Balancing Point

When a young elite gymnast is uprooted from her childhood home and plopped down in tiny Ridgecrest, Minnesota, she's in for big changes and even bigger surprises.

Chapter 1

Moving Day Melancholy 

My name is Jasmine Newton, and I am insane.

To be accurate, I am going insane. 

I stare out the window of our silver Toyota, and all I see are trees. Tree after tree whizzes past us as we drive closer and closer to my doom. 

As I watch the more and more of the endless green blur disappear out of my sight, I sigh loudly. How do people live here without going berserk? I wonder. I miss the rolling hills of golden grass I left behind more with each passing second. This is everything I didn’t want to see upon driving into my new town. Wikipedia said there were plains in Minnesota! What are all these trees doing here? 

And it’s just another jab that Asia isn’t here to make this stupid move just a little bit better. 

I bet Washington doesn’t have this many trees. Out where my sister was, it was just perfect, she had enthused more times than I cared to count.

To most people, that would mean a balmy beach town full of palm trees. But to me, it was the vast prairie I’d left behind. To me, perfect meant home. And home meant Iowa. No matter what anybody tried to tell me, this would never be my home. And the fact that Asia was having a blast out on the west coast, at that dumb college where she didn't have to worry about moving and a whole new town, certainly didn't help.  Stupid Asia. Stupid Washington. That stupid state swallowed up my sister. Stupid life.  

That wasn't even all I missed about Iowa. The prairies and my sister weren't the half of it. I missed our house, light blue with a little screen porch where I could watch the thunderstorms roll by at night. I missed my best friend Rachel. And most of all, I missed gymnastics. 

Back in Des Moines, I was on the junior elite gymnastics team, The Des Moines Dust Devils. All my best friends were from the team, and I was making great progress. I’d even gone to my first elite qualifying meet (the US Classic) last year. I didn't make Nationals, but staying in a cheap motel with my gym buddies, swimming until our fingers pruned up, staying up ’til all hours of the night, eating whatever the heck we felt like because our coach wasn't there to stop us, and prank calling pizza places (we asked Dominos if they had the number for Pizza Hut) was the most fun I’d ever had. If only I could box up that memory to take it with me, carry it around and pull it out and relive a little piece of it whenever I’m down. Now that would be wonderful. 

But it’ll never happen, and I’ll never get to re-make those memories, because that stupid clothing company gave my mom a position in the marketing department that she said was an “unmissable opportunity.”

My parents tried to tell me about all the things I’d love about Ridgecrest. It has a gym (Champions Gymnastics of Ridgecrest, home of the irrationally-named Rattlers), they reasoned. They sent three girls to Nationals last year, they pointed out. There are even moose in the area, they tried. 

Okay, so maybe mooses are my favorite animal, but that’s just another thing for my dad (who may or may not need to go back to driving school) to run into on the road. And I didn't even want to think about dad making roadkill of my favorite animal-let alone my favorite animal making roadkill of our car! And maybe they have a gym, but they don’t have the Dust Devils. They don’t have Maddie or Rachel or any of my friends from the team back home. 

And I know I sound ungrateful, but wouldn't you? 

My five minutes of soul-searching have left me emotionally drained and near tears. Desperately trying to salvage my last remaining scraps of maturity, I reach over to our golden retriever, Lacy, in the backseat with me. She sighs happily, finally getting paid some attention after two hectic days of moving. I run my hands through her soft tan fur. She nuzzles my hand with her nose. Lacy is one of those dogs that always seems to know when people need comfort. She could've been a therapy dog, I guess, but right now, I need her more than any little old lady in the world. Lacy is my one bit of normalcy in this whole giant mess. 

“Here we are!” My mom says brightly as we drive up a steep, tree-lined boulevard to a large yellow house with gingerbread trim. The house is tucked into a tiny slot of land hidden by pine trees, and I can just barely make out the sound of a small stream somewhere on the property. Even I have to admit it’s pretty. I clutch Lacy’s collar in nervous anticipation as mom parks the car. 

Lacy leaps from the car almost before it even stops moving. She probably needs to relieve herself, and come to think of it, so do I. I rush in, taking only my phone with me. The bathroom is right inside the front hall. I open the door, hoping there are no cobwebs or anything in there. And I gasp. 

It’s huge. 

The bathroom is almost the size of the motel room I stayed in at Classics, and I could probably keep an octopus in that bathtub. I shudder at the thought. I really hate octopuses. But even so, I seriously hope there’s a bathroom in my parents’ room so I can have this one. At this point, I half expect the toilet to be heated. It’s not, but at least there are no spiderwebs. The whole place has a musky smell, and I make a mental note to tell mom to buy some Fabreeze. 

The rest of the house is just as musky, and it looks kind of old. Brand-new appliances completely clash with the Victorian atmosphere of the place. My room is downstairs about the same size as my old one. It’s an awful mustard color that I can't wait to get rid of. I tack up the gymnastics posters from my old room, but they don't help much. I can’t wait for my bed to get here so I won’t have to sleep on an air mattress. Being so close to the ground when the carpet smells like a nursing home is disgusting. On the bright side, the empty room has enough space in it to practice in. I try a back handspring, barely missing the back wall. There definitely won’t be space for that once I get my bed back. 

Also, I do not want to get my face any closer to that nasty carpet. 

Chapter 2

The Ridgecrest Rattlers

The next morning, our stuff arrives. All of my furniture has mysteriously obtained a dusty coating, so I have to spend the next hour dusting. Ugh. After I have dusted to my satisfaction, I attempt to pull my bed into place. 

I can’t. 

I decide to move my nightstand first instead. That goes better. My other piece of furniture (my dresser) is harder, but I manage. It may or may not be slightly crooked. Once I get my dad to help me move my bed, it feels more complete, but there’s still more work to do. I toss my puffy Tiffany blue duvet over it and arrange the pillows. Much better. The musky smell is still there, though. I squirt a few sprays of lavender Fabreze into the air. It only makes the smell worse. 

As soon as I have all my stuff unpacked, I beg my mom to take me to the gym. 

“Jazzy, I still have all my clothes to unload, not to mention your dad’s! I don’t have time for that!” 

“Make dad unload his own stuff!” I protest. 

“You really think I haven’t tried that already?” 

Dad walks by. “I’ll take you if you have all your stuff unloaded,” he offers. 

“Thanks!” I run off to change into a leotard, pulling some shorts over it to make it more appropriate to be seen in in a public place. I’m probably not going to end up practicing, but you never know. It’s always better to prepared. 

It takes us twenty minutes to get there. Not what I was expecting in a town the size of a matchbox, but at least it’s a gym. A lighted sign reading “Champions Gymnastics of Ridgecrest” sticks out like a sore thumb in the misty morning light. I jump out of the car, racing for the glass double doors of my new home gym. It has been way too long since I’ve been inside a gym. 

The minute I walk in, every gymnast in the place turns to stare at me. I get the feeling they don’t get many new people around here. 

A short, strawberry-blond girl standing at the chalk bucket waves enthusiastically at me. “Hi! You must be Jasmine from Iowa!” She yelled across the gym. 

I’m glad to have someone recognize me, but it’s still slightly disconcerting that they know who I am. “Um…how do you know my name?” 

“Sorry about her!” A taller, brunette girl yells. “She never shuts up! And we know who you are because your old coach knows our coach!” 

I walk over to the chalk bucket and the girls who somehow know my name. “Um…hi. Yeah, I’m Jasmine, and I’m from Iowa. Call me Jazzy. I’m supposed to be joining the junior elite team. You?” 

“That’s what our coach said. Nice to finally meet you! Abby and I-“ she gestures to the strawberry-blond girl-“are junior elite, too. That’s Abigail, but she goes by Abby. I’m Megan. Nice to meet you-it’s been forever since we’ve gotten a new member! Wanna meet the rest of the team?” 

Well, at least they’re friendly. “Sure,” I reply, and they lead me to the beams, where what appears to be the rest of the team is warming up basic beam skills. They promptly get down when they see me. 

“Guys, this is our new member, Jasmine-Jazzy, I guess-from Iowa.” The girls swivel their heads to size me up. 

“Hi,” says the tiniest girl I have ever seen. This girl is a stick figure among stick figures, and there are some pretty stick-like girls in this group. Not to mention she could probably swim in a teacup. 

Not literally, but she is a complete lilliputian. 

“Jazzy, this is Emily. Emily, this is Jazzy. Emily is our floor specialist. Junior national bronze medalist, actually. I mean, on floor.” 

“Hi, Jazzy. You’re really tall,” she comments. I’m only 5’ 1”, but to her, I must look like a giant. It’s weird to think about. 

“Um…thanks? Nice to meet you.” She looks at me, an awed expression on her face. She’s really pretty, actually. Her hair is extremely red. 

Megan moves on to the next girl, a butter-blond prima donna who wastes no time before she begins staring me down condescendingly. “Jazzy, this is Grace. Grace, this is Jazzy.” 

“Hello, Jasmine,” she says airily. “My name is Grace Cabot, and I am going to win Nationals.” She tosses her not-a-hair-out-of-place blond ponytail. It must’ve taken something like ten bottles of hairspray to make it do that.

“Um…nice to meet you,” I reply. 

Megan pulls me aside. “She’s kind of mean. You probably want to avoid her, or you might end up with a stupid nickname that’ll follow you around forever.” 

I nod. Oh, joy. I bet you anything I’ll end up saddled with an idiotic nickname within a day of practicing with this girl. 

Having properly warned me, Megan moves on. My next teammate is a rather average-looking girl in a blindingly neon pink leotard. Her shampoo-commercial black hair adds to the too-shiny, artificial tinge of her whole look. “Jazzy, this is Kennedy. Kennedy, this is Jazzy.”

Kennedy rolls her eyes. “Yes, that is also a last name, and yes, my parents do think I will someday be president,” she sighs.

“Uh, I…wasn't going to ask that, but okay,” I respond awkwardly. 

“She gives everybody she meets that same speech because she hates her name, but she refuses to let people call her anything else. It makes no sense,” a green-eyed brunette explains. She has the glossiest hair I have ever seen, dark brown with bangs pinned back into a puffy crest at the front of her ponytail. Her bright green eyes are as beady as a snake’s, and just as hypnotic. She has that quality about her where once you make she makes eye contact with you, you can’t look away. 

Charisma. Yes, that’s the thing. 

“No, Gemma, I am not going to let people call me Kenny!” The person she called Gemma begins to reply, but Kennedy cuts her off. “Or Dee!” 

Megan introduces that girl next. “Jazzy, this is Gemma. Gemma, this is Jazzy. Gemma is our all-arounder, basically. 7th in the country last year.” 

I think I’ve actually heard of this girl. Gemma Giles, if I’m not mistaken, the girl who was practically a shoo-in for a medal but didn't get one after a freak beam fall. 

“I could’ve placed better,” she mutters angrily. 

“Next up is Jayden.” Megan leads me over to a super-tall, freakishly gangly girl with auburn hair and hazel eyes. She smiles brightly as I walk over. 

“Hi, Jazzy! I’m Jayden, and we’ve all been really excited for you to get here so we can have a full team again!” 

“Our best girl, Alyssa, moved away last year,” Megan explains. “We don’t get many new people around here, let alone elite gymnasts, so you showing up was a total stroke of luck for us. Anyway, Jayden is our youngest teammate.” 

“I’m 12,” Jayden elaborates. “And I’m also the tallest! I just grew an inch, so now I’m 5’ 5”, and I’m taller than Quinn now!” She explains excitedly.

As if I can’t tell. The poor thing must get compared to an insect more than I could even keep track of. Her lime green leotard doesn't help. Honestly, I don’t even want to know what Grace calls her. Grasshopper, perhaps? 

“Actually, that’s a good segue. Quinn is the only one you haven’t met yet. She’s running laps because she sassed the coach. It takes about two seconds to spot the girl, who is wearing an orange leotard that could permanently damage one’s eyesight, running the perimeter of the gym. 

“Sassed?” Kennedy giggles. “Nice word choice.” 

“Kennedy’s kind of a grammar freak,” Gemma explains. 

Megan rolls her eyes and continues. “Like Jayden said, she’s 5’ 4”. So, really tall.” She is, indeed, very tall, and seems way too tanned for Minnesota. I’ve seen very few people more muscular than her in my entire life, adults included. 

Megan continues. “Quinn’s our bars girl. She’s going senior next year, and she’s trying to make the national team on bars. She also makes really good brownies. Ask her to bring some in, ‘cause we can’t get her to cook for us anymore. She says she refuses to make us fat.” 

“How ironic. Some of us look like we could use one,” I snort, immediately wishing I hadn’t let it slip. I thank my lucky stars that Emily is back on the beam and not paying attention.

Megan can tell I regret that (and, apparently, who I was referring to). “Nah, don’t sweat it. Emily knows how tiny she is. Calls herself fun-sized. Plus, most of us wish we were that small. You should see her floor routine! And it’s kind of funny that you say that, because that’s what Quinn always says when she wants to bring in food.” 

“I can see why,” I remark bluntly, trying not to let her know just how relieved I am. 

I meet the coach last. Coach Nelson, they call her. Her full name is Alexandria Nelson, and she was a former collegiate gymnast. My dad seems to like her. And, having met everyone, is all too excited to get out of there. He stops by the front desk to sign me in. My enrollment is sped up a lot because my former coach made arrangements as soon as she found out I was moving (it turns out she and Coach Nelson were on the same college team), but it takes an agonizingly long time and my focus keeps drifting back to the beams-my favorite event-where my new teammates are running through their routines. 

So the first thing the next morning, I’m back in the gym. Not many of my teammates are there, only Grace and Megan. 

Grace shoots me a disgusted look as I walk in. “Hey, Jazzy,” she says, a mocking tone coloring her greeting. 

“Um, hi?” I reply warily. Simply put, there is no way this will end well. 

“If you’re joining us, you have to prove you don’t suck,” she scoffs. 

Megan rolls her eyes. “Ignore her,” she whispers to me. 

“Um…how?” I may not like this girl, but it would be nice to show them what I can do, so they’d know what my position on the team would be. I hoped I would be their go-to beam girl, but that was a little much to ask on my first day. 

“Show me your floor routine. Now,” she demands. 

“But I don’t have my music! And I’m better at-“ 

“Now, Jazzy,” she snaps. 

“Grace, this is dangerous. She hasn't warmed up and nobody is here,” Megan replies, trying to look calmer than she actually is. She puts her hand out to stop me, and this time, I’m all too willing to concede. 

But I still want to show this twerp what I can do. 

Chapter 3-In Which I Spazz 

Maybe a whole floor routine is a bad idea, but a single tumbling pass can’t hurt-right? 

I’m feeling gutsy, so (after some hasty stretching) I decide to throw one of my harder passes, the double Arabian with a punch front stag jump. Impressive, but doable. I take off running into the round off-back handspring I enter it from and throw myself into the air, tucking my legs in and flipping twice with a 540-degree twist. 

I land it, but my arms are flailing like crazy. One leg comes up, and I nearly lose my balance. I miss the punch front. Grace is going to be all over that. When I look up, she’s smirking like a cat who just got the lid off an aquarium full of goldfish.

“Nice spazz,” she scoffs. “Hey, that’s what we should call you!” 

“Um…what?” I feigned, but I knew exactly what she was implying. Way to make a first impression, I think. 

“Welcome to the club, Spazzy Jazzy,” Grace announces. 

Good grief, does this girl have a database of insulting nicknames in her brain or something?!?

“Grace, we’ve talked about this!” Megan chastises in the kind of worn-out warning tone you’d expect from your mother. “You can’t just make people do things and then-“

Grace doesn't listen. Without a care in the world, she flings her too-perfect ponytail in Megan’s face and turns away. 

“I’m sorry about her,” Megan says, and I believe it. “We try to make her stop, but nothing works. Well, actually, electroshock therapy might, but we can’t really do that.”

Just as I’m beginning to wonder what Megan didn't say, one of my teammates-Jayden, I think-walks in. Yeah, that’s definitely Jayden. Her knobby, stick-figure legs are impossible to miss. 

“Hey! Didn’t expect you’d be back so soon!” She blushes, realizing how that sounded. “I mean, it’s good! But, like…” She trails off.

I really do feel bad for the kid. Not only the youngest, but a gangly Amazon (at least for a gymnast), she’s got to be the butt of a lot of jokes. Her subpar social skills (from what I’ve seen) can’t help with that. I decide to go with it. 

“Um, yeah…can’t stay out of the gym for too long,” I reply awkwardly. It sounds forced, at best, but I can't think of anything better to say. I try to think of a continuation when, thank goodness, another girl (I think it’s Abby) walks in. 

“Hi! Remember me? I’m the one who won’t shut up,” Abby greets me. Um, okay, but why would that be the one thing you wanted someone to remember? 

“Yeah, hi…Abby, right?” 

“That’s me!” Abby grins. Forced to make eye contact, I notice she’s dressed up the usual plain ponytail with a crown braid at the front. It looks good on her-the less hair is falling in her face, the more noticeable her striking grey eyes are. It also looks very labor-intensive. She probably got up two hours early just to do that. 

“Um, I like your…braid thing,” I say. Apparently, Jayden is rubbing off on me. 

“Oh, thanks! It took, like, an entire bottle of hairspray. It also has glitter in it. Is it falling out already?” Her hand instinctively flies up to inspect the hairstyle. 

