The Flip Side Page 15

  I lean closer. I can’t resist. My eyes are combing the crowd, looking for Josh. I can’t help but feel a flutter of nerves. And excitement. Because I’m here with Bobby, the best-looking guy in this whole place. I’m here in my beautiful dress, with my hair up in a twist, without my glasses, and with the beautiful corsage from Bobby on my wrist. Confidence surges through me.

  Bobby tugs my arm. “Let’s dance.”

  I let him pull me to the dance floor, though I wish I could lose my shoes. There’s no way I can dance in these things. I glance around to see if I can spot Zoe and Michael. It’s hard to identify anyone specific in the crush of people. Josh will never find me.

  Bobby lets go of my arm and starts flapping his like chicken wings.

  I laugh. “Is that your version of dancing?”

  “It’s a warm-up,” he says. “Just wait till I get my groove on.”

  The music abruptly changes tempo, and Bobby’s arms change tempo too.

  “Oh my goodness,” I say, slapping my forehead. “This song!” It’s the one I used for my very first optional routine, when I was level seven.

  Bobby flaps his knees like his arms. “You like this one?” he asks. “Let’s see some moves!”

  I’ve been awkwardly standing here, not sure what to do with my feet in these heels. I obediently bob to the music. “This song—this song was my first optional floor routine,” I yell.

  “First floor routine?” Bobby asks, dipping closer to me. He has great rhythm. “What does that mean?”

  “You know,” I say, “do a few flips, dance a little. Ta-da!” I strike a pose. “Gymnastics.”

  “Let’s see it,” he says.

  “No!” I cry. “Not here. That would be stupid. I’m wearing a dress!”

  “Not the flipping part. What kind of moves did you do?”

  “I don’t remember! It was a long time ago.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  At least I can answer sincerely. “Not really.”

  Bobby grabs my hand and breaks into an exuberant electric slide. “Come on!”

  I follow his lead, sliding to the right, sliding to the left, until we’re both gasping with laughter. “You’ve got the moves, girl!”

  I laugh, feeling free and carefree.

  It’s at that moment that I first see Kristine. She pushes her way through the crowd of dancers and approaches Bobby from behind, reaching out to touch his arm.

  “Hey . . . Bobby?”

  He starts at her touch. “Hi, Kristine.” It might be my imagination—or wishful thinking—but I think his voice lacks enthusiasm.

  “Hey,” she says, tinkering with the corsage on her wrist.

  “The student council did a great job decorating the place,” I tell her.

  She nods. “We wanted prom to be special. Would you mind if Bobby and I danced?”

  Before I can respond, Bobby says, “Right now Charlotte and I are dancing. Maybe you and I can dance later.”

  “I really miss you.”

  “Now isn’t the time, Kristine. You should get back to your date. I’ll find you later.”

  “Promise?”

  “If I get a chance, but I’m here with Charlotte. I’m not going to leave her alone.”

  Kristine’s eyes shine like she’s about to cry. My heart wrenches. “Look,” I say, grabbing Bobby’s sleeve. “I can give you a minute, if you need—”

  “Yeah, could you?” Kristine cuts in.

  “No,” Bobby says firmly. “You don’t need to go anywhere, Charlotte.” He faces Kristine. “Kristine, we’re not getting back together. I keep telling you that.”

  “Is it because of her?” Kristine asks through gritted teeth.

  Of course, I’m the “her.” I’m a little taken aback by the anger I hear in her voice.

  “I am not talking to you about this now,” Bobby says harshly.

  He grabs my arm, not roughly but firmly enough to pull me into the crowd.

  “Sorry,” he says when we get to a spot on the floor where the crush of bodies isn’t so intense.

  “Brandon told me that she wants you to get back together with her. Is that why she put you on the DJ committee?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Yes. She keeps finding excuses for us to do things together, but we’re not getting back together. Like I told you, she and I aren’t a good fit. I’m sorry if she ruined our night.”

  “Nothing’s ruined,” I say. “I just feel bad for her. . . .”

