CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When Jordan walked into the kitchen for breakfast, Coach Bentley was leaning against the counter reading the paper and drinking coffee, like every morning. Jordan grabbed a bowl and a box of cereal and sat down across from me. I knew he had said he’d take care of Bentley and the date issue, but I had no idea it would be right away and that it would be so easy.
“Hey, Dad? The new Batman movie comes out Friday…”
Bentley looked up from the paper. “I’m filling in for Patrick Friday evening. Sorry, bud.”
Jordan faked disappointment and shoveled a bite of cereal into his mouth before speaking again. “Karen? What about you?”
I looked up at him, my eyes wide, then stared down at my bowl, trying to shrug like it wasn’t a big plan he’d come up with without notifying me. “I guess…if I’m not too tired after practice.”
Jordan shrugged, too, and picked at his fingernail. “Cool.”
“Not too late, though,” Bentley said to me. “You’ve got practice Saturday. You and Blair were a little sluggish last week after that sleepover.”
“Yeah, okay.” I couldn’t look at either of them, so I don’t know if Jordan reacted to that at all. Jordan finished his cereal without another word, and that was that. We officially had a date.
March 4
Coach Bentley,
Are you really this good at turning off the practice drama at home? Or is this only going to last for a little while and eventually we’ll start talking shop twenty–four–seven? I’m still DYING to know what the hell is going through your head most of the time! How did Jordan survive seventeen and a half years of this unnatural calm? How have I survived eight or so months of it?
—Karen
P.S. I’m going on a date with your son and I’ll probably kiss him again and might even use my tongue. Would that get you a little riled up?
***
Before I started my tucked fulls for conditioning (the skill Bentley had made me do at least a hundred of last night), I made sure he was watching. I wasn’t going to have eighty failed attempts today.
Bentley was helping Stevie through her press handstands, but I caught his eye after making sure Blair held the foam tube at exactly the right height. My lower abs screamed at me from last night’s overuse as I launched myself into the first flip. My chest came up a little short.
“Tuck your hips under, Karen!” Stacey shouted from across the gym.
“It was really close,” Blair said. She was being unusually sweet. I think me getting kicked out last night created this walking–on–eggshells atmosphere for everyone except my coaches.
I drew in a deep breath, channeling my frustration from last night into my next attempt, which I nailed, finishing with my chest higher than the foam. After five more attempts (three good, two bad) I was starting to get the feel of timing the flip and twist just right to be able to open up sooner and land with my chest upright like Bentley wanted, all while still keeping it in the back of my head that I’d be doing this on a balance beam only four inches wide and four feet above the ground.
It took forty tries to make twenty good back fulls and I was the last one to move on to the rest of my conditioning. Of course, Blair hadn’t had to do any flips, and Stevie and Ellen were only doing regular standing back tucks—no full twists.
After beam and bars, Bentley left us with my old level 99 coach, Patrick. The one I’d had a major crush on five years ago. Patrick was coaching us on vault today while Bentley had a conference call in his office with Nina Jones, the God of gymnastics.
It was a well–known fact among us elite girls that whenever one of the other coaches filled in for Bentley, we could usually get away with things we couldn’t with him around. Something about them being excited to work with us and us being some of the top gymnasts in the country gave me and my teammates a tiny power trip.
A power trip I decided to take advantage of today.
I walked over to the vault runway that landed into the loose foam pit, rather than the competition landing mats, and shouted to Patrick, “I’m going to add the extra half twist this time!”
Even from the distance of over eighty feet, I could see his eyebrows push together like he was thinking hard. “I didn’t know you were working on Amanars.”
Okay, so truthfully, I hadn’t worked on Amanars before. It was the most difficult vault that female gymnasts were doing today, so difficult that when Romanian gymnast Simona Amanar had performed the Yurchenko with two and a half twists at the 2000 Olympics, the International Gymnastics Federation had named it after her. So yeah, it was hard. But Bentley had said several times in the past few weeks that if I kept nailing my Yurchenko double full, I could add another half twist. I’d seen Stevie train for this vault years ago and compete it, though she hadn’t yet progressed to doing them again since her comeback and was lucky to squeak around a double on a good day.
