Finding Our Balance Page 2

  “You have been reaped for the 2016 Hunger Games,” Ruby jokes. “Be prepared to die, because you probably will, but have fun!”

  Okay, so I’ve been calm through every workout and test up to this point, but once the realization that this one day could determine my future sets in, I can feel my heart do a double back.

  “Don’t listen to her,” Natasha rubs my back to soothe me. “It’s your first time, so I don’t expect you to be perfect, but I do expect you to do your absolute best.”

  “I don’t expect you to be perfect but I do expect you to be perfect,” Ruby snarks. How is Ruby so relaxed? I am going to throw up, cry, and explode all at the same time.

  “You know what I mean, brat. Okay, start jogging. Get warm. Whatever happens today, just please, don’t suck.”

  ***

  When “Eye of the Tiger” finishes, I click off my iPod, twist the earbuds into a perfect coil, and secure them with a rubber band before slipping them into my gym bag. It’s the most ridiculous song ever, but it’s the one my dad used to play in the car on the way to my level 4 meets when I was just starting out.

  I’m a creature of habit. I trust rules, tradition, patterns…the beat of a song or the texture of my favorite leo controls the chaos of the world outside my brain. I feel at home a thousand miles away, and nothing can break my focus.

  Unlike at actual competitions, there are no announcers or emcees at the farm, no music pumping through a stereo system between events, and no scoreboards boasting results. The day is quiet and smooth without the distractions of an arena, though I can’t help tensing a bit at the thought. Those “distractions” are all very much a part of my routine.

  “I didn’t fall on beam in practice the other day, and it was so quiet, I could hear my heartbeat,” I reason, nibbling my thumbnail. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Second breakfast?”

  I look up to see Emerson standing over me. I suddenly make a resolution to stop biting my nails, and refocus my jittery hand’s attention to adjusting my bobby pins.

  “I’m before you in the lineup,” Emerson says. “Like, right before you. Alphabetical.”

  “Cool.” I’m looking everywhere but at Emerson, not wanting her to see the nerves on my face. Nail-biting is a tell-tale sign that I’m a hot mess inside, and Emerson will totally use that against me. So much for fooling the competition.

  “It’s gotta suck for you, right? Like, the nobody opening act usually goes before Beyoncé, not after. If they went after, no one would care. Everyone would leave.”

  I smile, and then Emerson’s words actually hit me. What the eff? I keep the smile glued on my face, mostly out of shock. I have no idea how to respond. My initial “oh em gee, Emerson Bedford is actually talking to me” excitement quickly fades to “I can’t believe this bitch is trying to psych me out.” Yeah, so I haven’t been on the elite scene for long, but I grew up in gyms that were all about encouraging your teammates, not pushing them off a cliff.

  I consider this while gathering the rest of my things, which I toss into my duffel bag. “I’m gonna go grab a bottle of water,” I say, speed-walking towards the cooler where Ruby’s doing press handstands.

  “Emerson talked to me yesterday because she saw my beam,” I say, throwing my things down next to her.

  “Yeah, and?” She finishes her set and drops down to her butt. “You’re still crapping your pants about it?”

  “She even brought up my start value, probably because it’s higher than hers. She’s totally afraid I’ll beat her on beam and she’s trying to mess with my head.”

  “Wait, what?”

  I relay my Emerson encounter to Ruby’s delight.

  “This is your third time here and she’s already terrified of you!”

  “Why would she be afraid of me? There’s no way I could ever beat her at anything. Except like, beam, I guess. Maybe.”

  “Okay, but even if that’s true, being better than her on beam means you’re better than her at something. That literally makes her homicidal. She’s the best for a reason and it’s not all about gymnastics. I’ve seen plenty of girls come through the ranks all talented with big skills, but Em’s like a drug-sniffing dog with that stuff. She always finds them. And destroys them.”

  “Great, have a good meet, I’m just gonna get on the next plane home.”

  “No, because you’re not gonna let her get to you. You’re pissed off?”

  “Um…yeah.”

  “Good. Use it. That’s the problem with everyone else. When Emerson drags them down, they cower in fear. You need to be like…like a crazy ancient Greek warrior or some shit. Those guys just grabbed their weapons and went to town on each other without a second thought.”

  “Cool, I’ll just trident her to death when she dismounts bars.”

