Heroes' Day

by Jesse Gordon

  Sitting poolside with a stack of photographs and a permanent marker, Monica let her attention tune in and out of the audiocast emanating from Linda’s boom box. She hoped no one had heard the part about her living in Aunt Deborah’s basement. It was going to take some getting used to, this business of having people talk about her as if they knew her or the girls or Hades on a face-to-face basis. That and other things.

  She glanced over at Tracie, sitting fully-clothed at one of the tables and going over her notes. In the pool, the girls (all but Jackie, who was sunning herself on one of the loungers) quietly splashed each other. Hades sat alone in the jacuzzi, brooding, looking more homesick than Alana that first night on Olympus—hardly the genius mastermind the media folks made him out to be. Every now and then one of the cameras (there were always cameras) swooped in for a candid shot. No one seemed to be feeling the moment. Monica herself didn’t feel like the all-around champion she was alleged to be. At the junior national meets, you always ran into fans in the stands, on the sidelines, on the way to the bathroom, in the parking lot. Apparently, this wasn’t applicable for full-on Patriot elites, shielded by several layers of security men and women. Not a single spectator slipped through the cracks; Monica had to make do with autographing her stack of a hundred glossy photos, watching the team lounge around the swimming pool in silent merriment and wondering if there’d ever been a time in her life when things had felt so anti-climactic.

  Jackie came over after a while, her bronzed skin glistening in the sunlight and making her look all the blonder.

  “So. You’re a star,” she said, and sat cross-legged on the concrete.

  “Does that bother you?” Monica asked.

  “I don’t know. Should it?”

  “I was supposed to be the background support. You and Britney were the specialists. You told me so the day we first met.”

  “Oh, that.” Jackie waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. Darren explained everything to me. It’s cool.”

  “The others don’t seem too overjoyed.”

  “Let them mope. They’ll adjust.”

  “What did Coach Hades explain?”

  “It’s complicated. I don’t want to burden you with it. Is it true, by the way? What they said on the audiocast—were you really living in your aunt’s basement?”

  “Not by choice.”

  “That’s pretty messed up. I could never live in someone’s basement.”

  Monica attempted a smile. “We do what we have to do.” She wanted to tell Jackie to keep quiet about the whole deal, but considering that the information was already all over the airwaves, there wasn’t much of a point.

  “Anyway, I was talking to Darren earlier,” Jackie said.

  “And?”

  “He wants us in bed early.”

  “How come?”

  “Linda has us booked on the Leroy Chase show tomorrow.”

  Monica made a distasteful face. Leroy Chase was a talk show host. He had all the big stars on. Monica never understood any of the jokes, but her parents seemed to enjoy tuning in every few nights. “Doesn’t he come on at 9:00?”

  “Yeah, but I guess they do the actual filming in the early afternoon.”

  “Oh. That makes sense.” Monica settled back in her lounger, scooted her legs under the shade of the umbrella. Momentarily a scuffle erupted over by the other end of the pool area—a man in a jogging suit was being frisked by Tompkins and one of his brutes.

  “Everybody wants a piece,” Jackie muttered.

  “You think he’s a photographer for one of those gossip magazines?”

  “More likely a pervert with a dirty Web site,” said Britney, climbing out of the pool and toweling dry. “They never learn. I mean, come on. It’s not okay for a strange man to come on to you when you’re just a normal, average twelve-year-old girl—why would it be okay if you’re a Patriot?”

  “You ever get an e-mail from one of them?” asked Jackie.

  “No, thank goodness,” replied Monica.

  “Lucky you. They either want to paint a nude portrait of you or take ‘art photos’ or write a book about you, but for some reason they can only do it if you spend the night with them at their summer home.”

  “For research purposes, no doubt,” Monica laughed.

  “For our country.” Britney stuck out her tongue as she watched Tompkins’ man lead the jogging suit intruder away. “Good thing we only have to put up with it for a few more years before we become too old to appeal to the pedophile demographic.”

  “Then it’s only the regular perverts we have to worry about.”

