The Flip Side Page 11

  “Okay. I’m going to read it now. Can you handle that?”

  “Yes, absolutely. Just tell me who it’s from and what it says.”

  I keep my face expressionless, even as my pulse quickens while I silently read it.

  Charlotte—

  I know you can’t date yet, but I’m hoping your parents will make another exception and let me take you to prom. As a friend. Not a date but another non-date. That is, if you want to go with me.

  —Bobby

  “It’s from Bobby. He’s asking me to prom.”

  “I knew it! I knew he was going to ask you. All the signs were there Saturday night.”

  I can’t help it. I laugh. “What signs?”

  “The way he talked to you like Michael and I weren’t even there. The way he looked at you.”

  “How did he look at me?” I ask as I slam my locker door closed and start walking toward the cafeteria.

  Zoe patters along beside me. “Like you’re the most amazing girl he’s ever met.”

  I know she’s exaggerating. Still, I can’t help but hope there’s a little truth in what she’s saying.

  “You’re going, right?” she asks. “We can double. I’ll help you find a dress.”

  Before this moment I hadn’t seriously considered going to prom. I convinced myself it would be a distraction. So I’m a little astonished by how much I want to go. Although, I know it’s not so much about going to prom as it is about going with Bobby. I really like him. And we would just be going as friends, so how could it be a distraction?

  “I have to check with my mom.” I hope she says yes. She’ll probably say no because the trials are so important, but like Josh said, it doesn’t hurt to ask.

  “Tell her what I told my mom. It’s not a date. It’s just a special event. A high school moment. A memory.”

  But it’s not something I’ve been working toward for most of my life. The trials are. I have a feeling that I’m going to need a stronger argument for going, because there are two more possible proms in my life—but maybe only one Olympics.

  “Oh my gosh, aren’t you excited?” Zoe asks. “I mean, what are you, a zombie or something? You look like a zombie! What is wrong with you?”

  I’m running a thousand scenarios through my head, a thousand ways to ask, but none of them end with my mom saying yes. “I don’t know that she’s going to let me go, Zoe.”

  “But you’re on the committee. You should be there. It’s not fair if you can’t be there.”

  Unfortunately, gymnastics has taught me that life isn’t always fair.

  • • •

  Mom holds up a finger when I open the car door and slide into the seat after school. She’s on the phone. After she hangs up, she pulls away from the curb and offers an inattentive, “How was school?”

  “Interesting.”

  She lets out a sigh and flips her bangs out of her eyes. “I’ve got a client upset with me because the numbers aren’t adding up like she wants. I’m an accountant, not a magician. If she spends the money, that’s what’s going to show up on paper.”

  “I’m sorry you have to deal with that.”

  She waves a hand. “It is what it is. It’ll all work out.” She blinks, puckers her mouth as though she’s in thought. “So what was interesting that happened at school?”

  I take a deep breath, release it slowly. “Bobby asked me to prom.”

  Mom nods slowly, seems to be focusing really hard on the road, but I have the feeling she’s focusing more on my words. “What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing yet. I needed to check with you. To see if it was okay.”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, Charlie. Not this close to trials.”

  “It’s just one night.”

  “Not really. You’re going to be thinking about it every day until it happens, and then depending how it goes—good or bad—you’re going to be thinking about it for days afterward. Days when you have to be seriously focused on competition. It’s bad timing, sweetie. You’re going to have to say no.”

  Even knowing that was probably going to be her answer, I’m surprised by how much it hurts. “You’re letting Josh go.”

  “Josh is not competing a week after prom for something that he has worked for—and made sacrifices for—most of his life,” she says. “You can’t have everything, Charlie. We discussed this. You wanted to go to public school, and we made arrangements for that. Now your grades are suffering—”

  “One class.”

  “And you’ve had to take on the extra responsibility of student council and having to help with planning prom. Coach Chris called me to let me know that you’ve been struggling with some of your dismounts. He’s concerned that something is going on at school—”

  “Nothing is going on at school.”