“No, it’s fine. I actually can’t see the glitter. Maybe once they turn the lights on?” It has somehow escaped me that the lights aren’t on. It’s kind of dim. 

“Oh, yeah, the janitor is an environmental nut. He turns them off every night to save energy, even though he isn’t supposed to do that. It would be okay, except we have to warm up in the dark. Coach Nelson doesn’t get here for a few minutes, and until we learned where the light switch is-we aren’t supposed to know, ‘cause they think we’ll do dumb stuff-we had to wait until she got there.” 

“What dumb stuff could you possibly do with a light switch?” I queried. 

“Well, the girl we had before you, Alyssa, liked to prank people, and she sometimes got, like, really carried away and did really stupid stuff. One time she thought it would be funny to set off the fire alarm in the middle of Grace’s floor routine, ‘cause she hated her. Even more than Megan does. Alyssa was the only thing keeping Grace in check, and now nobody can. But anyway, she set off the alarm right in the middle of a really hard tumbling pass, and it startled her so bad that she landed her double pike sideways and almost broke her ankle. All the coaches were freaking out, and little kids in lessons started crying, and the older kids didn't know what was going on, if there was really a fire, including us, and the pre-team coach called the fire department. It was a giant mess, and Alyssa almost got kicked off the team. So now we aren't allowed to know where switches are anymore.” 

That might be the strangest origin story I have ever heard, but I’m more curious about something else she said. “So, Grace won’t listen to anybody now? Even the coach?” I ask.

Abby looks confused. “Is there something going on that I don’t know about?”

“She wanted to make me do my floor routine just now, because she wanted to size me up, but I refused, but then I tried a double Arabian and almost fell and now she calls me Spazzy Jazzy,” I explain.

Abby looks exasperated. “Don’t take it personally,” she sighs. “We all have an insulting nickname. I’m Flabby, Jayden is Grasshopper, ‘cause she’s gangly, Kennedy is Almost Girl, ‘cause she’s always first alternate for things, Gemma is Phlegma, and Emily is Tumbleweed, ‘cause she’s so tiny could blow away in the wind. Megan’s the only one who doesn’t have one. Grace wouldn't dare.” 

“Isn’t there one other one?” I don’t remember her name, but I remember a really muscular Hispanic girl who’s good at bars. 

“Oh yeah, Quinn. Well, no, she doesn’t. Coach Nelson calls her Chica, but it’s not meant to be mean. Grace won’t try anything because Quinn could pound a grown man into next week. She kind of scares people.” 

Quinn has silently arrived without my knowledge (ninja, perhaps?) and is warming up. She’s going on a five-minute plank with perfect form. I decide never to mess with her. Abby notices this. 

“She probably holds the planking world record, if you’d bother to look it up.” She sighs. “If that’s what it takes to be good at bars, count me out.” 

“Same. Hate ‘em,” I reply. “Beam is my best event, but I’ll take anything over bars. Even vault, and I hate vault too.” 

Abby smirks. “Go and tell that to Megan. She’d box your ears,” she chuckles. “She sleeps in a shirt that says ‘Vault is Life’ on it. I’ve seen it at every sleepover we’ve ever had. She’s had it since she was ten and somehow it still fits her.” 

“Vault is Life, huh?” I shake my head. “She that good at it?” 

“You have to see to believe,” Abby replies in a reverent tone. 

One thought bashes every other thought in my brain out of the way at once. “Is she trying an Amanar?” I ask. That I would have to see to believe. 

“Training one. Falls on it every time, though. She’s trying to get it in time for the Olympic trials next year. She actually had one when she was, like, twelve, but then she hit her growth spurt and couldn’t adjust to the extra height. She hasn’t landed it since.” 

“Is she close?” I quiz. I’m already doubting this story. A 12-year-old doing one of the hardest vaults in existence? Hardly likely. 

Abby nods enthusiastically. “She’s almost got it now! Just needs to get her chest up. And a bunch of technical junk I don’t understand. I’m only doing a Yurchenko full. That’s what most of us are doing. You?” 

“I’ve got one and a half,” I admit. “I kinda suck at it. Beam and floor are better.”

Abby gives her best trying-not-to-let-me-know-she’s-kinda-jealous fake smile, which I appreciate. “Well, that’s okay. Not everybody is good at every event. I’m better at floor, myself.” 

“Seems like everyone here is,” I remark. “What with Emily, and then Gemma being a really good all-arounder, and Megan being great at all the events…” 

“Yeah, it’s one of the more popular ones. Not many people anywhere are good at bars. That’s why Quinn is so valuable for our team. Megan’s our vaulter, so we’ve got that covered too, same with Emily on floor. But we don't really have a great beam person.” 

How convenient. 

“Beam’s my favorite,” I mention. 

“Really?” Abby is excited, I can tell. “You think you can fill the beam spot?” 

“Um, I…maybe,” I stammer. I have no idea how good the other gymnasts are.

“Can you stay on?” Abby inquires. 

“Um…usually.”

“Then you’re already better than anybody else here.” 

Ouch. 

I don’t have to say anything more, because Coach Nelson walks in. And from the looks of it, she’s got an axe to grind. 

Chapter 4

In Which Coaches Are an Issue

“Start warming up, girls,” Coach Nelson barks. My teammates begin a series of stretches they’ve obviously done 50,000 times. It’s painfully obvious, next to these seasoned veterans, that I haven’t. Coach Nelson can tell. 

“Megan, show Jasmine the stretches,” she orders. 

“Um, I go by Ja-“

“I don’t care what you go by! Shut up and start stretching!” 

“I’m so sorry,” Megan whispers. “She isn't usually like this.” 

“I’m okay,” I whisper back. “Back in Iowa, our conditioning trainer was this ex-boxer with anger issues and once he punched a hole in the gym wall.” 

“I can hear you,” Coach Nelson snaps. “Stop comparing me to psycho MMA dropouts and stretch!!!” 

Despite the context, I can’t help laughing. That is probably the best description of our old trainer I have ever heard. I’ll have to tell Rachel later. 

“She probably just got dumped again.” 

Megan doesn't care anymore if Coach Nelson hears what she has to say. I’m beginning to see that she basically runs the team. I think I like it, but I have to wait and see if Coach is as crazy as she currently seems before I decide that for sure. 

“Shut up,” Coach grunts. But when Megan is showing me the stretches and she thinks we aren't looking, I see her pull a pack of tissues out of her jacket. 

“Coach Nelson is constantly getting broken up with,” Grace explains reproachfully. She is currently doing an oversplit and looks to be in serious pain. It’s an odd combination. 

“Don’t end a sentence with a preposition,” Kennedy interjects, before Grace can finish her sentence. 

“Um, she just got her dreams crushed for the eighteenth time this year,” Abby protests. “Shouldn't we be cutting her a little more slack?” 

“Abby, we’ve tried that the last seventeen times. It just doesn't work,” Emily sighs. 

“You do realize I can hear you, don’t you?” Coach Nelson snorts. I think she’s trying to choke back tears, but she might also be sneezing. Or laughing. You never can tell. 

“Cheer up. We didn't like this one anyway,” Quinn offers. 

“It is not our fault that the two of you were totally incompatible to begin with. I refuse to be subjected to conditioning-based torture because you picked a bad boyfriend again,” Grace scoffed. 

Coach looks like she wants to say some things that would get her fired. 

“I’m sure the next one will work out,” Jayden consoles. “I mean, how many guys your age can there possibly be in Ridgecrest? Soon you’ll run out, and you’ll have to marry one of them! I mean, it’s not like you’d-“

“There will be no next time,” she replies icily. 

“She says that every time,” Gemma whispers. “It’s never true.” 

“Well, it is now,” Coach Nelson snaps. 

“She also says that every time.” Gemma is visibly done. 

“Enough!!! Bars for all of you! Abby, work on the double full dismount. Grace, fix your form on the Tkachev,” She orders. Quinn fist-pumps. 

“Except you, Quinn! Go work on beam!” She snaps. Quinn rolls her eyes. 

“LUCKY,” I mouth silently. 

“I WISH WE COULD TRADE,” she mouths back. 

“I can read your lips, too,” Coach Nelson mutters. “Go do something. Away from me.” 

All of us but a despondent Quinn chalk up and head for the bars. As soon as we’re out of coach’s earshot, I try to find out what exactly is going on. Though I’d tried to stay calm to avoid my new coach’s wrath, I’d still been shaken by the experience. 

Abby answers. “She really isn’t usually like this. It’s just…well, she’s been going through a boyfriend a month for years now, and she’s getting real sick of getting dumped. She gets like this whenever one dumps her. We’ve tried to help her find a good one, but she never takes our advice,” she pouts. 

“For the last time, we are not setting Coach up with our science teacher!” Kennedy snaps. “Abby’s obsessed with finding Coach Nelson’s ‘true love’ or whatever, and she keeps trying to get us to set her up with Mr. Matthews-that was our 8th grade science teacher-and she gets mad when we won’t.” She shakes her head, tossing her too-glossy black ponytail in Emily’s face. 

Apparently, being hit in the face with hair that’s probably been in multiple Pantene ads is a good segue, judging by Emily’s immediate reaction. “She gets really snappy when she gets dumped,” Emily explains. “And worse, she’s running out of guys. There’s only about three single men around here that are her age that she hasn’t dated.”

“Then why doesn’t she?” I query. 

“One’s in jail, one calls himself a ‘certified bigfoot hunter’ and is definitely a certified nutcase, and the other one got a restraining order for biting a kid when he was fifteen. No good options,” Grace sighs. 

“What about the science teacher?” I ask. 

“I said no good options,” Grace sighs again. 

“What’s wrong with him?” 

“Not her type,” Grace replies definitely. “She likes short guys, preferably blonde. Also hot surfers from California, but Ridgecrest doesn’t have any of those.” 

“Because if we did, you’d have snatched one up already,” Megan quipped. 

“Shut up,” Grace mumbles. “You don’t know the first thing about romance.” 

“First off, Megan is the team captain and you are most definitely not the team captain, which means only Megan can tell people to shut up, and she should probably make you do push-ups for that but she won’t because she’s nicer than you,” Gemma snaps. “And second, what do you know about romance?” 

“I…I…um, Ryan Wang tried to kiss me in second grade,” Grace offered. “And somebody’s bound to ask me out when I win Nationals!” 

Sigh. 

Jayden’s eyes widen. “Ryan Wang liked you in elementary school?!?” She asks, looking like she doesn't fully believe it. 

Megan sees my confusion and whispers, “Ryan Wang is the most popular kid at our school. Jayden has a crush on him. So does half our class.” 

Jayden overhears this and blushes. Desperate to change the subject, she replies, “shouldn’t we be, you know, working?” 

“Good point. Grace, you’re first.” Megan has an evil glint in her eye as she says that. And I’m about to see why. Grace, not wanting to be further humiliated after Gemma’s lecture, obediently steps up to the bar. And I see exactly why everybody rolls their eyes when she claims she’s going to win Nationals. 

Grace Cabot’s bar routine is the worst I have ever seen from a junior elite. Heck, it’s the worst bar routine I’ve ever seen from a level 7. 

I should hope she has some upgrades planned. And that her other events aren’t anywhere near this bad. 

Megan assigns Gemma to go next, and she is so much better than Grace it’s embarrassing. So is Jayden, who, it must be noted, has surprisingly good pirouettes. Kennedy is all right, but nothing special; Abby has a great routine and falls on the double full dismount Coach was talking about; and finally, it’s my turn. 

This time, as I jump off the springboard and catch the bar, I don’t care if Grace sees. Spazzy, huh? Well, after the nightmarish routine she’s just done, nothing she says has any bearing on me. I only let good gymnasts tell me I suck. 

And I’m embarrassed to admit I kind of wanted to show off. The key to teaching Grace some basic human decency was obviously to level her head a bit. After all, nobody’s going to be nice when they’re under the illusion that they’re better than everyone.  I contemplate ways to do so as I throw myself into my Wan Leeuwen release. And, to my ecstatic shock, I find myself doing something I’ve never been able to do before: going into autopilot. 

Before I know it, I’ve let go of the bar. I pike my legs and flip/twist backwards, the mat thudding underneath me as I land. 

A perfect stick. 

Grace rolls her eyes as if she could do better in her sleep. (Ha, ha, ha, like I believe that for a second.) Megan grins. “You suck at bars, huh? I’d like to see whatever you don’t think you suck at,” She remarks with a satisfied nod of her head. But I can tell it’s a double-edged compliment. What she actually means is watch me. I can top that. 

It takes only seconds to realize she can. 

Megan doesn’t even need a springboard to jump onto the high bar (a common side effect of vaulter’s legs). But that is the least of it. Watching her routine, it’s not hard to believe she’s one of the best in the country. If this is her worst event, I don’t even want to know how good she is at vault.

I hear clapping and glance over to the source of the sound. Quinn stops to watch, and even she’s impressed with that. And that’s saying a lot when it comes from a girl who’s trying to make the Olympic team by virtue of her bars skills alone.

“Not bad, Finn,” Quinn yells across the gym. “Getting better. But still-“ 

“Very funny,” Megan deadpans. 

“Who’s Finn?” I ask. 

“Megan’s last name is Finnegan, so Quinn calls her Finn,” Abby explains.  

“And I’m guessing she doesn’t like that?” 

“Hates it with a passion, actually.” 

Lacking anything more to say, I glance up at the digital clock on the wall. It’s almost twelve. 

“So, what’s your practice schedule here? It seems like it should be lunch soon,” I ask. 

“We have a three-hour practice from nine to twelve-that’s this one, obviously-then lunch, then conditioning from 1:30 to 2:30, then a break, and another two-hour practice from three to five. It’s not this heavy during the school year,” Emily explains. 

“You go home for lunch, right?” I ask. I didn’t bring any food, and the $10 or so in my wallet wouldn’t cover a restaurant bill. 

“Yeah, but today a few of us are going to Gemma’s house, because her brother is home from culinary school for the summer. He’s a really good cook-obviously, ‘cause he’s in culinary school-so she always invites us over while he’s in town. The food is amazing, and don’t tell anyone I said this, but Megan has a huge crush on him, and he likes cooking for people, so we usually eat at their house at least once a week during the summer.” 

“Oh?” I really don’t know how to respond to that. 

“Oh, sorry, I forgot what I was trying to say. I meant to ask if you wanted to come.” 

“Um, Gemma didn’t invite me…” I’m not really sure how this is supposed to work. 

“Trust me, he always makes way too much food,” Emily assures me. “It’ll be fine.” 

“I’d go, but I have to ask my parents.” That shouldn't be a problem. Mom had said before we moved that she wanted me to make friends as soon as possible because I was stuck here and that would make it more bearable. I consider texting her, but that might take awhile to get a response. Calling is faster. 

Sure enough, mom picks up almost immediately after I call. “Hi…is something wrong?” She asks suspiciously. I roll my eyes. 

“No, mom, I’m fine. One of the girls at the gym is having the team over for lunch and I wondered if I could go.” 

“Did she invite you?” 

“No, but another girl who got invited did.” I cross my fingers. I’d forgotten about that part. 

“Make sure it’s okay. Don’t invite yourself! If she says yes, you can go.” 

“Thanks! Bye!” I hang up before she can think of any other objections and run over to Gemma, who’s putting a pair of sweatpants on over her leotard. 

“Um, Gemma?” 

“Yeah?” She looks up. 

“Emily invited me to your house for lunch. Is that okay?” 

Gemma rolls her eyes. “Of course she did,” she sighs. “Yeah, it’s fine. You can come. It just annoys me when she does that. But it’s okay this time, because I would've invited you if I remembered. See you there?” 

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Chapter 5 

Lunch and a Plan

I begin to walk away and turn back when I realize I don’t know where I’m going. 

“It’s right up the road. Just follow the other girls,” she instructs. Well, that should be easy enough. Most of the girls are walking in an amoeba-shaped gaggle and I decide it’s probably a safe bet to follow them. 

Emily notices me first. “You coming?” She asks. 

“Yeah. Gemma said to follow you, ‘cause I don’t know where I’m going.” 

“Okay. That’ll work fine. It’s only a few blocks, and we’ve all done this thousands of times.” 

I follow Emily, who’s bringing up the rear of the amoeba, down a wooded sidewalk that looks too forested to be in the middle of a city. Evergreen boughs droop low over the sidewalk, leaving barely enough clearance for a gaggle of lilliputian gymnasts. Their long shadows darken the street far more than they should at noon. The morning fog has given way to stifling humidity, so thick you could cut it with a knife, and the overhanging branches seem to trap it over our heads. The whole picture is really eerie, and deadly silent save for the muffled chatter of the girls in the front of the amoeba. 

It just rubs in more and more how much this isn’t like Iowa. 

If this were happening at home, I’d be biking through wide-open streets to Panera for lunch with Maddie and Rachel, like we always did in the summer. Nothing would be blocking out the sun, and this infernal humidity would never have been a problem. And I wouldn’t have felt like the third-tenth?-wheel. Back at home, nobody got left behind. My teammates thought of me as one of them, an equal partner in gymnastics and friendship alike, so unlike this team, where I was just the new girl who only got invited out of pity. 