A thin mat sat on top of the loose foam blocks at the end of the vault table. That meant my landing would be easy; even if I didn’t make the two and a half twist all the way around, it wasn’t going to hurt or anything. Plus, the foam pit vault was lower than the regular landing mat vault and it gave me more time to finish the twist.
I took off running before Patrick had a chance to think about it too hard or ask Bentley if it was okay. The Yurchenko vault is tricky even without any twist because you basically cartwheel onto the spring board and then do a backward dive onto the vault table. If you don’t hit the board just right, it can screw everything up. Or if you don’t get a big push off the table with your hands, you might not make the flip all the way around, let alone two and a half twists. But I’ve been doing a Yurchenko since level 8, when I was only eight years old. The beginning of the vault hasn’t changed at all for me in nine years, only the part after I push off the table.
I got a huge push off the table and easily added the extra half twist, but landing in the pit with only one mat always caused me to over–rotate and I had to jump into a forward roll after my feet hit the mat.
“Wow!” Patrick said from beside the other vault Stevie and Ellen were using. Blair was over on bars doing more leg–free work with Stacey. “The block you’re getting is just incredible, Karen. You’re at least a foot or two higher than the last time I watched you. Your run is much more efficient, too. Have you been doing drills?”
I suppressed a groan, thinking about the monotony of drills I’d done recently. Last August, Bentley had—in his quiet manner—simply told me that I needed to remeasure my steps, and that led to me to starting ten feet farther back, and that led to dozens of drills with an orange band around my arms to keep them as tight to the sides of my head as possible while diving back onto the table. That was supposed to give a better push and obviously a higher vault. I think the reason the change had frustrated me was that Coach Cordes had never told me my run was wrong or anything, and when I asked Bentley about it, he said I’d probably grown taller and Cordes didn’t want to make changes during meet season.
“Thanks, it felt pretty good,” I said to Patrick before queuing up the video replay system we had rigged at every event in the gym. I didn’t use it too often, but with Bentley not here to correct me, I decided to see the first attempt at the Amanar before making a second try.
“I’m gonna do a two and half also!” Stevie shouted from the end of the runway.
I hit pause on the video using the remote and watched, holding my breath as Stevie charged down the runway, her dark, muscular legs flexing in response. Stevie hadn’t even attempted this vault in the pit yet since returning from retirement.
She made the two and a half twists just fine, which was a surprise considering her struggle with doubles, but she had to take a couple big steps sideways to control the landing. She headed right over to the TV and gently plucked the remote from my hands, fast–forwarding to watch her vault. I stood there beside her as she looked it over, then she flipped back and watched my vault.
“Yours is higher,” she said, setting the remote down without looking at me.
Shock at her blunt statement rendered me temporarily silent. “Well…I was landing in the pit. There’s only one mat in there right now.”
“Don’t patronize me, Karen.”
My hand froze on the remote. “I’m sorry—”
“And don’t apologize!” she snapped, spinning to face me. “I’m so tired of everyone treating me like I’m a diseased person and no one has the heart to tell me I’m dying! I said your vault was higher, but I meant to say, it’s higher for now.”
This scary and exhilarating tension built between us as we stared at each other. My fingers were tingling, ready to attack something. I tore my eyes from Stevie and glanced at Patrick. “I’m putting another mat into the pit.”
Hopefully that would get me closer to doing the Amanar on the real vault landing mats.
Stevie looked over her shoulder at Patrick, too. “I’m adding a mat here, too. A four–inch.”
I knew what she was doing. It was a technique Nina Jones loved to push on us at training camps—tumbling up—landing higher than you needed to in competition to add amplitude. And something about looking down at the vault from the other end of the runway and seeing the landing surface raised, mentally tricked you into getting more height. It was like if someone swapped your hurdle on a track for one two feet higher, you’re automatically going to jump harder when you try to clear it.
After dragging another eight–inch mat into the pit, I attempted the new vault again and landed with only a small hop.
So did Stevie.
Ellen could sense the tension and didn’t say anything to either of us, just whistled under her breath a couple times and kept her eyes away from mine while continuing to do her Yurchenko doubles with no problem.
