by Jesse Gordon
Deborah caught her en route, delivering a kiss-and-hug combo with impeccable timing. “Your first day back in public school—oh, aren’t you excited?”
“A little,” Monica replied, though really she wasn’t the slightest bit eager to discuss or even acknowledge her newly-appointed mediocrity.
“Today’s the first day of the rest of your life. You’re going to make so many friends!”
I already have friends, thought Monica, ducking into the bathroom. Training partners who are this very moment preparing for another day towards the new season. I should be with them, earning credits for my community—not making casual friends and distant acquaintances to fill my address book.
Breakfast was quick and dirty. Monica spent most of the time getting the kinks out of her hair. Then it was off to school, Chris and herself walking placidly alongside all the other neighborhood kids whose parents were unable or unwilling to drive them to the Hamilton Quad Hub.
The campus had changed little in the last three years. Everything was still humongous, overcrowded—a miniature Tokyo bringing in students from Sussex, Lisbon, Lannon, and Butler. Monica managed to make it through her classes without bungling her schedule. At lunchtime, her friends made sure she was up on all the latest gossip. All in all, it wasn’t that bad of a day…if you didn’t count the after-school trip to the records office. Monica had gone there at the start of her elite career, three years ago, to have her citizen’s profile upgraded, her tag’s elite flag activated. Then, the Sardinias had celebrated over dinner at a fancy restaurant; now, they simply went home.
And so went Monica’s new routine. School and homework and puttering around Deborah’s basement. Without gym practice, there was time, so much time. Time to do the dishes, time to spend at the laundromat, time spent minding Chris’ affairs, running errands—explaining to neighbors why she was unwilling-and-or-unable to continue with her gymnastics.
“I thought you were away at camp,” said some.
“I thought you were busy training for the new season,” said others.
“Wow, do your coaches know you’re not in the gym?”
“How can you find the time to train and take your little brother shopping for new shoes?”
To them all, Monica could only offer a sigh, a shrug, and, “I’ve moved on.”
Sharon wasn’t much help in the PR department. Though she probably wasn’t doing it on purpose, her lack of tact in explaining why her daughter was out shopping for groceries instead of brushing up on her drills and skills was embarrassing, to say the least.
Tuesday evening, Monica and Chris accompanied her to the supermarket. As soon as they entered the produce section, Monica knew she was boned, as no fewer than six of her mother’s village acquaintances were standing near the lettuce and chattering excitedly about money this, politics that. When they noticed the Sardinias were approaching, they waved and smiled, immediately assimilating Sharon into the group.
Monica waited off to the side with the cart, watched as the women proceeded to point at bad spots, gasp at price tags. Chris darted away, returning a moment later with a box of Chocolate Schnauzers cereal under his arm.
“What’s that?” Monica asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Mom said we can each pick out a special item. A treat. What are you getting?”
“Nothing.”
“But mom said you can pick anything you want!”
“I’m not getting a treat. You shouldn’t either.”
Chris frowned. “Why not?”
“Because we can’t afford it.”
“But mom said—”
“I know what she said. It doesn’t change the facts.”
“Why would she say it if it wasn’t true?”
Monica sighed. “She’s being polite. It looks good to the other mothers to say, ‘Sure, honey, get whatever you want,’ when really she’s going to end up putting it on credit.”
Chris gave her a sidelong glance. No doubt he hadn’t a clue what credit was—nor pride, for that matter. He only knew that he wanted what had been promised to him. He put the Chocolate Schnauzers into the cart, then climbed inside, pushing the canned goods out of the way so he could sit cross-legged. He hummed a cartoon theme to himself as Monica turned away, watched the neighborhood women watch her, halfway catching their conversations:
“…Monica’s no longer an elite?”
“Oh, that’s too bad. We could really use those community credits right now…”
“…it all comes down to those exemptions we all know and love. Have you readjusted your tax information?”
“How much of a hit are you going to take next year?”
