mom says.
“Oh goody,” Dad says under his breath, but I hear it. “That’s great news. Hey, look at your sister. She’s having a great time out there with her friend.”
“I’m sure Julia is having a very nice time, Dad,” I say, my tone sugary sweet.
“You know, you could spend all summer swimming in the pool if you’d just —”
“Mark,” Mom interrupts, her voice filled with warning, since Dad is verging on the Quitting Gymnastics speech he gives at least once every few months. “Joey is old enough to make her own decisions.”
“Well, Joey needs to think about her future too —”
“Really, Mark. We can have this talk another time.”
This is my cue to go upstairs. I’m up from the floor in a flash, grabbing my warm-up jacket from the couch before Dad can say another word.
“Joey!” my mother says, trying to get me to stay, but I’m already rounding the corner.
As I take the stairs two at a time, I remind myself that tomorrow is another day. If I stop at the beach in the morning before practice, I’ll be sure to have better luck with my dismount on beam. It’s my summer ritual to spend time in the ocean and on the sand before I’m off to six straight hours of nonstop working out. The beach always calms me.
Besides, if I don’t go, I’ll have a terrible practice for sure. That’s my deal with the gymnastics gods or the powers that be or whatever you want to call the forces of the universe: If I hang out at the beach in the morning, I’ll do great that day, and if I don’t make time for it, I’ll fall from every event and probably break a leg and an arm too.
Maybe that sounds superstitious. If it does, it’s because when it comes to gymnastics, I am superstitious.
We all are.
Gymnasts can’t help it. It’s in our nature.
After dinner that night, I spend an hour online reading International Gymnast, the magazine bible of all things gymnastics. Then, before I go to bed, I kiss the palm of my hand and tap each of the posters with my favorite Olympic champion gymnasts — Nadia Comaneci, of course, Dominique Dawes, Nastia Liukin, and Ecaterina Szabo.
“Come on, ladies,” I tell them. “Lend me your magic.”
The beach is perfect this morning. The sun is a big yellow ball hovering against the blue, making the ocean glitter below it. A slight breeze cuts the heat. The sand is almost completely empty of bathers, which is just the way I like it.
This bodes well for practice today, I think, as I start a series of sprints up and down the wet, hard sand. And after yesterday, I need all the help I can get. The sound of the waves makes me feel so centered, so like myself, like nothing can shake me. If only Regionals took place at the beach, I’d be golden. Maybe literally.
When I finish the sprints, I take a break and walk down to the water. Tiny waves splash across my feet and feel like heaven after all that exertion. I decide to allow myself a few minutes of fun, and spend it cartwheeling in water shin deep, loving the way my toes kick up spray on their way over my head and how my arms are submerged to my elbows. My
ponytail dips under and then cools the back of my neck when I’m upright again. Doing gymnastics at the beach, even simple cartwheels, always helps remind me why I love the sport and why I work so hard day in and day out. Without Coach breathing down my neck, or anyone else to please for that matter, I just enjoy the things my body can do for what they are. Tumbling in the waves is just an added bonus.
After enough cartwheels to coat my skin thoroughly in beads of salt water, I do a few aerials, starting ankle deep, my head easily clearing the water, then moving farther and farther in until during one aerial, my nose barely misses the surf and I almost collapse into the waves, laughing. Then I remember my workout.
I head back up to my towel and dry off. After dropping a stopwatch onto one of my flip-flops, I kick a handstand and stay still as long as I can before I have to hand walk a bit, a few steps left, then a few right. I shift a little more, muscles tight, toes pointed, briefly noticing a perfect, white shell centered between my hands, the size of a dime and so thin I can see through it. The watch ticks toward six minutes, my goal.
There is nothing like being upside down. If you are me, at least.
“Do you ever stop for a breath?”
The voice comes suddenly from above and behind me. I do a half turn, the heels of my hands digging into the sand. There are two minutes and twenty-five seconds still remaining, and I’m not about to let someone mess with my workout.
“Excuse me?” I call out without coming down, my eyes searching the beach for the owner of the voice. The boy owner. Then I find the feet, then knees, then shoulders, and finally the face of a boy with light curly hair hanging down across his eyes. Still on my hands, I walk a few paces farther away for a better look.
Uh-oh. He’s cute. Really cute.
Why’s he talking to me anyway?
The boy crosses his arms. Looks smug. “I can wait until you’re done.”
“Um, am I missing something here?” My voice is strained as I do my best not to fall. My shoulders are burning up. “Do I know you?”
Gold Medal Summer Page 2
