We look at each other, all of us holding back groans.
The prospect of doing extra conditioning with Vanessa isn’t enough to dampen the excitement, though. “I bet Coach Barry’s gotten like a gazillion e-mails,” Nicola says, tucking away her water bottle. “I wish I was old enough to go to college.”
A gazillion e-mails. Gymnasts all over the country sit down at their desk, ponytails still perky after a six-hour practice. They open the laptop and the Gymnastics 4 Life background awakens, coupled with a photo of them winning Regionals. They begin: Dear Coach Barry, I am very interested in gymnastics at Owego. Gymnasts with knees unbroken by scars. Gymnasts writing with the subtext: I deserve to be coached by an Olympic champion. Gymnasts saying: I am a champion.
Emery’s already been caught for using her phone, the stern words used, the punishment doled out. But I can’t stop myself from pulling out mine and typing the world’s fastest e-mail. Cassie would be proud of my blatant bucking of the system. I can handle a few extra push-ups.
Dear Coach Barry, Thank you for the very helpful links to the kinesiology department. (“Very helpful” is a stretch, but whatever.) I would be happy to update you on my training and competition results. In fact, I will be making my comeback at the Golden Leaf Classic, and I hope that my knee stays in one place.
I hit Send. Then refresh. Refresh. In retrospect, adding a few exclamation points might have helped–
“Savannah!” Vanessa sounds both exasperated and surprised to catch me in the act. “Forget it. You girls are starting now.”
FACE TO THE floor. Push up. Clap.
The quicker my nose brushes against blue carpet and then jumps back up, the less my arms shake. It’s way too hot this close to winter. Isn’t there a fan in here? Thirty-four. Thirty-five.
“You’re on a freakin’ roll, woman.” Emery pants next to me. “Is your boyfriend afraid that you can beat him up?”
“Her who?” Nicola gasps like she’s on the verge of an asthma attack.
“You have to see him, Nic; he’s adorable. I hope he’s attending the meet.”
“Shut up, Em.” My hands slap together.
“If you have enough energy to talk, you have enough energy for fifty more push-ups,” calls Vanessa.
We’re seventeen, not seven–
“I see that face, Gregory.” Her small white shoes step in front of me. “You want another fifty?”
“Vanessa, this is getting excessive–” Matt cuts in.
“You can’t baby her forever, Matt. Doing fulls into the pit all practice isn’t getting her back to where she needs to be.”
Okay, one second. That’s been my decision, not Matt’s.
“They had a hard workout today,” Matt says.
“Why do you think the other girls left?” The shoes pivot and walk away. Nicola gulps next to me, trying to control her breathing so we can listen.
For as long as I’ve been at South Ocean, it’s been the duo of Vanessa and Matt. Vanessa leads the younger children through the lower-level compulsories and passes them to Matt for the higher levels, though she’s always watching, calculating, commenting, and punishing when she deems fit. Matt’s quicker to encourage and joke with us when we’re grumpy. They’ve always worked out the balance.
Until now.
“Why?” Matt’s voice is quiet, bracing itself.
“They weren’t being pushed to what they’re capable of.”
“Or they wanted to bone their boyfriends,” Emery mutters. “Sorry,” she adds with a contrite look at the twins, but they’re too riveted by the exchange to notice.
Face down. Push up. Clap.
“Their parents want to know all those years of money and competitions and injuries weren’t for nothing,” Vanessa continues. “Division III gymnastics doesn’t cut it.”
The comment stings, though haven’t I thought the same? Ocean State or bust?
Coach Barry and the ferocious pump of his handshake, his heavy abuse of exclamation points (heavy abuse of exclamations, period). Based on the videos that Emery and I watched at McDonald’s, his team isn’t hurting for talented athletes.
Matt’s voice doesn’t rise. He leans against a padded pillar, casual–like he’s waiting for practice to start. Somehow he seems less offended than all of us, but I guess he knows Vanessa better than we do. “Just because it was that way for you doesn’t mean that it’s all about the scholarship for every athlete.”
Vanessa walks farther away and we all hold our breath. “You could have her coach the little ones,” she says quietly. “They look up to her. It would be an easy transition.”
Nobody needs to whisper to confirm whom her refers to.
I signed on to teach a few classes of little kids. I didn’t sign on to be in the gym at the same time as my teammates and not be flipping, because as I learned very quickly after blowing out my knee, the thought hurt too much.
I’m prepared to stand up and end these shenanigans once and for all when Matt speaks for me. “She wants to compete.”
“You want her to compete. The girl’s coming off ACL reconstruction. She’s terrified of everything. It’s all over her face.”
First you give me an extra hundred push-ups, and then you insult me?
“Can’t baby them forever, can we, Vanessa?” Matt claps once and we spring to our feet. “That’s enough, ladies. Line up.”
VANESSA ACCOSTS THE four of us in the lobby. I’ve jammed my feet into my shoes, brace still on, no pants or sweatshirt. I’m ready to get the hell out of here.
“I want to talk to you girls,” she says.
The problem with Vanessa is that, up close, she’s not so intimidating. You can see that her eyeliner’s a bit smudged, that she still has holes pierced in her cartilage. Like we might have something in common.