“…shelf prices must look absolutely criminal without your elite discount…”
“…a shame. Such a shame. Couldn’t come at a worse time. The neighborhood’s lost three good elites this year. We had that Disch girl, you know, the tennis player whose family moved to Ohio. There was that Leung boy who had his hand shattered in a biking accident—they say his new hand has to be retrained from scratch. It will be years before he gives another public performance. Oh, and the chess player, what was his name? Mark? Matthew? Offered a job in California.”
“Ugh. They all end up in California, don’t they?”
“Land of the Elites.”
“…and here we are, little ol’ Waukesha County. Last on everyone’s list. If ever there was a time for our remaining champions to band together…”
“…what can I do? She trained hard, she had the right skills, the right body type—by all counts she should be on the national team, but she’s just not mastered the right mentality. I’m darned proud of her, but let’s face facts: she’ll never be a Patriot. Her career has plateaued at the junior level, I’m afraid…”
“…not that I’m in any way suggesting she’s given it anything less than 110%, but, well, young women these days oftentimes don’t realize their worth to the community…”
“…maybe the irony here is that all she needed was 112%…”
“Oh, don’t be like that. She’ll hear you…”
Amazingly, no one made the slightest attempt at being discreet. Monica heard it all, the lost expectations, the disappointments, the prissy commentary regarding today’s oblivious youth.
“I hate this,” she muttered, and forcibly shifted her attention away from the produce section.
“Hate what?” asked Chris.
“Being a consumer.”
“You’re a consumer?”
“You, me, mom and dad, their friends—we’re all mindless, driveling consumers digesting ourselves nine to five even when it’s all over and there’s no more money left and all we can do is stand around the vegetable aisle talking about how crummy things are.”
Chris rolled his eyes. “Mom and her friends always talk like that.”
True, thought Monica, recalling weekly Greet and Grumbles that went all the way back to when she was the one riding in the shopping cart—but it was different now. She waved her hand over a cup of cottage cheese; the price tag flickered a moment before settling on full retail.
From contributing elite to common dependent—one more hungry mouth to feed.
She pulled her hood over her head, stuffed her hands into the pockets of her sweatshirt, and told Chris to keep quiet until checkout time.
CHAPTER 8
August exhausted itself with dizzying speed, and September proceeded to whiz by just as fast. Monica’s fears that her days back in the fold would drag themselves out indefinitely were gradually replaced with the daily bustle of school, family, and a burgeoning new social life (many neighborhood friends were eager to play catch-up, as well as make Sussex’s former champion one of their own again).
And yet, try as she might, her previous life was not so easily disregarded, her acrobatic tendencies not so readily laid to rest. Though her mother never truly embraced the idea, she did allow Kit’s workout equipment to remain in the billiards room. Thus, Monica was able to fulfill her inborn
obligation to keep herself conditioned, as long as she promised not to do anything to herself that might warrant the purchase of excessive amounts of nano gel. “The shit’s expensive, so no using the bigger weights—and I don’t want you doing anything Greg or Donna wouldn’t want you doing behind their backs!” were Mike’s exact words.
October arrived, and as the shadows grew longer, so did Monica’s nostalgic tendencies come and go with less and less intensity. Every now and then, her brain chanced to produce an emotional hiccup or two (especially when her parents, in good faith, came around with that “Do you want to talk about it?” attitude regarding her various adjustments to normal teenage life), but she was always able to get a hold of herself before escalating to tears or tantrums. The world quietly rotated beneath her feet, never so crazy that she couldn’t stand it.
On a Sunday afternoon Monica and her family gathered together in front of the videobox to watch a live broadcast of the Patriot Cup. One of the more prestigious pre-season gymnastics conferences, the Patriot Cup was, as the title implied, Patriots-only, a progress report on Olympus’ would-be Heroes—assurance that taxpayer muscle was being put to good use. Already the U.S. teams were beginning to take shape with a varied squad of four-dozen boys and girls gathered from all over the country. These were the top picks, fresh from their first few months at the National Training Center. They lined up for the march-in, their postures perfect, their eyes bright, their smiles reaching ear to ear.
