As soon as he blinks, I escape to a corner of the floor.
The younger girls sit in neat rows with legs straight, toes together and pointed. A couple of them wave at me with big grins, but it’s clear that Vanessa has commanded them to be silent or else.
She scared the crap out of me when I joined the team, even though she’s four-eleven and always has a perky ponytail. Nothing’s ever good enough for her. Your legs are never straight enough, your toes not pointed sufficiently, and God forbid she catches you cheating on your push-ups. If by any chance you do perform to her standards, you earn a nod.
I stretch with the remnants of South Ocean’s upper level team, which consists of Emery and the twins, Nicola and Erica, who are thirteen and still wear I Heart Gymnastics Tshirts. Bless them. I used to own one of those.
“You guys were, like, fetuses when I last saw you,” I say.
Emery gives me a sassy look that clearly says, That’s what happens when you disappear.
“Is Coach Barry here to watch you, too?” asks Erica, sitting on her knees and placing her palms on the floor to stretch her wrists.
“Seriously? With this beast?” I pull the brace over my right foot. In a matter of moments, the brace twists sideways with my foot stuck between two straps, neither one an exit. I could use some directional arrows.
“I think it makes you look cool,” says Nicola, copying Erica’s wrist stretch. “Like a warrior or something.”
“I’d want you on my team,” Erica adds.
Trust the twins to make anything seem positive. So young, so eager. Wait until they enter high school.
By the time I’ve wrestled the Beast into what appears to be its rightful position on my leg, the team has begun basic tumbling across the floor. I hide behind Emery, except I am now even more vulnerable to Coach Barry’s gaze. The man doesn’t miss a movement.
“Great extension on that handstand,” he says to Emery. “Wow, look at that shoulder flexibility!” he calls to Tiana across the floor. Tiana’s only six and she looks at him blankly. Vanessa nods in her stead, taking the compliment. “Excellent heel drive–both of you!” he says to Erica and Nicola, who look alike even in their gymnastics.
As the team splits into two corners of the floor for more advanced tumbling, I step to the side. Not that it bothers me that the Level 4s and 5s, none older than ten, are running across the floor and flipping with ease. Or that Nicola, who’s learning a double full–one flip, two twists–keeps landing awkwardly, her ankles and knees bending at uncomfortable angles. Yet she walks away from each attempt ready to try another.
I want to put my hand over my knee to protect it somehow. Instead, I practice leaps on the side of the floor, staying out of everyone’s way.
But not out of everyone’s notice. “Great range of motion.” Coach Barry walks over. “What are your jump combinations? I bet you’re killer on beam, too.”
I’m saved by Emery’s tumbling pass. She lifts into the air, pulls her knees to her stomach, flips twice, lands with a satisfying thud. Then she walks back to the corner, face expressionless. I know that look. She’s focused, contemplating her next turn and how to improve.
“She’s working double layouts onto a pit landing,” Matt says to Coach. “Full-ins, too.”
Coach nods vigorously; he likes this news. As I’m about to sneak toward my water bottle, he turns to me. “Are you an all-arounder?”
“Yep.” Although I hate vault. Well, sometimes. However, I don’t hate vault as much as I hate uneven bars. You’d think that a knee injury would have forced me to improve on bars. Instead, my decision to quit might have been a little bit influenced by the fact that my gymnastics would have come down to two round, wooden, unforgiving bars with lots of chalk. I’ve always enjoyed balance beam, probably because when I began the sport, everyone else hated it: suede-covered wood four feet off the floor, four inches wide. It was the uncool thing to like beam, so of course I did. And floor was always my favorite until April.
“How’s the comeback going?” Coach inquires.
Matt looks up when he hears this question.
“It’s, ah, all right.” Real convincing, Savs, Cassie would say. “Good days, bad days. You know.”
Coach chuckles and pats my shoulder. “I sure do.” I’m not sure if I’m supposed to feel inspired or patronized.
Matt grins at me like we’re all in on the same friendly joke, but his eyes say, What the hell is this all about, Savannah?
An excellent question. I haven’t stepped foot in the gym since April, and here I am, bothering to lie to this guy instead of telling him the truth.
From what I can see, Emery has a terrific practice. She swings beautiful pirouettes on bars and lands her first vault on her feet. She is all elegance–sharply pointed toes and legs glued together, perfect posture that makes her regal. After that, Matt engages Coach in a long discussion of the merits of forward-entry versus back-entry vaults, I think so that Coach doesn’t notice that Emery isn’t doing any other attempts. I spend my practice on trampoline, gradually bouncing higher and higher until I’m brave enough to flip.
I launch into the air, tucking my knees to my chest, close my eyes, and roll over myself like a tiny moon in orbit. Again and again.
It feels good to be upside down. Amazingly good, if I’m being honest. Up here, everything that’s tethered to gravity–Cassie in the hospital, Marcos with that smile–feels far below. It’s something I can conquer later. No quick burst of joy can extinguish the fear, however. If I lose focus, if I stop listening to the creaks of the brace, something can happen.
Coach pumps Matt and Emery’s hands in farewell. He uses the word “great” at least twice per sentence. I’m staring at the banners when he says, “Keep in touch, Savannah. I want to hear about your progress. It was great meeting you!”
The entire right side of my body moves with the force of his handshake. With a wave and several more “great”s, he’s gone.