Letters to Nowhere (8 page)

Jackie waved a hand to stop me. “You have to translate gymnastics terms. I’m sadly deficient in this area.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “An Arabian is like a half–turn in the air to a front flip. But you do it standing with no lead–up skill. It takes tons of leg power.”

She was quiet for an agonizing forty–five seconds before saying, “I think a lot of things could contribute to your recent success, but let’s hold off on that question for a while, okay? See if things change or continue as they are now.”

“Sure.” I sank back in the armchair, slightly disappointed that she didn’t have a magic grown–up answer for me. We’d talked about my online classes, but we hadn’t talked about college. I sat there for several seconds considering asking her if she thought I should head for NCAA fame in June or keep training here and push for elite goals. Goals my mom had been so afraid I’d work for and not achieve. She was afraid of my heart getting broken and me having nothing else to work for.

Jackie returned her attention to my list again. “Do you really think Coach Bentley would depend on you to keep an eye on his son?”

“Uh, I guess not?”

“But that’s the only truly personal answer you put down on this list.” She looked up at me again. “Everything else relates to gymnastics and Coach Bentley making this decision with his career in mind, rather than something personal.”

“Like what?” I asked. But I did remember one thing. The ring on Bentley’s finger. His wife was gone.

“It’s not my place to tell you specifics.” Jackie sighed. “It seems you and Jordan have more in common than you realize, and I’m sure if you really think about it, you can find the answers that you need.” She gave me a wry smile. “Teenagers are savvy like that.”

I nodded, understanding her directions but not wanting to speak them aloud. We moved on to new topics for the rest of the hour. But when I got back to Bentley’s and sat in the safety of the kitchen with no one else home, my laptop already open, I typed in, “Gymnast Henry Bentley wife died” to Google. The top result, just the headline, was enough.

FORMER OLYMPIAN LOSES WIFE, DAUGHTER, AND PARENTS IN LONDON BOMBING

Nausea swept over me, and it felt like a twenty–pound brick had just settled into the pit of my stomach.

“Oh my God,” I mumbled to myself.

Bentley never talked about anything personal. But how could I have been so self–involved that Jordan’s loss or Bentley’s never occurred to me, not even the other night when Jordan made me say it out loud.
My parents are dead
. His mom is dead.

I didn’t even know Bentley had a daughter.
Jordan’s sister
.

How did they even stand up? How did they keep going? I wanted to ask a million questions and at the same time, most of my mind was so occupied with my own loss, I couldn’t even begin to feel someone else’s.

***

I couldn’t make direct eye contact with Coach Bentley all during evening practice. Every time I looked in his direction, the newly acquired information returned to my thoughts and shook me from the inside out. How could Coach Bentley be hiding so much under all those unreadable expressions he wore?

“How are you feeling?” Blair asked me, while in line for vault.

“Fine, I guess.”

She laughed under her breath. “Who knew periods could carry superpowers. If it’s true, then I want mine right now. What can I do to make this happen?”

I shook my head at her, not able to help the smile now forming on my face. “Move in with two guys and ask yourself what could be the most humiliating situation imaginable—then you’ll get your wish.”

“Sorry,” Blair said. “That must have been awful. I think I’d still be in my room hiding…
God
…So did Bentley have to drive you to the store or something? I can’t even imagine.”

“Something like that.” And yeah, I had left out Jordan’s part in the last few days, because Blair was slightly more interested in boys than I was and she’d exhaust me, asking for details. Plus, it seemed wrong to tell her about Jordan without him knowing. Maybe he didn’t want people to know about him going tampon shopping. It wasn’t only my secret to tell.

“Karen,” Bentley said from the opposite end of the vault runway. “You’re up.”

I kept my eyes on the apparatus in front of me and not on Bentley. The vault, which resembled a giant tongue from a distance, was insanely dangerous at my level. I had to focus on what I was doing or I’d break my neck. Today, we’d moved on from landing on mats stacked in the pit to real competition landing mats. I quickly visualized the Yurchenko double full vault, closing my eyes briefly, and then took off at a fast run. I had learned a Yurchenko vault when I was eight years old, but since then, it had evolved to include a layout backflip and not just one twist, but now two.