Sitting on the floor, her back against the sofa, her eyes fixed on the video screen, Monica felt the usual surge inside herself. Some of it was longing, but most of it was the mere excitement, the novelty, the hope and promise of an Olympic year waiting just around the corner.
Even if it’s me on the outside, looking in, she thought.
The affiliate station handling the Waukesha County broadcast ran its obligatory music and graphics introduction, followed by a brief “Raise the Bar” promotional showing a young gymnast in a time-lapse morph, first as a boy doing cartwheels and somersaults on his parents’ bed, then as a junior elite winning his first gold medal at an NCPA meet, and, finally, as a Hero, standing alongside a fictitious Team USA as smiling dignitaries gave out wreaths, medals, and plaques.
Momentarily, a pair of commentators—a man and a woman—came into focus against a wide shot of the interior of the stadium. Monica recognized the pair as Tommy Shire and Megan Townsend, two former Patriots themselves who’d become regulars during the more recent broadcasts.
Dispensing with a brief greeting, Tom launched right into his signature, just-slightly-over-the-top spiel:
“Wow! You can hear it in the intensity of the fanfare thundering from the stands, you can see it in the looks of utter determination on the faces of the gymnasts and their coaches: we are going into an Olympic year! The world is watching each and every one of these athletes, these Patriots gathered from across the globe, living and training away from their respective homes for months at a time—putting in blood, sweat, and tears to make their Olympic dreams come true!”
“Right you are, Tom,” said Megan. “And what a dream, to compete for your club—your country—as a Hero aboard the Olympus Space Station, the only station of its kind in orbit around Earth, built and maintained by the North American Union, but open to nations all over the world in the spirit of international competition and cooperation—”
Tom, cutting in (and growing noticeably more excited with each passing second): “It’s the pinnacle of any Patriot’s career—in the world of competitive athletics, you can’t get any higher than Olympus. Literally! And today’s competition is the first step towards making the cut.”
“That is so true, and everyone here today knows it. You mentioned the competitive spirit; that spirit has never been more evident than it is going into the new season. We’re seeing an incredible upsurge of international contenders that haven’t produced qualifying athletes in two, sometimes three terms—the Portuguese, for example, the Czechs, the Ukraine. Diversity is certainly an apt buzzword as we approach Heroes’ Day, 2100.”
“Perseverance, too,” said Tom, loosening his tie. “Everyone wants a piece of the pie, and it’s no secret that the NAU has suffered heavy losses over the course of the last three Olympic terms. That’s sixteen years since the United States, Canada, or Mexico produced a winning team—and not only in the sport of gymnastics.”
Megan nodded. “We’ve long had to endure underdog status.”
Tom removed his tie completely, set it on the table. “And with the national rank poised to slip downward another notch, with the economy having to support itself on a Patriot Grant that’s sixteen years old—my goodness, can you believe it’s been sixteen years since Darren Hades, with an impressive sweep of the 2084 Heroes’ Day event finals, brought home the gold for the States? Factor in drought in the Midwest, terrorist attacks on our feedstocks, Congress seriously looking at making some budget cuts in the aerospace industry, and it becomes obvious that what happens this Heroes’ Day will be the dominating factor behind how we live the next decade of our lives.”
Sharon snorted, picking shrewdly from a bowl of buttered popcorn. “They really know how to pour on the drama, don’t they?”
“I’m all wearied out—and they’re not even on vault yet,” said Mike.
(Chris was the smart one; he’d switched to reading a comic book as he waited for the gymnasts to begin their routines.)
Sharon continued: “They were talking politics on the news the other night. They say that if we don’t get the national rank up this term, the government is going to have to cut funding for Olympus.”
