Finding Our Balance Page 11

  We all pile in – me, my parents, Ruby and her family, Natasha, Sergei, Polina, and Emerson. It’s only then that I notice Emerson is the only one of us not engulfed in her family’s attention. She’s on her phone, quietly texting or tweeting or something while my mom sarcastically comments on how classy the neon ceiling lighting is.

  “We’re going to some place called Mistral Kitchen?” Natasha says, checking her phone. “Emerson picked it out. It’s in Belltown, supposed to be delish. I trust you.”

  “I made sure it was gymnast diet-friendly, but don’t worry, non-gymnasts, the normal people food is also good,” Emerson quips.

  “I’ll never forget your birthday last year, Amalia,” my dad begins. “Our whole extended family is around the table eating cake and she’s sitting there with a popsicle. I’m surprised no one called children’s services.”

  Everyone breaks into laughter. “To be fair, it was a Firecracker popsicle, and those are amazing,” I add.

  The whole ride into the city is loud and cheerful, but Emerson only smiles occasionally, pretending to react to what’s going on but not really paying attention. On a whim, I take out my phone and scroll through Twitter, casually shielding my screen so no one peeks and sees me stalking my teammate. Because that’s what I’m doing.

  Aha, there’s one posted with a photo of the limo just as we were leaving the gym.

  Emerson Bedford @EmersonBedford – 31m

  Limo ride to Belltown for dinner at Mistral! Celebrating with the whole fam here. :) Best way to kick off the #USGAOpen2016!

  Um. I give her a glance. She’s staring at the window, watching raindrops drip down. I used to pretend they were in a race when I was a kid.

  Does she think Ruby and I won’t see what she wrote? I mean, yeah, Ruby probably wouldn’t notice, she barely reads her own messages let alone what others are blabbing about, but still. It’s weird.

  My mood drops from over-the-moon excited to kinda bummed when I realize I don’t know this girl at all. There’s obviously a reason her parents aren’t here, and probably an even bigger reason why she’s pretending they are. Now to just figure out what it is.

  ***

  Dinner is amazing, even if I can’t eat the good stuff.

  “Don’t worry,” my mom says, enjoying her whiskey apple turnover with brown butter ice cream. Ugh. “In three months the Olympics will be over and you guys can eat whatever you want.”

  “Yeah, and then when you step out in public for the first time, the press will call you obese because you weigh 110 pounds instead of 96!” Ruby retorts cheerfully, sipping her water. Funny because it’s true. Ruby stopped training for a few months after her injury and when she made an appearance at the Women in Sports banquet in 2013, people were brutal even though she was still in better shape than 99% of those with opinions.

  Emerson is perfectly charming throughout the meal, really playing it up to my star-struck parents. I blame myself. I’m the one who forced them to watch her every routine and TV appearance during my obsessive days. At the restaurant, there’s no hint of the sad girl from the limo. Girlfriend is amazing at faking it.

  The limo takes everyone around the city after we leave, doing drop-offs at or near homes and apartment buildings. Since my family doesn’t actually live in the city, we get the car to ourselves as it brings us back up to the suburbs, my parents finally able to examine every button and amenity without looking like the Beverly Hillbillies in front of the more sophisticated guests in our party.

  When we get home, my mom makes tea and we all collapse onto the living room sofas.

  “So, are you ready for this thing?” my dad asks.

  Am I ready? Physically, mentally, yes. I’ve never been more ready. The easy answer is yes, which is how I respond. No need to bring up the fact that I am emotionally a nervous wreck. I’m pretty good at dealing with my neuroses and anxieties at this point, and I know when it’s time to compete I’ll be fine. The last thing I want is my armchair psychologist dad analyzing me.

  “We wish we could be there,” my mom says, frowning. “Flights are so expensive, but the Spencers are going…it’s sad that you won’t have us.”

  “Nah, it’s just the qualifier.” I brush her off, though whenever she brings up money related to my gymnastics career, I can’t stop myself from feeling guilty. “You’ll see me in Boston. That’s when it counts.”

  “It’ll be even cooler watching you on TV,” my dad adds. “You know, there’s probably going to be some little girl out there watching you the way you used to watch Emerson.”

  I think about this 600 times a day and my mind is continuously blown by how crazy it is. Last year when I did the qualifier, I wasn’t very good. Because I was so super consistent as a level 10, Natasha and I both thought I’d stay mentally strong even when we upped my difficulty for elite. We were very, very, very wrong.

  I was lucky to make it as far as the Open a year ago, but when I got there and fell six times on three events – the only thing I didn’t screw up was my relatively easy vault – we knew elite just wasn’t in the cards yet. My newer and bigger skills were too much too soon, and I totally let my nerves take over. So the fact that I’m now at the point where I’m one of the gymnasts the cameras will follow is ridiculous.

