Heroes' Day

by Jesse Gordon

  In a few short hours, she would wake up to begin the cycle all over again.

  CHAPTER 19

  Tracie hadn’t been kidding about the weight thing. Every morning before practice, she had the girls step onto the scale, and if anyone deviated by so much as an ounce, she launched into an impromptu speech concerning the evils of uncontrollable midnight-snacking. Now, Monica was certainly aware that coaches trained movements, sculpted bodies, and developed meal plans as part of their trade, but coming from Hades and Tracie, a weight-watching regime was nothing short of draconian.

  Case in point: On Friday morning, Hades, frowning as he always did whenever he spotted Monica’s numbers, took her aside and said, “We’ve got to talk about your weight.”

  Monica supposed she should be flattered; Hades was actually talking to her.

  She said, “I’ve been at eighty since October.”

  “That’s five pounds over the baseline.”

  “You mean my stomach sticks out too much during a lineup?” Monica relaxed her abdomen, which remained quite flat despite her effort to create a pooch.

  Hades wasn’t amused. “Don’t get smart.”

  Monica tightened up again. “I’m also taller than the others. Should we saw off the unnecessary portions of my legs to even things out?”

  “Monica, this isn’t the time for silliness.”

  Monica looked away, watched the girls doing their jumping jacks. “We’re wasting warm-up time, sir.”

  Hades waited.

  “My stats were readily available through the Keene’s Gymnastics office before I was drafted. If you didn’t like my numbers, it would have been better not to have drafted me at all rather than force me to lose five pounds and have to adjust my routines to accommodate the new weight.”

  “Irrelevant,” said Hades. “You have been drafted, you have been made a member of the Patriot team, and you will follow my dietary guidelines. You will also refrain from misguiding your roommates’ eating decisions by telling them to eat whatever and whenever.”

  Monica felt the back of her throat tighten. She’d been busted, she realized, and thought of last night’s dinner, how she’d called up portions for Lisa, Kristen, Alana, and herself that had been substantially larger than what Hades normally allowed. At first the girls had resisted temptation, but Monica, as team captain, had insisted they eat right regardless of whether or not they were breaking the rules.

  One of them is a tattler, she thought. Or else Hades really is counting the ounces. Even now, his critical eye seemed to be scrutinizing her waist, her thighs—he didn’t dare say anything further on the matter, however, because Linda had suddenly exploded onto the podium, and was calling out to the U.S. team, blowing each member a kiss. She stopped beside Monica and Hades.

  “How are things going, hon?” she asked, putting her arm around Monica’s shoulders and squeezing.

  Looking down at her feet, Monica said, “I should go warm up.”

  Hades nodded, quickly shifting demeanors. “We’ll talk more later,” he said, and gestured for her to join Tracie and the others.

  As she jogged over to where her teammates were, she heard Hades and Linda chatting amiably. That’s not how he was a minute ago, she thought.

  (Across the way, John, whose team had just arrived, offered a wave and a smile; it did little to uplift Monica’s spirits.)

  During heel rolls, Jackie made it her business to be nosy:

  “You’re a firecracker, aren’t you?”

  Really, she wasn’t. There was no reason for the automatic apathy between herself and Hades other than the fact that something in his manner brought out the worst in her. “I stand up for myself.”

  “But you’re on a team now, Monica.”

  “I was on a team back home.”

  Jackie snorted. “Your club doesn’t count—I mean, that’s a junior team. The rules are much more relaxed.”

  “Rules or not, Coach Hades needs to back off,” Monica said. “Does he gibe you and Britney over your weight, too?”

  “Darren is set in his ways,” Jackie said. “A coach needs to be. Standards have to be high at this level.” She paused a moment, directing a critical glance at Monica’s butt. “You could stand to lose a little padding.”

