Return to You (Letters to Nowhere Part 3) (2 page)

“No, no, no!” Nina says. “Start over.”

I come down from the bar with a sigh of frustration.

“Here’s how it works, Einstein,” Stevie’s voice invades my concentration bubble again, “I tumble, Ariel tumbles, then TJ tumbles. Rinse. Repeat. Got it?”

“I wouldn’t have a problem with that if you’d haul ass to get back in line like a normal person would. And if you quit with the voodoo witchcraft talking to yourself shit before you take a turn. I counted to twenty last time while you stood there calling the gods forth to help your sorry excuse for a double double layout.”

Oh boy
.

I dip my hands quickly in the chalk bowl again, then glance at Nina to see if she’s listening to this heated argument on the tumbling strip, but she’s walked off to talk to one of her National Team Committee members.

Stevie laughs. “Admit you’re jealous of my tumbling pass. You don’t know how to twist, do you? It’s either double flips or triple flips with you. Very two-dimensional.”

I hurry back to the low bar, take a breath, and jump into my mount determined not to screw up again. Sweat covers the front of my leotard and my hair. I’ve done eight bar routines already this morning.

I pull off the first handstand with no issues this time and as I’m preparing for my release the high bar, I spot Jordan across the gym, taking a seat in the bleachers. He looks a little better today than he has the past couple days. I know he’s feeling sick again, but is too tough to admit it. I’m sure his immune system is shot after all the rounds of antibiotics he’s taken lately. That’s probably made him susceptible to every germ floating around.

Regardless, I’ve been loading up on Vitamin C just in case he’s contagious. I should probably be ticked and refuse to kiss him, but I can’t. I’m pathetic like that.

Fatigue from the long workouts and the stress of Nina’s watchful glare (and that damn clipboard) finally wins this nearly weeklong battle when I launch myself into a Hindorff release move—a move I’ve been performing since the beginning of my elite career—and completely miss the bar, landing on my knees on the mats below.

This mistake doesn’t warrant a yelling lecture from Nina. She simply shakes her head and turns her attention to one of the other girls who’s just mounted the balance beam. My arms and legs are shaking from exhaustion as I watch Alicia, who was on the Pan Am team with me, mount the high bar. She might not have beaten me or Stevie in the all-around, but she’s amazing on bars and beam and Nina goes on and on about her execution all the time.

Our morning workout is nearly over, so many of the campers are flooding into the gym, heading for the bleachers where Jordan’s still seated. Alicia has a piked Geiger release move in her routine, which isn’t all that uncommon or difficult, but she does hers with one arm. And that gets huge crowd reaction every time. It’s flashy. When she catches it in front of all the watching campers and coaches, there’s a huge gasp and a scattering of applause.

I reach for the file in the chalk bowl and attack my grips with it. I need to hit this next routine. No more falls.

Alicia lands her full twisting double layout dismount with a resounding thud and gets more applause. I’m sure we’ve gone overtime in our workout because we’ve never had this many campers watching us in the morning. Lucky for me, I choose today to suck big time on bars.

I hear Nina call an end to our practice, but I’ve already decided I’m not leaving until I hit a routine. Standing in front of the low bar now, feeling all the watchful eyes of kids we’ve been signing T-shirts and leotards and grips for all week long, makes it feel like the room is shrinking and the walls are caving in. I take a deep breath, closing my eyes and forcing myself to focus.

This time, I make it to the layout Jaeger, near the end of my routine, before screwing up. That’s what sucks about this particular release; missing it usually means landing splat on your stomach, falling straight down from the high bar. It also means a whole different kind of gasp from the crowd. Not the kind of gasp I’d been hoping to evoke from my performance. I wait until my lungs are able to take in air again before peeling myself off the mat. My eyes stay glued to the ground while I’m rechalking, but a pair of dark-skinned arms are now invading my space. TJ’s hands cling to the sides of the chalk bowl.

I’m so not in the mood for his taunting.

I peel back my grips, wincing from the chalk hitting my stinging hands. I’ve got two new rips on each palm, one is about to get bloody, probably on this next turn. I blow gently on them to stifle the sting.

“God, that’s nasty.” TJ leans in to get a closer look. “Are your hands supposed to look like that?”