It was scary because you had to do a round–off, which is like a cartwheel, but landing with both feet together on the end of the springboard. Then you dove backward onto the vault table (aka—giant tongue). The benefit of this style of vault—going on backward—was that it allowed smaller gymnasts like me to get a bigger push off the apparatus, which meant I could get much higher, which led to more flips and twists and essentially more difficulty points from the judges.

My feet pounded the runway, adrenaline rushing through me, overtaking any trace of fear I’d had about landing on the regular mats instead of the soft safety of the foam pit. I hit the springboard in just the right spot and dove backward toward the vault table and got an awesome push, giving me all the power I needed to complete the one and a half backward flip with two twists. My knees bent at just the right time as I touched the landing mat, ignoring the sting traveling from my ankles all the way to my hips.

I held the landing, not making a single movement, my insides screaming for me to jump up and cheer, maybe run a victory lap around the gym. But I played it cool, not even looking at Bentley as I walked off the mat.

“Beautiful, Karen. Keep it up and we’ll work on adding an extra half twist,” Bentley said.

Oh my God!
My mouth twitched fighting a smile. Maybe Blair was right. Maybe I
had
acquired some superpowers recently. Upgrading my vault difficulty was not something I needed for UCLA, so maybe this was a sign? Maybe Bentley and I were on the same page.

***

After practice, before I could get to the locker room to change, Jordan came stumbling through the gym’s front doors, red–faced and shivering.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

He blew on his hands, rubbing them together before unzipping his ski jacket. “Uh, giving you a ride home except, I might not be able to do that.”

“What happened?”

“Car broke down,” he said through chattering teeth. “About a mile away. I guess my dad practices what he preaches with his rule of no cell phones on the floor. I really need to program the number for the front desk into my phone.”

“Sorry.” I glanced at the door to the conference room, sealed shut to keep gymnasts and parents out. “He just started his staff meeting. We might be hanging out here for a while.”

Blair came out of the locker room right then and I could feel her eyes on us, taking in the situation. She grabbed the strap of my leotard, yanking me into the opening of the locker room and away from Jordan. “That’s Bentley’s kid?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s so cute,” she whispered. “Like majorly gorgeous. I can’t believe you actually live with him.”

“Live with who?” Ellen asked, appearing behind Blair. She poked her head out of the locker room and squealed. “That’s Jordan!”

I shook Blair off my arm and rolled my eyes at both of them. “Jesus, you’d think he was some boy band hero or something.”

“Proof that we all really need to get a life,” Blair said.

Ellen leaned against the wall, chewing on her bottom lip. “She’s right.”

“Yes, a life would be good,” I agreed. “And as your friend, I’m going to save you from yourselves. Do not squeal, blush, or giggle in his presence. Either walk up to him and introduce yourself or don’t. Anything in between is going to make you wish for an all–girls college, all right?”

They both nodded, serious, as if I were the coach giving them a pre–competition pep talk.

Ellen shoved me out the door first, causing me to stumble back into the lobby. “How about you introduce us?”

“How about we save it for next time,” Blair whispered, racing past me toward the safety of her mother waiting by the front doors with keys in hand.

I returned to Jordan’s side. He looked like he wanted to ask about the girl–drama that just went on, but he kept his mouth shut. “Sorry again about you walking a mile in this weather. Isn’t it like one degree with the wind chill or something?”

“It feels colder.” He shuddered and removed his icy coat.

Stevie was still in her leotard, chatting in the lobby with Sylvia, the team dance teacher and choreographer. I saw Jordan’s eyes travel in her direction. I laughed and elbowed him in the side. “Go talk to her. You know you want to.”

He shrugged. “Maybe I will.”

I waited for several seconds and Jordan’s feet stayed planted to the same spot. “That was anticlimactic.”

This time it was he who dug his elbow into my ribs. “It’s not that easy. She’s…
older
…and a world champion.”

“So is your dad,” I pointed out. “And socially, Stevie is probably the same age as you. If she’s anything like me, which she is because we’re both elite gymnasts, then she got a late start on dating, I’m sure.”
Or maybe she hadn’t even started?

