by Jesse Gordon
He paid her a weary glance. It looked like he hadn’t gotten any sleep in days. “Hey, Monica.”
“Rough practice?”
“Oh, no worse than any other day, I guess.” He looked around the cafeteria for a moment.
Monica pouted. “But you seem so tense.”
“It’s just nerves. My first competition is coming up next week.”
“You don’t have any nerves,” Monica said, and poked his chest. “Just muscles.”
John smiled, but Monica could tell he wasn’t at ease, the way he swallowed, the way he kept looking in the direction of his table, where the rest of the Canadian gymnastics team had finished lunch without him. Something had changed drastically over the winter holiday—something big.
“Is everything all right?” Monica asked. “Are you all right?”
John took a deep breath and let it out, and momentarily the tension was gone, banished with the blink of an eye. (In hindsight, it was obvious that he’d merely invoked his well-rehearsed game state, but for now it was enough that he was himself again, amiable, serene.) “I’m fine. Just a little trouble with my tricks today—but here I am ignoring the perks of working aboard Olympus.” He stooped quickly and kissed Monica on the cheek. “It’s good to see you again, kitten.”
“It’s good to be seen.”
The food kiosk presented John with his tray. “Well, I’ve got ten minutes to scarf my food, so I’ll probably not be much in the way of conversation, but you’re more than welcome to join me at my table.”
Monica nodded, and would have accepted the invitation if she hadn’t at that moment looked over her shoulder and spotted Tracie on a collision course.
John winked knowingly.
“Oh well,” said Monica. “I suppose we can play catch-up on Sunday.”
“There’ll be time,” John said. “We’ll make time.” He picked up his tray, winked, and left for his table.
CHAPTER 31
The Romanians won the bid for the Incept Conference, a head-to-head meet that was being hosted at the University of Houston’s Hofheinz Pavilion.
“This will be a good start for you girls,” said Linda during the shuttle ride. “8,500 seats, not too big, not too small, an international media presence, your first multinational audience—oh, can you feel the excitement?”
The only thing Monica felt were the butterflies in her stomach, as well as the old, familiar fear keeping her as far away from the window as possible.
“You look nervous,” observed Lisa.
Brilliant deduction, Monica thought—though the forthcoming conference was only a small part of it. 8,500 anxious, expectant, scrutinizing fans? No problem. A half-hour ride from skyport to sports arena? Terrifying.
“Aren’t you a little nervous?” she retorted (she felt no desire to reveal her fear of flying at the moment, and was glad Jackie and Britney were riding in a separate shuttle so that they couldn’t meddle).
Lisa shook her head. “I think it’s easier to perform in front of a large crowd. There are too many people to keep track of, and so they all just sort of blend into one gigantic mass. But with one or two, or ten or twenty, you can feel each set of eyes on you. Like feather touches.” She shuddered, looked away.
The shuttle eventually arrived at the Pavilion, its monolithic exterior spiffy clean from recent renovations and bearing the Patriot emblem atop a lofty steeple. Despite the fact that it was morning, the place was already mobbed—not by fans, however, but by protesters.
Lisa, Kristen, and Autumn (in her own subtle way) looked concerned.
“What’s wrong?” Monica asked Tracie as she followed Kim and Cross out of the vehicle.
“Nothing,” Tracie replied. “We’re right on schedule. Follow me.”
“But what’s with all the, er, people?”
“They’re entitled to their opinions.”
Linda, helping to distribute the girls’ gym bags, added, “You see a lot of this at the Patriot level, sweetie. The video feeds are usually tamed, but the Patriot conferences themselves are oftentimes hotbeds for political demonstrations. No worries, though. Mr. Tompkins and his muscle men are on the job.”
At the head of the procession, Tompkins straightened slightly, his massive frame very nearly bristling. He motioned everyone forward. A fleet of police officers kept the masses behind the temporary fencing as Monica and her teammates made their way inside the Pavilion. Even then, the righteous chants echoed in Monica’s brain:
“Boycott Heroes’ Day!”
