My feet slip as soon as I climb up on the beam. I fall on every layout step-out. My leap looks like a large step, but not for mankind. Spectators gasp as I stumble out of my full turn and catch myself an instant before my face hits the beam. Now my wrists hurt, and this isn’t even the real competition.
Under normal circumstances, this would be funny. I almost want to laugh now, except I see Emery’s face. Her cheeks bulge from the straight, set line of her mouth. She’s worried. Sure, judges are “objective,” but I’m slated to compete before she does, and if I go up there and perform like that, I’m setting the tone that South Ocean Gymnastics is a joke.
Matt says nothing to me. He doesn’t have to. I couldn’t possibly have done worse.
Get in the building.
The thirty-second warm-up is much less disastrous, yet I still feel unsteady, like landing will make my knee crumble within the Beast.
Now there’s only one gymnast ahead of me. I don’t watch her; I learned one thing from Vanessa. Instead, I read the glittery posters that a few boys lift after a girl dismounts bars. I smell the hot dogs from the concession area. Feel the pulse of energy as one section bursts into cheers while another lets out a disappointed “ohh.” The crest and fall of the wave.
Normally I’d see my parents in the middle row–not up front with the hardcore parents, but not in the back where they couldn’t see. Worksheets to be graded on my father’s lap. He never got through much grading.
I could have told them.
Nope.
Matt nudges me toward the beam. “You can do this. Confidence and attack, okay?”
“Yeah.” It’s a whisper. The ghost of the formerly cocky kid.
I stand next to the beam as the judges scribble their scores from the previous routine. I’m sure they don’t have much to deduct. I’m sure they don’t need to confer about their scores. I’m sure this doesn’t need to take ten minutes.
I could walk away while they’re writing. Walk past Matt’s hand reaching out to stop me, past Emery’s protests–
“Savannah?” The head judge–salt-and-pepper hair, dark-blue glasses that match her navy blazer– raises her hand.
I raise my arms and flash the tense smile of prom photos. No turning back now.
I press up to a handstand. I don’t hold it for as long as I can, but a few people applaud. I’m on.
My movements feel crisper than practice, a sharpness born of fear. I lift one hand up and flick the wrist, the same way Vanessa made us practice in the mirror when I was ten.
Pike jump, straddle jump. The beam reverberates beneath me.
Now for the flight series. I raise both arms over my head with my stomach clenched and the Beast squeezed behind my left leg. I pause long enough to think, Oh, God.
As soon as I lift in the air for the layout, I’m crooked. Save it save it save it–left foot hits the beam, right foot reaches to the ground, and I’m off.
Dammit!
“Get it back, Savannah!” Emery calls.
Get what back? I’m allowed thirty seconds to remount, but I’m already up on the beam again, ears burning. My full turn wobbles so severely that I look like a surfer on a tsunami. I stay on and hear applause.
Screw their clapping. Pose. Pose. I shouldn’t be here. Pivot turn. Jumps. Leap pass. Split jump-back tuck with a wobble so huge, the beam’s shaking might register on the Richter scale. Pose. Get off. Get out of here.
I run to the end of the beam, punch with two feet, flip and twist once, land on my ass.
A smattering of hands as I salute the judges. Matt walks toward me and I sidestep him. Why did he make me feel like I could do this? Was Vanessa right, that this was his dream and not mine?
His hand reaches for a low-five. “Way to stick it.”
I walk to my gym bag and pull on my warm-ups a little too ferociously. The armpit stitches pop out to create a nice hole.
“What are you getting uppity about?” Matt says. I try to focus on someone’s Requiem for a Dream floor music instead of listening to him. “You’ve been practicing full beam routines for three weeks. What did you expect?”
Not to fail.
“This was about getting yourself back out there, physically and mentally,” he continues. “It’ll be easier next meet.”
Next meet, seriously? I’m not going through this again.
Matt’s attention turns to Emery. “Bring it home, Em,” he calls. I give a half-assed clap.
Well, she brings it home big time. She nails every move in her routine, and as she lands her dismount, my inglorious 7.5 lights up the electronic scoreboard.
“Good job, Savannah,” she says as the Express girls pass by and offer her their compliments. “You have serious cojones.”
“Right.”
Emery grins. “Reenacting the Snowflake Invitational hissy fit all over again?”
“That was totally justified! Monica spilled Gatorade on my grips.”
“The grips that you said didn’t fit you?”
“So?”
“Then you placed third.”
True. My last recorded success on bars.
Her gym bag bounces against her hip as she walks. I jog to keep up. “If it weren’t for your knee, I bet you’d do a killer floor routine to make up for it,” she says.
“What are you trying to say?”
Emery stops. “Nothing.” Her green eyes are wide. “You just never back down. It’s awesome.”
Mean it? Her gaze stays steady. Sincere. Not trying to trick me into anything the way Matt did.
“Thanks,” I say.
Her 9.825 is posted and everyone near the beam bursts into applause. Yep, that’s how you get a full ride. Matt high-fives her. “Let’s keep the ball rolling on floor.”
If my father were here, we’d make eye contact from across the gym. He’d lift his head as if to say, Next event. Get going. Except today, I don’t have a next event. I have at least three more hours of watching everyone else compete.