Letters to Nowhere(83)

Bentley laughed a short laugh. “I bet it did.”

I thought about his albums and the affectionate way Bentley had talked about Anna and Eloise in the garage a few weeks ago. “Do you think it’s wrong for me to hate them? It seems like you’re supposed to put people on a pedestal after they’re gone and make them sound even better than they were, but I haven’t been able to do that, and I really can’t do it now.”

“I don’t think anything you’re feeling can be labeled as wrong,” he said. “It is what it is.”

“Why did you want to keep the autopsy report from the media? I know why my grandma would want that, and my dad’s law firm, but you?”

He nodded like he’d been expecting me to ask that question. “When I heard about your parent’s accident, I was devastated for you, of course, but I knew my head was much clearer than your grandmother’s or anyone emotionally close to your parents. And I knew whatever story was told by the media would haunt you for the rest of your life. Think about every televised gymnastics competition you’ve ever seen, think about the ones Stevie’s been in. Do they ever forget to mention that her dad was an Olympic sprinter?”

I shook my head and started chewing on my thumbnail, anticipating the fact that I was about to implement Jordan’s Plan A. It was time. I needed to know what he really thought of me. “Did you feel guilty about keeping it secret from me? Is that why you’ve been letting me learn new skills even if I’m not ready to compete them? Even if I might not ever be ready?”

Bentley looked a bit surprised by that question, then he nodded toward the door indicating we should go back into the house. “Let me show you something.”

I followed him into the living room and sat down on the couch. Bentley opened his laptop case and pulled out a folder. After sifting through it, he slid a piece of paper in front of me. It was a list with twenty–four names.

“These are the gymnasts that competed a tucked full on beam at the last Olympics,” Bentley said. “Now tell me how many of those gymnasts won an individual medal.”

I scanned the paper, reading each name carefully. “One.”

“Now tell me how many were from teams that made the finals. How many were in the top eight teams?”

I was pretty familiar with the previous Olympic results in the sense that I had basically memorized all of it. Me and every other competitive gymnast in the country. “Um…all but four.”

“Nina Jones wants you to add that skill so she can put you first at Worlds and get a solid score for the team,” Bentley said.

Nina Jones wants me on the World team? This was news to me.

“What’s wrong with that?”

He pointed to the one name on the paper of a girl who was the current Olympic champ on balance beam. “If Nina Jones acts excited about your progress next week, it’s because she wants you to be the safe bet that everyone forgets a month after Worlds. I want you to win.”

I was too shocked to say anything. My mouth fell open but no words came out. Here I was, deciding whether or not to jump into NCAA competition or compete at Nationals, which was nothing compared to the level of World championships, and Bentley had plans for me to medal. Was I in an alternate reality?

“And what separates you from being first up and last up is probably going to come down to all those tiny details like landing with your chest higher on a tucked full, not pausing on your connections on beam, which I know Stacey has been drilling into you even more lately,” he said. “And it’s not because I feel sorry for you or because I feel guilty. You are so much better than Coach Cordes made you out to be, Karen.”

My eyes traveled to the paper and then back to Bentley. “Is that what Stevie meant? She was so pissed off that I didn’t want to brag to Coach Cordes about my new skills.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Stevie’s very bright. She notices things. It took about a week of coaching you for me to realize that Coach Cordes had a World Champion in his gym and it wasn’t Stevie Davis. You take correction better than any athlete I’ve ever worked with. I’ve thrown all these corrections at you and you’ve done everything—the handstands on bars, all your amplitude on beam, your vaulting technique. And I’m not trying to put down all the work Cordes put into coaching you. There’s nothing small about getting a full gymnastics ride to UCLA, but I’m a technician, Karen, my coaching is more than a gut feeling about one kid having more confidence or being more of a fighter or learning skills rapidly. Those things are important, but they can be taught, and they come from mastering good technique.”

“You weren’t just trying to let me learn on my own that added risk isn’t worth it sometimes?”

“Of course I want you to learn that, but also that it is worth it sometimes. As long as you’ve prepared and you’re ready. I don’t like flashy for the sake of being flashy, and I doubt you do either, given your attention to detail. You speak my language when it comes to gymnastics—logical, mathematical, and realistic,” he said. “But you scared me when you threw that triple on the tumble track, and I thought Jordan and his daredevil stunts would rub off on you and you’d use that method to cope.”

I bit my lip and didn’t respond, because he had kind of nailed it. “I don’t think Jordan uses that as a method of coping. I think he’s just naturally that way.”