“Save our children from the Patriot regime!”
“There are no Heroes, only victims!”
“Don’t go in there, little girl! They’ll steal your childhood!”
It was a relief when the doors were closed, and the protesters’ banter was reduced to muffled background noise.
“Fact of life,” Tracie muttered to Linda at the checkpoint. “You could be opening a new county hospital or running a marathon to raise money for charity, and the left-wingers would still be there with their signs and their bull horns.”
“Oh, isn’t it just shameful?” Linda said, frowning for a change. “Another Olympic year to be spent bickering amongst ourselves instead of banding together to improve the national rank. You’d think we were grave robbers with a reception like that!”
“Cradle robbers,” corrected Tracie, chuckling dryly.
In the dressing room, conversations lingered on the protest outside. Even Jackie and Britney, usually more interested in pop tracks and hairstyles, joined the fray upon their arrival, weighing the pros and cons of freedom of speech as if it was round table time with Mr. McDonald.
Monica, for the most part, kept out of it, changing and quietly fiddling with her hair in front of the mirror. Watching the videocasts at home, it was easy to toss around opinions about what the “idiots on the news” did from day to day. But now that she was a Patriot, now that she was one of the idiots, it was…different. She was preparing to compete for those very same people who were shunning her, her work (hardly a novel concept, for during her junior elite days she’d known that not everyone in her hometown agreed on the Patriot System as the way to go—even though they readily accepted the credits brought in by her winnings). She wondered if the Romanians would have to endure a similar welcome.
Luckily her tight schedule made it difficult to dwell on petty details. Practice, lunch, an hour at the hotel arguing with Hades and Tracie over this and that, and it was showtime. Lights, camera, action. Whatever gripes the girls and their coaches had behind the scenes were promptly set aside, replaced with irresistible smiles, perky postures, and glowing dispositions for the first official march-in of the new season. Young men and women, boys and girls, uniformed and leading the gymnasts in step, hefted their rifles, twirled their batons, turning, saluting, holding for applause—it was a portrait of patriotism, even though Monica’s stomach was queasy and her palms tingling. She could see herself on the jumbo screens, her teammates and the boys’ team as well, and it was just like in the videocasts. As a fan, you noticed the security officers in the background, you knew they were there, but your focus was always on the athletes, your attention lulled by the commentators; now, during this brief in-between moment, Monica could see it all, the tension in Tompkins’ body, how his eyes seemed to be looking everywhere at once, struggling to discern fan from foe—she could feel it too, here where the spectators’ cries were nearly 9,000 loud, here where the sweat was already beginning to build beneath her clothes, where her toes were curling in her sneakers, her legs and thighs taught, ready for something, anything.
The first rotation began.
Hades’ blatant scowl deepened when the Romanian girls alighted on the podium. They were all shorter and lighter than the Americans. Their leotards were bright pink, glossy (in sharp contrast to the monotone stars and stripes pattern Monica and her teammates wore). They were little fairies, tiny creatures of folklore able to dance and twirl on the very breeze itself. Monica had met each
of them beforehand, exchanged gifts (Linda’s idea) during lunchtime. They were talented athletes, and friendly people—but they were also the Enemy, and this was war. The political monster had sent forth its first wave of svelte pixies; Team USA was expected to defend and defeat.
Monica stretched, waiting her turn. Hades stood over her, listing various skills and sets under his breath as they were performed by the opposition. He took notes.
“We’ll have to adjust your routine here…and here,” he said, going over his beam ideas, rewriting Monica’s skill combinations on the fly. “Can you do it?”
“Of course I can,” she replied, glancing at Hades’ notebook screen. “You did train me to be hot-swappable with my skills.” Considering his training tactics, it made perfect sense that the idea was to be modular, dynamic instead of static. Final routine sheet not to be revealed until it was time to present it to the judging panel. It was total improvisation, more than the small adjustments necessary to deal with an injury or lack of confidence—and it wasn’t just an American tradition. The Romanians were, from what Monica could see and hear, just as guilty. Routines that their girls had gushed about during lunch were tweaked, certain skills removed entirely, replaced, enhanced. Wild stuff, difficulty-wise. It was nothing like a junior-level competition.