And I finally notice we’re almost there. The girls turn into a cul-de-sac and head for a small grey house with a spacious front porch. The breeze rocks a coffee-stained glider that reeks of bacon and newsprint, no doubt the site of many, many breakfasts and newspaper analyses. That single piece of furniture creates a welcoming, homey atmosphere, a lived-in feel that softens the harsh edge of the dark grey house. It already feels more like home than my house does, and I’ve never even been inside. 

Gemma leads the group to a side entrance, which seems to be a mudroom. The girls obediently slip off their shoes and walk in through another door. This, in turn, leads to a small, brightly-lit kitchen, painted a very pale yellow color. A twenty-something boy, probably Gemma’s brother, is grilling chicken at a stove. He glances up when we walk in. 

“Hi, Gemma’s friends!” He calls. The awkward greeting is so enthusiastic that I can’t help but smile, even if he doesn't appear to remember anyone’s name. He does, however, seem to be good with faces-he picks the new member (me) out of the crowd in  seconds. 

“You new?” He asks, gesturing at me with his spatula. 

“Um, yeah. I just moved here. What’s your name?” 

He grins. “Sam. Nice to meet you! What’s your name? Where’r ya from?” 

I try to smile back, but it’s really more of a grimace. “Um, nice to meet you too. I’m, um, Jasmine, but you can call me Jazzy. I just moved here from Des Moines.” 

“Iowa? What brings you here, then?” 

“My mom got a job with that clothes place here. Abernathy & Flitch, I think?” 

“Yeah, that’d probably be the one.” Satisfied with the information he’s gotten, he moves on to the other girls. “Jayden, right?” He asks, pointing to Jayden. “You’ve really shot up since I last saw you!” 

“Thanks!” Jayden gushes. “I’m taller than Quinn now!” 

Using that as a segue, Sam looks in Quinn’s direction. “You lost,” he quips pugnaciously. 

“Never,” Quinn snarls. 

“It was an arm wrestling match. Quinn won and Sam’s never lived it down,” Megan explains. 

I can definitely see that happening. 

“I won!” He snaps. 

Megan cuts in. “No, you really didn’t.” 

“Megan! How’s the Amanar coming?” 

“Ugh,” she snorts disgustedly, but I can see her blush from across the room.

“Get your chest up,” he replies. “How’s the campaign coming?” Sam asks Kennedy. 

“Leave me alone,” she mumble-snaps.

“Figured. Hi, Emily!” 

“Hi,” Emily responds boredly. 

“Have I gotten everybody?” 

 

“Um, hello!” Gemma shouts. 

“Oh yeah. Hi, Phlegma,” he snorts. “By the way, where’s Grace?” 

“Not invited,” Gemma snaps. “And you also forgot Abby.” 

Sam glances up. “Oh, yeah. Hi, Abby. Please tell me your dad kept the dubstep guy,” he pleads in mock distress. Megan comes to the rescue again. 

“Abby’s dad is the music director at church-among about a thousand other things-and at one point they were so desperate for a musician for the Christmas service that they hired whoever showed up without an audition. The only person who showed was this guy named Jerry Burgess, and it turned out his thing was making dubstep remixes of Christmas songs. Most of us wanted to run onstage and strangle him-Quinn almost actually did-but Sam loved it. And yes, we fired him.” 

“That is thoroughly upsetting,” Sam groaned. 

“Really, Sam? You actually want to sit though dubstep Silent Night again?” Gemma sighs.

“Yes,” he responds earnestly. “I mean, remember it? Si-i-i-“ 

“STOP! STOP! HALT, PEASANT! YOU WILL NOT GET THAT STUCK IN MY HEAD AGAIN!” Quinn screams. Gemma’s mom pokes her head in a doorway to make sure nobody is being murdered. 

“Everything okay?” 

“Dubstep Silent Night,” Quinn shudders. 

Mrs. Giles rolls her eyes. “Sam, stop earworming your sister’s friends. Quinn, stop screaming bloody murder. ‘Kay?” 

“Got it,” they both drone disappointedly. 

“What’s the food?” Quinn asks, sticking her face dangerously close to the pan of chicken. 

“Parmesan-crusted chicken and a cobb salad. Gemma’s request.” He rolls his eyes. “I wanted to do something hard.” 

“Well, I couldn't make that,” Abby offers. “And we probably wouldn’t eat anything ‘hard’.” 

“Nah, anybody could. All you do is coat the thing in egg and roll it in the batter. And who says you wouldn’t like something hard? Are you really telling me you hate phyllo dough?” 

“I have no idea what that is,” Quinn cuts in blankly. 

“Good,” Gemma interjects, “‘cause you aren't getting it. I asked for parmesan chicken and a salad because it’s somewhat healthy and everyone here eats it.” 

Sam sighs. “I really don’t know why I do this,” he groans. 

“Oh, come on, you know you can’t resist,” replies Jayden, ever the ham, with a begging-puppy expression so pathetic it’s almost funny. 

“Whatever,” he sighs again. “Chicken’s almost done.” He flips the chicken one last time before taking them off. “Salad’s on the table. Just grab a few bowls.” Gemma walks over to a cabinet and pulls out ten salad-sized bowls. Megan, who’s done this just as many times as Gemma, it appears, reaches over and pulls forks and knives out of a drawer opposite the stove. With unceremonious clamor, they hurriedly set the table, with Jayden, Emily and Kennedy exiled to the kitchen island for lack of space. 

I’m pretty sure the Gileses wouldn’t have any reason to poison me, but just to be safe, I watch Gemma eat first. When she doesn’t turn blue and collapse to the floor, I assume it’s safe to eat. Methodically cutting the chicken into small pieces, I listen to the girls’ aimless banter, most of it about boys. I attempt to cut the chicken into perfect squares. The concentration it takes distracts me from the fact that I’m doing some serious third-wheeling and I do not like it. Abby, sitting next to me, notices. 

“Um…is your chicken hot?” She asks cautiously, probably figuring I don’t want to eat it. 

“No, just…nothing.” I skewer a piece on my fork to dodge her questions. She furrows her brow worriedly, but I pretend not to notice. I have enough issues without my teammates being convinced I actually have issues. It’s very good chicken, I must say. 

“Thith’th goob,” I say through a mouthful of chicken.

Abby looks relieved. “Good. You needa eat a lot before conditioning, ‘cause it’s crazy-hard.” 

“Well, it can’t be worse than the psycho MMA dropout,” I quip. 

“Yes, it can. Megan, is our conditioning crazy-hard?” 

“Uh-huh,” she says absentmindedly, still absorbed in a long conversation with Jayden. I sigh. 

“So…you going into high school next year?” I ask, figuring even trying-too-hard Abby is better than nobody at all. 

She nods. “Uh-huh. So’s all of us.” 

“So are all of us,” Kennedy, Queen of All Grammar Nazis, cuts in. 

“Except Jayden. She’s a seventh-grader. And Megan’s a sophomore.” 

“Then how is she still junior?” I ask. You have to be younger than 14 to compete as a junior, and I doubt any elite gymnast would also be a 14-year-old sophomore.

“Not for long. She has to go senior for the qualifiers. Too old. Also, it’s good practice to have an extra year under her belt before the Olympic trials next year. Quinn is almost 15, but she gets an extra year junior because her birthday is the day after Nationals.” 

We slip into comfortable silence as we return to the food. Not minutes later, we’re loading plates into the dishwasher and rushing out the door upon realizing we’re going to be late for conditioning. This time, I’m walking next to Gemma. Bored, I decide to start a conversation. 

“So…your brother seems nice,” I begin. 

Gemma snorts amusedly. “Yeah, around all of you,” she scoffs. “And only because my mother makes him. When nobody else is around, he burps obnoxiously, orders me around, and spends half his time whining about how he doesn’t have a girlfriend.”

Huh. That’s exactly what Asia used to do (minus the burping, obviously). 

“I have a sister his age who doesn't have a boyfriend,” I offer. 

Gemma’s eyes light up. “Really? Does she live with you?” 

“No. College. In Seattle.” 

“Well, does she ever visit?” 

“Yeah. She’s coming for my birthday in July, and she said she might come to the US Classic if her homework situation isn’t too bad.” 

Gemma is grinning deviously. “You thinking what I’m thinking?” 

I grin deviously back. “You saying we should do something about their….situations?” I ask, knowing exactly what she means. 

“Uh-huh,” she nods enthusiastically. “I’ll make especially sure Sam comes to the Classic with me.” 

“And I’ll drag Asia to the 4th of July picnic,” I add. 

Gemma raises an eyebrow. “How’d you know about that?” 

“I’ve seen flyers. It says it’s, like, the event of the summer around here.” 

She nods. “It is. Every year, the organizers hide $100 gift cards to a bunch of places-usually it’s, like, Amazon, or sometimes a restaurant-around town, and there’s a massive scavenger hunt to find them. And the dubstep guy is there with terrible remixes of patriotic songs. And there’s food. And there’s a talent show with cash prizes!” 

“Any of you ever enter it?” I ask.

“Yeah. Emily won once with her floor routine, and Abby entered last year. Her act was doing 50 back handsprings in a row. She almost broke her ankle because she tried to do it on grass, but it was awesome while it lasted.” 

“Sounds fun. Anyone entering this year?” 

“Not from the team. But my mom is trying to get Sam to enter.” 

“For cooking?” I fail to see how that is talent show act material. 

“Yeah. She says if he lets the judges and crowd eat it afterwords, he’ll win because food is better than a kid juggling dead fish-somebody actually does that-and the high school cheer team’s Salute to America routine they do every year.” 

“Oh. Well, I guess that makes sense, but it’s…I don’t know, kind of unsanitary, isn't it?” 

Gemma nods. “That’s what Sam said. He says he refuses to be responsible for an entire town dying of botulism because he made bad pesto or something. What even is botulism?” 

“No idea,” I reply. “A disease, obviously. But I don’t know what it, like, does.” 

Megan walks up behind us. “What disease?” She asks. 

“Botulism,” we respond in unison. 

“Um…what is that?” 

“Exactly what we don’t know,” I say. “All we know is that Sam thinks his food has it or something.” 

Megan shakes her head. “I won’t even ask,” she sighs. 

Chapter 6

Midnight Food Fight

Everything had fallen into place for Operation Get Our Siblings To Stop Complaining (a name Gemma and I had decided on after realizing there was no word we could make by combining the victims’ names). Asia was finally in town, and, predictably, her favorite conversation topics were “I have too much homework” and “why am I still single?”, as expected (and hoped). She had proclaimed our new house “charming,” if “musty,” and had come to watch us practice (for some reason, she took a particular liking to Kennedy), and suffice to say it all my teammates approved. 

Quinn was fascinated by Asia’s exploits on her school’s rowing team. Kennedy wanted to know all about her atmospheric science research (that’s her major). Gemma spent a sizable chunk of time sizing her up, trying to decide if she was worthy of the Royal Pain (she declared her “quite out of his league”). All of them asked if her school had a collegiate gymnastics program (it does), particularly Megan, who wants to do that when she goes to college in a few years. Emily vastly enjoyed the company of a fellow ginger. Even impossible-to-please Grace was impressed that she “didn’t look like she crawled out of a trash can, being on a college budget and all.” 

Asia is one of the only people I know who wouldn't have punched her in the face for that. 

Well, now it’s July 3rd, and, as my parents finally agreed to let me have a sleepover, several of my teammates and I are currently in my bedroom, plotting. 

I’m sprawled out on my bed, typing notes into my phone. Gemma is sitting half-in, half-out of my velvet armchair. Megan is sprawled out on her “crash pad” (a pile of stuff to sleep on, consisting of wadded-up blankets, a couch cushion, three pillows and a sleeping bag) on the floor, eating pretzels out of the bag. Abby is leaning up against a wall and hogging my only outlet to charge her phone. Quinn is sitting under my desk and I honestly don’t know how she got herself wedged back there. Lastly, Emily is sitting on the bench at the foot of my bed. 

“You told us this would take a while, so please start,” Abby suggested. 

Gemma clears her throat. “So, you know how I’m always saying that Sam whines about not having a girlfriend a lot?” She begins. 

Megan nods apprehensively. “And?” She looks nervous. I think she knows very well where this is going. 

I cut in. “Asia does the same thing, and I refuse to have my week with her ruined by her complaining about her relationship status! So we’ve devised a plot to end it.” I rub my hands together in a most villainous fashion, if I do say so myself. 

“We’re going to kill two birds with one stone.” Gemma copies my villainous hand gestures. 

Abby sighs. “This better not involve murder,” she groans. 

I cackle. “Oh, no. What we’ve got in mind is much worse.” 

Quinn suddenly looks interested. “Ooh, is it identity theft? Credit card fraud? I know people who can do that!” 

Gemma facepalms. “First of all, who, and second of all, no, no, and did I mention NO?!?” 

Quinn looks annoyed. “My brother has weird friends. And if not that, then what?!?” 

Gemma and I exchange devious glances. “No, think bad,” we say in perfect unison. I hope it doesn't look staged. (We’ve been planning this for a week.) 

Abby’s eyes light up. “OOH! I get it now!!!” She claps her hands together excitedly. “You’re gonna set them up!” 

I nod. “Ex-actly. It’s so obvious! They’re the exact same age, and they have to get along somewhat because we know each other, and our parents know each other, so they can’t just never see each other again. So if they start dating-and that is the goal, just to be clear-“ I throw it to Gemma with a triumphant hand gesture. 

“They can’t stop! And you know what that means…it’s foolproof! Foolproof, I tell you!” 

“But…what if they hate each other?” Emily asks timidly. 

“We’re pretty sure they won’t,” I reassure her with more bravado than I actually feel. “I mean, for one, our parents like Sam, and that’s a huge factor, because they’ll get behind it. Also, he seems really nice, which is an obvious plus, and he’s, at worst, not ugly-another plus. And Asia can’t cook, which is another factor. If we’re talking long-term, she won’t marry someone she has to cook for because she can’t. Obviously, that would never be an issue with Sam. And-“ 

Megan is rather befuddled. “Really? So now we’re talking marriage?!? They’ve never even met each other!” 

Gemma is unfazed. “Get over it, Megan,” she snorts breezily. “He’s five years older than you. Forget it.” 

While Megan fumes, Gemma continues the speech. “And from my side, I know Sam admires intelligence in girls-I know, because I found out what his quote-on-quote ‘type’ is by making him help me with a fake extra credit assignment-and obviously Asia is smart. He apparently also likes gingers-again, perfect.” Emily looks amused. “The other qualities he listed were ‘artistic or musical talent’ and ‘not annoying.’ I’m not sure about the artistic thing, but I don’t think Asia is annoying…she’s not, is she?” 

“No. Well, not unless she’s complaining about being single. But she’s not particularly artistic. Meh. She’s got everything else.” 

Abby looks interested. “Do you know anything about Asia’s type, Jazzy?” she asks. 

I shrug. I hadn't thought of Gemma’s fake-assignment ruse. “No…but I think I can guess. She’s really independent, so I think she’d want someone who’s, like, okay with that and not, like, clingy. And she can’t cook, so she probably finds culinary skills attractive. And not being clingy is especially important because she wants to study tornadoes and you can imagine how a clingy boyfriend would be bad in that case.” 

Gemma nods. “Hmm. I wouldn’t say Sam is particularly clingy-like, he definitely wouldn't follow somebody into a tornado. But that could be a factor. We just gotta see what happens.” 

Quinn, who’s been silent this whole time, speaks up. “This is stupid,” she grumbles. 

Abby rolls her eyes. “Get over it.” 

“It’s still stupid,” she sighs. “Y’all know this is never gonna work, right?” 

“Well, we gotta at least try,” Gemma replies airily. 

“Fair enough. Just sayin’, it’s not my fault when this fails,” Quinn finishes, shoving a handful of Megan’s pretzels in her mouth. 

“I’m hungry,” I announce. 

“Same,” Emily responds. “I kinda want pizza.” 

“If we’re gonna pig out, it better be on ice cream,” Quinn replies. 

“Food is more fun when you make it yourself,” Abby protests. “We should make something.” 

“Like?” I have to say, that sounds fun right now. 

“I dunno, cookies?” Abby shrugs. “It seems like the most obvious option.” 

Emily’s eyes light up. “No! We should have midnight breakfast! With waffles! And whipped cream!”

Quinn suddenly forgets her argument. “Yes! We have to do that! Do you have a waffle iron?” 

I nod. I think we do. “Okay, everybody in for that?” 

Megan nods. “Sure.” 

“Perfect,” Abby grins. “Let’s do it, then!” 

We tramp upstairs while Gemma looks up a recipe for waffles (as she said, everything is better from scratch), Abby looks up a recipe for whipped cream, and Emily gets started on the scrambled eggs. As soon as we’re upstairs, I make a beeline for the box with the waffle iron in it. It’s right where I expected it to be, but the skillet for the eggs isn’t. 

“We can’t make the eggs,” I announce. “Can’t find the skillet.” 

“It’s in the cabinet,” somebody says. 

“Asia? What are you doing up this late?” I ask. 

“Studying. What are you doing up this late?” 

“Breakfast at midnight.” 

“Huh. Cool. Save me some food.” She goes back to her textbook. 

“Quinn’s gonna eat it all, probably,” Gemma replies. “But we’ll try.” 

“Okay, what do we need for the waffles?” I ask. 