  Wrapping her towel around her midsection, Britney tapped Jackie’s shoulder and pointed towards the east entrance. “Come with me to the vending machine. I feel like a snack.”

  “Okedokes.” Jackie got up, followed Britney. “But we need to bring one of the guards.”

  Indeed, Kim, having noticed their general direction, was on his way over.

  The girls glowered at each other.

  Britney said, “Geez. We’re old enough to work for the government, but we still can’t buy our own sodas without adult supervision!”

  Monica watched them go, stretching in her chair. She wondered how John was.

  She hoped he’d gotten some sleep.

  CHAPTER 33

  Leroy was shorter than Monica expected (five-eight, at the most), but no less animated in real life than on-screen. Pouncing on his cue, he took the stage by storm, basking in the lights, the cameras, the audience whooping and clapping and screaming his name as he shook hands with those standing at the foot of the stage.

  After the fanfare had died down: “Good evening, everyone, and welcome to Prime Time, with Leroy Chase. I am Leroy Chase, for those of you wondering why Prime Minister Chandler is hosting an American talk show.”

  The audience chuckled, for while Leroy did resemble (slightly) the British prime minister, it was only remotely possible that Chandler himself would ever moonlight on Leroy’s show.

  “A fascinating front-page statistic for you,” he continued, picking an imaginary piece of lint from the arm of his suit jacket. “What’s lower than the U.S. national rank? Take a guess. Anyone?” He paused briefly, held up his hand after a few uppity audience members shouted out derogatory answers. “Prime Minister Chandler’s sperm count, apparently.”

  More laughter.

  “I guess the press is giving him a hard time because he and his wife were recently spotted at a sperm bank—I’m sorry, fertility clinic is the politically correct term, right? Whatever. Here we are on the verge of a new Olympic term, the competitive season underway, and what’s making headlines around the world? The British prime minister’s batting average!”

  Again, laughter. The applause sign blinked furiously.

  “Now, I understand it’s a team thing. If you’re a man living in the U.K., I’m sure you’ll want to know your prime minister can out-lay the competition should conceiving become an Olympic sport—but aren’t there more important things we should be focusing on at the moment? Analysts say the U.S. national rank is at its lowest point since the Global Ranking System was put into place. Coincidentally, the number of felons put to death last year was the highest in two decades. I say this is a missed opportunity. Why not kill two birds with one stone and make electrocution an Olympic sport?”

  In the green room, where Monica and her teammates waited for their interview, the large video screen relayed Leroy’s monologue in hi-def.

  “I don’t get any of his jokes,” Kristen said, wrinkling her nose.

  “It’s what you call potty humor,” Tracie muttered under her breath. She stood slightly apart from Hades, her warm-up suit (she was to serve as assistant coach during the interview) the antithesis to his jeans and partially-unbuttoned silk shirt, which offered a tantalizing glimpse of his well-defined chest muscles.

  “Not a fan of Leroy’s work?” asked Hades, playful, keenly aware that he was being watched by the studio intern who
would escort them on-stage when the time was right.

  Tracie shook her head. “Not my cup of tea.”

  More like, “I think he’s a foul-mouthed slob,” Monica thought, reading Tracie’s expression and wondering if now wouldn’t be a good time to practice her social fake-outs.

  Linda: “Just remember that there’s no such thing as bad publicity. The more your girls are seen and heard, the more the American public will care whether or not they make it to Heroes’ Day.”

  Tracie gave her a dirty look.

  Meanwhile, Leroy worked his way through the monologue, ending with a jab at a popular actress’ tendency to marry the wrong guy. There was a minute or two of quiet waiting before the intern touched his headset, nodded, and gestured for Team USA to follow him to the stage area, where a balance beam had been set up. On cue, each of the girls took a turn tumbling across the beam in her own unique style as the band played an upbeat tune. Leroy shook hands with the team members, directed them to the sofa, where they sat all lined up in a row, their leotards sparkling under the studio lights, the faux-city skyline glowing in the background.