“Well, duh,” said Jackie when Monica mentioned her surprise. “This is how you do it at the international level. Didn’t you know that?”
Insubordinate runt, Monica thought, not really meaning it. “Obviously I didn’t.”
Jackie put her hand on Monica’s shoulder. “Don’t be nervous. You’re going to do fine. Just because you’ve never been a senior doesn’t mean you don’t have a senior’s mentality in you.”
“Thanks.” Monica shrugged away, not minding the pep talk so much as she minded the nearby cameraman with his lens aimed directly at her. She hoped her parents weren’t watching (though of course they probably were).
The time came for her first vault. The girl before her had earned an impressive score, as well as another in a steady stream of hearty ovations from the Romanian fans. Monica knew she was capable of what Hades wanted, but it was still a challenge maintaining her game state. It didn’t help that Hades was frowning at her the way he always did whenever he sized her up—this time comparing her against the Romanian template: her face, with its broad features; her body, with its rugged, compact musculature; her style, with its minimalist flavorings.
Is it really so detrimental that I don’t look and act exactly like one of the fairies? she wondered as she lined up for her approach. Jackie, Britney, Lisa, Kristen, and Autumn stood off to the side and mimed their forthcoming routines, looking and acting exactly as expected as the cameramen orbited around them. It seemed too obvious a mistake to make, especially for someone of Hades’ caliber, but somehow he’d gotten it into his head that height and weight alone would propel his team to the topmost tier on Heroes’ Day. Unless he was somehow being constricted by his superiors, bureaucrats and military men who didn’t have an ounce of first-hand experience with the sport…but there she went again. Thinking too much. Overanalyzing. Brooding. Gloomy.
The portion of the audience focused on her (the boys’ teams were earning their own cheers at the other end of the arena) became hushed. The cameras poised themselves; the judges acknowledged her. She raised her arms, presented, then faced the vaulting table, let out a deep breath, and started down the lane. She picked up speed quickly, launching herself off the springboard and propelling herself up and over the vault, twisting impressively in the air, alighting on the mat, legs together, feet planted firmly.
The applause was deafening.
Piece of cake.
The rest of Team USA followed, working its way through vault, bars, beam, and floor while, in between, the coaches worked the score sheets, took turns conversing with undisclosed superiors via their cell phones. Making bets, Monica imagined. Taking bets. Matching fake-outs to fake-outs for an outcome that may or may not have been determined ahead of time as, after each rotation, the odds were rolled over. A Romanian fell during her beam routine, and suddenly Hades was whispering into Monica’s ear, “D-plus set, easy on the E skills. Feign an ankle injury.” (Meaning she was to execute an overall easier routine with the more complex skills as a garnish—as opposed to doing a difficult set with easier elements dispersed throughout. Evidently, she was to help keep the American team from overtaking the Romanians too soon.)
She nodded and, when it was her turn, mounted the beam, going through the motions as requested. On the dismount, she made sure to wobble slightly and apply noticeably less pressure on her left ankle. After presenting to the judges, she limped off the podium and into Hades’ arms.
“A little shaky there,” he said, play-acting for the cameras, doing what a coach was supposed to do when he knew he was being filmed. “What do you think happened?”
Nothing happened—my ankle never felt better! “I probably should have done what Tracie said, using both legs—I think I just leaned into it too much.”
“Well, we’ll have to work on that. Come on, let’s get you taped up.”
Tracie stepped in, med kit in hand. She started wrapping Monica’s healthy ankle. The camera crew lingered for a moment before following Hades to the next event, the next girl.
“You did very well,” Tracie said. “Keep it up.”
“You mean the successful fake-out?” Monica asked, “or my improvised conversation with Coach Hades afterward?”
“Both—now hustle. You’re up for the floor exercise in a few minutes.”
Monica acquiesced, making sure she kept her limp as she moved to the floor area.