“Flour, eggs, milk, all that stuff. Plus sugar, salt, vanilla, and the stuff to measure it,” Abby responds. “Fridge?” 

“Milk and eggs, yes. The rest is in the pantry. Including the measuring stuff. I’ll get that if the rest of you do the eggs and stuff.” 

“I’ve got the skillet, and you just need eggs and milk. Well, butter, maybe. I can make those,” Gemma offers. 

“And I’ll do the whipped cream,” Megan volunteered.

While Gemma starts on the eggs and Megan tries to find heavy cream, to no avail (we have to substitute buttermilk, so I hope they’re the same), Quinn starts to measure out the ingredients for the waffles. When she gets to the flour, she grins evilly, as if she’s about to pull a really good prank. 

Not seconds later, she dumps the cup measure of flour on Megan’s head. Megan shrieks and splashes buttermilk in Quinn’s face in retaliation. Asia turns to shush them but, upon realizing what’s going on, grabs a measuring cup, fills it with flour, and flings it at them. They shriek again. Quinn tosses an egg at Asia. Asia throws a pencil back at Quinn. Gemma screams, “YOU’RE GETTING FLOUR IN THE EGGS!” and, upon realizing my parents are probably asleep, cringes. Back and forth it goes until Gemma has to stop them from using all our ingredients. 

By the end of it, Abby is curled up in a ball under the sink. 

Hoping to hide this episode from my parents, we attempt to remove the evidence. There might be flour on the ceiling, but hopefully they’ll miss that. Quinn, Asia and Megan, now covered in food, have to shower to get it off. Emily, Abby, Gemma and I finish cooking ourselves. But it appears we’ve made several mistakes. Quinn’s sloppy measurement of the sugar made the waffles far too sweet, and it turns out buttermilk isn’t the same as heavy cream after all.

We save that for the victims. 

After we’ve choked down the awful breakfast carnage, we head back downstairs to go to sleep. And though tonight was fun, it was a brief period of calm before the storm.

And this was no tornado. 

Chapter 6

Patriotic Birds and Boy Drama

Today was the day. 

I wake up to blinding sunlight coming through the window above my bed. I check to make sure my guests are all still asleep (all but Abby, whose head is buried under a blanket, through which I can see her phone glowing) and stumble to the bathroom, my eyesight still blurry. After taking several minutes to brush my teeth, put my hair up and compose myself somewhat, I trek upstairs to get food. 

“Your friends awake yet?” Dad, sitting at the counter, asks. 

“Unh,” I snort, still searching for food. 

“I take that as a yes?” 

“Unh means unh,” I mutter, digging deeper into the fridge. I pull out a serviceable peach and a cup of yogurt. 

“I won’t even ask,” dad sighs. 

“Hi, Jazzy,” Quinn says, half-falling up the stairs, and followed by Gemma and Abby. “Thanks for ditching us.” 

“Sorry. Food,” I explain, as if that is a reasonable explanation. 

“Ah. Gotcha. Can I have some?” Quinn replies. 

“Quinn!” Abby digs her elbow into her side. 

“Sorry. May I humbly request sustenance?” She bows mockingly in my direction. 

“Take whatever,” dad says, motioning towards the fridge. “I think we have something. Also, why is there flour on the ceiling?” 

How exactly did he find out about that?

Megan pulls herself up on the stair railing. “Quinn threw it at me, then Asia threw a pencil at her.” 

Quinn shoots her a murderous gaze. “With all due respect, sir, your offspring did nothing to stop us from trashing your kitchen.” 

Dad looks mildly amused. “Hey, I appreciate your honesty. I won’t make you get it down.” 

“We did what?” Asia mutters, stumbling into the kitchen. 

“Nothing,” Megan and Quinn chirp cheerfully, trying to look far more natural than they do. 

“Have some food,” I suggest, tossing an apple at her to change the subject. She chomps about half the fruit off in one bite. I peel my peach while Abby heats up some leftover rotisserie chicken and Megan goes off in search of the toaster to toast the bread she’s discovered. Quinn, clearly not concerned about nutrition, settles for dad’s week-old pepperoni pizza (cold, with a diet Pepsi and three gigantic oranges), Gemma finds a hunk of cheddar and some grapes, and Emily quickly devours a container of blueberries.

Our fridge is gutted by the time we’re done with it. 

After eating virtually everything edible in sight, we head back downstairs to get dressed. I dispatch Gemma and Quinn to my bathroom and Emily and Megan to the guest room, while Abby stays in my bedroom (I hide in the closet while she uses the actual room). Emily, Gemma and Quinn are done in a matter of seconds, practically, but Megan is taking so long that Abby and I make the executive decision to send Quinn to see if she’s still alive. Quinn comes back with a disgusted look on her face. 

Megan is trailing her, and she looks like she’s competing in a beauty pageant. Not a hair is out of place, and she’s wearing as much makeup as a mime (if mimes had spray tans). Gemma rolls her eyes.

“SAM,” she mouths at Quinn. 

“I KNOW. IT’S DISGUSTING,” Quinn mouths back. 

Megan rolls her eyes right back. 

“You know I can hear you,” she says, her voice dripping with disdain. 

“Stop being so melo-dra-matic,” Quinn responds, stretching out the sentence for maximum Megan-mocking accuracy.

Megan rolls her eyes yet again. “Let’s just get out of here,” she sighs. “The…thingy starts, like…soon.” 

Emily shrugs. “She’s got a point. You have to get there really early if you want to get a good spot before the gift card thing, especially if you have a big group.” 

I have to point out a fatal flaw with this plan. “My parents won’t leave this early,” I remind them. 

“Your dad’s awake,” Quinn protests. “Why not?” 

“Um…stuff. Also, reasons.” As if that explains everything. 

“Well, I wouldn't want to impose, but…Emily’s right,” Abby responds, far too polite to sound sincere. 

Forward-thinking Quinn has a better idea. She walks to the base of the stairs and shrieks, “MR. NEWTON! IT’S TIME TO GO!” 

“Quinn!” Gemma hisses, digging her elbow into Quinn’s side. 

“COMING!” Dad shouts back. Huh. That was surprisingly effective. 

“I TOLD YOU,” Quinn whisper-shouts. “I just need get my stuff…” 

She dismantles Megan’s crash pad, flings open the closet and purposefully steps on all the sleeping bags before realizing she left it in the bathroom. 

“Um…well…everybody have your stuff?” 

“Yeah.” Megan holds up her purple duffle. 

“Uh-huh.” Gemma gestures to her gym bag. 

“In a minute,” Emily mumbles, leaning over to grab her backpack. 

“Probably.” Abby uproots the entire room again before realizing she, too, left it in the bathroom. 

“I got it!” Quinn runs back in, triumphantly thrusting her bag into the air. 

Asia hears the yelling and pokes her head in. “You do realize dad is going to make you clean it, right?” She asks, shaking her head at the glorious disaster that is my floor. 

“I hate cleaning,” Quinn groans in her typical candid fashion. 

“And I hate lazy houseguests. Start folding blankets,” Asia replies. 

To everybody’s shock, Quinn obeys. Abby puts the pillows back on my bed, and Megan deflates an air mattress. Gemma helps fold the blankets, and Emily takes four bags of chips and the sofa cushions back upstairs. By the time dad is done getting ready, my room looks like nobody was ever there. 

Well, except for the half-eaten, smashed bag of pretzels shoved under the cushions of my armchair, but nobody has to know about that. 

As soon as we’ve piled into the car, dad assails us with questions. “So, what is this thing we’re going to?” He inquired. “What do you do at it?” He wanted to know. “Is there food?” He quizzed. 

“Fourth of July picnic, watch a lame talent show and look for gift cards, yes,” Gemma explains far too quickly. 

“Set up your siblings with other people’s siblings,” Quinn scoffs. 

Gemma slaps her hand across Quinn’s mouth in an attempt to gag her before she kills our plot. “There’s, like, a matchmaking game that we always play,” she lies before Asia can ask any questions. 

“Okay, because for a minute there I thought you were…no, even you wouldn’t do that,” She sighs. That was way too close. 

“TURN RIGHT ONTO CEDAR LANE,” The GPS blares, interrupting whatever Asia wanted to say. We approach the town square, which is positively dripping with overdone patriotic decorations, and, in just seconds, we’re at our destination: the stage where we’re supposed to get seats. It takes a minute to absorb the full effect of the decor. 

Store windows are painted with all manner of festive scenes, red, white and blue lanterns hang from the trees, and picnic benches are adorned with patriotic tablecloths and blue mason jars with miniature American flags in them. And lastly-I cannot believe this-a live bald eagle is perched on a pedestal next to a lady whose shirt says “AMERICA’S PRIDE RAPTOR SANCTUARY " RENT BALD EAGLES FOR ALL YOUR PATRIOTIC CELEBRATIONS”. 

How is that even legal?!?

Gemma notices my confusion. “They have this educational program where they take birds to schools and talk about them, and this didn't get legally cleared or anything, but they decided they could make a lot of money off of renting them out for people’s 4th of July parties. Yeah…it worked. And when the organizer person’s daughter found out about it, she insisted they get one. It’s all she talked about for the last month of school.” 

“She’s in our class,” Emily explains. 

“Sick,” Asia says appreciatively. “I wanna feed it.” 

“You sound like a 12-year-old boy,” I scoff. 

“You’re just a wimp. Aww, baby doesn’t wanna see the widdle mousies get eaten?” She mocks me. I nearly slap her until I remember that I am supposed to be making her look sane until she and Sam have gone on at least three dates (and if he hasn't figured it out by then, he has no brain). 

Lacking anything better to do, I claim a table. “Put your stuff here,” I instruct. “We gotta claim it.” 

Gemma has other things on her mind. “I’m texting Sam. He’s supposed to be here any minute. Then the operation will commence.” We perform our showstopping synchronized villain hands with much dramatic flair. Megan sighs and goes off to find the food. 

“Oh, look,” a mocking voice I don’t recognize croons. “It’s the cheerleaders!” 

“Can it, Edward,”  Megan snaps. I get the feeling that being called a cheerleader is a huge insult around here. 

“Why, hello, Eddy,” Abby replies cordially, clasping her hands and attempting to look as charming as possible. 

“Hello, Abigail,” he scoffs, but I can tell there’s something more going on.

“This is Edward Richard Rogers Cunningham-Smithson. He has a huge crush on Abby. Sources have yet to confirm if she likes him back,” Quinn reply wickedly, her eyes sparkling like they always did when she pushed her nose one inch too far into other people’s affairs. 

“Why, I simply see him as an acquaintance,” she says sweetly. “Gymnasts don't have time for the lowly pursuit of romance.” 

“She uses big words when she’s mad,” Asia comments impressedly. 

“No, but cheerleaders do,” Eddie replies saucily. 

“Excellent! Then go find one!” She replies, flashing her famous Miss Charm smile. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak girl,” he says in a voice obnoxiously polite enough to rival Abby’s. 

“Well, I do, and it means…um, stuff I can’t say when there are adults around,” Megan stammers. 

“And you smell like a dead fish!” Quinn adds with unnecessary severity. She is doing a remarkable job keeping the four-letter-word count as low as possible.

Eddy rolls his eyes and departs. 

“Crisis averted,” Emily notes. 

“The food is out. Wanna go get some?” Gemma asks, hoping to get our attention away from the plot and his royal sassypants for at least a couple minutes. 

“What food is it?” Megan says lazily. “I don’t wanna move if it’s not good food.” 

“Um…like, watermelon. And cupcakes. They also have cupcakes.” 

The eagle screeches. “CAAAAAAAAW!” It exclaims loudly, whatever that means in bird. 

“I think that means he thinks we should get cupcakes,” Gemma hints unsubtly. 

“Food is good. Let’s food,” Quinn decides, and we all follow her for lack of anything better to do. 

“Food is not a verb,” Abby counters. 

“Ehm, no, you can’t correct my grammar. That’s Kennedy’s thing and one is enough,” Quinn replies cooly.

“What kind of cupcakes do they have?” Megan asks boredly. 

“Most likely those vanilla kind with red and blue frosting. Probably from Von’s, probably disgusting, probably full of chemicals, but cupcakes are cupcakes,” Emily reasons. 

“She’s got a point,” Abby agrees. “And it’s probably better than the waffles.” Quinn, a victim of our atrocious whipped cream, groans. 

“You’re gonna make me sick,” she whines. 

“The struggle is reeeeeeaaal,” Megan sympathizes dramatically. “Remind me never to let you make food again. I wouldn’t be surprised if those had botulism,” she scoffs. 

“I thought we already established that none of us know what that is,” Gemma reminds them. 

“The waffles probably had it anyway. That much sugar does nothing good,” Megan lectures. 

“You know what?” Quinn asks. 

“What now?” Emily groans. 

“I want bacon.” 

“Bacon is full of saturated fat,” Megan lectures. “You’re just begging for a heart attack if you eat it.” 

“You need to go back to health class,” Quinn snaps. “Nobody ever died of bacon. And if they did, it was because they didn't exercise, not that they ate the bacon.” 

“How many times do I have to tell you that no amount of exercise unclogs your arteries?!?” Emily interjects. 

“But it makes your heart stronger so it won’t die on you when you clog your arteries with happiness,” Quinn explains. 

“Um, no, that is not how hearts work,” Megan groans. “Make it as strong as you possibly can and it still won’t work if you clog your arteries.”

“Well, I’d rather die of bacon than stress, thank you very much,” Quinn snaps, “unlike you! Y’all are gonna waste your entire lives worrying about arteries! And, mind you, I’m not one of those people who can get by on 500 calories in a 7-hour training day!”

“Yeah, but they’re empty calories! Eat all the salad you want-“

Gemma is done with this discussion. “Enough!” She shrieks. 

“CAWWWW,” the eagle replies. 

“See?!? Even the freakin’ bird agrees!” She yells, gesturing for emphasis.

“We get it! Let’s just get food!” Emily sighs. My head is still spinning, trying to figure out how going to get cupcakes had turned into a heated debate about the merits (or lack thereof) of bacon. 

The food, it turns out, is a disappointment (dyed vanilla cupcakes from Von’s and some dismal potato chips), so we wander back to the table. The bird is protesting something. I sigh, hoping it doesn’t give me a migrane (while equally hoping Asia isn’t trying to pet it). And then my head almost explodes. 

Asia is standing by the bird-podium (like I thought), chatting with the Raptor Sanctuary girl, wearing a thick leather birding glove and dangling a dead mouse in front of the offended eagle’s face. 

“CAAAAAAAAW! AAAAAAAAAAKKKK!!” It shrieks, lunging at the mouse. At this point, I wouldn't be surprised if Asia got mauled by that thing. 

“I wanna try,” Quinn cackles, sprinting over to the bird. “Can I feed it?” She shouts. The raptor lady nods annoyedly, rolling her eyes. 

This seriously can’t be legal. 

The lady hands Quinn her other birding glove and a mouse out of a container behind the podium. She dangles it in front of the eagle mockingly. It screams something that is probably a curse word in bird-ish. With two mice taunting it, the poor creature is utterly confounded. I kind of want it to come at them. They’ve certainly earned it. 

Asia, getting bored, tosses her mouse at the bird. He (she? I don’t really know) catches it easily and sets it down. I have to look away. It would probably make me sick. Even Quinn has the presence of mind to toss down her mouse and leave, although it takes her a few seconds to realize she’s still wearing the lady’s glove. 

“You should try that,” Quinn tells us, pointing at the bird. 

“You almost got mauled,” Megan says in the most unemotional tone I’ve ever heard (complete with utterly blank facial expression). 

Gemma is amused. She decides to play along. “That’s, like, legit dangerous,” she says, rather zombie-esque. 

I pick up. “You know how bad that could've been?” I ask robotically.  

“Why are y’all talking like robots?” Quinn asks. 

“Who’s talking like robots?” Abby intones blankly. 

“Yeah, who?” Emily finishes, unemotional as can be. 

Quinn sighs, departing for the food table and a second round of chemically cupcakes. Megan and Gemma fist-bump. 

“That cannot be legal,” Emily groans as another person walks over to the podium to feed the eagle. To her relief, the lady turns them away. (I guess it’s had enough food.) 

“What can’t be legal?” Eddie asks, having suddenly reappeared. 

“Your face,” Quinn counters. 

Eddie sighs. 

“Oh, but my dear, life is but an illusion, an illusion to be wasted in faceless-“

Megan cuts him off. “Quit quoting rom-coms, Eddie,” she sighs. 

“September Sundown was a book!” He protests. I figure this is not the time to admit I read it. And loved it. And have a horribly embarrassing weakness for bad teenage romance novels. 

“Whatever it was, it sucks, and you need to go away,” she replies curtly. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t listen to cheerleaders,” Eddie quips. 

“Excuse me?” She snaps. 

“You heard me.” 

“You wanna take that back, Smythe?” She challenges. 

He snorts. “Not a chance, Finnegan.” 

Megan clamps her jaw. “I bet,” she snaps, “that a cheerleader couldn’t do this!” 

Oh. This cannot be good. 

“NO NO NO NO NO MEGAN MEGAN MEGAN STOOOOOP!!!” Abby shouts frantically. Megan is running across an empty strip of grass. And I’m pretty sure I know what that means. 

