When Matt’s finally satisfied, I’m left alone with the blue gel icepack. Amateur status. Give me plastic bags of ice cubes. That’s the way to numb this.
By the time my teammates leave the floor and swing through their bar routines, I’m still icing. When I try to stand, Matt gestures for me to sit back down.
Great practice. Glad I took a chance and failed, the way I always do. Whatever resolve and belief I’d mustered at the beach seems to have drifted away with low tide.
The chains holding up the bars rattle as Emery releases the bar, flips twice, and lands with a large lunge. And winces. She nudges off her grip to examine her palm, and I can see the blood from over here. “Boo. Party foul.”
Nothing better than having a callus explode. My hands have pale-yellow circular scars marking the places where the skin has torn open.
“Let me see!” Erica runs over.
“Erica, you’re so gross,” Nicola groans. Emery flicks the flap of skin in Nicola’s direction, making her squeal.
When it comes to rips, you wrap up your hand with tape and get right back on the bar. Rolled ankles, you wait a little longer. Torn ACLs, that’s a whole other kind of waiting.
“Hey, Matt?”
I look up because although I’m not Matt, it sounds as though Emery’s talking to me.
She toys with a roll of tape in one hand, her lips twisting as she contemplates her next move. “I know we still have half an hour left but I have this huge midterm tomorrow…”
“Go ahead,” says Matt. “Savannah, you take care, okay?”
I smile. I wave. I hop away on one foot, shooing off offers of help. I am the model of good injured behavior. Even Vanessa cracks a smile when Tiana runs over to hug me good-bye.
I want to hide in a corner and never come out.
WE SIT ACROSS from each other on the stiff McDonald’s plastic chairs, a veritable feast in front of us. “To Vanessa.” Emery holds up a French fry. I brandish one of my own.
“To the diets of champions,” I say.
“How’s your ankle, for real?” Emery mumbles between bites of cheeseburger.
I’ve got my foot up on the adjacent chair. “Not that bad.”
“But.” She twirls a fry, gesturing for me to continue.
“I know it’ll be fine by the weekend.”
“But.” The fry comes dangerously close to my face.
I bat it away. “But…it sucks.” I drop my eyes and examine the swelling under the fluorescent lights. A little puffy around the knob of my ankle and a little bruised.
She pokes at my cheek with the fry. “Before you came back, I almost quit.”
“Why the hell would you do that?” I all but yell. “You’re God’s gift to South Ocean.”
She laughs so hard that she nearly knocks over the tray. “Can I use that on my college applications?”
“You’re powerful, graceful, good at competing– you’ve got everything.” Everything that I’d once had.
“Shut your mouth, Gregory. You’ve got it backwards. Did you know I cried when they took you to the hospital at Regionals? The judges had me go last on floor because I was a mess.”
“Then you won.” Of course. It’s my turn to jab her with a fry.
She rolls her eyes. “Then I went to Nationals, came back, and half the team was gone. Don’t get me wrong, the twins are darling, but they’re kids. We did twoa-days three times a week. Worst summer ever. Plus someone kept saying she’d stop by and never did.” This French fry of choice is smothered in ketchup. “Mom kept suggesting that I switch to Express.”
“No,” I protest. “She knows better than to send you to hell itself.”
There are some things in life that change. The robot army of Express Gymnastics, with identical hair and identical perfect toe points and leaps, is not one of them. After every competition, I’d stand nearby as Emery’s mom hugged her and said, “Watching all these skinny kids makes me crave wings,” to which Emery would answer, “How hot and where?”
She nods in agreement. “There’s no way we’d be able to afford a gym like Express. Also, I love Matt and even Vanessa’s kind of a real person when you’re alone with her at a meet for long enough.”
“Who would have thought?” I swipe the fry before she can jab it at me again, popping it in my mouth with one bite.
“Then I saw you flipping on trampoline, not caring that Coach Barry was grilling you the whole time,” she says. “You were doing it for you, and even though this college bullshit is going to give me an early death, I’ve been thinking about that ever since.”
“About that.” I poke at the bottom of the cardboard container for the burnt bits. “I emailed Englehardt from Ocean State.”
“You did?” She nearly launches herself from her chair. “Was he pumped to hear you’re back in action?”
“So pumped that he can’t put it in words.”
“Oh.” She slides back down. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’m telling you, his assistant coach? No sense of humor. None. What about Owego? Barry was all about you.”
“You mean he was all about you. He probably wants me to bait you to go to Owego.” It’s not supposed to sound bitter, but the force of the words makes me clamp down on my tongue.
Emery tugs out her phone. “They have some awesome vaulters. Honestly, I’d think about it if there was even a chance they could offer me money.”
“What about an academic scholarship?”
“Ha! Hilarious. Unless you want to lend me some of your GPA.”
We lean in together as Emery’s zebra-painted nails type in the search query and the video loads. The first girl barrels down the runway, does a round-off onto the springboard, back handspring onto the table, flips over completely stretched out, and sticks the landing. In the background, Coach Barry leaps into the air with his fists pumping. “Great!” he bellows over the sound of the team cheering. Surprised, I am not.
“She’s their leadoff,” Emery informs me.
“That was pretty damn real,” I agree.