The dance teacher walked off, leaving Stevie no choice but to see us, standing in the lobby watching her. Jordan turned to me and smirked before strolling over in Stevie’s direction.

Obviously he didn’t need me standing beside him while he flirted with my teammate. I’d already invaded his make–out session the other night. “I’m gonna do more conditioning if we’re stuck here for two more hours.”

“Hey, Stevie,” I heard Jordan say.

From the corner of my eye, I saw my much older, much more mature teammate blush. “Jordan, right?”

“You remembered,” he said.

They were out of hearing range now and all I could do was watch their body language as I grabbed a jump rope and got on a high beam to do a little extra cardio. Ten minutes later, Jordan came out in the gym with me, which was now completely empty.

It wasn’t until he sat down beside the beam and looked up at me that I remembered the horrible Internet research. My jump rope stopped moving and I opened my mouth to say something but couldn’t utter a single word.

Jordan’s smile faded instantly. “Uh oh…I know that look.”

I jumped down from the beam and sat beside him, checking the door to the conference room to make sure it stayed closed. “Jordan,” I started.

“Who told you?” he asked, keeping his voice low and even.

I pulled my knees to my chest, resting my chin on them. “Promise you won’t tell?”

“Won’t tell what?”

“I have to see a shrink,” I admitted. “Not a shrink, actually, because she’s a PhD, not an MD. Therapist is the proper term.”

“Why would your shrink be talking about me?”

“She didn’t—I mean—she had hoped your dad would tell me, and when I said I didn’t know why he let me stay with you guys, she hinted that I should look into that further, so I did.” I let out a breath, praying that I wouldn’t ruin this line of communication. I’d only known Jordan for a few days, but already he’d managed to save me from a lot of emotional trauma. “She said that we might have more in common than I realized.”

“I made you say it out loud, so I’ll do the same.” He stared right at me, nodding his head slowly. “My mom is dead, my older sister, my grandparents, but it’s been a long time.”

His steady hold on his grief broke open a new wound inside me, aching in too many ways to even attempt to soothe it.

“You and Coach Bentley weren’t hurt? You weren’t with them?”

“We were at the gym that day,” Jordan said. “My mom and my sister Eloise had taken my grandparents out around London. Touristy stuff.” He dropped his eyes to the blue mat under us, scratching his fingernail along the seam. “My dad lost everything that day.”

Air constricted itself in my lungs, the weight pressing against my chest, but I managed to say, “Not everything.”

“Right.”

Breathe…in…out…in…out
. “So…you were a gymnast?”

He was silent for several seconds and then shook with laughter. “Yeah, I was. Nice transition, by the way.”

“I can only take so much at once, you know?”

“Believe me, I know.” He jumped to his feet, grinning down at me before sticking out a hand to help me up. “Bet you can’t throw a triple back off the end of the tumble track?”

“And you can?” The tumble track was a long trampoline—eighty feet to be exact—that landed into the foam pit. It helped with training tumbling runs for floor routines.

Jordan kicked off his shoes and socks, emptied his pockets onto the mats beside the tumble track, and then took off his long–sleeved white uniform shirt. He stood at the end of the trampoline wearing only his khaki pants and a leather belt. “Let me warm up with a double first, okay?”

“You’re not going to kill yourself, are you?” I asked wearily. “At least stretch out a little.”

“Stretching is for wimps, Karen.” With that he took off at a run, then jumped into his round–off, which was a little slow and sloppy, plus he didn’t even do a back handspring first. Coach Bentley would never let me train a triple back from just a round–off. If I did that, I’d never be able to actually perform it on the floor. Not that I planned on adding triple backs to my floor choreography anytime soon.

Despite the rusty lead–up skills, Jordan managed to fling himself pretty high in the air, and with stuntman–like air sense, he found his way around the double flip. I clapped loudly, then attempted to whistle with my fingers in my mouth, but quickly decided that wasn’t a good idea, considering the fact that he was topless. At least he wore pants today instead of just boxers.