I wasn’t sure how close I actually was to doing this vault, but I figured it didn’t hurt to be going head–to–head with the vault world champion from two years ago. Unfortunately, my duel with Stevie didn’t allow me to notice Bentley exiting his office and reentering the gym. He waited until I returned to the end of the vault runway, joining me there before asking, “Did you do your doubles on the regular vault already?”
I felt my heart pounding, knowing I’d screwed up big–time. Again. “No, I—”
He turned his back to me and said, very low, “You owe me ten extra competition vaults tonight before doing any more of the new vaults into the pit.”
“Okay,” I said, barely above a whisper.
“Your run looks fantastic,” he added, then clapped his hands together and raised his voice so all four of us could hear. We were usually the only ones in the gym in the morning besides some preschool classes, and they had their own area. “Take a five–minute break, and then I need you in my office for a Skype with Nina Jones.”
We all looked at each other and Bentley just shrugged. “You’ll find out in five minutes, all right?”
Ellen bounded over to her mother in the viewing area. Ellen’s mom was meticulous about watching nearly every practice. It would have driven me nuts if my mom did that; now I couldn’t help the wistful feeling I had whenever I saw them together.
Stevie and Blair came up on either side of me as we walked to get drinks and snacks from our gym bags.
“How’s Jaren doing?” Stevie asked, lowering her voice, eyes dancing with amusement, like we hadn’t just been enemy competitors a few minutes ago.
“Jaren?” I asked.
“You know, Jordan and Karen,” Blair whispered.
“It’s our code name,” Stevie added. “For your relationship. Don’t want E or Bentley to hear us.”
I could feel my cheeks heat up and I dropped my eyes to the floor. “It’s not exactly a relationship. I mean, not yet. We text from our bedrooms. That’s pretty much it.”
Blair nudged her shoulder into mine. “Like sexting?”
“No!” I said even though I wasn’t a hundred percent sure what actually defined sexting. Maybe that was something I could ask Jackie?
“Come on,” Blair pleaded. “We need more details. He was totally watching you last night during practice. I caught him looking our way several times when he was supposed to be teaching his classes.”
“Yeah,” I grumbled. “Probably trying to figure out why his dad decided to torment me.”
“Totally,” Blair agreed. “Bentley is so sneaky with the hard–ass coach stuff. He’s gradually hitting us with new corrections and then he has this way of making it sound like this was the plan all along and we just forgot.”
“Maybe it was the plan all along,” Stevie said, pulling a Kashi bar from her bag.
I sat on the floor and started peeling my banana. “I think he’s too nice to tell me I’m not good enough to add these new skills and he thinks I should figure it out on my own, and honestly, I wish he’d just tell me. Coach Cordes would have told me.”
Stevie’s eyebrows shot up and she opened her mouth to say something, but Bentley stuck his head out of his office and yelled for us to come in. My stomach tumbled with nerves and I dumped half my banana into the garbage can before springing to my feet.
“Sorry, just the girls,” Bentley said to Ellen’s mom, who had appeared behind Ellen at his office door.
Blair and I stifled giggles and dragged Ellen inside before her mom could fuss over her hair or tell her how to sit on the couch properly during a Skype with Nina Jones.
The office door was shut, leaving Ellen’s mom outside. The four of us squeezed onto the brown leather sofa behind the desk and watched Nina and her clipboard appear on Bentley’s monitor. He slid his desk chair to the side so we could see and he leaned back as if he wasn’t at all worried about this virtual meeting.
“Girls,” Nina said, getting right to the point. She doesn’t do hello. “First off, the March training camp is canceled.”
None of us said a word or made any kind of face, but I knew we were all cheering silently. I so wasn’t in the mood for Houston next weekend.
“We’ve decided to take two gymnasts to Australia for a junior competition at the end of the month,” Nina said.
Stevie and I both relaxed back into the couch. We wouldn’t have to face rejection today. Neither of us were juniors, thus not eligible for this competition.
“The committee and I have chosen Ellen and Kayla Dallas to represent the US.”
