by Jesse Gordon
“I’ll try to be accommodating,” Monica said, and took the console. She dialed her parents, waited. Unfortunately, no one answered. “Darn. They must be out.” She thought for a moment, tried Sarah and Amy, with similar results. Finally, she got through to Pat.
“Hey, Monica,” he said, throwing her the peace sign.
“Hey, Pat. Got a minute?”
“For you? Always. What are you up to?”
“Having dinner.” Monica left her chair, stooped beside John, whom Pat eyed suspiciously.
“Who’s the jock?” he asked.
“His name’s John. He’s on the Canadian gymnastics team.”
John waved.
“Oh,” said Pat, “so he’s a pretty-boy.”
Monica returned to her seat. “He’s nice, not overly critical like some boys I know.”
“Hey, I’ve done my homework,” said Pat. “I know how all you Patriot-gymnast types work. The girls get points taken off if their bras or underwear show. The boys get lower start values if they don’t wax their chests and armpits. Well, the ones who are all grizzly-like, anyway. You fall into a relationship with a hard-body like him and the two of you will never get out of the bathroom—you’ll both be fighting over the tweezers and hot wax all day.”
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous.”
“Jealous? No. I’m merely a realist. Say, I saw you on the news. That new coach of yours is one excitable woman.”
“Well,” said Monica, “she’s the assistant coach—and as much of a bitch as she can be, Hades is the one to watch out for.”
“That bad, huh? My guess is you didn’t get his autograph.”
“I don’t know how he ever turned Patriot!” Monica paused, glanced past John to where Kim was standing. She wondered if he was listening, cataloging her conversation, ready to relay any signs of mutinous talk back to Tompkins. To Hades.
Lowering her voice, she continued: “I mean, he doesn’t coach so much as he affronts. And he’s pretty unoriginal with assembling routines. Everything’s kind of loose and scattered—and he’s always pointing out my weight problems, if you can believe it. I mean, back at KG, I was always pissed that I had less of a figure than some of my training partners!”
“He’s crazy,” said Pat. “You have the butt of a ten-year-old boy. And the chest, and the legs.”
John nearly sputtered iced tea all over the table as he tried his darnedest not to burst out laughing.
“I’m going to kill you when I get home, Pat,” Monica said. Under the table, she gave John a light kick in the shin. “And you…if you weren’t buying me dinner, I’d have been out of here five minutes ago!”
Pat snorted, calling out, “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into, Johnny! She’s a maniac! I bet she’s kicking you under the table this very moment, right? Run while you still can!”
Monica held the console at arm’s length and winked at John. “American boys. They tend to mature slower than the rest.”
“Ah,” said John. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Eventually Pat calmed down, citing excessive soda intake as the reason behind his hyperactivity.
“Are you going to behave?” Monica asked, re-framing herself.
“Normally I’d say no,” replied Pat, “but I have a shit-load of homework to finish. And your dinner’s probably getting cold. Thanks for calling, though. I’ve missed our little chats.”
“A pleasure, as always.”
“Watch out for those wolves in sheep’s clothing—cops, waiters, guys named John.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Catch you later, Cheeks.” Pat waved goodbye.
The video messenger flicked off.
Monica handed John the console. “Now you know why I’ve fled out into space.”
“I’m sure he’s only looking out for you,” chuckled John. “He’s being protective of his friend.”
“Overprotective, actually.”
“He’s male. Men are passion, intensity.”
“And women?” asked Monica, raising en eyebrow.
“Women are wisdom, patience.”
“You’re a bit cosmic for a gymnast.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. You’d do well as a fortune teller.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t know.”
“You want me to read your fortune?”
Monica giggled. “Yes, please.”
“Hold out your hand.”
She held out her hand.
John took it, closed his eyes, put on a look of intense concentration. “I am seeing a high place, a place where the trees give way to a rolling hillside. I am seeing you and me sitting together and picking out structures in the distance.”
“Wow. Prolific. You think it’ll come true?”
“Yes,” John said, opening his eyes. “But first we eat.”
Monica felt a flutter in her stomach, knowing it was only partially caused by hunger pangs. Having lived half her life as a competitive athlete, she had little experience when it came to dating, but she was now 99% positive that John was being more than just friendly. This was more than just dinner, too—it was a date. Her first date with a boy, sans the movie theater, sans the backseat of a car, perhaps, but a date nonetheless!
And she was smitten. John was the perfect gentleman, offering the waiter his compliments when the pizza arrived, offering her the first slice. She would have been perfectly content to sit back and shower him in quiet appreciation, listening to the sound of his voice, sneaking glimpses of his face, his neck, his shoulders, gaging the swell of his chest, the firmness of his arms—she devoured his presence as she devoured her meal, and was ashamed for it, though it was all she could do to keep from squealing in delight.
They finished their meal. Then, grabbing a pair of water bottles to go, John led the way outside and called a transport. When it arrived, he clasped Monica gently around the waist and lifted her onto the platform.
“Where are we going?” she asked as she fastened her seatbelt.
“Patriot Park,” John said, sitting beside her (Kim came too, but by now he was nothing more than a shadow, an afterthought).
