I sit at the edge of the floor and feel the shake of each tumbling pass. The thud-thud-pause-thud. This floor is so springy that Emery nearly bounces off when she lands her double back. She looks concerned. Matt signals her to get her ready for the next turn. He knows she’ll be fine. Funny how I can believe Matt believing in Emery, but not in me.
The girls cease tumbling and practice their dance: quick spinning turns, sharp straddle jumps, leaps that stretch beyond a full split. The smallest Express girl struggles to keep up. She stumbles out of every jump. Her face reddens. The curls slip from her ponytail. Each attempt progressively worsens until the coach yanks her arm and says, “If you don’t cut the crap, I’m scratching you from floor.”
Scratching you? This kid who can’t be more than ten and surely nervous enough to pee her leotard, just because of a few jumps? What does it matter if she bombs the warm-up? What does it matter if she bombs one floor routine on one afternoon in one gym? What happens when she grows up and breaks an ankle or tears every ligament in her knee and wishes she had one more routine left for one more day?
Suddenly my breathing comes quickly. I shed my warm-ups as Matt walks over. “You’re first,” he says. “Get that salute ready.” The rule is that even if you’re scratching an event, you still must officially present yourself to the judges so you can earn that zero.
I feel the carpet under my feet as I step onto the floor. My legs wobble. Get going.
“Savannah?” says the judge, a young blonde.
I raise my arms and smile. Now I’m supposed to turn and walk off the floor, letting Emery take my place and earn more near-perfect scores.
What kind of girl are you? That’s what my father wanted to know.
My right toe points behind me, my right arm covers my face, and my left arm stretches behind me. My breathing is so loud that surely the judges can hear it.
This kind.
A long, long pause. Then Matt says to the music person, “Put it on Track 3.”
Although it’s been months since I heard this music, my arms strike the violin chords just as they used to. My jumps snap up and down. I pivot into the corner, stare down the diagonal, and sprint like there’s no way in hell I can fail.
Please don’t let me break.
I lift into the air–oh God oh God oh God–pull in my arms–spin twice–land with such momentum that I bounce over the white line. Out of bounds, an automatic one-tenth deduction.
Emery screams, “Yes!” Applause from all sides of the floor. “Go, Savannah!” voices shout. Who is cheering and why? Who am I to them?
My leaps are high and fast the way they used to be. Everything is right. Everything is the music and motion and hitting every beat. Until I stand in the corner for the final pass as the music hits a crescendo and my vision turns blurry and I feel the leaden cry of every muscle that wants to collapse.
As I start to run–jog–a tremendous wave of noise erupts from the bleachers. The sound of dozens of feet pounding the metal. “Let’s go, Savannah!”
I rise on that wave. Close my eyes, bring my knees to my chest, flip and land with a stumble, leap to the ground, pose. Music ends.
When I stand to salute, chest heaving, the wave is even louder. Marcos. Marcos and the entire varsity soccer team stand in the bleachers, pumping fists and high-fiving each other like I’ve just scored the winning goal. Like I’ve done something worth celebrating. Around the floor, every Express girl applauds.
Emery jumps on me with a hug so ferocious that I almost fall over. “You are my hero!” she shouts in my face.
Matt’s hug is just as tight, if more dignified. “Surprised?” I gasp out.
He shakes his head. “Never surprised. Just impressed.”
Dimitri and Andreas wave frantically as the meet director walks over to shush them. “Sa-van-nah!” they chant in unison.
My legs cramp so tightly that I can hardly walk. Then again, I shouldn’t consider walking when I can’t even breathe without gasping. Emery’s music starts and I try to watch, but my vision’s still rocky and my mind runs faster than my breathing.
Did that just happen? And did I really just survive it?
One more routine on one more day.
I VAULT, TOO. A front handspring with a full twist, where I hit the table with my hands, pop off, spin once, and land on my feet. No flips, no frills. It’s a vault I haven’t played with since I was ten, but it achieves my second-highest score of the day: 8.3. Five of the Express girls faceplant their vaults. So does Emery. But she stands up and laughs.
I attempt a bar routine that merits a shocking 8.425. The soccer team whoops in approval the way they have after all of my routines. The stands have cleared out around them. “You qualified for States!” Matt exclaims, spinning me around.
“What? No.”
“Yes.” He places me on the floor and the gym wobbles. “32.225.”
After he punches the numbers into his phone and shows me, I take it and tally the scores myself.
A year ago, I would have been aghast. A 32 all-around? An 8.0 on floor? I would have been praying that Coach Englehardt didn’t search the Internet for my scores.
Today, they feel like a gift.
Matt takes the phone back. “I gotta text Vanessa and let her know to start looking for hotels in Brockport.”
I can’t stop smiling.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
TOMORROW WILL BE hell on my knees, but the lightness hasn’t left. I want to gallivant in the road, spin in the sand, wave the Beast over my head, and let loose a mighty holler.
“Marcos faked a stomach virus this morning, but he has to work the dinner shift,” Andreas told me after the meet. “He says you need a cape to complete your superhero look.”
“That was freakin’ awesome,” Dimitri added. “How do Dre and I sign up?”
Out of the whole soccer team, they seemed the most wowed by the experience. (Although I also fielded several, “Your friend Emery–she single?” remarks.
“You promised, Savannah!” Andreas winked at Emery as she joined us. “The sport of gymnastics will never be the same.”
Marcos sent me a text before he went into work. You were amazing out there. I’ve never seen you so happy.
We need to talk. I know this.