Letters to Nowhere(23)

There wasn’t much logic to my avoidance of certain places or things, but still…how was I supposed to make it go away? How did Jordan and Coach Bentley get through this? Is that why they left England? Or maybe it had something to do with Jordan’s mom being British, but Bentley being American. Maybe he wasn’t allowed to stay?


Mom AND Dad,




Where are you?




Love, Karen





CHAPTER SEVEN





February 12

Jordan,




There’s still one magazine under the bathroom sink. I’m afraid to tell you because I have a feeling you’ll tell me it’s a rite of passage into adulthood to look at porn and not have to cover my eyes, but I’m not sure I can do that. Also, do you really need to shave Every. Single. Day? If you’re trying to impress me with your manly ability to grow hair quickly, I’d rather just have the extra 15 minutes in the bathroom.




Thank you, Karen




P.S. After reading your essay on Catcher in the Rye from last year, I’ve decided that you are most definitely smarter than me. And I really, really hate knowing that.




“Have you done any goal planning or mental toughness exercises in gymnastics?”

Jackie smiled after seeing my startled expression. She’d told me awhile back that I had to translate gymnastics for her, so the last thing I expected was for her to understand the mental training required at my level.

“You look surprised,” she laughed. “In grad school I worked with collegiate athletes and did my thesis on the results of mental training programs. Mostly cross–country, soccer, track and field. No gymnastics.”

“We do weekly goal setting and mental toughness exercises with Stacey, our beam coach.”

“Perfect,” Jackie said. “Then go ahead and tell me some of your short–term goals.”

I twisted my hands in my lap. “Well, I’m leaving for National Team training camp tomorrow. I’d like to do well there.”

“And if you do?” she prompted.

I shrugged. “Guess I’m not sure exactly what will happen, but the committee could select me to compete in the American Cup in April. That’s a pretty big deal and it would be my first senior international meet, but they’re only picking three girls, so it’s a long shot.”

“And if you don’t get picked, then what?”

“Keep training,” I answered without hesitation. “The camps are a chance for them to check in and see how everyone’s skills are looking and how the coaches are doing. It’s cumulative and we have another one next month.”

Jackie x–rayed me with her therapist laser–beam eyes. “Does the fact that you’re supposed to be heading to UCLA in June hurt your chances with these National Team Committee people? College gymnastics is like retiring for you, isn’t it?”

I drew in a deep breath. Grandma must have told her about UCLA. I looked down at my hands again. “I don’t know. The last camp I went to was before we announced that I’d signed on with UCLA.” Stacey had gone with us to the last couple of camps and she hadn’t mentioned UCLA to anyone. Neither had Bentley. It was Coach Cordes who had let the cat out of the bag right before Christmas by posting something on the Bruins’ gymnastics team Facebook page.

“I see,” Jackie said. “I’m giving you another assignment. I’d like you to bring in a list of your long–term goals beyond this training camp and beyond June.”

Long–term goals. Like the plan Dad had made me and Mom write down. And the compromise plan he’d come up with. The plan I was currently debating whether or not I should void in their absence. Just thinking it made me feel guilty. And yet, I still wanted everything I’d wanted that day in the kitchen with my parents. If anything, the dream was even more alive in their absence. It represented a part of my past that included them.

***

After two weeks of living with my coach and his teenage son, I still hadn’t been able to bring myself to sleep anywhere in my new room but the closet. A couple nights ago, I did fall asleep on the living room couch watching TV.

Today, my four teammates and I were on a plane headed to Houston for our first National Team training camp since early November, and none of us St. Louis Gymnastics Institute girls were exactly in the best condition at the moment. My right shoulder was really sore and Ally, our athletic trainer, was already planning to schedule an x–ray and possibly an MRI for me next week. Ellen was getting over the flu. Blair’s shins had been killing her for the last week and she would probably be in the running for an MRI as well.

And Stevie hadn’t competed at Nationals last summer because that was during her retirement, so she wasn’t even ranked. She and Coach Bentley had to submit a video to the National Team staff proving she was at least at eighty percent of where she was prior to the last Olympic trials. The problem was—Stevie had to know this—twenty–five girls in this country were equal to Stevie’s eighty percent, pre–retirement self. She was on this trip because of her past success. Most likely, this weekend would be her only chance at a second chance.

“You think Jordan will be okay on his own for three days?” I asked Bentley after the plane had taken off. He and I were seated in row ten, while the other three were all the way back in row twenty–nine. The four of us girls had huddled in the airport bathroom, drawing straws to see who had to sit by the coach. Honestly, I didn’t think it was fair that I had to be in this contest, considering I lived with the guy now. But of course, I drew the short straw.