“I’m not trying to undermine Matt or the work you girls have done.” A boy cartwheels against Vanessa in his enthusiasm to run into the gym. She doesn’t sway. “I want you to consider what your goals are and to find a way to commit to them for every moment you’re here. If I didn’t get the scholarship to Arkansas, I would have gone to community college. And probably nowhere after that. I couldn’t afford it.”
Emery’s eyes are downcast. What would have happened if New Hampshire hadn’t pulled through for her?
“Savannah.” Vanessa’s face reflects the concern she feels when one of us receives a score that she believes is too low: rare, but genuine. “I hope that you’re in the gym because you want to be here, not because you feel obligated.”
“Angela Cardena is coaching at Owego,” Erica announces. “Savannah already e-mailed the coach. He’s probably gonna be like, ‘Can you start here this spring?’”
“Excuse me?”
Erica’s face says, I’m shitting myself. But her eyes stay on Vanessa. “We saw it online.”
“Barry thinks Savannah’s the greatest thing he’s seen since Angela Cardena’s bar routine,” Nicola joins in, and I want to hug both of them for being young and foolish and believing in me without any doubts.
“The knee brace sealed the deal,” adds Emery, not to be outdone. Make that three.
We all hold our breath. Then Vanessa smiles. “Well, I’m glad to hear it.” I can’t tell if she’s patronizing us, but the smile seems real.
YOU KNOW IT’S going to be a beautiful Saturday night when your parents have more exciting social plans than you do. They left the house all gussied up for the faculty’s Casino Night. So far my biggest fashion move has been changing from sweatpants to pajama pants. I’ve checked my e-mail fifteen times. I’ve turned my phone’s ringer off, telling myself that I don’t need technology’s interruption, and then immediately turned it back up. Either way, it makes no noise.
Cassie texted me again after I’d finished practice. What are you doing later?
Want to come over? I’d replied.
After several minutes passed, she’d written back, Out with Juliana. Will let you know. Hours later, that hasn’t happened.
I know that I have homework to finish and limbs to ice. Even so, I feel a knot of irritation that, whatever Cass has planned, it doesn’t include me.
Marcos had offered up a stream of text commentary from his night at Pav’s. Guy tripped over a salsa bottle; ambulance called.
Andreas is here and trying to convince me to serve him beer. One drink and he’ll be dancing on the bar.
Uh-oh. Just got slammed with teachers from the faculty Casino Night. Coach Doroski is doing shots. This is awkward…
Hey, your dad’s here. Should I introduce myself? : )
Marcos’s texts soon petered out–too many drunken teachers to deal with, I’d wager–and now I click on the Internet browser. There will be no e-mails. I am sure of it.
But instead of clicking on the e-mail tab, my fingers do something they haven’t done in a long while. They navigate to YouTube and type, “Olympic gymnastics.”
I watch Shannon Miller stick her first vault in the all-around final of the 1992 Olympics. Next video and there she is winning the gold on beam in Atlanta, eighteen years old and the “woman” of the team. Twelve years later, Shawn Johnson takes the beam gold.
By three thirty, my parents have long since returned and closed the bedroom door, and even Cassie, if she were out, would be finding her way home by now. My eyes are wide open, working through footage of the 1998 American Cup.
They land. They always land.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
DID YOU TALK to him yet? I read Cassie’s text from Marcos’s bed, where I’m working on an essay for AP Lit while icing my knee. When I’d sat down on the bed and my knee had cracked, Marcos had vanished into the kitchen and returned with a plastic bag filled with ice cubes, just the way I like it. The fact that he automatically knew that without asking made my stomach flip, silly as it sounds.
We’ve made it a week without Cassie bringing up Marcos, without Marcos leaping to anyone’s defense, and I’ve been able to focus my worrying on the meet tomorrow. I’d tricked myself into believing that the lull was permanent.
Just like my road tests, I don’t know why I expected a different outcome.
“How’s your knee holding up?” The door swings open and Marcos returns from the shower, mid-tugging a shirt over his head. I stare at his smooth tan chest until it’s covered again with the shirt. Damn.
He grins. Oh, he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Living large.” I roll up my jeans to show off my inflated knee. The three-inch scar, a dull pink, runs just off-center of the kneecap. “I’m going to get frostbite at this rate.”
“You’re dangerous,” Marcos says, and I almost spit out my water onto my laptop from laughing. “I’m serious!” he protests. “Have you looked at your calf muscles lately?”
“One looks like a shriveled eggplant compared to the other. Obviously you’re in this for my hot gymnast body.”
Worst. Joke. Ever. Heat floods my ears.
“Sure doesn’t hurt.” With that, he moves across the bed to sit next to me. I tense immediately, equal parts Take off your shirt again and I don’t know what I’m doing!
“I also like your laugh,” he says, and the nervous part of me lets out a tiny exhale. “Your ability to explain the difference between secant and cosecant is pretty nice, too. The way you talk really fast when you’re explaining a gymnastics skill, that’s something to appreciate. And the side comments you make when you think that nobody is paying attention.”
He slides closer, gently shutting my laptop and lowering it to the floor. “The way you stand up for what you feel is right, that’s pretty attractive.” His voice is low, husky, sending chills all over my skin.
“You left out my ability to fail my road test.” I watch the flex of his forearms as he shifts to face me. He smells fresh, cleanly scrubbed with just a hint of aftershave splashed on. His jaw is completely smooth, unobstructed, and I want to run my fingers down the bone.
“Can’t be good at everything. Wouldn’t be fair to the rest of us mere mortals.”