As I feared, Megan is trying to show off. With a double Arabian. On wet grass, with no mats or protection or anybody to stop her from-

It appears my fear was unwarranted. She lands perfectly. 

“Not bad for a cheerleader,” Eddie says, smirking evilly. 

Megan clenches her jaw even harder, and this really can’t be good. 

“Mother of fish, no,” Quinn whispers in awestruck shock. “She’s gonna try the combo!” 

“The combo?”  Emily whispers, completely and utterly shellshocked. 

“The combo,” Abby says in reverent fear. 

“What is it?” I ask. 

“Two whips, double twist, double layout,” Quinn whispers. 

My eyes bug out.  I couldn’t even dream of landing that and I wouldn’t expect that Megan would be trying it either. Emily is green with envy. 

And then Abby lets out a bloodcurdling shriek.

Chapter 7

Out of the Frying Pan 

“NO! DON’T DO IT!” Abby screams. 

“DO YOU HAVE A DEATH WISH?!?” Emily shouts. 

“Am I the only one who wants to see this?” Gemma asks. 

And that’s when it happens. The scream. Abby lets out a shriek bigger than she is.

I have to look, but I wish I hadn’t. 

Megan’s left foot is bent almost backwards and it is the most horrifying thing I have ever seen in my life.

“I told you,” Emily says faintly. 

Quinn shakes her head angrily. “I don’t even know who I hate more, that idiot for making her mad enough to try it or Megan for doing it,” she scoffs. 

“EDWARD RICHARD ROGERS CUNNINGHAM-SMITHSON, YOU IDIOT, I WILL KILL YOU IF IT IS THE LAST THING I EVER-“ She cuts off her sentence, wincing. Only then does she realize what she’s actually done to herself. 

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” She says panickedly. “How bad is it? How bad?!?” 

Abby cuts in before Quinn can say something stupid. “I’m not gonna lie, it looks serious,” she replies gently, “but I think-“ 

“I can see your shinbone,” Quinn interjects. “Cool. Think I could get extra credit for bio if I got a good pictu-“ 

“QUINN AMELIA MARIA CONTRERAS, IF YOU-“ 

Bird lady looks up from her cell phone. “Wait, what happened to you?” She asks accusingly. She sees Megan’s leg and, without another word, she dials 911. 

“Yes, hi, I’m at a 4th of July picnic at the Town Center mall and this kid broke her foot and you can see the bone sticking out and GET THIS KID OUT OF HERE! IT’S DISGUSTING!” She shrieks into the phone. 

My dad, sitting in the coffee shop next to the park, runs to the crime scene. 

“What happened? Who did it?” He shouts. 

“WHAT HAPPENED IS THAT EDWARD CUNNINGHAM-SMITHSON IS AN IDIOT AND GET ME OUT OF HERE!” Megan sobs. 

“Wait, what?”  Asia looks thoroughly confused. I pull her aside. 

“Megan broke her leg because some idiot from their school called her a cheerleader-don’t ask-and the bird lady called the ambulance so don’t freak out, and don’t say anything-“ 

“Stupid. Got it.” 

“Um…I feel like somebody should call her parents,” Gemma says apprehensively. 

“I would, but I don’t have their numbers,” I reply. 

“Use my phone.” She opens the phone app and brings up Megan’s mom’s number. 

She picks up just before the call goes to voicemail. “Hello?” I ask. 

“Who is this?” She squawks. Her Long Island accent sounds out of place, even on the phone.

“Jasmine from gymnastics.” 

“Who?” 

“Um…the one Megan is spending the night with,” I reply curtly. Either she has selective amnesia or she’s messing with me. I don’t have time for either one. 

“Oh, you! Why’re you callin’ me? Wha’d she do this time?” 

“I just thought I should tell you that um…well, a thing happened, and…” This is harder than I thought. 

“What? What kinduva thing happened?” She asks impatiently. 

“Um…Meganbrokeherleganditsreallybadand-“ 

“Speak up, girl! Wha’d Megan do?” 

“Um…uh…” 

“JUST TELL ME, KID, OR SO HELP ME, I WILL-“ 

I didn’t wait to find out what she would do. “She…um…sorta broke her leg and stuff…” 

“She what?!?” 

“Broke her leg.” 

“I’ll be right over,” she says hurriedly. “TOM! MEGAN BROKE HER LEG AGAIN!” She shouts. (I guess Tom is her dad or something), and then hangs up. 

Wait, again? Does this happen on a monthly basis or something? 

Then, remembering I have Gemma’s phone, I direct myself back towards the amoeba to return it. Half of the town is clustered around Megan, all talking at once. It sounds like a beehive, if bees said “how’ya doooin’? Is it baaad, honey?” in fawning-great-aunt voices. 

“Stop touching me!” Megan shrieks. “It’s bad enough without you poking at it! No! Stop touching me! STAAAAAHP!” But the fawning-great-aunt types just crowd in closer. 

“Marge, we should try to splint this,” says a plump old lady dripping in red, white and blue bead necklaces. 

“Ya sure?” She asks skeptically, glancing at Megan’s leg. “It looks bad.” 

“Marge, can’t you see-“ 

“ENOUGH!” Megan shouts. “I AM WAITING FOR MEDICAL ATTENTION, SO STOP! NONE OF YOU TOUCH ME!” 

“I dunno, Louise,” Marge says. “She’s pro’bly gonna bitecha if ya get any closer.” 

“What she said,” Megan snaps. 

“Nonsense! I am a trained medical professional and I am going to-“ 

Louise cut off by sirens. Megan sighs. 

“Back away from the kid!” A medic shouts. The crowd, paying no attention to anything but their own conversations, doesn’t budge. 

“I SAID, BACK AWAY FROM THE KID!”

That time it works. The crowd disperses. Dad grabs my arm and I dig my heels into the grass to keep him from pulling me away, but it doesn’t work. He drags me to the car. 

“But what about-“ 

“Get in the car,” he orders. 

“What did I do?!?” I protest. He gives me a stern look, and I have no choice but to get into the car. 

“Hold up! You’re my ride!” Quinn shouts, running frantically towards our car. Gemma and Emily look up just long enough to realize we’re leaving and dart after her. Abby is too distracted to notice. 

Dad sighs and gestures for them to get into the car. “I’m taking all of you home,” he announces. “Call your parents.” 

I glance at them with my best “don’t shoot the messenger” look and climb into the front seat. 

Chapter 6

Into the Fire

The next hour goes by in what feels like seconds. We drop off the girls in a haze of phone calls and directions and street names and my brain feels like it’s gone through a washing machine, it’s so jumbled. Everything is overwhelming and I feel like a puny little ant in the middle of it all. 

First, my almost-best-friend breaks her leg, and then my dad freaks out and makes me go home without even saying why, and my friends are (loudly) trying to make sense of it all and then dad realizes we left Asia, so he makes me call her and she is understandably annoyed because she has to walk home, and then I remember that we were supposed to set her up with Sam, which doesn’t seem nearly as important anymore, and then Abby calls Gemma in tears because she’s traumatized and doesn’t know where we are, and all the while I want to vomit because I can’t get the image of Megan’s twisted-backwards leg out of my mind. 

It takes a while, but eventually, dad notices. 

“You okay?” He asks, sounding far too casual. 

“Why are you acting like this is my fault?” I choke, fighting back tears. 

“I’m not, Jazz, but I’m a little bit concerned by your teammates’…behavior.” 

“Why?!?” I protest. “They didn’t do anyt-“ 

“Megan risked her life to impress a boy! How is that ‘not doing anything’?!?”

“No, she didn’t!” I sob. “He was being a jerk and she was trying to get even!” 

“Even worse, then!” he snaps. “And the mouthy one who trashed our kitchen? Did she ‘not do anything?’”

“What mouthy one?” I ask, even though I’m 90% sure I know what he means. 

“Uh…Quinn, I think it was? You know what I mean,” he sighs. 

“She’s not mouthy! She just speaks her mind,” I protest. 

“She still trashed our kitchen!” 

“You said you liked her!” I counter, not even trying to hold back the tears anymore. 

“This whole place is crazy,” dad scoffs. “Everything about it. What kind of town rents a live bald eagle? What kind of town doesn’t make it illegal to rent a bald eagle, for that matter? It’s borderline animal abuse, and the fact that they had people lining up to feed the thing is just further proof that someone needs to call animal control on them!” 

I figure it’s a bad time to mention that Asia was one of those people and swallow hard, anger welling up in my throat. As much as I tell myself I hate this place, it isn’t crazy. Different, but crazy? Little tiny Ridgecrest, a town of 15,000 that somehow managed to field an elite gymnastics team? Anyplace that can pull that off has my respect. And the bird? It’s actually awesome that someone was either weird or brilliant enough-maybe both-to come up with that, and even more awesome that they’d managed to avoid a lawsuit. 

Realization hits me like a wall. 

Am I actually defending Ridgecrest? 

“You know, it’s really not crazy,” I reply, my voice cracking. 

“Maybe it’s not, but these so-called ‘friends’ of yours are nothing but a bad influence,” dad snaps. 

“‘So-called’? ‘So-called’?!? If they’re not my friends, I don’t have any!” 

“Then make some,” dad demands coldly. 

I don’t move a muscle. As if paralyzed, I stay stock-still in my seat, tears rolling down my face unchecked. And I stay like that, my head on the tear-stained dashboard, for almost an hour. 

It’s only when Asia walks up the driveway, tired and annoyed, that anyone even realizes I’m there. 

Chapter 9

Practice and a Pact

That night drags on forever, but by the time I’ve woken up the next morning, I know what I have to do. 

Maybe dad can insult my friends and forbid me to hang out with them. Maybe he can suck the fun out of my summer. Maybe he can pull me out of school and make me take online classes (which is looking like a real possibility at this point). But I still have gymnastics, no matter what, and that is all I need. 

Because if someone gets me mad enough, I can do anything. And if I’m mad enough, and qualifying for Nationals is what it takes to make things right, I will bulldoze mountains to get there. 

So that morning, when I walk into the gym, I walk with purpose. I know it’s going to take everything I have, but I have to do it. To win my friends back. To finish what Megan had started.  

“Um…you look murderous,” Abby remarks as we stretch.

“I’m feeling murderous,” I reply flatly. 

“Uh-oh,” Jayden mutters. “This’s gonna be a good one.” 

“Because of His Royal Imbecile? ‘Cause I’d probably murder him if I got the chance,” Quinn announces darkly. 

“Parents,” I spit. 

“What’d they do?” Kennedy asks.

“My dad decided you guys are a bad influence because Megan has bad judgement-“ 

“True,” Quinn deadpans. “He has a point.” 

“And you’re too sassy,” I finish. 

“I am, though,” Quinn counters.

“Actually, he said ‘mouthy.’ But still.” 

“Sassy, sure, but mouthy?” She looks disgusted.

“Anyway, I’m not allowed to hang out with you outside of practice. All my dad’s choice, let me be clear. But I have a plan.” 

“Ooh!” Gemma claps her hands together. “What is it?” 

“I gotta make Nationals,” I announce.

“Um…wow,” Emily replies, biting her thumbnail. “Ambitious.” 

“Well, yeah, but I can do anything when I’m mad.”

Abby nods agreeingly. “That’s the spirit! Maybe we all need to get really mad,” she wonders aloud. 

“Oh, I am,” Quinn declares. “Show me a picture of Sir Stupidface and I’ll guarantee you perfect routines on every event.” 

“I will,” Gemma swears. “If you wanna get me mad, make me eat cauliflower. It tastes like worms.” 

“And how would you know what worms taste like?” Grace asks. 

“You’re one to ask about eating gross things, seeing how often you eat mat!” Gemma spits. 

“Shade thrown!” Jayden exclaims, collapsing into hysterical laughter. 

Grace looks ready to strangle Gemma when Kennedy reminds us to warm up. We follow her instructions, and when Coach Nelson shows up, she looks pleased to see us doing something productive (despite the level 4, level 7, and pre-team classes bombarding us with questions about Megan). 

“Jazzy, Emily, and Jayden, start on floor. Grace and Abby, start on beam. Kennedy and Quinn, start on bars. Gemma, start on vault. Rotate stations after half an hour,” she instructs us.  

We proceed to our assigned areas and warm up the specific events. Jayden goes first; everything is a little sloppy, but the routine-set to an upbeat Irish song I’ve never heard before-shows off her energy and exuberant personality nicely. Emily has a sophisticated tango routine that’s every bit as impressive as I thought it would be, packed with combos I’ll probably never be able to do. She also points her toes, which I never remember to do. It would not be a stretch to guess she’s done ballet. 

And finally, it’s my turn. 

Before the familiar opening strains of My Sweet and Tender Beast even begin to play, I know I’m going to kill it. But I don’t just kill it. Oh, no, that would not be an adequate description of what happened. What happens can only be described as pure magic.

Every tumbling pass, every leap, every turn, every choreographic movement, clicks into place like pieces of a puzzle coming together. I know what I’m supposed to do, and I just…well, do  it. I’ve done that routine a thousand times before but somehow this was different. It’s like when you don’t understand a math concept and suddenly a lightbulb lights up in your brain and suddenly you just get it, with no explanation. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, and you never really know why it happened then, of all the times it could’ve clicked, but it just does. 

Emily nods approvingly. 

“I should get mad,” she remarks. “It obviously works.” 

“Try it. Avenge Megan, if you don’t have anything else to be mad about. It does work,” I advise her. 

“Time to rotate!” Gemma yells from the vault area. “I want floor.” 

“We’ll take beam,” I offer. 

“I guess we can vault,” Quinn replies. 

“Bars for us, then?” Grace asks.

“Works for me,” Emily adds. “Let’s go.” 

We do the same thing we did for floor-warm up, work on specific elements, then routines-except that we don’t have to go one at a time because there are four high beams and two low beams. 

I can see right away that this is definitely not Jayden’s strongest event. She sits her dismount twice, and falls off the beam three times. In another weird accident, she lands on her dangerously-long ponytail when she jumps into a back handspring and almost rips her hair out. Coach Nelson makes her put it in a bun after that, but anyone can see it’s rattled her already-low confidence. 

Emily is doing much better-her routine is actually a bit harder than mine, and her gorgeous extension is better than pretty much anyone’s, if not very consistent. (She falls off on a layout.) I guess being 4’ 7” is a large advantage unless people are trying to steal your wallet and you can’t catch them with your tiny legs. I notice that, even with her beautiful extension, her short arms make her look like a dinosaur no matter what she does to make them look pretty. 

I notice this, of course, while I’m not practicing. Beam is my event, as I said before. The girls at my last gym made a joke out of threatening to send me to the hospital if I fell off the beam because I’m usually so solid on it that a fall would mean something was really wrong. But I guess I shouldn’t be talking, because I sit my dismount twice (probably preoccupied) and kind of have to slap some sense into myself. Well, actually, I stick my head in the freezer where they keep ice packs. Don’t know why, but it always helps, even if it elicits confused stares from the level 5 team over by the foam pit. 

“Uh…you okay?” Quinn asks from the vault runway, which is next to the freezer. 

“Sat my dismount. Trying to wake myself up a little,” I explain. 

“Ah. Well, I hate vault and I keep face-planting,” she groans. “Maybe I need to stick my head in the freezer.” 

“You need to what?”  Kennedy asks, walking back to the runway to vault again. 

“Apparently, when Jazzy falls, she sticks her head in the freezer to make herself wake up,” Quinn explains. “I should try that, because I keep face planting.” 

“Oh,” Kennedy replies. “Well, I just vaulted three times, so you needa go this time.” She gestures in the direction of the vault. Quinn groans and sets off running for the vault table. I go back to the beam. 

As I approach, Jayden sticks her double tuck dismount. Good for her. Needed that, I think. 

“Why were you in the freezer?” Emily asks. 

“Trying to make myself stop falling,” I explain. 

“If that makes you stop falling, we all need to try it,” she replies. “You sure seem to have a lot of ways to make yourself do better.” 

“I try,” I reply, awkwardly attempting to toss my hair. 

“Girls! Back to work!” Coach Nelson yells from the bars, where she’s supervising Grace (who has not really gotten any better since I last saw her bars). We sheepishly separate. I mount the beam, run through my routine - this one clean - and, realizing it’s almost twelve, dig my lunch out of my bag. 

“So, I saw your beam,” Gemma comments. “’s good.” 

“Thanks. Your DTY is good, too,” I reply, remembering a stuck double twisting Yurchenko she did earlier on vault. 

“Well, it needs work. I’m probably going to need an Amanar eventually, so I need to tighten up the rotation. Landing was fine, though.” 

“Fine? You stuck it! If that’s ‘fine’, what would be good?” Emily cuts in. 

Gemma seems rather at a loss for words. Quinn takes it as an opportunity to tell us all about her brother’s latest computer hacking exploits, and when our lunch break is over, we go back out to work on the apparatuses we didn’t do earlier. 

My dad picks me up at two-thirty. 

“Your mother thinks I hit a deer on the road, but I didn’t see it,” he says as soon as I get in the car, as if that is a totally normal conversation topic. 

“Um…gross,” I scoff. “Where?” 

“We were trying to find this hole-in-the-wall cafe that’s supposed to be all that and whatnot, and we ended up in…a bunch of trees, and then your mother screamed something about a deer, and something brown ran by, and as soon as we got to where it was, it was gone.” 

“Maybe because you hit it.” 

