Letters to Nowhere(47)

“Hi, girls!” Scott, the reporter, said. “How’s training going? We heard you were doing a little meet in Chicago before the American Cup.” He didn’t even wait for us to answer. His eyes darted toward Bentley, who was talking to the other NBC people, and then he zoomed in on me. “I’m so sorry to hear about your parents, Karen. Just wondered if we could sit down and talk to you about it and about how brave you are to get back in the gym and keep working toward your goals.”

My mouth fell open but no words would come out. I could feel sweat pooling on the back of my neck. The last thing I needed was to have an emotional breakdown on national television or to have the entire country know me for my sob–worthy orphan story rather than for my gymnastics.

Coach Bentley strode across the lobby, placed his hands on my shoulders and turned me around. “Time for bars, girls. Scott, you are welcome to take as much training footage as you’d like, since apparently Nina Jones has already given permission for NBC to enter my gym.”

Holy cow, Bentley is pissed.

I managed to get through my competition routines, blocking out the cameras and Jordan watching. He must have done something amazing to charm Stacey into allowing him to stand near the beams while she coached the level 7s. Blair had her grips off to repair a rip on her right palm, so I let her fix my sweaty hair into a bun while we waited for Bentley to get an extra crash mat under the high bar. I didn’t want to look like a complete slob for NBC.

Blair dropped her hands from my hair, declaring it finished, and Bentley stood under the high bar, ready for me to take my turn.

“The key is patience, Karen,” he said. “Let your toes rise all the way up before you let go.”

I nodded, visually playing out his suggestion in my head. I spat on each grip once more before jumping into my mount on the low bar. Before the Jaeger, in my routine, I had to turn my hands to an inverted grip and then I swung facing the low bar, my heels leading the way around.

I held on a half second too long, and there was nothing I could do to correct the mistake. I flew upside down, my forehead dangerously close to the high bar Grabbing it wasn’t really an option. Bentley caught me, midair, around the waist, but my momentum was already heading toward the floor. Bentley eventually released me, and I was able to forward roll out and return to my feet.

My legs were shaking, and I did everything I could to wipe any trace of fear or surprise from my face. If that had given Bentley a heart attack, you’d never have known by looking at his face. He just rubbed his bald head and said, “A tad bit late and too much heel drive. Patience isn’t just for timing the release, it’s also for the kick up to the handstand. You had a little too much too soon. That’s going to screw with your timing.”

Instead of replaying the fall in my head, my brain was already fixing it. I dipped my hands in the chalk bin again, watching Jordan from the corner of my eye. He had moved a couple feet closer and was now biting his left thumbnail. I almost smiled at him, but I didn’t want anyone to notice me noticing him.

Blair and Ellen each had a quick turn and then I was back on the bars, swinging into my front giant swing.

“Slow and easy, Karen,” Bentley reminded me.

This time I was too early, which pushed me far away from the bar. I landed with a smack, flat on my stomach, briefly feeling the wind whoosh out of my lungs, my rib cage vibrating from the impact.

I lay there for a second, face pressed into the landing mat, closing my eyes and waiting for the pain to fade. I pulled myself to my feet and heard Bentley’s correction as I headed to get more chalk.

“Just a little early,” he said. “And keep the midsection tight…”

Keep the midsection tight was Bentley’s socially acceptable way of saying squeeze your butt. That was a common correction in gymnastics, because the abs and butt are at the center of the body, and not keeping the middle tight caused all kinds of form problems and falls.

I used a towel to wipe the sweat from my face and re–chalked, waiting for my next turn. After ten more misses, several instances of losing my breath, a huge bloody rip on my left palm, and one very hard accidental elbow jab to my coach’s stomach, Bentley told me to call it quits for the day.

It wasn’t until then that I started fighting off tears. I didn’t want NBC to catch sight of me crying and turn it into something that it wasn’t, so I turned my back to them and stuck my hands in the chalk bowl again. “One more try,” I pleaded with Bentley.

“Karen—” he started to say.

“Please, one more and I won’t bug you again for the rest of the week.” Which basically meant tomorrow, since it was Friday.

He sighed. “All right.”

I took several slow, deep breaths and used my knuckles to wipe away a couple tears that had trickled down my cheek. I didn’t even notice Jordan coming up beside me until he said, “I thought the point was to catch the bar?”

“Seriously, Jordan, not in the mood,” I snapped.

“Okay.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You’re forgetting to breathe.”

“I’m breathing right now,” I said through my teeth. What was up with him today?

“I mean before you release the bar. It’s just one long exhale. Or a really long word.”

Stevie joined me at the chalk bin, her eyes on Jordan. “He’s a coach, he should know.”