  We lounge on the couch for a little while longer, something we don’t often do because by the time I usually get home from the gym, I have dinner to eat and homework to do, and my parents are usually so zonked from their own busy days, there just isn’t much time for family hangouts. We watch that night’s DVR’d episode of Jeopardy, yelling out the answers the way we used to do, until the tea – chamomile – makes me sleepy and I say goodnight.

  “Have a good flight,” dad says. “Call my office when you get to San Diego.”

  “I will. Love you.” I give him a big hug and he kisses my cheek. My mom’s taking the morning off to drive me to the airport for my 7:30 a.m. flight. My alarm is set for 4:30, so I should be able to get about seven hours in if I fall asleep immediately.

  “When you get back, let’s set up a time to chat,” my dad says as I trudge up the stairs. “I have a, uh…I have a surprise for you.”

  Surprise? My mind goes right to car shopping. I do turn 16 in November…a car would be a pretty sweet early birthday slash congrats on making it to nationals gift. And it makes sense, too…my parents would finally be off the hook for gym and airport trips.

  I grin to myself during my entire shower, throw on a cozy XXL cotton t-shirt, and climb in between the freshly washed sheets, wet hair and all. I click my small bedside fan on, more for the white noise than air circulation, and picture myself on the high bar when I close my eyes. I imagine myself swing giants, around the bar and back up into a handstand on top of the bar, over and over, counting swings instead of sheep.

  Eventually, it works – I feel myself slowly fading instead of listening to my mind race about every little worry I’ll have over the next few days. Before long, I’m totally zonked.

  Wednesday, May 11, 2016 -

  86 days left

  The Pacific Ocean is inviting as we loom overhead, getting closer and closer to earth. I’ve been pretty chill the whole way, but now seeing the city and beaches below, knowing I’m minutes away from disembarking in the city that is home to the Viejas Arena, the place where I’ll hopefully – okay, definitely – get one step closer to my Olympic dream? It’s too much.

  Everything has me on sensory overload. The landing, the airport, the car ride to our hotel, checking in – it’s too much, my mind is swimming with overstimulation, so I retreat into my head, trying to focus on breathing. It’s not until we get to our room – which is beautiful and overlooks the ocean – that I’m able to function like a human again.

  “You okay, Mal? Ready for the meet?” Ruby asks. We’re rooming together. Everyone else has their own rooms, including Emerson, who got a suite. Like, the craziest suite I’ve ever seen. Her bathtub is a whirlpool and when you lay down in it, water reflects
off the ceiling and walls, making it look like there’s a waterfall rushing around you. What is the point? I have no idea, especially when the ocean is inches outside the door. But I love it.

  “I’m good! I’m amazing!” The California sun is energizing as hell. I want to go for a run on the beach, do yoga every morning, eat avocados until I turn green, teach surfing to kids, wear sundresses every second of every day…why isn’t everywhere like Southern California?

  “I think I’m gonna nap before practice,” Ruby yawns, flopping onto the big bed with its thick down comforter.

  We don’t have to be at the arena until 3, so we have a little time to unwind. I want to be outside, so I grab my math book – cool, right? – and a towel, making up my mind to get my homework done on the beach. If you have to do math, you might as well do it while ogling surfers.

  Pacific Beach is literally steps away from our hotel, Tower23. It's a small beach, not many tourists, mostly locals with surfboards. I easily find a spot close to the water, set my phone alarm for an hour from now, and engross myself in the world of calculus. Rio is up in the air, but finals are happening, and soon. Like, whether I fail massively at nationals or sweep the titles, I still have to go straight home and take exams.

  I sprawl out on my stomach and dig my feet in the sand behind me. The waves crashing are great for concentration and I'm actually making it through a good chunk of these problem sets. Until…

  "Hey."

  Emerson.

  "Hi!" I slam my book shut. In the math versus Emerson battle, Emerson wins, though it's a close contest.

  She has a big blanket and spreads it out on the sand next to the ratty High School Musical beach towel I've had since second grade.

  "You ready?" she asks.

  "Yeah. Why does everyone keep asking me this?"

  "Well, you bombed it last year. Doesn't it make you nervous? History repeating itself?"

  "If this is a psych-out attempt it's pretty lame. Last year I was 10% the athlete I am now and it was my first time competing elite. History only repeats itself if people don't change." Note to self, become a motivational speaker after this whole Olympics thing.

  "Good one."

  "Are you ready?" Classic turning of the tables.

  "Why wouldn't I be?"

  "You're doing your two worst events."

  “This is just practice for me. Nothing at stake. Besides, my two worst events are better than most of these girls’ two best events.”