Ellen squealed beside me and I tossed an arm around her, giving her a little squeeze. Blair was on the far end of the couch, but from the corner of my eye, I could see her biting her nails, staying silent but hurt, I was sure. It might have been because of her leg, or it might have been because she wasn’t good enough in their eyes. I wasn’t sure which Blair preferred to be the truth, but I was betting on it being the injury.
“Congratulations, Ellen,” Nina said. “On to my next topic. Since nearly all the girls have decided to compete in Chicago the weekend before the American Cup, the National Committee and I have decided to hold the April training camp in Chicago at the competition arena. We’ll be doing a three–day verification meet, and from that we’ve decided to choose the six–member junior and senior teams for the Pan American Games in Rio this May.”
I could feel my pulse pounding with both excitement and anticipation. Pan Am games weren’t quite as competitive as the Olympics or World Championships, but they were a very big deal and run just like the Olympics, with several days of competition and multiple sports. And to have a chance to prove myself on a beam that wasn’t the one in Houston where I had nearly suffocated from that crazy panic attack—this could be huge for me. If they weren’t considering me for the team, I wouldn’t be in this Skype meeting right now.
“I just wanted to tell each of you the plan in person and to wish you luck. Making the Pan American team is a great honor, and the committee plans on fielding the best team possible. That means impressing international judges,” Nina said, then she looked right at me. “Karen, we’ll need a notarized letter from a legal guardian stating that you have permission to compete in Rio should you make the team. The old letter we have on file won’t be legal anymore. Please bring that with you to Chicago.”
Everyone stilled and tension filled the air in Bentley’s office. “Thank you, Nina,” Bentley said, pulling his chair in front of the monitor. “I’m sure the girls are all thrilled with the opportunity you’ve presented.”
He finished the conversation and ended the Skype session, then shooed us out of his office and into the hands of our very strict, very demanding dance teacher before any of us had the chance to absorb the news.
I couldn’t help wondering if Bentley had known about the possibility of all of us making the Pan Am team all along. I had been thinking of Chicago as a practice meet, a very important practice meet, but still a competition where I could throw a layout Jaeger on the bars and as long as it looked decent, it wouldn’t be a huge deal if I fell because they’d see that it was a work–in–progress. But now it seemed that the committee wasn’t looking for work–in–progress routines next month; they wanted polished, Rio–ready routines and maybe that was why Bentley had come down so hard on me with these new skills. He wanted me to play it safe in Chicago so I could have a chance at making the team. And maybe the whole dead parent thing made it hard for him to tell me no, and he needed to let me go through the process myself. But was I really good enough to make the team without the new stuff? It didn’t seem possible. And if I did make the team, would I come back from Rio and head right to UCLA?
***
Mom and Dad,
What if I want to stay an elite for a while longer? Would that be okay with you? I want to compete at Nationals this summer and try to make the World team. I know we talked about this until we’d beaten the subject to death, I know Coach Cordes was very straight with us when he said it would be a long shot and college gymnastics was the more secure plan, but I’ve changed. I can’t explain it in words yet, but something is different and I want it so bad. But at the same time, I want to make you happy and Coach Cordes, he spent years training me and taught me so much gymnastics and he’s planning on me being there. Please tell me what to do?
Love, Karen
Jackie,
Please can you just ask me about the panic attacks because I can’t bring them up on my own. Believe me, I’ve tried. And now, more than ever, I need to sort this out. I hate the nightmares and I hate the fear of losing control again like I did in Houston. Please make me talk about this.
Your “bff,” Karen
***
“Ready, Karen?”
I glanced up from my copy of Catcher in the Rye and saw Jackie smiling at me as a grouchy looking middle–aged woman shuffled out of Jackie’s office and toward the receptionist’s desk.
I stood up and she pointed at my book. “One of my favorites.”
“Required reading for English.”
She led me inside her flowery smelling office. “How are you today? What’s new in the world of elite gymnastics?”
The first twenty minutes of our session was spent updating her on Bentley’s current hard–ass attitude and the upcoming competition and the Skype session today. She just listened like this was the most interesting story ever.
“Coach Bentley really kicked you out of practice? And wait…did you say you drove home last night? I didn’t realize you had your license. I’ve noticed someone usually drops you off and picks you up here.” She flipped through her notebook, going back a bunch of pages.