  “Don’t think about her anymore,” Bobby says. “Let’s just enjoy our night in Paris.”

  The music changes tempo again. Slower. Really slow. Bobby settles his hands on my waist and pulls me closer.

  My pulse picks up, but I wind my arms around his neck, following the lead of the other couples around us. We’re friends. This is a friendly slow dance. It’s probably good to remind Bobby, too, as his grip tightens on my hips.

  “I won’t talk about her any more after this,” I promise, “but . . . would it help if you tell Kristine we’re here as just friends?”

  “But what if we don’t want to stay just friends?” His voice is a little husky, as though it was difficult for him to toss that thought out there. I squirm a little, and Bobby must feel it, because he rushes on. “I mean, no pressure. If you don’t think of me that way—”

  “I do,” I say quickly. “I mean, I could. I’m trying really hard not to, though, because I have a lot going on, and I don’t want a relationship right now, but . . .”

  I can’t believe I said all that. But it’s the feeling of the moment, with the dim lights, the smell of his cologne, his breath skimming over my cheek, the warmth of his skin where my arms are draped around his neck. I swallow. “Maybe in a few months.”

  “I don’t want to be nosy, but can you share with me what’s keeping you so busy? There’s not something bad happening, is there?”

  “Oh, no,” I assure him. “Nothing bad at all.”

  I’m so touched that he’s worried about me. Maybe I should tell Bobby all about gymnastics tonight, confess about my double life. He would understand, if anyone would. He’s a world-class wrestler. He’d know what it takes to be a world-class gymnast.

  I start to speak, but at that moment someone shrieks. I hear a scream.

  “No skating tonight!” a guy shouts.

  “Watch out!” another guy yells almost at the same time.

  I turn just in time to see a big guy careening toward me. Bobby grabs me to pull me out of the way, but the guy is moving too fast, and I’m too stunned by his speed to react. He slams into me, one of his heavy Rollerblades clipping my ankle, causing pain to shoot through my foot and calf. My leg buckles—

  And I’m falling . . . falling . . . falling.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  * * *

  The wooden floor comes up so fast, I don’t have time to break my fall. I feel the impact on my shoulder first. Then my head rebounds. Someone’s crashing down on top of me. There are legs thrashing in the air over my head, and there is the scrape of rough fabric, the smell of sweat and body odor, the squeak and thud of shoes near my face. Only then do I feel pain reverberating through my ankle.

  It must be only seconds, but it feels like I’m on the floor forever. I cover my head instinctively and try to control my breathing, yanking my knees to my chest in a protective fetal position. There’s still a body smothering me, heavy shoes pounding around me. The noise of the floor is deafening.

  “Charlotte!” It’s Bobby’s voice. A hand grasps my wrist. Someone’s yanking away the guy who’s blanketing me.

  “Sorry,” the guy yells, scrambling up, the wheels of his Rollerblades grinding over the hardwood floor.

  “What are you doing, dude? We’re dancing tonight, not skating.”

  I don’t know who’s talking to him, but I push myself up and back, wanting to avoid coming into contact again with those massive Rollerblades he’s wearing.

  “It’s a skating rink, man,” Rollerboy says. “I wan
ted to dance with skates on.”

  I’m aware of his feeble protests as a couple of guys and Mr. Alto usher him away.

  Bobby gently pulls me to my feet. I wobble. The room tilts. “Are you okay?”

  “Charlie!” Josh pushes through the crowd. It seems like half the place has stopped to watch what just happened. The other half has no idea. They’re still jumping, hooting, pounding.

  “Charlie, what are you doing here?” Josh asks.

  I just shake my head. “Don’t tell Mom.”

  “I saw that guy plow into you. Devon Winters is a linebacker. Probably weighs three times what you do. Are you hurt?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We need to get her off the floor, assess the damage,” Bobby says. “Make room!” he cries, clearing the way. “She needs to sit down! Are you hurt?”

  He wraps an arm around my shoulder. Josh flanks my other side. I take a step, my ankle gives out, and I gasp in pain.