“They say that every term,” Monica said.
“Yeah, but if this turns out to be our fourth consecutive Heroes’ Day with nothing but bronze medals, if we lose our eligibility to even get our athletes aboard Olympus in the first place, it won’t matter whether or not the station continues to operate—we’ll be out of the loop.”
“Goddamned government,” Mike said, shaking his head. “No one wants to see an institution like Olympus go to waste, but things have become so bungled we can’t afford to maintain it anymore. You know, they’ve been suggesting that we ‘solve the problem’ by selling the station to a competing nation interested in restoration. Handing over the prestige for pocket change.”
“Oh, I don’t know about prestige,” said Sharon. “We’ve had Olympus for twenty years, and so far most of that has been budget problems and terrorist attacks. The world assumes that the U.S. has some sort of hidden leverage just because we sweep the floors and make the beds. I say, if the world wants Olympus, let them have it—they can fight over it until kingdom come. I have enough to worry about down here on Earth.”
Monica’s jaw dropped. “You mean just give Olympus away?”
“Well,” said Mike, winking, “for the right price.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Oh, honey.” Sharon sighed. “We were never competitors, like you. I suppose it’s only natural that we have a different perspective. You have to admit, though, keeping Olympus is like paying to maintain your own swimming pool and then letting neighbors use it while you stand off to the side, waiting your turn.”
Monica looked away from her parents. There was heat building beneath her cheeks, a feeling of betrayal causing her pulse to quicken—first it was KG that was deemed expendable, and now it’s Olympus. What next? College? The car? Vitamins? Clothes?
Luckily, the U.S. Patriots were beginning their exercises.
“Shh!” exclaimed Chris, putting his comic book down. “It’s starting!”
The gymnasts had removed their warm-up suits. Their tempered bodies were skinned in the trademark Patriot colors: white, with a splash of red and blue across the shoulders. The camera offered a generous closeup of an eleven-year-old Californian named Jackie Davisson as she prepared for her first vault. She was nibbling on her lower lip.
“A star pupil at Sunburst Gymnastics,” said Tom, off-screen,
“Jackie made quite an impression at this year’s International Convention of Patriot Athletes. She’ll be doing a Yurchenko-type vault here…” Jackie started down the runway. She planted her hands firmly on the vault table, launched herself into the air. Her amplitude and execution were good, with knees and feet kept together while in flight, but her landing didn’t quite stick. Nevertheless, Tom was ecstatic. “Wow! Incredible speed, great height, a little wobbly on the landing, but what a way to start things off!”
Megan, as Jackie padded back up the runway for her second vault: “Look at that smile. She knows she’s gotten off to a good start. All she needs is to stick the landing in her next vault, and she’ll have a nice average counting towards her final score. Of course, none of tonight’s athletes will have to worry about their national ranking being affected until the 2100 season officially begins, but a preliminary meet like this gives the coaches an idea as to how their athletes will perform under pressure.”
“And here we go,” said Tom. “Vault number two.”
Jackie’s second run-through was as impressive as her first—though her feet didn’t quite know where to plant themselves during the landing. She ended up sliding onto her butt, blinking in surprise for a moment before quickly jumping back up, presenting to the judges, and jogging off the podium. The camera followed her as she threw herself into her coach’s arms, her tears flowing freely.
Tom said, “Wow. You see these incredible feats of strength and agility on the vault, the beam, the bars—you sometimes forget that these athletes are only eleven years old.”
Monica stuck with the broadcast through the first rotation. On bars, beam, vault, and floor exercises, the drama didn’t let up for a second, though it was faraway, confined entirely to the high-res grid of the Sardinias’ video screen. There were other gymnasts as well, other triumphs and tribulations, but Jackie was clearly the American favorite, bleach-blonde pretty, emotionally fragile—ratings paydirt.
“Does anybody want anything from the fridge?” Monica asked, getting up during a commercial break.