I chewed on a dangling piece of skin around my thumbnail and stared at my lap. “I hadn’t driven since…since my parent’s accident. I freaked out being in the house and I thought the car would be the same, but I did it anyway.” There. I mentioned freaking out. This was progress.
Jackie surprised me by not taking on the dead parents look even when hit full–force with the subject. “What made you want to drive again?”
I finally looked up at her. “Something Blair said last week. She thought maybe if I pushed myself to tackle some part of my fear it would be like training for the bigger moment. And I don’t want to fall apart in Chicago. I’ve got to figure out how to fix…how to fix me…so I’m ready.”
“You can’t rush grieving any more than you can rush learning a new skill in gymnastics,” she said. “But I am glad you decided to drive again. It’s always good to put yourself back into your normal life, even if it’s just small pieces at a time. And I realize life is never going to be completely normal for you again, but it wouldn’t have been, regardless of whether your parents’ accident happened. You’re changing, and soon you’ll finish school and be moving on to something new…you’ve kissed a boy.” She smiled at that and I felt myself doing the same.
“He’s really great.”
“And totally cute.” Jackie leaned forward at her desk. “You did not tell me that part. I had to see it for myself.”
I laughed. “He sings and plays the guitar too.”
“Wow,” Jackie said. “That’s a lot of positives, and not enough negatives for you to avoid your feelings forever, I’m sure.”
I ignored the comment, since I didn’t really know what to call us besides Jaren. “His mom played cello for the London Symphony Orchestra. His family is oozing with talent. He must have million–dollar genes. All I have to inherit from my parents is my mom’s gift for fundraising and my dad’s ability to argue for a living.”
“Tell me about your dad,” Jackie said.
I took a deep breath, keeping my voice calm and even. “He was a bit of workaholic. Sometimes my parents would fight about that, but then he’d come home by seven every night for a couple weeks and my mom would forgive him until the next time. But he worshipped her, really he did. And with me, he was always afraid to…to…”
Jackie set her pen down, raising an eyebrow again. “To what?”
“To baby me, I guess.” I wasn’t totally sure those words were exactly right, but I couldn’t think of a better way to explain. “It’s like he was okay with my mom being this person whose goals were to make the best hair bows and not forget to get her nails done before a fancy event with his firm.”
I stared at the wall behind Jackie and something snapped inside of me. Suddenly, I saw my dad in a new light, and pieces flew together. All this anger and things I couldn’t even put into words poured out of me while I continued to answer Jackie’s question. “It’s not even that he was okay with her being like that, he actually liked her simple. But with me, he expected so much. Not in a way that he would verbalize, exactly, but it was always like I couldn’t just say, ‘I’m tired, Dad. I don’t feel well. My teammates are fighting with me,’ because I dreaded seeing that disappointment on his face, like he knew I could do better.”
“Do you think maybe it was you who were worried about failing him?” Jackie asked. “Maybe you invented the expectations because your mom wasn’t the pushy type?”
“I don’t know. It probably started when I was little and I’d hear him tell his friends and other parents how tough his little Karen was, and I didn’t want to show him any other side besides the tough one.” I moved my gaze from the wall back to Jackie. “But why was my mom just a woman to him, and I was someone who had to be great? It doesn’t seem fair to either of us, does it?”
“No,” Jackie said, surprising me with her honesty. “But you do want to be great, right?”
“I think so…yes. Yes, I do, but more so now than before.” I squeezed my eyes shut for a second, picturing my mother and trying to feel her presence again so I could put this into words. “My mom was really smart. She studied accounting in college. She was a math whiz, but I don’t think my dad ever really noticed that about her. He loved to correct her, not in a domineering way, but in a way that made him go from serious to more affectionate. Why did she put up with that? I don’t get it. Short of going to my dad’s office and doing his work for him, my mom took care of everything else. I mean everything.”
“It’s possible that your dad didn’t see you as someone who was eventually going to become a woman,” Jackie said. “To him, you were a person that he had to help to become independent. And as far as your mom goes, he wanted to take care of her, so he didn’t mind seeing her weakness. Maybe it made him feel secure, in a way. I’m not saying that it was right for him to think like that, but people don’t always do what’s most logical, even our parents.”