The transport promptly shifted into motion, breezing along the streets, from the busy metro area, past the business district, and into more rural territory. Patriot Park, with its grassy hillsides, babbling brooks, abundant undergrowth, and winding dirt pathways, was an ample vein that cut across the middle of the promenade belt. At the drop-off point, Monica and John (and Kim) hopped off the transport, walked for a few minutes along one of the paths.
Upon reaching the foot of a rather steep hill, John pointed at the peak. “There’s a great view at the top. You up for a little hike?”
“Oh, my God,” Monica said in mock awe. “It’s just like in your vision!”
John rubbed his chin. “I’m pretty good, aren’t I?”
“It remains to be seen.” Monica started up the incline, following a weaving path all the way to the top—a good fifteen-minute exercise.
“Wow,” John said, wiping his forehead and nodding in Kim’s direction once they’d reached the summit. “He never tires, does he?” He handed Monica her water bottle.
She twisted off the cap, took a long, satisfying swig before looking over at Kim, whose uniform was sweat-stained. Another swig, and she replaced the cap. Then she leaned in close to John, whispered in his ear, “Let’s lose him.”
John glanced over his shoulder. “Won’t you get in trouble?”
“I guess we’ll find out,” Monica said. She tapped John on the shoulder. “Tag—you’re it!” she shouted, and stepped off the path, darted into the bushes.
“Ms. Sardinia!” Kim called. “Ms. Sardinia, stop!”
Even if she’d wanted to obey, Monica knew her body had a will of its own, and it was going to carry her where it pleased. The lack of control, however, was not unpleasant: her pulse was off the scale, and the thrill of the chase surged i
n her with the force of a full elite NCPA meet. She could see John over her shoulder, could hear Kim clambering several paces behind, out of sight, no doubt navigating by sound alone, trying to keep up with a pair of uppity young acrobats who were quite able to bend, stretch, and twist their way through the trickier sections without trouble. A few minutes of deft maneuvering and they reached a giant oak.
The perfect escape.
“I hope you can climb?” Monica asked, flashing a grin and stuffing her water bottle into her jacket pocket. She lifted herself up, finding finger holds and footholds. When she looked down, she saw John was right behind her. Some ways off Kim was still calling out for her to return to the path.
She crawled out onto one of the sturdier-looking branches. She was presented with a private view of the valley below—nothing spectacular, as the decline wasn’t quite steep enough, and there were many surrounding tree branches in the way, but enough to warrant a perch.
John scooted out behind her, straddled the branch, leaned back and laughed. “This isn’t exactly what I envisioned, but it’ll do.”
Monica tucked herself against him, reveling in his strong, steady arms as she took in the view, the promenade spread out before her, a complete miniature Earth sloping along the inside of a giant floating donut. For the first time since her arrival, she really felt Olympus, really felt the trees, the leaves—and John, sitting behind her, close, so close, so cute, holding one arm around her waist, not at all sneaky like in the school dance stories Angeline told her where the boy was always trying to sneak his hand up the girl’s shirt, not at all like when Hades guided her during practice, where it was all discipline, control—this was the exact opposite. An absence of discipline. A loosening of control.
“You suppose they’ll make it snow for Christmas?” she asked after a while.
John looked thoughtful for a moment. “I don’t think they do seasons here. Not that I’ve heard, anyway. It’s bad for tourism.”
“That’s a shame. It would look pretty.”
“Not as pretty as you.”
“Oh, stop.”
“I mean it.”
“You’re going to spoil me with those cheesy lines of yours.”
“Then I’ll spoil you.”
Monica swiveled around a bit, looked at him. “You’re too sweet for your own good, you know that?”
He shrugged. “Sweet is better than sour.”
“Are you sure your teammates didn’t put you up to this?”
“Why, what ever are you talking about?”
“You know,” said Monica, “buying me dinner, calling me pretty, getting me out here alone so you can corrupt me with your evil Canadian ways.” She laughed. “You once said that I was the United States’ secret weapon; maybe you’re the secret weapon, Mr. Matusik.”
John stiffened ever so slightly. Oh, he was still smiling, still holding her, still looking her right in the eye—but something subtle had turned over inside. She could feel him compensating, trying to hide his tensions by stretching, clearing his throat—
I’ve put him off, Monica thought, suddenly self-conscious. He’s just being nice and I’m overanalyzing. Too much attention, or not enough. Or maybe he’d only ever been interested in dinner, a pal, someone to spend time with, but not an actual girlfriend—
“Monica,” said John, reaching up and tapping her gently on the forehead. “You’re thinking about something, aren’t you?”
She shifted in his arms, noting that the tension was gone. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean anything by…what I mean is, I tend to be very analytical when it comes to personal matters. I’m just wondering if it’s too good to be true. Like, if you talk like this to all the girls.”
“There are no other girls.”
“Oh, so that’s why you’re so well-rehearsed.”
John blushed, tensing again, looking away—and the source of his discomfort suddenly became obvious. “I don’t think I’m at all well-rehearsed, but I’ve practiced.”
“Practiced?”
