I joined Victor at Pav’s Place, busing tables. Most people don’t sit down at Pav’s. But those who did looked past me, seeing a shadow or nobody at all.
Victor was a big hit–whipping up surprise concoctions, speaking in crisp English to the businessmen and smooth Spanish to the laborers, to the men from our neighborhood. Even in the off-season, he came home with over one hundred dollars in tips a night. He finally quit in August when the packaging company gave him steady hours and better wages.
He could stand the looks at Pav’s. I couldn’t. “There’s nothing wrong with being invisible,” he said. “Nobody bothers you when they can’t see you.”
Except when they can, like the guys from school who came down to ask for a job but we had no openings. They looked at me and I heard them saying the usual things on their way out. Fuck this, fuck them all. And they piled into one kid’s Porsche and drove away.
One night this summer, Victor and I left Pav’s and a man stumbled across our path, face bloodied. “Ayúdame, hermano.”
Victor stared ahead.
“?Me explico?”
“I don’t speak Spanish.” Victor pulled me forward. “Sorry.”
He was Uncle Patrick at that moment.
I am not as wise as my brother, I guess. Otherwise I wouldn’t get so upset on behalf of others so easily.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
ISTARE AT the letter until Emery honks outside. It makes my heart ache for tiny Marcos and Victor in Texas, saying goodbye to their parents. For Marcos now, who carries the shadow of fear that’s hardened over time.
Cassie, my oldest and best friend, won’t let me in. When she does, it’s in patches and angles, all of it on her terms, and then she shuts down as quickly as the shutter on her camera.
In those pages, Marcos has finally let me in.
“Ready to rock this, champ?” Emery has the bass thudding and the G-man pumping.
I slide in next to her. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
THE FLOOR EXERCISE is filled with bodies: tiny girls in sparkly leotards and perky ponytails, older girls with knees and ankles and wrists bound by tape and braces. They stretch in precise lines, holding handstands, leaping, and turning.
I want to run out the door.
“What took you so long in the bathroom?” Emery’s glittery eyelids narrow. With her brown hair pulled slick into a tight bun and her ratty shorts replaced by the blue-and-silver long-sleeved leotard, she looks like a different person. She pulls me to the beam landing mats, the only free space in the gym. “I thought you made a break for it.”
“And blow that seventy bucks? No, thanks.”
“Thank God for your cheapness.”
Sitting down to stretch makes me feel almost normal. I bury my face in my knees and close my eyes, relishing the deep pull in my hamstrings.
“We’re starting on beam, F.Y.I.”
Awesome. One event, followed by three hours of nothing.
Matt crouches next to me. “How’s the knee?”
“Okay,” I say. “No weird cracking yet.”
When it’s time for march-in, we stand on the floor with the other teams. We wave when the announcer says, “South Ocean Gymnastics!” A few people politely applaud. The national anthem plays–a slow, dramatic rendition. On the perimeter of the floor, Matt stifles a yawn.
I always used to make a wish at this time, as if “The Star-Spangled Banner” was equivalent to “Happy Birthday.” Maybe “prayer” is a better word. Either way, I’d give my last-minute shout-outs to karma or whoever else was listening.
Please let me stay on beam, and also let me qualify, and don’t let Vanessa yell at me while you’re at it.
Today it’s simple: Please don’t let me break.
THE WORST THING about competing beam? The warm-up.
Emery and I are the last to compete out of twenty girls in our squad. The other eighteen are from Express Gymnastics, so cleverly named for its location near the Long Island Expressway. They wear shiny black leotards with two yellow stripes down each arm. Ridiculous, if they weren’t so good.
On the warm-up beam, the first Express girl crams all her skills into two minutes. Then she goes to the competition beam, where in between competitors she gets a generous thirty seconds–the touch warm-up– to practice. Then it’s time to compete. Feeling shaky? Beam not to your liking? Too bad–you’re up.
Express Girl #1 scores a 9.575.
Express Girl #2 scores a 9.6.
Express Girl #3 scores a 9.4 and her coaches shake their heads.
By the time the fifth Express Girl salutes, my attention’s roamed to the girl who just stuck her vault. Then the tall girl whose legs bend wildly on her giants. Then the tiny one on floor who taps her toes in time to “Friend Like Me” from Aladdin.
Vanessa used to swat my ponytail if she caught me watching other gymnasts. “Get in the building, Savannah!” she’d hiss.
Back then, I’d get fired up. I can beat them, I thought when I watched the Express gymnasts bang out identical perfect routines. No despairing like my teammates did. “That was so good,” they’d lament. “I’m not gonna place.” Meanwhile, I’d see a girl stumble on floor. Got her, I thought.
Today, I only feel dread. What am I doing here?
Wrist guards. Preemptively taped ankle. The Beast. At this rate, I’m more “walking physical therapy ad” than human. The goddamn Beast draws everyone’s attention. All of the Express girls–they’ve seen me compete throughout the years, and they can tell that this is new. Some of them were probably at Regionals when my knee imploded.
“South Ocean,” calls the girl holding a stopwatch next to the warm-up beam.
I’m not ready. Not today, not six weeks from now. Cassie was right. Hell, Vanessa was right. Coach Barry had every right not to reply to my last-ditch e-mail. He too knows I’m a sham. Olympians don’t trifle with people like me.