“Maybe.” I tried to make the anger fade, but it still clung to me, giving me the urge to grab the ceramic cup from Jackie’s desk and throw it through the window.
“I talk to a lot of patients who have lost someone,” Jackie said. “And most of them, probably all of them, tend to glorify their loved ones. They put them up on a pedestal, and you don’t seem to do that. You haven’t done that with me at all, and it would have been easier to just smile and tell me your dad was amazing.”
“I guess I don’t really do that, not now or ever.” I felt my breathing become a little irregular, my lungs constricting just enough to make me sense a panic attack in the near future as the reality clawed at my throat, fighting its way out. “And I can’t see them as perfect. All I can see is…”
“Is what?” Jackie prompted.
I pressed my face into my hands, drawing as much air into my lungs as I could manage. My arms and legs had already started to shake. “I just see them in pieces…literally…body parts scattered all over the highway. I can hear them screaming, and my dad…he’s always decapitated. What does that even mean? Do I subconsciously hate him and I just cut off his head in this fictional version of their accident?”
I didn’t remember feeling any tears fall, but they must have, because my hands and face were wet when I finally lifted my head. Jackie’s eyes were wide, and I knew she had to be thinking I was nuts or some kind of psychotic serial killing teenager. But at least I’d finally managed to put it all out there for her to see so she’d know what she was dealing with.
Quickly, I wiped my face with the back of my hands and sat up straighter. “I just…I need to know more about what happened so I can shake this imagined version from my head. If you could just tell me…?”
Jackie’s face filled with sympathy. “Karen, I don’t have that information. I’m sorry.”
I closed my eyes again, drew in a deep breath, and opened them. “Okay, fine. Are we done for today?”
“We don’t have to be. I don’t have another appointment until one. We can talk more if you’d like to. We can go over some techniques to use when you’re feeling panicked.”
I shook my head. I’d already tried every basic method the Internet had to offer. None of it was specifically geared for my situation. “I’m ready to go.”
As we approached the office door, Jackie rested a hand on my arm and said, “You can’t conquer everything in a day. Or even a week. Maybe not even a year. There’s no way to work hard at grieving. You just have to let it happen. And you are, so don’t fight it.”
“I have no idea what that means,” I said, looking her right in the eyes.
She started laughing and opened the door for me. “Exactly my point. Just keep being honest—with yourself and everyone trying to help you.”
I sighed to myself as I headed back out into the cold air. Maybe I should have stuck to talking about sexting.
***
I threw myself out of the moving car, tossing my body onto hard, frozen grass. I watched, breathless, as the car tumbled on the interstate, the missing letter on the gas station sign flickering from the side of the highway. Pieces of glass and metal rained down on me and a round hairy object bounced into the grass several feet away. I focused my eyes on it as it rolled toward me.
My dad’s face came into view, eyes wide open, staring at me.
***
I jolted upright in my bed, biting my tongue to keep from screaming. Sweat trickled down my neck and back and my chest heaved in and out so quickly I thought I’d pass out. I tossed back the covers and scrambled toward the door, forcing the light switch up.
I glanced from corner to corner around the room, scanning the area for any round hairy objects. I leaned against the door, catching my breath before opening it and heading to the bathroom. After setting my retainer by the sink, I splashed cold water on my very pale face and tried to shake the nightmare.
“Hey…” Jordan appeared in the bathroom doorway. He looked wide awake, like maybe he hadn’t even gone to sleep yet. His dark blond hair lay flat, not sticking up like in the morning, and he had gym shorts and a T–shirt on, not his usual boxers–only sleepwear.
His eyes moved over me as I dropped the towel back onto the rack. “What’s wrong?” He stepped closer and placed both hands on my face. “God, you look pale.”
I closed my eyes and drew in a breath. “Bad dream…very bad…”
“Okay.” His voice melted over the top of me, already soothing some of the anxiety. “What should I search your room for? Monsters? Zombies?”
I leaned forward and pressed my forehead into his T–shirt. “Round hairy objects.”