  I look up into Josh’s face. Even in the dim light I can see that it’s drained of color. “Don’t panic. Sit down.”

  One of the chaperones is bustling toward us. “Oh, honey!” She’s a mother hen, with her long dress flapping against her legs. “I saw you fall. Are you all right?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, sniffing back tears. “I think I hurt my ankle.”

  “Crap.” Josh’s voice is a whisper. “Charlie, no. Don’t say that. Let’s sit down and see.”

  “She’s okay,” Bobby yells at nobody in particular. “Back off!” He swings his arms at the people gathering around, and they scuttle back.

  Bobby lifts me into his arms. I cling to his neck, wishing we were in this position for any other reason. He hurries me over to chairs set up against the far wall. Once I’ve sat down, the chaperone brings me a bag of ice. “How’s it looking?” she asks.

  I hardly dare to look at it, but the pain is that sharp throb that warns of trouble. “It’s my bad ankle,” I say. “I broke it a while ago. . . .”

  “Oh, honey. Take off that big shoe. Yes, it looks a little swollen.”

  My stomach churns like I’m about to lose my Italian dinner. What have I done? This has to be some kind of nightmare.

  I turn to Josh. He’s looking back at me, stricken. “I’m so sorry, Charlie.”

  I force myself to look at my ankle. Face it. Maybe it’s not as bad as it seems. But even in low lighting, I can see the swelling, a dark purple bruise running under the skin like a half-moon shadow. “This cannot be happening.” My voice sounds strained and hopeless. “This cannot be happening!”

  Josh’s words are choked. “This is bad, Charl—”

  “I know!” I feel my self-control slipping.

  “I don’t think anything is broken,” Bobby says. “A few weeks, and it’ll be fine.”

  “It’s not going to be fine,” I say. “Nothing is going to be fine.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  * * *

  “I’m going to take her home,” Bobby says.

  “I’ll come with you,” Josh says.

  “You can’t leave your date,” I say to him.

  He looks around. Then his gaze lands on a girl with dark hair. He holds out his hand, and she comes over. “Morgan, this is my sister, Charlie.”

  “Hi,” she says shyly. “We saw what happened. It looks bad.”

  “Charlotte!” Zoe cries, rushing toward us. “We just heard about what happened.” She takes a step toward me, glances down at my foot, shudders, and steps back. “That looks painful.”

  The physical pain isn’t nearly as bad as the mental anguish. I’ve totally messed things up. I’ve ruined everyone’s night. I may have ruined my chances to make the Olympic team.

  “I’m going to take her home,” Bobby repeats. “I’ll have the driver bring the limo back for you two.”

  “Or we can just go with you,” Michael offers.

  “No!” I shout. “I’m not ruining everyone’s prom. Josh, there’s nothing you can do for me at home. You and Morgan should stay and enjoy prom.”

  “I can explain to Mom and Dad that this wasn’t your fault.”

  I give him a pointed look.

  He shrugs. “Maybe it’s a little bit your fault, since I have a feeling you weren’t supposed to be here. Otherwise I would have known ahead of time that you’d be here.”

  “You weren’t supposed to be here?” Bobby asks.

  I shake my head dejectedly. “My mom didn’t think it would be a good idea. But I wanted to come. That’s why I had you pick me up at Gwen’s.”

  “You got Gwen involved?” Josh asks. “Man, Coach Chris—”

  “Josh,” I say in a low, threatening voice.

  He slams his mouth closed. Clearly confused, everyone darts their gazes between him and me.

  “Look, I don’t want to mess up everyone’s night. I’ll call a cab.”

  “I’m taking you home,” Bobby says yet again. “We’re paying for the limo whether it’s sitting out there or driving around. We might as well use it. I’ll come back for Michael and Zoe.”

  “Okay.”

  Before I can even move, he lifts me into his arms again.

  “I can walk,” I insist.

  “You can’t walk. You can hobble.”

  This would be truly romantic if my ankle weren’t throbbing and I weren’t getting a good deal of unwanted attention. I bury my face in Bobby’s shoulder.

  “I’m really sorry,” I say.