I roll my eyes. “I guess performing all your tricks on soft carpet made you squeamish when it comes to real gymnast hands.”

Stevie comes up beside me and laughs. Of course she’s fully supportive of any and all TJ bashing. I’m starting to wonder if she’s got a crush.

“I think your hands are spending more time off the bar than on, so don’t get too cocky, Campbell.”

I glance sideways and spot Jordan on the floor helping two other coaches lead warm-ups for a group of at least a hundred campers. I wonder what he’d think of TJ’s taunting? With the exception of today, I’ve mostly had fun with it.

I turn my attention back to TJ. “My hands are off the bar so much because my release moves are so freakin’ high.”

TJ snorts back a laugh. He does that a lot in the gym, I’ve noticed. “Prove it. I’ve seen lots of letting go but not much catching. I may not be a ‘real gymnast,’ but I’m pretty sure the goal is to the catch the bar.”

If there weren’t a hundred children nearby I’d totally stick my tongue out at him right now.

“Come on, Karen,” Stevie says. She’s standing in front of the low bar, chalking it up for me. She wants to see TJ shocked. So do I, but I’m not sure that’s possible today.

I place my fingers back through the holes in my grips and tighten the buckles at my wrists. My entire bar routine seems like such a daunting task, so I only allow myself to think about the very next skill and nothing more. I make it through my mount, circling skills on the low bar and my Shaposhnikova, which is a release that shoots you from low bar to high bar.

“Look at that,” TJ says, from beside the bars. “She
can
catch the bar.”

His comments only fire me up more, giving me energy I didn’t have seconds ago. My Hindorff release is super high and I manage to catch the bar this time, and then follow it up by hitting my transition back to low bar. Right before my layout Jaeger release, I hear TJ say, “You’re barely getting any air time, Campbell.”

I’m practically laughing inside my head as I fly way above the bar and then catch it perfectly. This is the routine I’ve been busting my ass all morning to get.

During my full pirouette on high bar, TJ’s commentary is limited to, “Girlie move.”

I’m one dismount away from the uneven bar routine of my life. I twist into a blind change, prepping for my dismount—a double front with a half turn.

“I bet Mommy and Daddy bribe you with new cars and shit like that for every routine you make.”

My stomach sinks and I miss a beat holding the high bar far too long. My momentum is headed inward and there’s not even a millisecond to process what’s happened before my forehead smacks hard against the high bar, my body is headed at a funky angle toward the mats underneath the bars. My arm is sticking out. Sensing a broken limb in the very near future, I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing myself for the fall.

But the hit never comes.

A soft arm wraps around my waist, and the body attached to it is forced down to the ground with me, but breaks my fall.

My heart is beating like a caged wild animal. I’m dizzy from the blow to my head. I’m humiliated by the fact that I should be on my feet and yet I’m sprawled out on the mats. Again. But none of those feelings are what causes me to break down. The hollowness in my chest, the sensation of being punched in the gut is what’s causing tears to spring to my eyes.

TJ is the one sprawled out beside me. He’s wide-eyed now, both of us sitting up, and him taking in my shaking hands and legs, the tears streaming down my cheeks.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Holy shit, you gave me a freakin’ heart attack.”

Both Jordan and Stevie are now in front of me. And yes, there’s a throbbing in my head but that’s not why I can’t breathe, why I’m suddenly sobbing so hard I can’t speak.

“What’s wrong?” TJ says, panicking. “Are you hurt?”

“She hit her head, you idiot,” Stevie snaps, “Of course she’s hurt.”

I clutch my chest trying to breathe. I’m shoving all of them back, attempting to get out of here. Jordan grasps me by the shoulders. “Sit down, Karen.”

I move too quickly for him to maintain his hold on me. “I’m not hurt,” I manage to say. “My head’s fine.”

Then I’m pushing my way out the gym doors, gasping for air.

“Karen!” I sprint out of the gym, down the path, following the red ponytail. My heart is still lodged in my throat after watching that ugly fall. “Karen, stop!”