  Aesthetic advice from an eleven-year-old—Monica didn’t know if she should come up with a clever retort or simply laugh out loud at Jackie’s infantile attempt at playing guidance counselor. Worse, she felt ashamed at wanting to react in such an either-or fashion. She’d trained with younger girls back in Waukesha County, some of whom had been downright bratty when they’d wanted to be. Jackie merely spoke her mind as soon as the thoughts were formed. Why, then, does she piss me the hell off? Monica wondered. Is it because Coach Hades never yells at her when she makes a mistake? Is it because I’m jealous? Is it my new surroundings? Or have I merely been hard-wired as a junior elite, unable to compromise as a senior?

  But no, that was ridiculous. That couldn’t be it. Monica knew herself to be a goal-minded individual. Her work ethic—her life—was built upon a series of progressions, improvements, the mantra that she could always do better. She wanted to be aboard Olympus. Despite Tracie’s flipping out during the press release, the lack of warmth in her persona, Hades’ unhealthy obsession with weight, as well as his general inability to control his temper, Monica wanted to compete for her country. She knew she had it in her to rise to the occasion, to make the uncomfortable bits here as worthwhile as her time back on Earth—to prove to herself and everyone else that she hadn’t been recruited on a whim.

  “Monica!” Tracie barked, clapping her hands. “Head out of the clouds! I want your release skills solid today!”

  Monica nodded, finished her last roll before heading over to the uneven bars. Prove yourself, she thought. They can push your buttons, but it’s up to you how to react.

  CHAPTER 20

  Monica woke Sunday morning at her own discretion. She quietly grabbed her towel and a change of clothes, and was halfway to the door when Lisa called out to her from her bunk:

  “Where are you going?”

  “For a shower.”

  Lisa threw the sheets aside and rubbed her eyes. “Wait, we’ll go with you.”

  Monica waited, slightly annoyed as Lisa shook Kristen and Alana awake. She hadn’t planned on making an outing of her trip to the bathroom—but then she reminded herself: this wasn’t practice, she wasn’t in the gym, and it wasn’t Jackie or Britney she was having to deal with. So it would be okay. Mostly.

  The showers were already crowded (it seemed everyone in the stripe had had the similar idea of beating everyone else to the mark), but the wait wasn’t too bad, and afterward, Monica and her group were able, thanks to their small statures, to squeeze in front of the mirror without much trouble. (Yes, Tracie had instructed them to use the mirror in their room, but as they’d spent the last week oscillating back and forth between their quarters and the gym, the opportunity to spend time elsewhere was not to be missed—even if it was just the bathroom.)

  “Isn’t it wonderful having a day without Coach Tracie?” asked Kristen, brushing her hair.

  “Ugh!” Lisa groaned. “Can you imagine her showering with us?”

  Monica distorted her face as she plucked a rogue hair from her left eyebrow. “No, and I’ll thank you not to put that image in my head.”

  Kristen rested her hands on her hips, put on a stern, Tracie-like expression. “She’d be like, ‘Wet your hair! Shampoo! Now, rinse! Soap up! Don’t forget to wash behind your ears! Hustle, hustle!’”

  Monica laughed. Kristen’s impersonation was good. It was enough to allay all worries that her morning might turn into a babysitting gig. Her teammates were younger than she was, but they weren’t immature, and being with them rekindled the excitement of being aboard Olympus.

  “Should we check out the lounge?” Lisa asked once everyone had finished their various grooming tasks.

  “I say we get breakfast,” suggested Kristen.


  “I should call my parents first,” said Alana. “I promised them I’d keep in touch.”

  Kristen went bug-eyed. “Oh, yeah! I totally forgot!”

  “Yeah,” said Monica, “me too.”

  Gathering their things, they returned to their room. Alana sat at the desk and turned on the computer, which promptly displayed a login screen asking for user name and password.

  “Um, does anyone have their account information handy?” she asked, frowning.

  Kristen threw her arms up in the air. “I’m a gymnast, not a computer specialist!”

  “I thought our ID tags had our account information stored in them,” said Lisa.

  “Guess not.”

  “Wait,” Monica said, going over to her cubby. “I remember a user-account something-or-other being in the Olympus paperwork.” It took her a moment, but sure enough she found the page with her user name and password. Alana let her sit at the computer; she entered her information using the keyboard and was presented with a plain desktop.