  “Come on, use your miiiiiiiiiind,” Ruby yells, mocking our old bars coach who was convinced gymnastics is 99% mental, 1% physical. I beg to differ. “For real, I remember when you started at MGMA and everyone was like, ‘well, she has zero talent, but she works hard.’ You’re a beast, and you have that weird Rain Man brain where you, like, zone out and become a rock star. You can have all the talent in the world – and you do, boo – but it doesn’t matter if you’re weak. You’re not weak. You’re gonna be awesome today and Emerson will be so jealous, her brain will leak out of her ears. Trust me.”

  “Okay, okay, okay. I’ll stay pissed. I’ll mentally destroy everyone here. I’ll kick ass. I’ll kick everyone’s ass.”

  “Yaaaaas, bitch! That’s my girl. Except don’t kick my ass. I’m like 85 in gymnastics years.”

  I grin and give her a big hug. Ruby’s pep talks are the best. I’m totally ready.

  ***

  I am a competitor. When I first started training at a high level, my coach would fall over laughing at my form and style – or lack thereof – but she never doubted my work ethic or my ability to hit my routines.

  “You’re like an ox, Mal,” Natasha would giggle. “Dependable and strong. A hot mess, but at least I never have to worry about falls.”

  Coaches would refer to my idols as graceful swans and nimble gazelles, so yeah, I was never exactly thrilled about my animal comparison.

  “But think about it,” Natasha would try to explain when I was 13. “Say you make a big team, for worlds or the Olympic Games. Even if you’re not the headliner or the star, you’re the reliable one anyone can count on. That’s a big job. Not everyone can handle that pressure, but you can.”

  She had a point, but I didn’t want to be known for my flexed feet or awkward dancing. I once overheard a coach say that my short muscular body and long arms made my uneven bars routine look like an ape swinging around on tree branches, especially compared to the long, lean, and elegant girls who swing naturally and beautifully with hyper-extended knees and perfectly pointed toes. Even when these girls are short on handstands or bend their elbows, judges don’t take deductions because they cover their flaws so well with their beauty. Me? I would get hit with tenth after tenth because my clunky style made the mistakes all the easier to see.

  I paid special attention to my problem areas going forward, attending ballet classes every morning before school and spending every ounce of free time working on my flexibility while drilling my coach’s notes into my brain – “point your feet, not just your toes! Glue your legs together from toes to thighs in a layout! Hit every handstand on bars! Make flipping on a four-inch beam look as natural as walking down the street! Your movements should be quick but not jerky; it’s all about being fluid!”

  The harder I worked and the older I got, my skills grew cleaner and my routines got stronger. I mimicked the smooth movement of the gymnasts I admired, and while I knew I’d never have their natural ability, I became an expert at faking it.

  My scores began to rise from good to great, and when it came down to me and Rebecca Miller for the level 10 title last year, I squeaked to the top of the podium by just a tenth of a point.

  “
It’s that attention to detail,” Natasha smiled, patting the gold medal around my neck.

  Not one to upset the yin and yang in the world by handing out no compliments with no criticism to balance it out, she added, “Now if only there was a way to teach expression. You look like a serial killer on bath salts with that creepy fake smile pasted on your face. Do people from Washington not have emotions?”

  Okay, so I’m no Emerson Bedford (who made people cry with her Swan Lake floor routine at worlds last year, by the way), and maybe my body line will never look naturally flawless, but my form is clean, my difficulty is solid, and Ruby’s right – I have the strongest mental game in the country, a far cry from the little girl who couldn’t do a somersault in front of gym moms at the Y.

  I walk over to the floor and find an empty spot where I can get in one last stretch before I have to join the lineup. Moments later, Emerson takes a spot next to me, her eyes glued to her phone.

  “Hey,” I decide to be diplomatic. “Good luck!”

  Emerson glances at me, smirks, and says, “I don’t need luck. Save it for yourself.”

  My heart flutters for a second, but I’ve already made up my mind about my response.

  “Your attempt at psychological warfare was adorable,” I whisper. “But if my beam scared you so much that you felt the need to resort to middle school levels of terrorism, just wait until you see the rest of my routines. I hope you like second place.”

  My threats are mostly empty, I know. I'm not winning gold or beating Emerson in the all-around anytime soon. But the look on Emerson’s face is more than worth the lie.

  Vera saunters through the door just then, our cue to stand in line and at attention, but I can’t help grinning at Emerson for one last blow.

  “Good luck!”

  Friday, April 15, 2016

  112 Days Left

  “You know the drill,” Vera announces to the line of the 14 of us who compete at the senior level. “The first group of seven will start on vault and the second group will start on bars with touch warm-ups at 9. For vault, touch includes two practice vaults each, and for bars, you get 30 seconds. After everyone has competed, you’ll trade places…vault group goes to bars, and vice versa. Then we’ll move on to beam and floor for the third rotation, and again swap for the final. Head now to your first event. Touch starts in two minutes. All right?”