“I didn’t!” he protests. 

“You probably did.” 

“Okay, so maybe I, um, dented it a little?” 

“What, the car? I would imagine so! You hit a freakin’ deer! With antlers!” 

“Um, how was practice?” He clumsily changes the subject. 

By then, I’m conveniently pretending to be asleep. 

Chapter 10 

Not-So-Amazing Grace

That morning, I decide to walk to the gym. I’ve got a lot to sort out, and walking with no distractions is the best way to think. 

But just when I think I’ve worked through all my problems, I’m met by four stony gazes when I walk into the gym. 

“Um, hi, guys,” I say nervously, hoping I’m not the target of their anger. 

“Hi, Jazzy,” Gemma deadpans. “We’ve got a problem.” 

“…What?” I ask cautiously. 

“Apparently, Grace has been going around telling everyone she’s going to kind of take over Megan’s position as the sort-of team captain. I didn’t even think we really had one, and when Emily said something along the lines of, ‘we don’t have a team captain and we’re not getting one,’ she went off on her. You don’t know this, but Emily is ridiculously sensitive, so of course that got her really upset. And then Grace sent all of us this really obnoxious text in a group thread announcing that she’s the team captain, and Emily said something about it again. And then Grace went out of her mind, as could be expected. Apparently she sees Emily as a threat to her ‘position’ now, and Emily told us she sent her a bunch of threatening text messages, so now she’s afraid to come to practice because she thinks Grace is going to shut her in the freezer,” Quinn explains stormily. 

“That’s terrible! Is she actually going to do it?” I ask. 

“Not if Emily doesn’t show up. And we’re scared she’s going to quit because it’s the only way to get away from Grace,” Abby explains. 

“Shouldn’t we tell Coach Nelson?” 

“We don’t have any proof. If Emily would come, she has the texts on her phone, and we could show them to Coach Nelson and that would be the end of it. But she’s not coming. Maybe ever,” Gemma sighs. 

“There has to be something we can do!” I protest. 

Abby nods in agreement. “She has a point. She’s telling Emily she’s going to shove her in the freaking freezer-that could kill someone! Even if she isn’t actually going to do it, um, hello, she’s threatening to possibly kill someone and we can’t just let that slide.”

“Well, we could always ask her to send us a screenshot of the conversation,” Quinn suggests. 

“Would she, though?” Gemma asks. “And would Coach Nelson believe it?” 

“Worth a shot,” Abby responds. “I’ll ask.” 

Jayden walks in, closely followed by Kennedy. We briefly forget about it and start stretching, until Abby’s phone dings. 

“She sent it!” She cries triumphantly, showing us the screenshot of the texts. Her face falls when she reads them. 

“I don’t even know what half of these words mean,” she announces dazedly, “but they look dirty.” 

“Here, lemme see,” Quinn says, taking the phone. “Um…yeah, these are definitely curse words…wow, I never knew you could use that in that context. For someone who’s seriously convinced she’s a literal princess, she has a large vocabulary.” Quinn shakes her head. 

“What’d she sa-“ Jayden asks. 

“Noooooo, I am not showing you this,” Quinn cautions. “Your mother would kill me.” 

“I’m not five, and I’m not dumb enough to cuss in front of my mom, either!” She protests. 

“You’re in elementary school! We must preserve your innocence!” Quinn shrieks. “Back away from the phone!” 

Jayden shakes her head dejectedly as Coach Nelson walks in. Abby rushes up to her with the phone. 

“CoachNelsonwehavetotellyousomethingreallyimportant!” She blurts out in about half a second. 

“Is it an emergency? If not, it can w-“ 

“It is,” Gemma assures her. 

“Oh? Like, what kind of an-“ 

“Grace threatened to shut Emily in the freezer and we have proof,” Abby explains, showing her the pictures. “Here. Tap on it to make it bigger.” 

Coach Nelson’s eyebrows rise about three inches when she gets an eyeful of Grace’s creative choice of words. 

“Where is Emily? I need her to tell me this is real so I know you guys aren’t just ganging up on Grace. I mean, not that I think you’d do that, but I know how you feel about her. I’m not blind, you know,” she tells us. 

“She’s not coming because she thinks Grace is going to follow through,” Quinn explains. 

“Then get her on the phone,” Coach Nelson orders. Abby punches Emily’s number in and she picks up almost immediately. 

“Hi, Emily. Abby showed me a screenshot you supposedly sent her of some texts from Grace, and I need to make sure they were really from Grace because I need to do something if they are.” 

“Th-they’re r-real,” Emily stutters in a weak voice. 

“Can you tell me the number they came from?” She asks in a gentler tone. 

“Um, 394-2980. Our area code.” 

“Okay, hold on a second…” She pulls out her phone, taps a few things, and shakes her head. “That’s Grace. Emily, I understand if you don’t want to come to practice today, but if you change your mind, I can guarantee that Grace will not shut you in the freezer.” 

“I-I didn’t think she would,” Emily replies. “I wouldn’t even fit. I was scared she was going to do something else. Like what Alyssa did with the light switch, or just plain beat me up. I don’t want to come back if she’s going to be there. Like, ever.” 

“She is not going to do anything to you,” Coach Nelson assured her firmly. “But if you still don’t want to come, just skip today.” 

“Th-thanks.” Emily hangs up. 

“Keep warming up, girls. I need to make some calls,” Coach Nelson demands. 

“Now that she knows it’s real, what is she going to do to Grace?” Gemma wonders. 

“Kick her off the team, I guess,” Quinn cuts in. “She’s been a pain for years, she’s not improving at all, and now this. There’s no reason why she shouldn’t.” 

“Probably just make her apologize and clean the gym or run laps or something,” Abby speculates. 

“Suspension?” Gemma suggests. “Is there anything in the USA Gym rules about sort-of threatening to kill your teammates?” 

“Not that I know of. But we need to-“ 

Coach Nelson emerges from her office with a grim expression. 

“Girls, go home. I have some work to do.” 

WHERE YOU LEFT OFF
Chapter 10 

The Week Before Classics 

Grace isn’t at practice the next morning, and Quinn thinks she knows why. 

“She had to have kicked her out,” she concludes. “Why else wouldn’t she be here to exact her revenge on Emily?” 

“It might just be a suspension,” Abby reasons. “Or she’s sick?” 

“Doubtful,” Gemma interjects. 

“Someone told me she’s competing for Oak Hills now,” Jayden pipes up. All eyes swivel towards her. 

“Who? Who told you that? I need answers!” Quinn shrieks, grabbing Jayden by the shoulders. She looks terrified. 

“Um, okay, I know a girl who’s on the Oak Hills team, and she told me Grace and her mom showed up at Oak Hills to sign up yesterday,” Jayden answers nervously. 

“Did you confirm it?” Gemma asks. “She might have been making it up, or mistaken another girl for Grace.” 

“I’ll ask again, but don’t expect anything back fast. She’s a slow texter,” Jayden explains. 

“We should probably stretch,” Abby offers helpfully. “Can’t let this distract us this soon before Classics.” Quinn shrugs and silently leads us through the normal stretching regimen. Coach Nelson storms in as we’re about to finish. 

“Girls, I have something to tell you,” she announces coldly. We exchange knowing glances. “It’s about Grace.” 

Yeah, I definitely know where this is going. 

“After the, er, unfortunate incident with Emily, I’ve had some time to think. And looking back on what she’s done since Grace started at Ridgecrest, I’ve decided that the best solution is to drop her from the team.” 

We all knew it was coming, but that doesn’t stop the shock from weighing on us like bricks.

She’s already got her point across, but she makes it crystal-clear. “Grace will no longer be training with us.” As simple as that. One day here, the next-dropped. It’s every gymnast’s worst nightmare. And the mean part of my brain couldn’t help but gloat that Grace and her nightmarish behavior deserved every ounce of the punishment our coach had inflicted on her. 

“That aside, I expect top-notch training these next few weeks. Classics is coming up, and none of you can afford to waste practice time. You guys know our week-before schedule-“ 

“Jazzy doesn’t,” Quinn cuts in. “Tell her what it is.” 

“Oh, right. Thank you, Quinn. Jazzy, we have a special training schedule for the week before all of our events. Warm up and stretch, and then an hour on each event, then conditioning. And on each event, twenty minutes of warming up skills, thirty minutes working on whatever needs the most work, and as many full run-throughs as you can get in in the last ten minutes. Got it?” 

My head is spinning. A full hour on each event? And even ten minutes is a solid four run-throughs! I was sure I would drop dead a day in. 

“Well, gotta stay mad, then,” I mumble. 

“What?” Coach Nelson asks sharply. 

“Uh, nothing,” I mutter sheepishly. 

“Anyway, I see you’ve stretched already. Good. Take your pick of the events. Ask me if you need any help.” 

Naturally, I start on beam, as does Jayden. I warm up individual elements first, starting basic with handsprings and moving through a plethora of saltos (a fancy word for flips), turns and leaps, and eventually my dismount (a double Arabian, called a Patterson). My switch ring leap is giving me issues, so I single out that element and work on it for nearly all of the half hour allotted for problem elements (leaps have always been harder for me than saltos, for reasons I can’t explain). Then it’s time for run-throughs. 

I stick my dismount on the first try. The cocky part of my brain I can barely bring myself to admit I have thinks, what else is new? Before the rational part shoves that thought far down into the depths of my mind where I’ll never find it. Complacency is among a gymnast’s worst enemies. 

“Rotate!” Coach Nelson yells as I’m about to go into a back tuck. I hop off and sigh-I’ve only gotten two full run-throughs in. Jayden and I take floor and repeat the process. She starts with leaps and turns in the corners to allow me to allow me to warm up basic acrobatic skills (essentially, flipping elements). I start with the basic saltos-single tucks, layouts and pikes, forwards and backwards-and move through the skills until I eventually get to the stuff in my routine. I have five tumbling passes in my routine-a double layout, the double Arabian punch front, a double twist connected with a double back, a double pike with a half twist, and a double front, plus two sets of leaps and turns-all crammed into a minute and a half of music. It’s jam-packed with the highest difficulty I’ve ever had and really doesn't allow any time for me to breathe, so floor has been my most inconsistent routine this season. The double twist-double back is always particularly squirrely, so there’s no question what I’m going to work on for the half hour after my warm up. After the pass has been drilled to my satisfaction, I plug my floor music in to play over the loudspeaker. 

And fall on my first pass. 

And step out of bounds twice. 

I shake my head abruptly, trying to shake off whatever it was that made me do that. But it doesn’t work at all. The next week is a blur of one disastrous floor routine after another. My stomach twists itself into every knot in the Boy Scouts’ repertoire every time I go to tumble. I don't even know how to describe the feeling of splatting on every run through the week before a competition, but it’s something like watching your house burning down while a cat claws at your face and you’re being chased by a mysterious masked figure who may or may not be a hitman working for an enemy intelligence agency. Multiplied by eight. In short, it’s complete and utter panic like no other kind of panic.

It won’t leave my head as I pack my totally gorgeous new Ridgecrest competition leotard (which is a shiny white fabric with purple details and lavender mesh sleeves) and lucky grips into a carry-on gym bag to take to Classics. It keeps me up at night every night as I stare at the calendar on my wall with X’s drawn over all the days leading up to Classics. I can’t even appreciate that my dad has slightly backed down on the friend ban after seeing how well they handled the Emily situation. It’s an all-consuming state of panic that hangs over me like a storm cloud, and it simply will not go away. 

But the worst thing is knowing that all it would take to get rid of it is one clean floor routine, and I can’t do it. 

Chapter 10 

Classics, Part The First

It doesn’t go away, and I feel like my chances are dead the minute the plane touches down in Hartford for Classics. Gemma notices my terrified expression and gives me a sympathetic look. Abby buys me a Frappucino at the airport Starbucks, and I appreciate the gesture a million times more knowing that Coach Nelson would have a fit if she knew I was drinking it (with whipped cream and whole milk, no less!) during a competition. As simple as it was, spotting me a five for a sugary drink was the best thing Abby could’ve done for my nerves, and it didn’t subside, but the dark cloud shrank a little bit after that. I was feeling confident enough to text Madelyn and Rachel, who I hadn’t talked to in almost a month. 

Hey guys! Long time no txt :( U at classics? I typed. The “typing” bubble showed up almost immediately. Madelyn replied, omg hi!!!!! Yeah I’m there!!!!! See u at pt? 

I grinned ear to ear. Good old Madelyn-as much as I’d changed, she sure hadn’t. Rachel chimed in with what she said. See u at pt 2 :). Perfect. I had hoped my new best friends could meet my old ones. Hopefully they’d get along. 

“I just texted my best friends from the old gym in Iowa and they’re going to be at podium training,” I gushed as soon as I found someone (Emily) who would listen. “I haven’t seen them since I moved!”

“Ooh, cool! I promise I won’t get all jealous and possessive,” she jokes. “What are their names?” 

“Madelyn and Rachel. Maddy’s a beamer, like me. Rachel likes vault and she’s obsessed with barbecue.” 

“Huh. Barbecue? That’s kind of random. But I’m kind of excited to meet them, now that you mention it. Really, I want to meet everyone! Even that Stephanie Schiffrin kid who’s supposed to win everything. Have you seen the videos? She is so amazing,” Emily gushed. 

I’d heard of Stephanie Schiffrin, all right. I don’t think anyone in the gym world hasn’t. She’s been completely dominant in juniors since the last Olympics, when she was only eleven. With freakish consistency and start values in the 5’s and 6’s on every event, she was nearly impossible to beat. 

“Yeah, I’ve seen her. She’s good,” I replied. “But so are all the other girls. Like, scary good.” 

“Oh, come on, don’t be such a downer!” Emily protests, swatting my arm playfully. “We don’t have to beat them to qualify for Nationals. All you need is a 52 in the all-around, and I know we could all do that if we had a good meet. Even Jayden,” she says with far more conviction than her face shows. 

“Dude, my personal best is 49.8. I’m dead,” I deadpan. 

“With how many mistakes?” Emily quizzes. 

“One step out of bounds on floor.” 

“Well, you’ve upgraded since then, right? And Classics judges always go a little bit nuts with the scores.” 

“That was at Classics,” I sigh morosely. “At least you’ll definitely get it.” I had looked up all of my teammates’ personal bests (yes, I know, I’m a stalker), so I knew that Emily’s best-ever AA score was a 54 at last year’s Nationals. She would be fine. Me? Highly questionable. 

“You can’t give up before you even start,” she chastises me as we grab our luggage off the baggage carousel. I shrug and run with my suitcase to catch up with my mom at the rental car counter. We’re all staying in the same hotel, but no rental car company would rent us a car big enough to hold a nine-person gymnastics team plus coach, parents, and assorted siblings, so we all have to get our own family cars. She hands the lady at the counter her driver’s license, signs a few things, and calls me over. 

“Car’s ready, so let’s go. Does Emily need a ride?” She asks.  

“Do you need a ride?” I ask Emily, whose parents are nowhere in sight. 

“If my mom says it’s okay, it would be better than waiting for them.”

“Tell her I offered,” mom interjects. “And that we’re getting lunch.” Our flight took off at seven-thirty and none of us has eaten since long before that, so I don’t doubt she’ll take us up on that. 

Emily hangs up her phone and sighs loudly. “She says to wait for them,” she explains. “Thanks for the offer, Mrs. Newton.”

“Any time,” mom replies, and we leave for the garage where our rental car is parked. My dad and Asia, both holding large coffees and sporting painfully obvious bags under their eyes, meet us there. We drive around looking for restaurants and arguing about where to go for nearly an hour before we finally end up at Subway, where we eat our obscenely large subs at approximately the speed of light. After getting back to the hotel, we don’t do much the rest of the day, so I have nothing to do but wait. 

Not great for the nerves. 

And the next thing I know, I’m walking into the biggest arena I’ve ever been in for podium training. 

Almost immediately after I enter the arena, I’m violently body-slammed by two very familiar girls, both wearing the same coral practice leotard as I am. 

“Jazzy!” Coral Leotard Bodyslammer #1 shrieks, flinging herself at me like I’m her opponent in a boxing match. 

“I feel like I haven’t seen you in years!” the other shouts. Everyone in the arena is staring at them by now. 

“Well, hello to you, too,” I reply, slightly dazed by my recent assault. I try not to show how relieved I am that Maddy and Rachel still realize I exist. “How’s stuff going? Have you upgraded? What does the Dust Devils leo look like?” 

“Great, new acro series on beam, and red with blue crystals. Very patriotic,” Rachel explains with her typical straight-to-the-pointness. 

“Fine, standing Arabian on beam and a punch front pike full-in on floor, what she said,” Maddy responds. “You?” 

“Um…good, except that one of my friends from the gym in Ridgecrest broke her leg. I finally put the Van Leeuwen in on bars, and our leotard is sparkly white with purple design thingies and purple mesh sleeves.” 

“Ooh, preeeetty,” Maddy gushes. “Tara would lose it if she saw that. Remember Tara? The girl who only ever wore purple?” 

“Oh my gosh, Tara! Yeah, I remember her. Is she here?” I ask. 

“Yeah. I’ll make everyone else come and attack you later. Speaking of, where are your Ridgecrest people?” Maddy quizzes. As if on cue, Abby and Gemma walk in. 