  “You should be, for putting the idea into that guy’s head that he could skate through a group of dancers.”

  I jerk my head up. Bobby gives me an ironic smile. “You have nothing to apologize for. It’s not your fault this happened.”

  Bobby finds our limo, settles me onto the seat, and then joins me. Once we’re under way, Bobby asks, “Why didn’t you tell me that you weren’t supposed to go to prom?”

  “Because it had nothing to do with you, and I didn’t want you to think it did.”

  “What did it have to do with?”

  I shake my head. “Mom just didn’t think it would be a good idea.”

  “Why was your brother making a big deal about Gwen and some coach?”

  I grimace. So he heard that. I wish I’d cut Josh off sooner.

  “Gwen is an elite gymnast. Coach Chris trains her. He wants her to stay focused.”

  He studies me intently. “I’m not stupid, Charlotte. There’s more to it than that. Your ankle is messed up, and Josh is panicking like it’s the end of the world.”

  I sigh with resignation. “Coach Chris is also my gymnastics coach.”

  “I didn’t think you competed anymore,” Bobby says, clearly confused.

  “I—I still do. It’s complicated.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell me that? I’m going on about watching what I eat. You must do the same.”

  “Because I don’t talk about it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want people to know.”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t understand. Why not? Being a competitive gymnast is incredibly cool.”

  Trying to explain this to Bobby, who is also an athlete, makes me feel foolish. “I need someplace where I can just be Charlotte. Where I don’t have the pressure of people having expectations about me making the Olympic team.”

  “Wait.” He pauses like he can’t register what I just said. “You’re hoping to go to the Olympics?”

  I don’t blame him for being surprised, for sounding almost doubtful. “Yeah. The Olympic trials are next weekend. That’s why my mom didn’t want me going to prom. She wanted me to stay focused on my goals.”

  “And that’s the reason Josh was freaking out. Because you’re hurt.”

  I blow out a puff of air. “Pretty much.”

  “You’re that good?” he asks.

  “I’m going to find out in another week.” If my ankle isn’t totally messed up. It’s throbbing with pain right now.

  He looks out the windo
w. “I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell me.”

  “To be honest, I don’t know either.”

  He moves across to the other seat so that he’s facing me squarely. “You didn’t trust me.”

  “It’s not that.” But even as I say the words, I know it couldn’t have been anything else. I didn’t trust him not to be different around me. But I don’t tell him that, because I know he’d be insulted. He has every right to feel that way.

  “I thought we had something,” he says quietly.

  “Bobby—”

  The limo pulls to a stop.

  “I don’t know what to say to all this, Charlotte.”

  “ ‘Charlie,’ ” I say sadly. “Charlie is the real me. I didn’t go by ‘Charlotte’ until I started back at public school. I just wanted my school life to be separate from my gymnastics life.”

  “I told you ‘Charlie’ suited you better.”

  “So maybe I wasn’t able to hide everything from you.”

  “You hid enough. And Josh wasn’t being an irritating older brother when he called you ‘Charlie.’ You lied about that. I have the feeling there hasn’t been a lot of honesty on your part.”

  The door opens. Bobby gets out and assists me, providing support as I climb out and try not to put any weight on my foot.

  The front door opens. Mom and Dad rush out.

  “Charlie?” Mom calls out. “What’s going on?”

  I’m hopping a little, trying to balance on one foot. Suddenly Bobby sweeps me up into his arms, but it’s not all nice and warm like it was before. There is a stiffness to the way he’s holding me. I can’t blame him. I’ve basically been lying to him about the biggest part of my life since we met.

  “We went to prom,” Bobby says as he approaches my parents. “She got hurt.”

  “You went to prom?” Mom says. “Even after I told you that you couldn’t go?”

  “How do you get hurt at prom?” Dad asks.

  Before I can answer, Bobby says, “I need to get her inside.”

  He carries on, with my parents rushing after us. When he crosses the threshold, I say, “You can put me down now.”

  “I’m putting you in a chair, off your feet. Otherwise there is no point in carrying you. Where should I go?”