“Got it.” He turned me around, guiding me by the shoulders back into my room. “The light’s already on, that’s good.” He stood behind me, rubbing my shoulders as he looked around the room. “Want me to check the closet first?”
“I’m okay, seriously.” I turned around to face him. “Thanks for the offer, though.”
“Talk to me. Tell me whatever you saw,” he said.
We both sat down on the bed and I grabbed a pillow, hugging it to my chest. “It’s Jackie’s fault…”
“The shrink?”
“She made me talk about my dad and then I realized all this stuff I never thought about before.” I relayed the conversation from the most recent therapy session to Jordan, and he sat there and listened without interrupting. “Why do I keep decapitating him in my dreams and anytime I think about their accident? What’s wrong with me—”
“Nothing is wrong with you,” Jordan said firmly.
“But what’s the deal with my dad? Is he a total sexist pig or what? Why am I just now realizing this?”
“I can’t answer that,” he said. “Not without knowing him. But maybe the real question is, why does it matter to you now? And I’m not even sure answering that question is going to help stop the nightmares.”
“What will help?”
He rested his hand on top of mine, thinking for a minute. “Maybe you need to remember something else. Like something good with your dad?”
I closed my eyes searching my memory, sifting through moments and scenes from a very distant past. Finally, I looked at Jordan again. “Last summer at Nationals…”
“Yeah?”
“My parents met me in the media room after awards and my dad was wearing his ‘gym dad’ shirt and he had this giant button with my picture on it…” I swallowed back the lump in my throat. “I thought he was going to say how he was so proud of me for winning bars, but he grabbed me by the arms and shook me a little and said, ‘What was that bar dismount? I thought you were going to break your neck.’ And then he gave me the biggest hug and I was totally embarrassed because all the other girls were watching and my dad was picking me up like a little kid. Mom just stood there shaking her head and finally said, ‘You nearly gave him a heart attack, Karen. He didn’t know you’d changed your bar dismount.’”
“You used to do a double layout,” Jordan said.
My eyebrows shot up. “Been looking me up?”
He grinned but didn’t confirm or deny it. I exhaled and continued my story. “Anyway, I’d switched to the double front, and he thought I’d just peeled off and was heading neck first for the landing mats.” I wiped a tear from my cheek and smiled at Jordan. “I guess that’s not exactly a great memory, but I’d never seen my dad so worried about me before, and later, when we went out for dinner, we laughed about it a lot. Apparently he jumped out of his seat and someone had to yell at him to sit down. It’s not like he could have leapt through the stands and caught me or anything.”
“I like it,” Jordan said. “If it made you laugh, that’s a good start. Much better than screaming.”
“Yes, I learned that from Monsters, Inc. What about you? Don’t you have any good father–son memories with Coach Bentley?”
Jordan laughed. “He’s still alive, you know? Not sure it’s legal to shift subjects on me like that.”
I gave his shoulder a shove. “Come on, tell me something.”
He let out a breath, letting me know he was only humoring me because of my current distress. “I remember riding on his shoulders everywhere. I was kind of a hellion child that didn’t seem to have any fear of taking off and getting lost from my parents. My mom would be yelling at me to stay close or hold her hand and Dad would pick me up and put me on his shoulders. It’s like he knew I just wanted to be able to see everything.”
His gaze had been on mine the entire time he told his story, and the second he finished talking, I felt myself leaning forward, staring at his mouth. Jordan’s eyes started to close as he drifted forward and then they flew open, startling me. His hand shot out and touched my shoulder, preventing me from leaning closer.
“The second I start this I won’t want to stop,” he said. “I think we have a very good plan, we just have to follow it, okay?”
I scooted back away from him. “Right. Okay.”
He stood up and touched my hair. “Friday…”
“Friday.” I slid under the covers again, dropping my head onto the pillow. “Thanks, Jordan.”
“No problem.” He stood by the door, now, flashing me his best half smile. “Want the light on or off?”
“Off. But leave the door open.”
As I snuggled under the covers, preparing to drift off, I thought of Jordan’s advice but decided to turn my focus from my dad to kissing Jordan—possibly on Friday night—and maybe I could have a dream about that instead.