  She's right. I'd kill for her floor, which sometimes actually ends up being one of her highest-scoring routines because her execution is so perfect.

  Because I'm feeling bold, I bring up dinner. "I saw your tweet last night."

  "What tweet? If it sounded sub-tweety, I swear it wasn't about you."

  "No, the one where you said your parents were here."

  "Oh." She brushes sand off of her blanket as though she's brushing off the question. "Yeah, it's easier for sponsors and fans to just assume everything is normal in my life."

  "You're a back-to-back world champion. You took Zayn Malik to prom. Why would people assume things are normal?"

  She pauses, trying to figure out how to phrase what she's going to say. "Normal isn't the word. Perfect. People want perfection. They think because I'm good at gymnastics and win every title I must have everything together, perfect grades, perfect family, perfect life. It's easier to let the myth be the truth."

  "But it's not the truth.”

  "No, Sherlock Holmes. It doesn't have to be. People just have to think it is. Like when you're nervous at a meet but you can't let it show so you stand perfectly still, arms by your sides, staring straight ahead and not moving a muscle so no one's the wiser."

  Yep, that's me exactly. Emerson knows every last detail about those she considers her competition.

  Moments pass as we just watch the waves roll in and out. Finally, I have to ask.

  "So what is the truth?"

  Emerson sighs. "It's complicated." Just then a gaggle of junior elite hopefuls in swimsuits catch sight of Emerson, whisper excitedly to debate approaching her, and ultimately decide to run over. Emerson flashes a megawatt smile as she gets up to take photos and chat with the girls and their coach.

  I take this as my cue to leave. I shake out my towel, walk back up to the hotel, and climb the stairs to my floor. My hotel room door swings open as I turn the corner, but Ruby doesn't come out. It's Sergei.

  What the eff. I slip back into the stairwell undetected and peer through the window just in time to see Ruby pop out to give him a hug, her arms wrapped around his neck and his around her waist. Definitely not a "thanks for the pep talk" hug. More like an “I want to have your babies” hug.

  I wait for Sergei to go back to his room and count to a hundred before I return to the hallway so there's no reason for Ruby to suspect I know anything.

  Emerson’s family drama, Ruby’s inappropriate relationship, ain't nobody got time for that. We have practice in an hour.

  Before I swipe the key to get back in the room, I pinky promise myself that I won't obsess over anyone's personal lives. Drama-free is the life for me, and I have other things to worry about. Like making it to nationals on Saturday. I push open the door, smile brightly, and exclaim, "the beach was amazing!" Emerson's not the only one who can fake it.

  ***

  The Viejas Arena is massive.

  We come in through the athlete entrance, weave through the confusing backstage area that I’ll never figure out even with the signage, and walk out onto the floor. Normally San Diego State University’s basketball games happen here, and I’ve heard it also hosts the occasional concert. I stare out at the rows and rows of seats going what feels like miles up into the rafters. It’s crazy that in three days, these seats will be filled with butts. 12,400 butts if it sells out.

  As a level 10 gymnast my meets were usually in hotel conference centers or gyms, a few rows of folding chairs or collapsible bleachers set up for the parents. This is…pretty different. Even last year’s Open was in a comparatively small peewee hockey arena. People only really care about gymnastics during the Olympic year.

  The other major difference is the podium. Most meets are done with the equipment right on the floor, but the big U.S. meets get these raised podiums that are basically a bunch of table-like structures on top of steel frames. They’re like little stages, with each apparatus on its own perch.

  This is how the International Gymnastics Federation does things at worlds and the Olympics, so Vera makes sure everything down to the layout of the equipment in the arena is exactly as it will be on the international level.

  I competed on the podium last year and didn’t feel much of a difference…the equipment was maybe a little bouncier, but overall it’s not a huge adjustment. Still, before all of the big meets, we get to train on the podiums for a couple of days in advance just to get a feel for everything.

  I’m still gazing up at the seats when Emerson grabs my wrist and pulls me to the floor podium where we’ll start getting warm. “Get over it,” she hisses. So yeah, she’s probably mad about me prying into her personal life. Fantastic.

  We’re the first ones here. Emerson chooses a select spot on the floor where we begin stretching casually before the formal warm-up with the rest of the competitors. Girls slowly file in, many as excited as I was to see the gargantuan space, but some – like the always-charming Maddy Zhang – are more like Emerson with their “been there, done that” attitudes.

  “Is this gonna be super awk for you?” Ruby asks Emerson, nodding toward the group from her last gym, Windy City, walking in.

  Emerson, who’s in a middle split, gives them a glance and then turns back to us, stretching down into the floor until her back is flat and her face touches. “Nope.”