  “Then it’s things going on outside of school, and that leaves Bobby.”

  I shake my head. “It’s not him.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I’ve just had some off days.”

  Mom sighs. “Maybe I’m wrong. We can ask Coach Chris if he thinks it’s a good idea for you to go to prom.”

  But we both know Coach Chris will say no. I let my gaze wander out the window, watch the neighborhoods flash by with their play structures in backyards, their carefully manicured lawns, their trimmed bushes.

  “I’m sorry, Charlie, but the trials are too important. You’ve worked too hard for them.”

  There’s an elementary school up ahead, so Mom slows the car. I watch the kids walking from school. Some have their hands shoved into their pockets; others run, with their backpacks jouncing.

  Then I see one little girl with her hair brushed back into a tight bun. Her pink sweats have LOVE GYMNASTICS blazoned down the leg. She must be singing, because her lips are moving, and she smiles privately as she walks, as if she’s keeping a wonderful secret. Just as we’re pulling past her, she takes off in a little run. She leaps, lands, and spins, then keeps walking, as if leaping and spinning down the street is a completely normal thing to do.

  My mouth curls up into a soft smile. I was once that little girl. I wanted to be on Team USA more than I wanted anything else in the world. I wanted to balance on beams and hit the vault and go flying.

  Mom’s right. I worked hard for this opportunity. Making the Olympics is too important. I can’t throw it away over a cute guy. I want to go, but prom will be a distraction. I’ll be preoccupied thinking about what kind of gown I want to wear, how to fix my hair, how to do my makeup. I’ll wonder if Bobby thinks that we’re more than friends. I’ll wonder if he might kiss me. And if he doesn’t, I’ll wonder why not.

  This stinks. I just wish I knew how to break the news to Bobby. I really don’t want to hurt him. Because the truth is, I like him a lot.

  • • •

  Later that night, after practice and dinner, I’m lying on my bed, staring at my phone, trying to figure out how to respond to Bobby’s note. Texting is probably better, will be less embarrassing for him. It has to be hard on a guy when a girl turns him down.

  Sorry, I can’t. I wasn’t planning to go to prom and I . . .

  Delete. Delete. Delete.

  How do I say this?

  I got your note. Thank you for the invite, but I’m busy that night.

  Ugh. That is so much worse.

  Suddenly there’s a thudding on my bedroom door, like someone’s kicking it. “Come in.”

  “Open the door, please!” says Mom.

  When I swing it open, she’s standing outside, holding a bucket of water and ice in one hand and a homemade smoothie in the other, complete with a rainbow straw and miniature paper umbrella. A heating bag filled with rice is pitched over her shoulder. She shuts the door with her foot while handing me the smoothie. “I thought you could use some comforting. Grab a towel.”

  I keep a towel in my closet for just this purpose. I spread it on the floor, and Mom sets the bucket on top of it. I sit on the e
dge of the bed and dunk my feet into the ice water. “Thanks, Mom.”

  She arranges the heating bag around the back of my neck and wraps a fluffy blanket around my shoulders. The goose bumps are already standing out on my legs from the ice water. “I know you’re disappointed about prom. I talked with your dad, and he agrees with me. Now just isn’t the time to add something else to your schedule.”

  “I get it, Mom. I do.” I don’t like it, but I get it.

  Mom kicks off her slippers, climbs onto the bed, and settles behind me. “Drink your smoothie and soak your feet. Relax.”

  The frigid water around my feet doesn’t exactly feel relaxing, but over years of needing to ice my ankle, I’ve gotten used to it. The smoothie is delicious, although the paper umbrella that would normally make me smile doesn’t tonight.

  Mom starts rubbing my sore shoulders. It’s not the working-the-knots-out-of-my-muscles massaging that I get at the gym, but a gentle stroking that could easily lull me to sleep. My eyes close.

  “I remember that day so well, when the switch happened.”

  “The switch?” I ask.