  Motioning for Monica to sit in his lap, Hades took the chair closest to Leroy’s desk, and was the subject of much attention from the female members of the audience.

  “Wow!” Leroy exclaimed, motioning for the applause to ebb. “I bet you could grate a block of cheese on those abs—yours are nice too, Darren.”

  Monica laughed along with everyone else.

  “Amazing stuff! How many hours a day do you have to train to get a body like that?”

  Monica felt a nudge from Hades, heard him whisper, “Stand, smile—do a quick turn for the cameras.”

  Monica did as she was told, standing, smiling, turning.

  Hades narrated: “The girls start their morning practice at eight, have lunch at noon, school for a few hours, and then they hit the gym again until six.”

  “Wow,” said Leroy, counting on his fingers. “That’s…that’s six, seven hours a day?”

  “It depends.”

  “God, man! You don’t think all that work’s stunting their growth?” Leroy nodded at Monica. “How tall are you?”

  “Four-foot-eight,” replied Monica.

  “And you’re the biggest of the group!” Leroy chuckled, looked into the nearest camera. “I feel like we’re hosting a Hobbit harem.”

  Monica sat back down, not sure what a Hobbit was. Or a harem. At the far end of the sofa, Tracie was looking murderous.

  “Now, I know you and your staff are trained professionals,” Leroy said, addressing Hades, “but do you ever wonder if you might be pushing these girls too hard? I mean, seven hours a day in a gym—that’s time they could be spending with their friends at the movies or the mall. They’re world-class athletes, but how much can they possibly know of the real world?”

  Hades took the question in stride. “I think they know a lot more than most kids do. It’s popular to single out Patriot elites because they oftentimes involve boys and girls training from a very young age. But to be honest, nothing in this life comes easily. You have to work for what you want, and children raised with a healthy work ethic will have the advantage when they mature.”

  “Well, I can certainly agree with the principle, but when you’re up close and personal with a gaggle of twelve-year-olds…I mean, it’s just so stark, isn’t it? What of childhood in these modern times?”

  “They’re young,” said Hades, passing a glance at Monica and the others, “but they’re also professionals. And if you do a little comparing amongst Patriot athletes you’ll find gymnasts tend to have higher GPAs than many of their peers, and are often more well-adjusted in adulthood.”

  Leroy didn’t look convinced. “Numbers and statistics are all fine and dandy, but is it right to place such enormous expectations on our children’s shoulders, to drill them into perhaps expecting too much of themselves?”

  “Look at it this way, Leroy.” Hades coughed, cleared his throat. “If you’re thirteen years old and all you’re allowed to do after school is hang around at the movies or the mall, then you’re just a minor in the adults’ world. You’re being kept out of the way. You can’t drive, you can’t vote, you can’t earn your own money. You spend your childhood and teenage years sheltered, coddled—until suddenly on your 18th birthday you’re flung out into the adult world and expected to adjust overnight. If you’re a Patriot, you’ve acquired the skills you need along the way. You’ve been a contributing member of society all along, so it’s no shock to be out of school or on your own. You wouldn’t send a parachuter out the door without first giving him the proper training, right?”

  Leroy chuckled. “If it’s anyone other than my son-in-law, no.”

  The audience roared.

  Monica heard Lisa say, “That’s terrible!”

  “But enough with the philosophical debate.” Leroy addressed Monica now. “Monica, dear. You look lovely tonight.”

  Monica blushed. “Thank you, Mr. Chase.”

  “Now, you’re the team captain, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Give me the dirt, then.”

  Monica shrugged, looking quickly at Hades for guidance. “Dirt?”

  “Gossip. The nitty-gritty. In pro basketball, for example, there’s a lot of trash-talking courtside, or behind the scenes. You run into an opponent at a bar and you’re psyching him out before the big game. Gymnastics seems like such a pristine, disciplined sport, everyone so prim and proper—you don’t even break a sweat when you’re out there doing your thing!”

  “Oh, we sweat,” Monica laughed.