  “Yes, ma’am, we are prepared and ready to win!” This is what we’re supposed to shout in response to Vera’s speeches before competitions, even though it seems ridiculous when we’re just at the farm and not actually competing against other teams.

  My first event is vault, and I’m third in the lineup. Natasha stays with me while our assistant coach, Polina, heads to bars with Ruby. Ruby can deal with things like coaching changes, but I’m pretty sure Natasha knows I’d lose my cool with even the slightest hair out of place.

  “Still nervous?” Natasha asks.

  “Well, yeah, but in a good way? Like, I’m pissed off, and that kind of cancels out the nerves.”

  “Mad? Why?”

  “Just…nothing.” The last thing I need right now is to rat Emerson out and have my coach tell Vera. “I’m 15. I’m mad at the world.”

  I sprint down the vault runway for my warm-up, a round-off back-handspring onto the table and then a layout with one and a half twists off. Vault used to be a nightmare for me, but it got easier once Natasha took me under her wing. My warm-up vault– a Yurchenko 1.5 – was once my competition vault, and now it’s just practice. I used to struggle and now I barely have to think about it.

  Panting, I jog back to Natasha, who smiles. “You looked clean.”

  I take a large sip of water. “Thanks. Now for the test.”

  For my second warm-up, I do my actual vault – the all-mighty Amanar.

  The Amanar has an entire full twist on top of my warm-up vault, making it two and a half twists in the air before landing. One of the most difficult vaults in the world, it’s something everyone wants, but only a few can actually hit. It took me a full two years to get it perfect, and this is my first time actually competing it, so it’s a bit of a risk. But if you want to make the Olympic team, it’s a necessity.

  Hitting the Amanar all comes down to following laws of physics. I trust physics. I trust that the vault will go well as long as I do everything precisely right each time. Once I got the positioning down in the gym, I was able to hit the vault every single time in practice, so my goal is to just do everything the same as always. “Every variable is the same,” I whisper to myself before running, picturing the vault in my mind. “You’ll be fine.”

  And I am. The landing isn’t my best; I guess I twisted a tiny bit too slowly, but even so, I still make it all the way around. The biggest problem is the step I take forward to steady myself, but even if something like that happens in competition, it’s so slight, the deduction won’t be too much. Saluting out of habit, I glance at Natasha, always waiting with a correction or two.

  “Good girl. I won’t talk about the step because I’m sure you know not to do it again. Notes…first, you piked your hips a little bit when you came off the table. Not bad, but your body was at maybe a 160-degree angle instead of a straight 180. Oh, and your pre-flight…when you did the back handspring onto the table, your feet came about three inches apart…one of those things judges might never notice, but try to be aware just in case. Glue your legs from thighs to toes.”

  “Anything else?” I’m still out of breath.

  “No. You looked amazing. Do it exactly the same, but a little quicker, a little tighter, and a little stronger, and your landing will be perfect. You ready?”

  “Yeah,” I say, hopping in place to keep my muscles warm. “I’m ready.”

  ***

  We compete one at a time at the farm, alternating back and forth between vault and bars until everyone’s done. I’m third in line in my group for the first rotation, and I move up a spot for each rotation that follows, making me second on bars, first on beam, and last on floor.

  Kaitlin Abrams is first on vault. I never watch the other girls compete, preferring to lose myself in the world of my iPod, earbuds in and eyes closed. I know Kaitlin vaults a Yurchenko full, basically the easiest vault Vera allows her athletes to compete, and the rest of her routines are lacking in difficulty as well. She’s not my competition at all.

  As soon as she finishes, the first athlete up on bars starts, and then it’s time for Emerson on vault. Okay, yeah, I don’t usually watch the other gymnasts, but I can’t help opening my eyes and peering sideways toward the runway as Emerson begins to run. She doesn’t have my power, and comes up a tiny bit short on the landing, making the two and a half twists look more like two and a quarter. But she covers it up well, hoping the last bit around so she’s facing front on the landing. She’ll definitely get a good score.

  I shove my iPod into my bag before jogging to the start of the vault track as one of the Logan twins mounts the uneven bars. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and picture myself sticking the vault.

  Natasha sidles up to me and whispers, “beeeee the vault,” nearly giving me a heart attack. No other coach would dare joke around at a moment like this, but Natasha knows how intense I get before my first routine. I need to loosen up, and a dumb joke always helped.