  “The day when you decided that you wanted gymnastics for yourself. Before that I think you did it because it was fun, because you knew you were good at it, because you knew that Dad and I enjoyed watching you. But you were about twelve, I think, when the switch happened, and suddenly you owned gymnastics. It was at that moment that I knew there would be no stopping you.”

  Opening my eyes, I take a slow sip of the smoothie. I don’t remember that as clearly as Mom does. Being twelve seems like a lifetime ago.

  “You have such a narrow window, sweetie, to realize your dreams. If you don’t make this Olympics, you might make the next one, but after that . . .”

  She doesn’t have to say it. After that I will most likely hit my expiration date.

  “You just don’t need any additional drama in your life right now,” she continues. “I never should have let you go out with Bobby to begin with.”

  “It was for school,” I remind her.

  “I shouldn’t have gone along with the extra work you’re doing. I should have spoken to your teacher, taken care of it—”

  “I took care of it,” I insist. “If I can do well on the final, I’ll get an A.”

  “Still, all the work.”

  “It’s fine, Mom. I actually enjoyed it.” I twist around, and she moves to the side just enough so that I can see her clearly. “I understand what you’re saying. I really do. I’m not mad. I’m just disappointed. I love gymnastics. I want to make Team USA. I want to go to the Olympics. That’s my number one priority.”

  “Good. Because we’ve all made so many sacrifices for you.”

  “I know. And I appreciate every one. It’s just that sometimes I wonder if life is ever going to slow down for me. If I’ll ever be normal.”

  “Charlie,” Mom says with a short laugh. “I’m sorry to break it to you, but I think you might find normal . . . boring.”

  “So, what are you saying?”

  Mom smiles. “I’m saying you should . . . embrace your crazy.”

  “Embrace my crazy,” I repeat. “I like that.”

  I return her smile as I hand her my empty glass. Then I pull my feet out of the ice water and dry them off.

  She takes the rice bag, which has cooled down, and the bucket. “Just remember we love and support you. We want you to have the opportunity not only to reach for your dreams but to hold them.”

  “I love you, Mom.”

  She kisses the top of my head. “Good night, sweetheart.”

  After she leaves the room, I lie back on my bed.

  Embrace my crazy, Mom says. I think back to when I told Bobby that I didn’t give him my phone number because my life was crazy right then. He responded that he had no problem with crazy. Of course, he doesn’t know exactly how crazy things around me are about to get. So what would it hurt to add just a little bit more insanity to this wild ride that I’m on?

  I pick up my phone, type out a text to him.

  I got your note about prom. I have to work around some family things. But I definitely want to go with you.

  Chapter Fifteen

  * * *

  “You’ve got that look,” Gwen says as we push through the gym doors and out into the twilight Tuesday evening.

  “What look?”

  “I don’t know,” Gwen says, laughing. “It’s the look like you’re up to no good.”

  My heart does a little patter. Ever since she got her car, she’s been giving me a lift home after practice. I told her that tonight I’d treat her to frozen yogurt as a way to say thanks. But the truth is that I want to ask her for a huge favor. Does Gwen know me so well that she’s figured out my ploy? I shrug off her suspicions and say, “We’re going for froyo. We are up to no good.”

  “You think Coach Chris would be mad at us?” Gwen asks, glancing back at the gym and his Toyota 4Runner still in the parking lot. I wonder if we look like fugitives, making our escape through the darkness.

  I force myself to giggle, but my mind is on other things. “What Coach Chris doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

  “I’m getting the sugar-free peach, sprinkled with organic cocoa,” she says. “He can’t be too mad about that!”

  “But he’d be mad about my chocolate-and-pomegranate combo with Heath bar and gummy bear toppings.” I tug her along faster.

  The frozen yogurt shop is located in a strip mall a few blocks from the gym. I got permission ahead of time to stay out a little later than normal. Gwen will have me home by nine. That should be enough time for me to persuade her to help me out.

  But all dreams of sugar rush out of my head the moment Gwen swings open the shop’s doors and my gaze sweeps over a sea of yellow and black.