“Over there. Gemma! Abby! Come over here!” I call. They jog over. 

“Hey. Are you Jazzy’s friends from Iowa? I’m Gemma.” Gemma extends her hand for them to shake. 

“Hi! I’m Madelyn, but you can call me Maddy. And you are?” She gestures at Abby. 

“Hi, I’m Abigail-I mean, nobody calls me that, but if we’re doing full names, y’know-but you can call me Abby. I like your leotards,” she comments, scanning our matching leotards. 

“Oh, thanks! These were our lucky PT leos back when Jazzy was on the Dust Devils. I’m Rachel, by the way. And we should probably get to work.” 

“Can’t,” Gemma sighs. “Our coach is, like, chronically late, and apparently she’s going to keep the late-for-practice streak alive.” 

“Oh. Ours is super punctual. Gotta go,” Maddy replies, running off to join the rest of her teammates. Rachel follows. 

“They seem nice,” Abby remarks. 

“What’s with the matching leotards?” Quinn snorts, walking in just as Maddy and Rachel leave. 

“Oh, hi. Those were my friends from Iowa. Lucky leos,” I explain. Quinn nods. 

“See this?” She turns her head to show off the sparkly green scrunchie in her ponytail. “That’s my lucky-“ 

“Coach is coming in. Act like you’re warming up,” Gemma hisses, cutting her off. The four of us drop to the floor and awkwardly assume various stretching positions. Coach Nelson, who I can now hear talking to someone outside the door, pushes it open, sees us being “productive,” and nods approvingly. 

“Hi, girls. Know the schedule?” She asks. 

“Yes,” the other three drone. I don’t. 

“Oh, I forgot, Jazzy doesn’t. Stretch, warm up, and then you get your half hour on each event. On floor, warm up basic acro, do your passes, and then a full run-through. On the other events, just warm up elements and then run-throughs.” 

I nod. That’s pretty similar to how we always did it in Iowa. We have beam first-perfect for getting my feet under me. Alongside girls from several other gyms, we warm up acro, leaps and turns before moving on to full run-throughs. I notice cameras following us, probably USA Gymnastics’ cameras for the live stream they always put out of PT at Classics. The realization that I’m being filmed has me slightly disconcerted, but I put out two clean run-throughs and fall only once, on a back handspring, layout-stepout, layout stepout acro series. So I’m feeling pretty confident moving into bars.

Bars is a bit more tricky. The venue’s bars are a little stiffer than what I’m used to, and I take a dive into the mats on my Van Leeuwen. It’s particularly embarrassing when I see the great Stephanie Schiffrin is in the bars group, too, staring at me as I get up and throwing insanely difficult skills with no issue whatsoever. Quinn, the only one in the event with as high a start value (6.0) as Stephanie’s-eyes her as she hops on for a run-through. She nails it, and I may be hallucinating, but I think I see her cast a haughty look in Stephanie’s direction. 

Next is vault. I land a few nice double twisting Yurchenkos. I would normally compete two vaults because you have to have two to qualify for event finals, but since there aren’t any at Classics, I only need one. Gemma sticks hers almost every time (typical), Quinn, hater of vault, sits it twice, and the rest of my teammates, all doing Yurchenko one-and-a-halves, look good. However, I’m fairly certain nobody was looking at us, because the Great And Powerful Stephanie Schiffrin has an Amanar. 

Of course she does. 

Last up is floor. I can barely breathe, and it doesn’t exactly help that I have to watch Her Majesty nail a flawless routine with, if my mental calculator is correct (it probably isn’t), a 5.9 start value that makes my own 5.3 look like pond scum. Emily, not to be outdone, throws down a flawless 6.1(!!) routine directly afterwards. Quinn shoots Stephanie another contemptuous glare, which she sees this time. She responds with a wounded what did I ever do? look that almost makes me feel sorry for her. Almost being the operative word here. I do not really know why I’m so determined to hate her guts, but once I’ve decided that I’m going to, there’s no going back. 

When it’s my turn, my stomach is in my throat and my lungs are in my stomach, but I finally manage not to fall. I choose to ignore the two steps out of bounds I took. I’m still nervous, but that makes it a tiny bit easier to focus. I think it must be the floor, because all of the Rattlers have fairly solid routines. It’s a great way to finish off PT, for sure. 

As soon as our last rotation finishes, my teammates and I obtain money from our parents in the stands and make a frantic dash for the nearest concession stand (a typical snack bar with nothing but pretzels, popcorn and hot dogs). We’re about to order when Coach Nelson notices us and intervenes. 

“I don’t want to be the food police, but this stuff is not food,” she says in full view of the cashier. “Eat whatever, but it has to have some actual nutritional value.” 

Reason #8 Coach Nelson is actually kind of an improvement over my last coach: she never tells us what to eat. Well, sort of. 

Still starving, we go back to our parents and, after far more time than is necessary to make lunch plans, they agree on an Italian place downtown that’s supposed to be good. We head to our cars and meet at the restaurant (with the exception of Abby, whose directionally-challenged dad gets lost four times and is late). Quinn, not having listened to a word Coach Nelson said, orders the largest portion of fettuccine Alfredo she can get, and a side of breadsticks (which we split). The rest of us get salads and split a barbecue chicken pizza. 

“We should go back later for the men’s event,” Abby suggests, nibbling on a breadstick. 

“But we don’t have tickets,” Emily reminds her. 

“Won’t they let us in free for being competitors?” She asks. Quinn rolls her eyes. As sweet as she is, Abby can be kind of clueless. 

“Probably not. Plus, there’s probably a live stream on the internet. We can watch it on my computer,” Gemma offers. We all agree that that is a better idea, and spend an entertaining afternoon discussing the attractiveness, or lack thereof, of a plethora of male gymnasts. When it ends, it’s almost six, so we make our way down to the hotel restaurant for dinner and retire to our rooms to rest up before the competition tomorrow. 

As I try to sleep, I can’t stop running what-if scenarios through my head. It takes hours of tossing and turning to get to sleep. 

Chapter 11

The Moment of Truth 

I’m not feeling particularly refreshed when I wake up to a blaring alarm the next morning. 

It’s seven, and I have a packed morning ahead of me: I have to shower, eat breakfast, do my hair and makeup, get dressed, and go to the arena for a warm-up before the competition starts at ten. Just thinking about it raises my heart rate like I’ve just run five miles, and my stomach churns like a washing machine. I’m afraid I’ll puke if I try to eat anything, but competing on an empty stomach is never a good idea, so I shove down as much of the scrambled eggs and fruit from the hotel buffet as I can. The rest of my teammates seem fine, which only adds to my nerves. Quinn is wolfing down her overloaded plate of bacon and waffles with remarkable zeal, Gemma and Emily are leisurely eating their fruit and oatmeal, Abby is gulping down giant bites of cereal as if it’s going out of style, and Kennedy and Jayden are totally absorbed in conversation, their food forgotten. Seeing them all calm and collected only makes my nerves worse. 

“You okay?” Gemma asks when she notices my grim expression. 

“Nervous,” I explain. 

“Don’t worry so much. Yeah, it’s a competition, but it should be fun, too,” she replies. “Loosen up a little.” 

“I would if I could,” I sigh miserably.

“Seriously, you’ll be fine.” She looks me dead in the eyes as she says that, and it’s hard to disagree. Gemma’s charisma is just as evident when she’s lecturing people as it is when she’s performing. We finish our food, and I walk back to my room to do my hair in the fancy bun I always put it in for competitions. Combined with my silver eyeshadow, it sets off my purple leotard perfectly. It sounds stupid, but I find that when your nerves are shot, it always helps to feel pretty, so I always get ready first thing in the morning. Kind of getting the power of looks on my side, if you will. I check the time-it’s almost nine-and run down to meet the rest of the team in the lobby. Our parents are all going to follow each other to the arena so we get there at the same time, perennially late coach notwithstanding. My parents and Asia are close behind. Our caravan departs, and my stomach lurches as I realize that this is it. 

Really, actually it. The moment of truth. 

We get to the arena just fifteen minutes before the march-out, where a person holding a sign will walk the gymnasts in each event for the first rotation on to the floor to be introduced. I start on bars with Gemma, Stephanie, and about twelve other gymnasts I don’t know. We sign in, and, having nothing else to do, watch the event emcee try to get a bunch of random kids in the audience to Nae Nae to the ubiquitous song playing over the loudspeakers. 

“Pathetic, huh?” A voice I don’t recognize pipes up from behind me. I whip around to see, who else, Stephanie Schiffrin standing behind me. 

“Uh, yeah,” I squeak. “Are you Stephanie Schiffrin?” 

“Um, yeah?” She tells me questioningly. 

“I’m sorry about Quinn,” I blab.

“Who?” 

“The girl who kept giving you death stares yesterday.” 

“Oh, her! Yeah, that was uncalled-for. You know her?” 

“Yeah, she’s on my team. She’s really fun once you get to know her, but she kind of doesn’t think before she speaks, or, like, does things. She takes getting used to, basically. But she’s crazy-good, especially on bars.” 

“Oh, I know. But I thought she hated my guts for a while.”

Our conversation is interrupted by a voice over the loudspeaker, which has been talking for a few minutes. (I’m not listening at all, but I can hear it.)  “Please welcome our junior gymnasts!” An announcer announces. My rotation is lead out on to the floor while they announce someone else. 

“Starting off on floor exercise, here are: Amy Nguyen for Pittsburgh Gymcademy; Fiona Lang for Mile High Gymnastics; Alyssa Hudson for MKG; Stella Little for Phoenix Tumbleweeds ; Casey Howland for Jenkins Academy of Gymnastics Performance; Leah Chang for Flipz Elite Des Moines; For TOPS Gymnastics, Hadley Reed; For Tallahassee Tornadoes, Kenna Young; For Champions Gymnastics of Ridgecrest, Kennedy Bowman; For Tallahassee Tornadoes, Tessa Hughes; Katie Hemlock for Mile High Gymnastics; Tara Nunez for Flipz Elite Des Moines; Taylor Thompson for Capital Kips; and, for Jersey Stars, Sierra Butler!” They announce. Kennedy looks like she is about to die of nervousness. I can sympathize.

“Starting off on balance beam, here are: Lexi Pratt for Capital Kips; Vivian Wang for Phoenix Tumbleweeds , Quinn Contreras for Champions Gymnastics of Ridgecrest”-I cheer until my throat hurts when they announce Quinn-“for Pittsburgh Gymcademy, Alex Edwards; for Golden State Gymnastics, Riley Tanner; Rachel Harris for Flipz Elite Des Moines; and Abigail Sullivan for Champions Gymnastics of Ridgecrest!” I cheer obnoxiously again when Abby is called. 

“Starting off on vault, here are: Hailey Halverson for Jenkins Academy of Gymnastics Performance; Emily Turner for Champions Gymnastics of Ridgecrests; for Capital Kips, Natalie Phillips; for TOPS Gymnastics, Lindsay Hale; for Champions Gymnastics of Ridgecrest, Jayden Kent; for TumbleMax Oakland, Mira Quessenberry; Madelyn Montclair for Flipz Elite Des Moines; for TOPS Gymnastics, Teagan Miller; for Phoenix Tumbleweeds, Cassidy Carter; and for Golden State Gymnastics, Morgan Bradley!” 

Showtime. 

“Starting off on the uneven bars, here are: Jacey Patterson for Phoenix Tumbleweeds; Alina Fedorova for Golden State Gymnastics; Mia Roberts for Capital Kips; for TumbleMax Oaklenad, Lina Makarova; for Jersey Stars, Callie Fox; for Champions Gymnastics of Ridgecrest, Gemma Giles; for Pittsburgh Gymcademy, Danielle Johnston; for Golden State Gymnastics, Stephanie Schiffrin; for Phoenix Tumbleweeds, Ophelia Marchmont; for Champions Gymnastics of Ridgecrest, Jasmine Newton; and for TOPS Gymnastics, Shannon Foster!” 

Gulp. 

I’m second-to-last in my rotation, so all I can do is wait. Not good for my current mental state, to say the least. 

  The first of us to go is Emily, second up on vault. I cross my fingers and hold my breath as she hurtles towards the springboard. She hits her Yurchenko one-and-a-half, not stuck, but landed. Quinn is next on beam. As confident and agressive as she always is in practice, Quinn hit it out of the park but would probably not really be high up in the standings on that event because of her 5.1 start value. An old teammate of mine, Leah Chang, takes a step out of bounds but otherwise has a clean floor routine. Next of the people I know is Kennedy, who is okay but nothing spectacular on floor. Jayden has an okay vault, and purple-obsessed Tara from Des Moines has a great floor routine. By then, it’s close enough to my turn that Coach Nelson calls me over for a short pep talk before my bar routine.

“You’ll be fine,” she finishes, and sends me off. 

“Up next on uneven bars, Jasmine Newton for Champions Gymnastics of Ridgecrest!” the loudspeaker announces. 

I salute and hop on. No going back now. As I swing up into my first handstand, I relax a little bit. Can’t step out of bounds on bars, after all, I remind myself. After I hit my Van Leeuwen, my routine feels like clockwork. Precise, preprogrammed, and totally relaxed. I stick my dismount. 

“JAZZY! YOU DID SO GOOD!” Abby, who’s just finished her beam routine (pretty serviceable, scoring a 12.925), screams as soon as I’m off the mat. 

“Thanks! I wish I could’ve seen yours,” I reply. “Fingers crossed for a 14.” My start value was a 15.5, but I probably wouldn’t get anywhere near that. 14 would be lucky. 

My score flashes onto the screen right as I’m thinking that. 14.1! Yes!  I’m thrilled until I see the leaderboard: that score has me in seventh. Stephanie’s 14.9 bars are leading. It was probably dumb to even consider the possibility, but I had been hoping for top five. 

“14.1 down, 38.9 to go,” I joke. 

“You did the math wrong. 37.9,” Quinn corrects me. 

“Even better,” I laugh nervously. I pull out my phone and punch in some numbers on the calculator app. “So I need an average of…12.4.” 

I could definitely do that if I didn’t die. This was good. Vault was my second event, and I was fairly certain I could get a 12.4. The start value of my DTY was 5.8 and I usually got around an 8 in execution, which would land me in the high 13’s to low 14’s. If I didn’t sit or step out of bounds, I would have plenty of room to spare going into floor and beam. But I couldn’t let it go to my head: it’s all too easy to put on airs after a good first routine and then splat later on. You have to control your confidence or it will control you. 

There’s no walk-out for the next rotation, only a break in between rotations. I wait in the long line of girls from my rotation warming up vaults. Some of the others are trying DTYs, and of course, Stephanie has an Amanar, but the vast majority do FTYs or one-and-a-halves. Our scores could be comparable-the logic there is that easier vault with better execution > harder vault done worse-but if I hit, I have a leg up on at least half of the competition. The person in front of me sticks an FTY, and it’s finally my turn. 

My practice vault-I take a large hop on the dismount, but nothing major. I wait around for my turn with the anxious boredom every gymnast-every kind of athlete or performer waiting to do stuff in front of an audience, actually-has felt. Stephanie and Gemma both stick. Stephanie screams like she’s being chased by zombies when her score, a 15.895, flashes up onto the scoreboard. Gemma looks rather disappointed by her 14.9, which only makes me more nervous. How can she be disappointed with an almost-15? I wonder incredulously. Most of these girls are getting low 13’s, and with two gymnasts left, her second place will likely hold. That is, if I don’t beat it. 

I hope I will, but if we’re being honest, I have no chance. 

I bolt for the springboard like a horse out of the gate. Onetwothreefour-onetwothreefour-onetwothreefour-onetwothreefour-five! My feet pound down the vault runway in an odd sort of rhythm until I make contact with the floor for my round off onto the springboard. I essentially hurl myself at the table, smacking my hands on the table and beginning to twist. It’s funny how barely two seconds in the air can drag on when your entire future as a gymnast depends on whether or not you can land on your feet. I land hunched over, barely forcing my chest up in time to stop myself from somersaulting off the podium. Note to whoever designs these things: if you must put the equipment on a podium four feet off the ground, don’t put the vault near the edge! 

Coach Nelson and all of my teammates but Abby, who hasn’t done her second event (bars) yet. “That was real sketchy,” Quinn remarks. “I didn’t think you were going to stay up.” 

“Quinn!” Gemma chastises. “It was better than a 12.4, right? You still have a little bit of room for later on.” 

“Well, yeah, but that’s not  a very high bar,” I sigh. “I was hoping for 14’s across the board.” 

“Honey, that was never going to happen,” Coach Nelson reprimands. “Not trying to be mean or anything, but you can’t set unrealistic goals.” 

Well, thank you so much, Ms. Motivational Speaker. 

My score pops up on the scoreboard almost immediately after that exchange. 13.55-I have to say, better than I expected. I only need about 12 on my other two events, and I’m hoping for a high 14 or, if I’m crazy lucky, a low 15 on beam. That would leave a lot of room for error on floor. 

Which, as it turns out, I need. 

We cycle through the break, warm-up, and long wait for my turn, and by the time my name is called, I feel like running out of the building. Forget Nationals. I’ve got to get out of here! I thought panickedly.

Something felt off even as I was running into the back handsprings before my first pass. I felt like my feet weren’t really under me, and I land sideways on the double twist, throw a barely-landed, extremely wonky back handspring, and pitch forward onto my knees on the landing of the proceeding double back. 