  The girls cheered.

  Olympus’ system setup was different from what Monica was accustomed to, but she eventually found the messaging software. However, as soon as she clicked “Connect,” a dialog box popped up: RESOURCE UNAVAILABLE.

  “Ugh, computers,” sighed Lisa.

  “So, what?” asked Kristen. “Is the system down or something?”

  Alana leaned over Monica’s shoulder. “Did you type the right password?”

  “Yeah,” Monica replied. “Does anyone know what the ‘401’ means?”

  “It’s a network response code,” said Alana. “It has to do with authorization, I think.”

  “Meaning I’m not authorized to use the messenger?”

  “Either you or the system, but yeah.”

  Monica tried again, grimaced when a similar result manifested itself. It’s my day off and here I am whittling away the morning with network response codes! The Web browser seemed to work, though. “I guess I’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way,” she said, and logged into her e-mail account.

  She started a new message:

  Subject: Hi Mom

  From: “Monica Sardinia”

  Date: Sun, 8 Nov 2099

  To: “Sharon Sardinia”

  Hi, mom. I tried calling you just now, but the computer in my room isn’t working right. I’m fine. It’s been very busy here on Olympus. I’m getting a handle on things, though. My new teammates are friendly. They learn quickly, and are very supportive. Anyway, today’s my day off. I hope to visit the promenade—I’ll definitely take pictures! Tell Chris I’m working on my flares. I love you guys. Talk to you soon.

  After sending her message, Monica relinquished the chair to Alana, letting her give the video messenger a go—without success. Lisa and Kristen, too, tried logging in under their own accounts, but in both instances the result was the same: no video messaging allowed.

  “He doesn’t trust us,” Monica murmured, standing with her arms folded.

  “Who?” asked Kristen, still sitting at the desk and repeatedly clicking the “Connect” button.

  “Coach Hades—or maybe it was Coach Tracie’s idea.”

  “Well,” said Lisa, “it could be that they simply forgot to activate our accounts.”

  Monica shook her head. “I bet Jackie and Britney are sitting around in their underwear this very moment and eating popcorn while they blab to their friends about this and that over a crisp and clear, high definition video signal.”

  “You don’t like them, do you?” asked Kristen, hesitant.

  “I don’t even know them—none of us knows them! And that’s the problem.”

  Lisa and Kristen looked at each other; Alana fixed her gaze on the floor.

  “Oh, lighten up,” Monica said, shrugging, banishing her temper with a smile. “I’ll file a complaint later. Let’s go to the promenade.”

  Lisa grinned cautiously. “What about Coach Tracie?”

  “What about her?”

  “What if she doesn’t want to go?”

  “Then she doesn’t want to go. But as team captain, I’m insisting on a little R&R so that we’ll be refreshed come tomorrow morning. Besides, as lieutenant officers, we have clearance.”

  Again, hesitation on the girls’ part—but Monica didn’t wait for a unanimous decision. She slipped out of her sweatpants and T-shirt and into a blue summer dress, sandals. Then, grabbing her purse, she stood by the door, waiting, tapping her foot on the floor. “Well, ladies?” she asked. “Are you with me?”

  It took a moment, but the girls finally acquiesced (even if only to ensure they weren’t hanging around when Tracie came asking questions). Changed into shorts, dresses, skirts, sandals, slippers, sneakers, and augmented by earrings, tastefully-applied lipstick, the group headed en masse out of their quarters and down the corridor.

  “Wow, look at the four of you,” Tompkins said, smiling when they reached his post at the end of the stripe. “What’s got you all spiffed up?”

  “We’re going to the promenade,” said Monica.

  Tompkins frowned. “Sorry, ladies, but you need to be accompanied by an adult in order to leave the stripe.”

  “You’re an adult,” said Lisa, stepping up to Tompkins. “Can’t you take us?”

  Tompkins shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

  The girls hung their heads.

  “But it’s our day off!” Monica exclaimed.

  “Yeah!” added Kristen. “We’re tired of being cooped up with no windows, no sunlight!”

