Her green eyes meet mine. “Not one smile. Who wants to be on a team like that?”
I appreciate the effort to make me feel better, to ignore the fact that Emery won the meet that I was wheeled out of on a stretcher. Besides, what are my expectations for today? It will be a victory lap, without the victory, on my journey to bigger and better things. Closure, perhaps.
We leave the highway and drive down the pine tree-lined road. This was the point where I’d sit up straighter in the passenger seat, willing my parents to drive faster–come on, we’re almost there! Emery turns right into the industrial park that advertises foreign car repairs, international shipping, and, at the very end, gymnastics.
It’s a tan warehouse with slender windows and a steel door. Above the door is the white-and-blue sign: South Ocean Gymnastics, Training Champions of All Ages. Small children exit the gym, holding their mothers’ hands and hopping up and down like they’re still on the trampoline. “Remember how we were like those kids?” Emery kills the engine. The car plunges into silence. “I can’t believe my mom never chucked me out the window.”
Now that we’re at the door, every urge that said do it now says go back. I fight against telling Emery that I’ll just kick around in the lobby while she works out.
Here goes nothing. Literally.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
IF ONLY NOISE were enough to make me invisible. Children run everywhere in the lobby–pulling on sweatshirts, wrangling with the snack machine, playing tag as their parents chase them. It’s pandemonium. It makes me never want to have kids.
I follow Emery’s short brown ponytail and bubbly pink scar on her shoulder past the glass viewing windows and into the gym. My feet sink into the blue mats, corresponding nicely with the feeling in my stomach.
When I started gymnastics ten years ago, I couldn’t believe how huge and complicated it all looked: rows of balance beams to the left, three sets of uneven bars to the right, foam pits and two trampolines, a fuzzy blue runway leading to the vault, the wide blue floor exercise in the corner, and mats everywhere. Mats of all colors and sizes and shapes, including one that’s shaped like a donut, which I think is for the sole purpose of rolling kids around. Pervading every piece of equipment are the smells of chalk, mat vinyl, and a scent that I can only describe as feet.
Banners hang from the walls. In the summer, when our only source of cool air is from giant industrial fans, they flap in the breeze. There’s “3rd Place Level 7 Team, Long Island Classic,” “2nd Place Level 5 Team, Finger Lakes Invitational,” and the like. Just above the floor exercise is the banner that our coach Vanessa is most proud of: “1st Place Level 9 Team, New York State Championships.” She always looks up at it when she talks to us during a team meeting. That one’s from five years ago. We haven’t come close since then.
Standing next to the vault table is my coach, Matt, engaged in intense conversation with a man I don’t recognize. Matt looks exactly the same: spiked dark hair, dark eyes, black T-shirt filled out with muscles that are ready to catch us when we fall, which for me was frequently. I have a rush of what I can only call first-day-of-school jitters; what if he’s pissed that I’ve shown up out of the blue? And who’s this other guy?
When Matt sees me, his jaw drops. “The prodigal returns!” he calls, and the man next to him turns.
“New coach?” I whisper to Emery. What else has changed since I’ve been gone?
She shakes her head. “I don’t know who that is.”
As we approach, I eye the man’s red and blue jacket. The State University of New York, College at–
“–Owego,” Matt says as the coach shakes Emery’s hand. While Matt’s clearly surprised to see me, his tone remains professional and controlled. “One of the top programs in Division III, placing second at Nationals this year. Six All-Americans and five second-team All-Americans.”
I hadn’t dallied with looking at Division III schools. No athletic scholarships. No primetime prestige with thousands of fans cheering them on. Small potatoes. It’d been go big or go home in my college search.
Ponquogue sends a few intrepid graduates to Owego each year. As far as I know, the school, nestled between farms and more farms upstate, is a magnet for blizzards, ice, and general misery. The city that never sleeps, it isn’t, unless you count the frat parties.
“This is Savannah Gregory.” Matt turns to me with an obvious question in his eyes–where have you been and why are you back? “She’s a senior and a Level 10.”
Was a Level 10. “Savannah, fantastic to meet you!” Coach pumps my hand. I underestimated his strength. And enthusiasm. “Jeff Barry, head coach at Owego State. Are you interested in intercollegiate gymnastics?”
“Sure.” What else am I supposed to say?
Coach laughs very hard at this. “Great, great! Your father said the same thing.”
“My father?”
“Yep! He emailed me.”
“My…father…”
“Said you’d blown out your knee but that you planned to make a full comeback.”
I’m still stuck on my father. Making threats to have me return is one thing; attempting to manage my future is another. Was I staring at my phone, waiting to hear from Cassie, while Dad glanced furtively over his shoulder and typed out an email to this man? What was he thinking?
Oh, and what full comeback?
Coach completely misunderstands the expression on my face. “Injuries are no fun, that’s for sure. Just have to keep a positive attitude, right?”
I’m holding my knee brace. I could swing and hit him with a satisfying clatter of hard plastic on bald head. Instead, I give a sort of sickly smile.
“He said that you’re an honors student at Pon… Pon…”
“Ponquogue.”
“Ponbog, right.”
“Ponquogue.” This man. My God.
“Exactly. Must be great growing up right on the ocean, huh?”