  “How about trash talk? Do you ever stand on the sidelines and yell out, oh, I don’t know, disparaging gymnastics insults?”

  “To be honest, no. I mean, we might talk or joke about a silly move or ugly leo beforehand, but when you’re out there on the competition floor, you’re really only thinking of what you’re going to do when it’s your turn. And you’re always keeping limber, stretching—our coaches keep us busy.”

  Leroy nodded at Hades. “It’s true you and Darren don’t get along, isn’t it?”

  Monica looked at Hades a moment; he was smiling cautiously. “We manage,” she said, hoping she came off as casual.

  Applause.

  “But,” pressed Leroy, “there are probably some days where you just want to tell Darren to shut up and do his own tricks, right?”

  Monica shot Hades a nervous smile. “We sometimes knock heads.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, for example, I have this thing I do on my floor exercises, a sort of back headspring. It’s easy enough to do on a podium surface, but one day I’m putting together a routine on the balance beam, and Coach Hades comes up to me and says, ‘You think you can throw one of your back headsprings in there?’”

  Leroy shook his head, smiling wistfully as the studio was filled with laughter. “Darren, my man, are you trying to kill the girl?”

  Hades shrugged, put his hands on Monica’s shoulder and massaged a little too vigorously. “She’s thick-headed—I assumed her skull could take a few knocks.”

  “All the way to the emergency room, no doubt.”

  “Ooooh!” cooed the audience.

  “In all fairness,” Hades said, “this is a great example of the kind of relationship a coach has with his athletes. If an athlete simply takes orders without considering her own abilities, then that’s detrimental, both in practice and in competition. Pep-talk aside, her experience should tell her whether or not to do it, whether she can do it at her current level of expertise.”

  Leroy nodded, accepting Hades’ answer and shooting another question to Monica. In fact, the interview continued with nary an acknowledgment of the rest of the team unless they were somehow related to what was being asked of Monica—she’d inadvertently become the media favorite. First at the Incept Cup, and now on her first national talk show appearance. The attention was excruciating, and she soon found her smile wearing thin
.

  Things only got worse when Zoe Gaines came out. Zoe was an ex-gymnast, and had written a tell-all book, They Took Away My Gold Medal Because I Got Chalk on My Butt, which was currently enjoying a stay on the New York Times best-seller list. Her opinion (and she made it quite clear from the onset) was that elite gymnastics was shit, elite coaches were delusional assholes, and parents of elite gymnasts were utterly irresponsible in allowing their children to be exploited by the Patriot System. All this in the first five minutes of her interview, during which Monica felt Hades grow increasingly tense.

  “I mentioned trash-talking earlier,” said Leroy, flipping through his copy of Zoe’s book. “This is pretty much the compendium of gymnastics trash talk. What do you think about ex-athletes signing book deals to slander the sport, Darren?”

  “She has her point of view,” Hades responded.

  “And so do the thousands of other gymnasts who’ve been broken by the system,” said Zoe with a confrontational look at Hades.

  “There are many reasons an athlete might let go of her elite status. Not everyone with NPAA membership is plotting to destroy young boys’ and girls’ lives—”

  “With all due respect, Mr. Hades, I’ve competed at the international level. I know the kind of dysfunctional relationship it takes to win a gold medal—”

  “Do you, now?”

  “—and I know what a coach really means when he tells one of his girls to do the best she can.”

  “What would that be?”

  Behind his desk, Leroy shot Monica a helpless (but amused) glance as it became obvious he’d lost control of the conversation.

  “They can’t help that they’re younger and smaller than you,” said Zoe. “When a coach says, ‘Okay, you don’t have to do this skill if you don’t want to,’ he really means, ‘Fine, be a quitter—give up your medal or certificate or credits or whatever.’ There’s a very subtle but potent message of disgrace if you don’t rise to the occasion. A coach doesn’t outright push anything on his athletes; he convinces his athletes to push themselves. Of course a gymnast is going to say she’s fine with anything and everything that’s expected of her. She doesn’t want the ridicule, the stigma of failure.”