  Monica motioned for her friends to form a half-circle around Tompkins. Together they whined as cutely as possible:

  “Oh, please, Mr. Tompkins, can’t you make an exception?”

  “I’ll buy you a soda!”

  “You can show us the arena!”

  “You look like you could use some fresh air!”

  Tompkins chuckled and held up his hands in mock-defense. “I’m honored that you would have me along, but without permission from your coaches or from Ms. Baimbridge, it would be quite inappropriate.”

  Monica’s heart sank. With smiles capsized, with purses and handbags dragging at their sides, she and the girls retreated several paces back into the stripe. As they stood deciding what to do, a pair of older athletes swished past, waving their hands over Tompkins’ reader and chuckling amiably as they continued onward to the nearest lift—no coaches, no legal guardians required.

  “Looks like we’re going to have to get permission from Coach Tracie,” said Lisa.

  “Or Coach Hades,” said Kristen.

  “I’m not asking him.”

  “I didn’t say that. I was just—”

  Monica held up her hand. “I’ll ask Coach Tracie…” she said, trailing off as it occurred to her she didn’t know which room was hers. “Um, does anyone know where she’s staying?”

  Lisa shrugged; Kristen and Alana looked questioningly at each other.

  “For heaven’s sake, we don’t even know which rooms our coaches are in?”

  “It never came up,” said Alana.

  “I told you they don’t trust us,” said Monica. “To and from the gym, and maybe a few minutes in the cafeteria or shower—that’s all they expect of us.”

  “I’m sure it’s only due to security concerns,” Lisa said.

  “Yeah right. Do you remember how long it took just to get past the station’s hub? What’s the point of having all that security if we’re just going to be restricted to our home stripe?”

  “You seem upset, Monica.”

  “And you’re not? I mean, come on! Back home, didn’t you ever get stuck in some crappy motel the night before a competition, all the girls crammed into one room, the coaches in the other, sweaty, cramped, everyone sitting around trying to get the videobox working while you swap stories about the vending machines ignoring your tag, your friends coming out of the shower all blue because they couldn’t get the hot
water working—even then you have the assurance of knowing you’re all going through it together. Here, I don’t feel like we’re part of the team. It’s like we’re visitors, tourists, cut off, isolated.”

  “We’re minors,” Alana said, simply. “It would be different if we were adults.”

  “We may be underage, but that doesn’t mean we have to be prisoners. Do they really expect us to spend every one of our Sundays puttering about our home stripe? And for a whole year?”

  Lisa shook her head, scowling. “Geez, Monica, you’re all about doom and gloom, aren’t you?”

  “I am not,” Monica replied, though she was well aware her darker side wasn’t entirely subdued at the moment. “I’m trying to be practical.”

  Down the corridor, Tompkins was pacing, keeping an eye on them. He looked genuinely sympathetic, really, he did, but he was only a security guard. Hades and Tracie were the girls’ legal guardians, and it was up to them who went where and when.

  Monica straightened, put on a smile. “Wait here,” she told the others, and strode up to Tompkins.

  “Have you gals decided what to do with yourselves after all?” he asked, not unkindly.

  Nodding, Monica said, “Yes, but it’s probably going to take some negotiating with our coaches.”

  Tompkins nodded.

  “Can you tell me which rooms they’re staying in?”

  “Why, sure.” Tompkins pointed down the corridor. “Rooms 21 and 25, Lieutenants Hades and Tracie, respectively.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Tompkins.”

  Monica went to Tracie’s door, where, with the girls waiting nervously behind her, she waved her hand over the buzzer. Waited. No answer. She was about to try again when the unmistakable phenomenon of Linda Baimbridge—gyrating down the corridor, snapping pictures of Monica’s group with her camera, swooning between reloads—caught her attention.

  “Oh, look at you!” Linda cried gleefully once she was within pinching range. “Little women! Darling sprites! I’m just going to die you’re so utterly cute!” Pinch-pinch, snap-snap. “I could go through an entire memory card right here and now—but come, come! It would be criminal for me not to share you with the others!”