The rest of the meet passed quickly, Monica’s attention narrowing out of necessity as she focused on executing her own routines. The Romanians won the team competition, but the U.S. girls closed out the evening with a number of strong scores in the individual and apparatus finals. Monica was chosen as the all-around champion—a surprise, since she’d added up the scores in her head, and while the margins were close, Lisa should have come out on top.
Needless to say, the girls (Lisa in particular) were disappointed—and not without cause, for their routines had been dumbed down, their roles underplayed. The brunt of the media’s attention had been directed at Monica, Jackie, and Britney; the other girls were merely support.
The cameras followed the teams as they organized themselves for the award ceremony, during which the athletes congratulated each other with hugs, kisses, handshakes. In the background the final scores were announced over the P.A. system to thundering applause. Monica stood on the winner’s platform with her bouquet and her medals and her plaque, and she smiled her stage smile even though she was feeling a bit like a con artist.
Lisa fudged beside her, muttering under her breath, “Do those scores sound right to you?”
On the Romanian platform, one of the boys was making it as difficult as possible for his coach to get him onto the third-place tier.
So this is it, Monica thought. The world of the elites. Temper tantrums, flashy cameras, fake routines, and skewered scoring.
All the way to Heroes’ Day.
CHAPTER 32
“Whether you love them, hate them, or simply can’t remember their names, the six super-petite acrobats comprising this year’s U.S. girls’ gymnastics team have launched themselves into the competitive season with a considerable showing at yesterday’s Incept Cup—good news for the Dow Jones, up 3% after a week of incremental losses. While the Romanians walked away with the team title, newcomer Monica Sardinia, despite a nagging ankle injury, captured the all-around title and aided in earning the United States its first batch of credits for the new year. Here with me is Melissa Gardner, sports editor for Patriot Monthly.”
“Good morning.”
“We’re about to shift from the current, less-than-glamorous Olympic term and into entirely new territory. ‘Uncertain’ is a word many analysts have used to describe the nation’s
economic future with regards to our national rank. Your thoughts?”
“It’s anyone’s guess at this point. As you stated, we’re rapidly exhausting our current term and heading into a new one without the bravado that we had as a nation during the lead-up to Heroes’ Day, 2084. The NPAA’s new team format may have shock value, but it’s going to take a concerted effort to make it through the long haul. This much was evident during the Incept Conference, where our girls showed their abilities as individual athletes—however, there wasn’t that team presence you need in order to boost overall morale early on. Patriot-elite girls’ gymnastics remains one of the most popular spectator sports around the world. That means the fans are watching, waiting. It’s important that the team, and not just its members, succeeds in winning over the public trust.”
“Let’s talk star power for a moment. We seem to have a new twist on an old design. You have the obvious icons, Jackie Davisson and Britney Lawler, both of whom had strong showings at a variety of national conferences last year, and both of whom managed to draw large crowds to the meets. Then you have the newcomer, Monica Sardinia, a virtual unknown turned fan-favorite as she walked away from the Incept meet with the all-around title.”
“Yes indeed. Monica’s a little powerhouse, originally dropped into the roster to serve as background support. But her performance last night has made it clear: she’s not settling for a behind-the-scenes role. Now, it’s unlikely that this will be the final Heroes’ Day lineup, but with any luck Monica will be the exception. I think we’ll see as the season continues that she’s a dedicated worker, a competitor. Her training partners call her Gloomy because of her no-nonsense attitude in the gym—she makes you earn those smiles, but when you do, it’s worth it. She knows what’s happening around her, and she knows how to react. Darren Hades is up to something with her as his team captain.”
“Her appointment to the Patriot team was rather unorthodox.”
“Oh, wasn’t it? She skipped past the standard recruitment process, going from small-town Wisconsin girl living in her aunt’s basement to national superstar overnight. Even so, that doesn’t mean the alternates aren’t still waiting in the wings for the opportunity to step in. The Patriot program may have turned VIP-only here in the States, but that only means those senior national positions are all the more coveted…”
