Letters to Nowhere(4)

It’s going to be weird living with him, isn’t it? For some reason, I have visions of him technically analyzing everything I do, like counting my steps when I walk from the table to the fridge, like we do for our vault runs. Or maybe he’s going to watch everything I eat and criticize my diet. I’ve heard stories about coaches who do that. At least I don’t have a Lucky Charms and chocolate addiction like Blair.




I’ll write you again with an update after I get some time to assess the situation.




Love, Karen



***

“The movers offered to drive your parents’ car over here, but I told them to leave it at the house for now,” Bentley said, watching my face carefully.

After the weirdly personal afternoon with the lawyer and Grandma nearly two weeks ago, we both reverted to our normal, impersonal coach/gymnast relationship. I broke the spell briefly by not objecting to the car being safely out of sight. The car I used to drive to the gym and to Blair’s house if my mom didn’t need it. We hadn’t decided on a car for me yet. My dad had wanted me to practice more on our family vehicles.

Coach Bentley led me inside his town house and up the stairs. He turned the last knob on the right and I sucked in a breath as the door swung open. I knew what I’d see, I knew what I’d have to face, but it still hit me hard.

Coach cleared his throat as if anticipating a tearful moment and wanting to worm his way out of it. “There’re still a few boxes in the garage and on the bookshelves. They wouldn’t fit. Your room at home must have been . . .”

I lifted my eyes to meet his—brown and unreadable—before striding into the room. “Bigger. My room at home was much bigger.”

“Right.” He swung his arms back and forth; the bulk of his biceps from years of ring and high bar routines prevented a normal human range of motion, making this moment even more awkward.

My bedroom furniture was only about a year old. When I turned sixteen, my mom decided I needed something more mature than the white wicker set I’d had since before preschool.

I tossed my gym bag onto the bare mattress of my full–sized platform bed and tried not to inhale the scent of home that still leaked from its pores. “I should probably get ready for practice.”

Coach Bentley’s face snapped back into place, the familiar, serious, down–to–business expression returning. “I’ve got a booster club meeting at the McKays’ house in a few minutes. Jordan can drive you to the gym when he gets home from school.”

Even after hearing this well over a week ago, I still couldn’t picture him as a father, let alone a father of a teenager. He never raised his voice. Not even when we really pissed him off. How can you parent a teenager without ever yelling?

Coach Bentley left me alone in my new room that smelled too much like my old one. I changed into my practice clothes and sweats as quickly as possible, practically throwing myself out the bedroom door and into the neutral hallway.

At twenty minutes to three, I was searching the kitchen cabinets of the three–bedroom town house, digging for something on the list of approved foods for elite athletes when I heard the front door swing open and slam shut. Before I could even get a glimpse of Coach Bentley’s unfamiliar offspring, he was thudding up the steps, slamming a second door and blaring music that would probably vibrate through the shared walls.

At a quarter to four, I headed upstairs and paced the hallway. I was already late for practice and yet I didn’t have the nerve to knock on my negligent driver’s door. It turned out I wouldn’t need to. Just as I was about to break down and call Coach Bentley, the door flew open and I came face–to–face (well, forehead to face, since I wasn’t quite five feet yet) with a blond, brown–eyed boy—white uniform shirt half tucked in, red tie loosened, top button already unfastened, shoes off. Not exactly the look of someone about to go out again. Like to give me a ride.

“Oh,” he said, diverting his eyes from mine. “You’re…uh…Cassie—”

“Karen,” I corrected, voice cracking. My experience with teenage boys was very minimal due to homeschooling the past three years and a girls–only gymnastics team taking up practically my entire life.

“Right, sorry,” he mumbled as he slid past me toward the stairs.

I spun around with my mouth hanging open, knowing the words would stay lodged in my throat. Jordan froze with his foot on the first step.

“Shit,” he said, the heel of his hand making contact with his forehead. “You need a ride, right? To the gym?”

“Yeah,” I said to the back of his head.

I followed as he thundered down the steps, whipped the door open, stuffed his feet in a pair of tennis shoes, not bothering with the laces, and headed outside. I hadn’t seen Jordan’s car earlier since he was at school, but I knew which was his right away, despite the nearly full parking lot. It was old, rusty, and a combination of puke green and purple. Something only a teenager desperate for freedom beyond a ten–speed bike would own.

I immediately opened the door to the backseat and started to get in, but stopped when Jordan shook his head.

“Seriously? I’d rather not look like a chauffeur if that’s all right with you.”

Even though my boy experience was minimal to nonexistent, I knew better than to tell him the backseat was much safer, especially when short people and airbags were involved, especially when this hunk of metal was being driven by an unreliable motor vehicle operator. Whenever I rode anywhere with Blair, her mom still made us ride in the backseat of their minivan. But Blair wasn’t old enough to drive yet, so that would obviously have to change soon. I sighed, decided it wasn’t worth making a scene, and climbed into the front passenger seat.