  I can’t walk through the door of FroYoLicious. I’m rooted to the concrete.

  “Go in!” Gwen cries, prodding me.

  Yellow-and-black warm-ups. The frozen yogurt store is full of them. “Uhh . . . maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

  “You are not backing out now!” Gwen cries.

  A quick glance at her face tells me she has no idea why I’m stalling. For all she knows, I’m doubting our decision to pig out on froyo this close to trials. I check over my shoulder. Sure enough, there’s a big yellow school bus parked at the back of the lot.

  I size up the situation inside the shop. There’s a mixture of boys and girls, it seems, all in yellow and black. What I don’t get is why they’re here. Gwen and I have been to FroYoLicious a dozen times, and I’ve never in all those times seen another person from Jefferson. In fact, mostly, at this time of night, we have the place to ourselves, which is why I thought it would be perfect for a clandestine meeting.

  There have to be at least thirty Jefferson kids here tonight, crammed into the small shop, all at different stages of dispensing and eating their frozen yogurt. I scan the crowd for someone I might know. Mostly they’re strangers, but I do spot a kid who sits a couple of rows behind me in Spanish. And a girl I recognize from U.S. government. Is that Alison from AP Lit? Or her twin? I can never tell them apart.

  I slip through the doorway, dipping my head and trying not to make eye contact. My hair is firmly back in a messy bun, and my face is glasses-free. Even if there are kids here from my classes, they’re not used to seeing me with my hair up, dressed in my warm-ups, so maybe they won’t recognize me.

  “Wow, it’s crowded,” Gwen says. Her voice is loud over the jumble of conversations. We grip each other’s sleeves as we weave our way through the crowd. “What are all these kids doing here, do you think?”

  “They must’ve had some sort of competition,” I say.

  “What school are they?” Gwen asks.

  I cough and speak at the same time. “Jefferson.”

  “Jefferson? Your school?”

  We’ve reached the yogurt machines and wait in line behind a couple of girls. I’m not sure I want to answer her when we’re s
tanding so close to other people. “Yes,” I whisper, “but don’t make a big deal about it. I don’t really know any of these people. Not well, anyway.”

  Gwen bounces on her toes. Her eyes skim the crowd. She seems super-excited to be around this many other high school kids. Maybe it’s all the boys. Our gym doesn’t have a boys’ program, so her opportunities are limited.

  “Why are they all over here? This isn’t exactly near Jefferson,” Gwen says.

  The girl in front of us turns and gives Gwen a once-over. “We had a meet at Rosa Parks.”

  “Oh, cool. What kind of meet?” Gwen asks.

  I pretend to be reading the flavors on the yogurt machine. I don’t think this girl recognizes me from school. I don’t recognize her. Thank goodness.

  “Track-and-field,” the girl says, inching forward in the line.

  “That’s so cool!” Gwen says. “How’d it go?”

  “A lot of us won our events,” the girl says, finally offering Gwen a smile. “Where do you go?”

  “Oh, I do online school,” Gwen says, sending me a nervous side glance. I grit my teeth in a smile, hoping the girl doesn’t ask me the same question, but she starts talking to the friend in front of her and seems to forget all about us.

  We fill our cups and add toppings, but after we’ve paid, there’s nowhere to sit.

  Gwen and I lean against the wall, angling away from a cluster of girls who are sharing the same wall. “Note to self,” Gwen says. “Don’t come to FroYoLicious when there’s a track-and-field meet in town.”

  “No kidding,” I say.

  Gwen licks yogurt off her spoon. “I guess if someone found out you did gymnastics, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. They wouldn’t know what level you were. It wouldn’t change anything.”

  I shrug. Maybe she’s right, but they might figure out I’m actually pretty good, and that makes me nervous, because I would have to deal with explaining my double life to people before I’m ready. Talk about a distraction before trials. I need to take things one step at a time: trials, Olympics, loss of anonymity at school.

  “Oh my gosh! Mom, look!” exclaims a small voice.