She halts, back to me, hands resting on her knees and shoulders shaking. I finally reach her and steer her in the direction of a nearby bench, forcing her to sit down. I get a good look at her face, not only the tears but ghostly white color, the cold sweat trickling down. I’ve seen Karen like this before, after one of her nightmares. She’s gasping for air, chest heaving. I kneel in front of her, pushing the hair off her face.

“I’m not… hurt,” she manages to say between sobbing and hyperventilating.

“I heard what TJ said.” I rest my hands on her upper arms, rubbing them gently. I’m starting to panic myself, worried Karen’s about to pass out. It’s happened to her before.

Her fingers grab at the material on the front of her leotard, pulling it away from her skin. “How come I can be completely fine… and then… and then one little thing… it feels like someone carved out my chest.”

Her words are like a jab to the stomach. I was much younger than Karen when I lost my mom, so the triggers were a little different—not having someone to pack my lunch before school, not having my uniform pants ironed… Missing her revolved around my selfish needs and being scared about getting through that day and maybe the next, but rarely did I think about her absence in the future, like Karen does.

But right now, I can’t talk about any of this with her because she needs to calm down. Her eyes are wide with panic, her face an even lighter shade of pale. I grip her shoulders tighter. “Look at me!”

She lifts her head enough to focus on my face.

“Breathe exactly like me,” I order, hoping her obedient gymnast nature will take over. I slow my own breathing down and keep my eyes glued to hers. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”

She nods and her shoulders deflate under my hands. She’s working hard to relax. More sweat is trickling down the sides of her face.

“Good.” I rub her shoulders and the back of her neck. “Now close your eyes… count to twenty really slowly in your head.”

I move onto the bench beside her the second her eyes flutter shut. I wrap an arm around her shoulders. She slumps over, pressing her weight against my side. I continue to rub her back and shoulders until she’s breathing normally again.

“I hate this,” she mumbles after a few minutes of silence between us. Hot tears roll down her cheeks and land on my hand. “It’s like being blindsided.”

“I know.” And I do know.

Stevie approaches us with tentative steps. “Your group is done warming up.”

Karen sits up immediately and tries to wipe her face with one arm. “Go,” she says to me.

I hesitate, open my mouth to protest but she shakes her head.

“Take her to get her head checked out,” I tell Stevie. It’s my compromise. I really don’t want to leave her like this.

Karen surprises me by laughing. “Yeah, I totally need my head checked out.”

I plant a kiss on the top of her head. “That’s not what I meant.”

After I get up, Stevie takes my spot on the bench, but I head to the gym before catching any potential conversation. I’m not sure if Karen can talk to Stevie like she can with Blair. They don’t seem to have that same close relationship, but I could be wrong.

A group of six energetic ten-year-old girls are waiting for me in front of the uneven bars. I’m rattled from the morning’s drama, but I plaster on my best coaching face and explain what we’re going to be working on for this rotation. The group is made up of all Level 3 and Level 4 gymnasts, so it’s fairly easy to set up the stations and get everyone going. A few minutes later, I’m spotting cast to handstands on the pit bar, allowing the kids to swing down on the last cast and land in the fluffy pit blocks.

TJ leaves his group on the tumbling strip doing pushups and walks over to where my group is. “Is she okay?”

I keep my focus on the kid I’m spotting while forcing my jaw to relax. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about TJ right now. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind punching him, but I can’t tell if that’s because I need to punch something or because I really blame him for Karen falling on her dismount. Falling is an understatement. She nearly killed herself. She would’ve killed herself if TJ hadn’t caught her.

Another reason why I can’t decide how to feel or who to be pissed at.

“She’s all right.”

He exhales, nods, and says, “I didn’t know about her parents.”

“Well, you do now.” God, I’m being an ass. “I think she’s freaked out more than hurt.”

“Right.” He tugs at the collar of his staff polo shirt, then turns around and walks back to his group.

The girls in my first rotation are having a blast with the pit bar and I decide to let them try flyaways, which gets them to the loud squealing version of excited because who doesn’t want to try a flip off the pit bar?

I’ve moved closer to the tumble strip in order to spot the dismounts and I catch bits and pieces of TJ’s coaching.

“If you’re gonna cry, get in the back of the line,” he snaps at a girl who’s probably eleven or twelve. She covers her face and makes her way behind the other girls in her group. “No more balking. Go for the double or get out!”