“In front of the mirror. Sometimes I make notes, go over my routines in my head. A boy should always know how to talk to a girl. I tell myself that if I can learn acrobatics, I can learn how to talk to girls.”
Monica tried not to laugh. “So, there are other girls.”
“No,” said John. “I mean, there are girls and women at my club, and I’ve often imagined asking one out on a date—but there’s little time for romance. I imagine it’s been the same for you.”
In hindsight, Monica could see how the last three years of her life seemed somewhat lacking, socially—but those were the breaks if you wanted to compete as an elite. You gave up public school, you set aside your home life, you made friends with your training partners, and they were your world.
“Monica?”
John’s face was inches away from hers; his bold features were intoxicating. “Yeah?”
“Would you mind if I did something forthright?”
“What exactly do you mean by ‘forthright’?”
“I’ve wanted to do this since the day we first met, but a man is supposed to get a lady’s permission first—”
“I give you permission,” Monica blurted, not letting him finish, knowing what he was getting at and refusing herself any further dissection of the situation.
John leaned forward, tilted his head, and kissed her on the lips. Instantly her mind recalled and compared, and instantly she realized how different it was kissing John instead of Pat. Needless to say, it was a pretty electric moment.
When it was over, she held him at arm’s length. “That was your big bold thing?” she asked, smiling, giddy.
“Part of it,” John replied. “Mainly, I wanted to ask you to be my girlfriend. I mean, if you’re not seeing anyone.”
The blood was thundering in Monica’s ears. A million equations fluttered through her mind, a million different ways to react when a boy asked you to be his.
Hemming and hawing, she said, “Oh, you silly guy. I’ve only known you for a week.”
“I understand,” John began—
—and stopped when Monica put her finger to his lips. “I’ll have to think about it.” She leaned forward and kissed him again, slightly less clumsily this time, and a little more daring. Then she rearranged herself in his arms and stared out across the valley, beautiful and serene in a sickeningly-sweet moment that was too perfect, too right to last forever—but if I can have just one day a week like this, everything else will fall into place.
CHAPTER 23
The Flipz shoot was a prime example of Monica’s on/off relationship with Darren Hades. On some days she could tolerate the man with little more than a series of sighs and nods; other times she had to physically separate herself from him by walking off the podium, pretending to drink from her water bottle or work out a cramp. Having Sundays off helped, as cumulative pressure amassed during the workweek could be relieved at regular intervals. As long as Monica knew there would be a reprieve, she could stifle any manner of outburst, avoid any variety of argument.
For the most part.
By late November, all of Hades’ and Tracie’s preliminary observations had been completed, and the girls began working out full-fledged routines on bars, beam, and floor—with Hades choosing floor music, and Hades having final say as to which skills were kept, which were dropped, and how many pelvic thrusts and butt wiggles were to be utilized in between. Naturally, as the Keenes had been more apt to choose genres of music rather than actual tracks, ranges of skills rather than actual skills, this was a bone of contention for Monica. It wasn’t so much the sex appeal element as it was the inability to add her personal touch to her routines. Ergo, she could swing her way around the bars, work her way along the beam, or tumble across the podium, and her kips, her layouts, her pikes and arabesques meant absolutely nothing.
John bumped into her towards the end of one particular morning training session, patted her on the back when she excused herself from
bars work to get a drink of water. (In the weeks since their first kiss in Patriot Park, they’d taken to holding hands and making out during recoup time—though they were strictly professional in the gym.)
“Cramp?” he asked.
“Coach,” she replied.
He squatted beside her. “Ah, one of those days, huh?”
Monica clenched her fists, curled her toes. “One day he ignores me totally, the next he wants me to perfect a dozen new skills by dinnertime! Ugh! How can someone so obsessed with consistency be so…so inconsistent?”
“I’d say he’s trying to be dynamic,” John said, “but you’d only kick me in the shin—and I’ve peeked across the room enough times to see he’s not really the mentoring type.”
“It’s like that show, Reality Cam!” Monica exclaimed, sighing, thinking again of her KG days. Greg always made sure you knew where you were going, knew what was expected of you; he worked with you to meet the appropriate deadlines. With Hades and Tracie, your skills were compartmentalized. You knew each and every skill, you knew how to connect said skills, but you had no idea what the finished routine was going to look like.
“Back on task, Monica!”
Monica looked up. Tracie had come to stand over her, arms folded, glare oscillating back and forth between John and herself.
John nodded, bowed out as Monica followed Tracie back to the uneven bars, resumed her practice. Five minutes in, though, and a ruckus over by the balance beam caught her attention.
Jackie was throwing a fit.
“No!” she shouted. “It’s stupid—it’s a stupid idea and I won’t do it!”
Hades, standing with his hands on his hips, looked like he was about to blow a gasket. “Fine. Then you’ll spend the rest of the day in your quarters.”
“Fine!” Jackie hopped off the beam, stalked out of the training room.
Hades watched her go; the back of his neck had turned bright red—a bullseye that was attracting the attention of nearby athletes and coaches. After a moment, he waved Tracie over for a private discussion.
Monica walked over to where her teammates were gathered around the chalk bowl.