Focus, Jazzy. Four more passes. I try to breathe, but my lungs stubbornly lock up and I’m gasping for air during my connected leaps. They’re okay-I get fine leg separation on my split and switch-straddle jumps-but being out of breath is never a good way to start a tumbling pass. My full-twisting double layout is next, and (thank goodness) it’s fine, but I’m still not breathing. I use the wolf turn to catch my breath, and I’m a little bit less shaky going into the punch front double Arabian. The Arabian is one of the best I’ve ever done, but I land the punch-a stag jump-out of bounds. Cursing the day I decided I had to make Nationals, I fling myself like a rag doll into a switch ring leap before my second-to-last pass, the double front. 

And I faceplant. 

Nearly crying by now, I manage to squeak out my piked full-in before totally losing it in front of approximately 3,000 people. 

Madelyn runs over to me as soon as I’m off the mat, looking concerned. “Did you hurt yourself? I’ve never seen you fall apart like that,” she asks frantically. 

Quinn shoots her an irritated leave this to me look. “She’s been having terrible run-throughs all week and she’s practically giving herself a heart attack, so-“ 

“Nononono, no swearing in front of judges,” Gemma cuts her off frantically, shoving her out of the way (as if that would do anything). “Judges don’t like that. Remember last time?” 

“Um…no,” she replies blankly. 

My score comes up. 11.9. Tears prick at the backs of my eyes. 

“You still only need-“ Emily pulls up the calculator app on her phone-“12.45 to get the qualifying score. And you end on your best event! You’ll be okay!” 

“If you say so,” I sniff, trying to get myself together before someone (eh ehm Stephanie) sees me in my state of hot-messness. It’s time to switch rotations, and Emily’s right-beam is my thing, and all I need is a 12.45. I just have to shake off my floor implosion. This time, the wait is a good thing. It gives me extra time to get myself together. 

“Now on balance beam, for Champions Gymnastics of Ridgecrest, Jasmine Newton!” The announcer calls. I mount the beam from the springboard in a split position and stand. Pose. Arm choreography. Back handspring-layout stepout-layout stepout. Nailed it. Switch ring leap, sheep jump. Wobbly, but nothing huge. L-turn. No problem. Side Somi. No issues there. Onodi-front tuck. Perfect. Layout. Good. Now for the last two big tests. Standing Arabian. Stuck. Boom. Now for the dismount. All that’s standing between me and Nationals is a round off-back handspring-double Arabian. Three little things. 

You know how I said it feels like you’re in the air forever when you tumble? It was like that here. It was as if time stopped for the few seconds I was in the air. The last few second before the landing that would seal my fate.

And it was flawless.

My score is quick to come up on the scoreboard, which is always a good sign. It means that there wasn’t much the judges needed to review and possibly deduct. 

My name pops up on the screen. 

3 Jasmine Newton 15.2 54.75

Chapter 12

In Which a Time Skip Is Utilized By The Author 

It had been three weeks since Classics. I was on a plane heading to St. Louis for Nationals (Nationals!). And I still couldn’t believe it. 

I had won beam, for one thing. Not even Stephanie The Great could top my 15.2. 

Secondly, I came in 6th. 6th! I thought I was out of the top 10 after that floor routine. (Granted, that routine got dinged-I was 25th on floor-but still!)

So, unlike the last plane flight I took, I don’t spend this flight bogged down by nerves. I listen to music, make (minimal) progress on my summer reading assignment, and talk to Emily across the aisle (the lady sitting next to me looks like she would like to chuck both of us out the window). We review the roster for the eighteenth time, trying to find out how many people we know qualified. There’s us, of course-Emily qualified in 8th-and, also from Ridgecrest, Gemma (2nd only to Stephanie) and Quinn (11th). Madelyn made it (15th), but not Rachel. Stephanie, of course, who won. And a few girls I remembered meeting at Classics: Hadley Reed from TOPS, who took 3rd; Haley Halverson from Jenkins, who was 12th; and Mia Castillo of Capital Kips, who was 4th. Of course, there are more girls on the roster, but we’ve never met any of them. Worth noting: Champions Gymnastics of Ridgecrest earned the distinction of having qualified the most gymnasts of any one gym to Nationals, with four of us. 

Naturally, all eyes are on the girls from the no-name gym that emerged from the depths, and this time, I’m trying to feed off of the hype. Used correctly, hype can be a useful tool. I try to remember that when we enter the building for podium training (late, I might add) and every camera in the place (save for the one trained on Stephanie’s bars run-through) swivels towards us. 

“Act natural and pretend to be doing something,” Quinn hisses. We decide this is a good course of action and stretch, hoping the cameramen find someone more interesting to film. They do, and (thankfully) pan over to medal favorite Hadley Reed’s crowd-pleasing, samba-inspired floor routine.

“Totally pandering to the four-year fans,” Quinn spits disgustedly. “Olympics in Brazil? Oh, let’s do a Samba floor routine even though you’re not even age-eligible to qualify!” 

“Calm down, Quinn. It’s not as if she did anything wrong,” Emily counters. 

“Yeah, you should probably not be so critical. Stephanie told me at Classics that she thinks you hate her guts,” I inform her. 

“You talked to Stephanie?!?” Gemma exclaims incredulously. 

“Um, yeah. She was commenting on how pathetic the emcee was.”

Quinn smirks. “The one who keeps trying to get people to dance? Maybe there’s more to that kid than I thought,” she remarks approvingly. 

“Okay, enough! We’re late already. We have bars now, I think,” Emily reminds us. “We need to start even if Coach isn't here yet.” 

We trudge over to the bars, which Quinn immediately hops on for a run-through (sans warm-up). Clearly, she doesn't need one, but it’s never a good idea to do that. Gemma lectures her about that when she gets off. 

My strategy for this event is to do more elements than full run-throughs, which Coach Nelson and I decided would be a better approach after my eight million disastrous floor run-throughs prior to Classics. Not being able to put out clean routines in podium training psychs me out, so skipping them helps with my nerves. I run through all my elements for bars, but never a full routine, and do the same on every event but beam, where I can’t resist (never a problem, because my beam is so consistent anyway). All in all, it’s a pretty good practice. 

This time, we’ve had the foresight to get tickets for some of the other events, so we watch the senior men’s Olympic Trials later that night. “Remind me to try that into the pit back at home,” Quinn remarks about twelve times throughout the high bar competition. She apparently sees a lot of things she thinks could be translated to unevens and gets very excited about them (despite the fact that they look terribly dangerous). Gemma gets bored halfway through, so she runs off with no explanation and returns almost half an hour later with four pretzels. 

“Long line,” she explains, handing us each a pretzel. “Don’t tell Coach.” 

The cheese sauce that comes with the pretzels would probably fall onto Coach’s “not food” list. 

Our first competition day of competition is the next day. We coordinate hairstyles (Abby, who isn’t there, requests her signature crown braid bun) and, of course, take about a million selfies in our leotards and competition makeup. Gemma goes all out with a purple smoky eye (don’t ask), sparkly eyeliner, and contouring blush you could see from space. Quinn, who hates makeup, wears as little as she can get away with (she considers Chapstick to be makeup, which kind of says it all). Emily and I opt for a more sensible silver eyeshadow and nothing else. We all wear red lipstick. Even though Gemma kind of looks like a mime, I must say we make an extremely good-looking group. Always a good way to start Nationals. 

We also all start on the same event this time: vault. Gemma is third in the rotation, Emily is fifth, Quinn is ninth, and I’m 14th-last, that is. So, except for Gemma, we all have someone to go hang out with once we finish. 

I won’t bore you with the details, but, according to Quinn’s notes (she always takes notes to make sure her difficulty was correctly calculated), this is what happened: 

Gemma-DTY. Small hop on landing. 14.65. 

Emily-FTY. Stuck. 13.8. 

Quinn-DTY. Hop out of bounds. 13.9. 

Jasmine (Me)-DTY. Stuck. 14.8. 

For some reason, vault has been one of my better events lately. Odd, but good. It’s always best to start on something you know you can do, and a 14.8 is a good score. Next up was bars. Naturally, Quinn slays, but so does Stephanie. Stephanie barely edges her out on bars, scoring a 15.3 to Quinn’s 15.25. Neither were perfect on their first event, but Stephanie’s 14.1 beam beats Quinn’s 13.9 vault by a healthy margin. And, because gymnastics is never boring, two gymnasts manage to capitalize on Stephanie’s mistakes to lead her so far.  

Always one for the consistent, dark horse position, Gemma’s 14.8 on vault puts her ahead of Stephanie by .05, and Mia Roberts from Capital Kips beats both of them with a 30.1 (compared to Stephanie’s 29.4 and Gemma’s 29.45). Both of them are ecstatically shocked, and neither-especially not Gemma-expects to keep the lead after the third rotation. But I can’t think about any of that, because it’s my turn. 

Cast on. Glide to kip. Cast, back giant with full turn. Back stalder to handstand. Hofnagel. Healy into Pak. Straddle Tkachev on the high bar. Piked Jaeger. Ricna back down to the low bar. Ray, Tweddle, Van Leeuwen. I let go for the double Layout dismount.

Small hop on the landing, but overall, excellent. 

My 5.0 start value isn’t all that high, but I can count on a good execution score for that routine. I end up with 14 even-not bad.  Next up is beam. I stay on, but I take a few uncharacteristic balance checks. With a 14.7, my three-event total comes to 39.8, which has me on track for about a 53. Ouch. 

Last up, of course, is floor, and as they call my name and I salute, my Classics anxiety washes over me like a tidal wave. Who was I kidding? I was probably gonna die. 

Well, you gotta try, I remind myself. The opening notes of My Sweet and Tender Beast begin to play, and I set up for my first pass, the double twist-double layout. I stampede across the mat into the round off-back handspring preceding the double twist. No problems there. I throw myself into the handspring between the two elements and flip. Great landing. I smile my hammiest get-the-audience-going smile as I set up for the L-turn, which is always a piece of cake-kind of my “breather”. Next is my switch ring-straddle leap pass, which has great amplitude. I’ve struggled a lot to get the proper split on my leaps, so it’s always a (very) small victory when I do them well. The double front (my favorite pass) is next-stuck. Then there’s the full twisting double layout. I stumble slightly on the landing but manage to save it. More leaps-not as much amplitude as last time. I can feel myself tightening up, which is never a good thing, especially as my next pass, the pike full in,  is always the hardest to get right. I feel my knee lock before I even hit the ground and take a flailing step out of bounds. Only one more pass, Jazzy. You’ll survive, I think in my best Coach Nelson voice. Double Arabian to finish-stuck. I strike my ending pose with a reluctant smile. 

It could’ve been better, but I’ll take it. And the 14.3 it scores me, bringing my AA to 54.1. I’m last in the last rotation, so I don’t really have to wait for my first-day placement. It has me in 8th. Fine, but not great. That’s the benefit of two-day competitions. 

That is, if I can keep my head together. 

Chapter 13 

The Conclusion of the Spazz 

That night, we all watch the first day of the senior women’s competition. 

“That’s gonna be us in a few years,” Gemma announces every time someone sticks a dismount/insane tumbling pass/Amanar. 

“Not if we grow at all, it won’t,” Quinn remarks sourly. 

“Enough cynicism, Lemon Juice,” Emily snaps. “Trying to watch here!” 

I can’t decide who I agree with, but I obviously hope Gemma’s sunnier outlook is the more realistic one. Ever since I was old enough to remember, I’ve been practicing increasingly dangerous feats of athleticism with the sole goal of being like the girls we’re watching right now. And it’s so close now that I can’t help hoping it will actually happen. Medaling at Junior Nationals would be a huge step towards that goal, but it’ll only happen if I get my head together and stay hungry. 

And by the time the competition rolled around the next morning, when it came to wanting to win, I was dying of starvation.

That day, I started on floor with Quinn, Stephanie, Hadley, and most of the top ten from yesterday. (Gemma, 4th after the first day, was possibly the only exception. It wasn’t exactly the best thing to get my feet under me with, but at least I was getting it out of the way. In contrast to most of my previous competitions, I’m second up, following Mia (5th after yesterday), so I don’t have to deal with that awful wait. 

It clearly helps to have less time to psych myself out, because I compete my first clean floor routine in who knows how long. That, and the 14.75 it scores, makes it kind of a huge deal. I didn’t think it was even possible, but I’m 4th after the rotation! (Stephanie’s 15.1 floor is in the lead, obviously, followed by Hadley’s 14.9, and Mia’s 14.85 bars). 

Coach Nelson seems to be all about strategy today. “You nailed your problem event, which is huge, but you can’t let it get to your head. Be confident, not cocky. Bars next-don’t get overexcited,” she orders. 

“Yes,” I mutter, and walk over to the bars to warm up. My goal today is a 55, which would mean I had to get approximately a 13.4 on each event. Maybe that’s realistic on bars, but I hope I can do better than that. 

That, however, is clearly not to be. I miss the bar on my Ricna and only score a 13.1. Eek. 

I have beam next, and I know I have to be perfect if I want to come anywhere near my goal score. I try every mental trick I’ve ever heard of before my turn comes up, hoping to get my head together before I start. But apparently that was all unnecessary: I hit everything, even the Patterson. 15 even. All I need is a 12.15 on vault, which would probably mean I fell (the start value of a DTY is 5.8 and that score would mean I only got a 6.35/10 in execution). I still couldn’t afford to get overconfident, though. Which is why it is a good thing Stephanie was there to freak me out. 

She’s hit every routine at this competition with freakish consistency and seems totally unbeatable. She’s like a robot-if she made any mistakes, I’d probably chalk it up to a programming glitch. And when you, a no-name, are up against someone that good, any trace of complacency leaves your brain faster than you can blink. Watching Stephanie, who’s last in our rotation, throw down a perfect beam routine is more than a little intimidating. 

Remember that you have something to prove and she doesn’t. Not to mention that you could never beat her, I tell myself. Any therapist would probably rip their teeth out if I told them, but talking myself down helps me stay level-headed (unless I’m already doubting myself after a bad routine). It’s a delicate balance, and it only works in very specific situations, so I have to use it sparingly, but it’s highly effective in this particular situation. Especially when all I have to do is one measly DTY. Is that really so hard? 

Okay, so maybe for 99% of the world it is, but I should be able to do one in my sleep. Time stops. Colors fade. And I know that I’m about to do the greatest DTY in the history of the universe.

Just kidding. I hop almost all the way down the mat when I land, but at least I don’t fall. I suck in my breath and cross my fingers for at least a 13. It’s better than I expected-13.9-but I won’t know what I place for what feels like an eternity. My rotation isn’t even close to done. Still, a 56.75 for today’s events and a 111.10 all around! I never thought I would score that high. And with a fall? Unthinkable. So far I was winning, but Stephanie hadn't gone yet. Neither had Hadley or Gemma or Mia or any of the other girls who could potentially beat that. 

Gemma’s up next, and her 14.3 beam has her at 57.35 and 113.2 for both days. She goes over me. Mia eats mat multiple times in her floor routine, and my second-day score beats hers, a 51.8. But her total, 111.15, just barely squeaks in over mine. 

Hadley has a good final vault and scores 113.4, which knocks me off the podium. Dang. 

It gets worse, though. A random kid who can’t have placed higher than 15th at Classics has the meet of her life and ties Mia with a 111.15. And, of course, Stephanie comes in with her Amanar and scores a 62.8 a total of 120.9. 

Still, sixth! And medals (gold and bronze, respectively) on beam and floor! 

I have to say, I never thought I’d be the least bit unsatisfied with 6th in the country, but that just goes to show how much I’ve improved, I guess. Same as how I swore I would never like Ridgecrest. Experience often shows you things you couldn’t see before. Training in a more competitive gym with better gymnasts raised my standards, and it paid off. Being forced to uproot my life and move halfway to the Arctic Circle made me fifteen kinds of mad at first, but all Ridgecrest needed was time. As much as I was loath to admit it, I was slowly learning that yes, I could learn to like my new town. 

Maybe sometime in the far-off future, I could really call it my home.

Author’s Note

Well, it’s been nearly a year, and I’ve finally finished this book. It’s by far my longest one yet (78 pages, not counting the cover or this author’s note), and possibly my favorite: the characters I created in this story really came to life in my brain. By the end, Quinn had become one of my favorite characters I’ve ever written about, and the whole team felt remarkably real in my mind. 

That being said, I am aware that there are probably multitudinous factual errors regarding gymnastics in this book. I’m not a gymnast and I don’t know much about it, so the Women’s Artistic Gymnastics Wikia, with its page after page of gifs of skills, and the ever-useful Gymnastics about.com page were my main sources of information here. Uneven bars in particular, with its dizzying array of skills named after people I’ve never heard of that all look the same to me, was very difficult to write about. I have no idea if the routine I described Jazzy doing would actually work, but I know I got one thing right: her start values. I added up the values all the skills in her beam and bars routines, and the vault she does-a Double Twisting Yurchenko, or DTY-is worth 5.8, as I said several times throughout the book. 

Naturally, I hope this is being read by people who know as little about gymnastics as I do and won’t pick up on weird things I got wrong in it. Because if you don’t, you can read it as what it is: a made-up story, purely for entertainment. 

Allegra Caldwell

Author's Note

See Author's Note