The Flip Side Page 5

  She laughs, and so do I. We both realize that’s a pretty lame attempt at a disguise. “Okay, so then they’ll grab a yellow highlighter—” she begins.

  I push on her, get up out of my seat, and raise my kale shake. “Stop! Or I’ll pour this on you!”

  Sobering, she places her hand on my shoulder. “Things are really going to change, Charlie.”

  I settle back down. “I know. Endorsements, speaking engagements, being invited to huge charity events.”

  “We’re going to be pulled in all directions.”

  “Does it scare you?”

  “Sometimes.” Gwen sighs. “All I really want is to do gymnastics.”

  I grin. “The endorsements pay better.”

  Nodding, she smiles too. “Yeah, they do.”

  “I’d like to be a spokesperson for a worthwhile cause,” I admit.

  “That would be cool.”

  Sipping on my shake, I imagine it: the lights, the attention, the cameras constantly flashing. It’s not the reason I got into gymnastics, but it’s where the road I’m traveling leads.

  “Everyone at your school will know who you are, Charlie,” Gwen says.

  “Yep. I won’t be the last person picked as a science project partner anymore.”

  “You’re not the last person picked now.”

  “But I’m not the first. Suddenly I’ll be the first.”

  “And you’ll get all these guys asking you on dates—”

  “That’s why I don’t tell them.” I twist around to face her. “I don’t want a guy to ask me out because I’m on a cereal box or in a sports clothing commercial. I don’t want someone to be my friend because they think hanging out with me makes them important.”

  She nods. “I get it. But you’re not going to be able to hold on to the anonymity forever.”

  “I just want to hold on to it for now.”

  • • •

  On Tuesday afternoon I’m getting my books out of my locker when Zoe suddenly appears at my side.

  “Hey!” She squeezes my arm, leans down slightly. “Michael sat beside me in study hall yesterday. Then he texted me last night to say good night. So romantic.”

  I shut my locker door, trying not to wish some guy were texting me. Though, her excitement is contagious. “That’s great! I’m happy for you, Zoe.”

  “And guess what else?”

  “He sent you flowers?”

  She shakes her head. “Someone wants your phone number.”

  My pulse spikes. But I focus on bringing it back to normal. “Who?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Bobby. Who else? So, can I give it to him?”

  I shake my head quickly. “No.”

  She blinks at me, clearly not expecting that answer. “Why not?”

  “My parents aren’t going to let me date.” I’m pretty sure that’s true. Either way, I don’t have time for a boyfriend.

  “But you can talk to guys.”

  “I just think it would give him the wrong idea.”

  “That you’re interested? Aren’t you? I thought you thought he was nice.”

  “He is nice. But I have a lot going on right now with that off-campus program I’m in.”

  A lot of students are involved in off-campus programs such as internships or classes at the community college, so I use “off-campus program” as a vague reference to explain why I have to be excused every day for tardiness. Of course, I actually spend the time at the gym working out. Fortunately, Zoe has never asked for details ever since I mentioned that the program involves the practical harnessing of physics principles. Which is true, since momentum and aerodynamics have a role in gymnastics, but I didn’t have to go into those specifics because Zoe cringes away from any science-oriented discussions.

  “The one that gets you out of first period?” she asks now.

  “That’s the one. We have to do a lot of stuff after school. My life is just crazy.”

  She shrugs. “Okay.”

  I don’t quite trust how easily she gave up, but I’m grateful that she’s not going to pester me about it. Gwen’s right. I can’t be distracted by a boy until after the Olympics.

  As we head down the hallway, Zoe asks, “So, you heard what happened to Mandy Carrigan yesterday afternoon, right?”

  “Mandy?”

  “Yeah. She plays soccer.”

  “Uh . . . maybe?” I have no idea who she’s talking about, but that’s typical. Zoe follows school gossip like it’s a sport, and I’m usually a little more out of the loop. “What about her?”

  “Word is going around that her appendix burst. She had to be taken from the nurse’s office in an ambulance!”

  “How awful!” I say. “Poor thing.”

  “I know.” Zoe pulls her curly red hair back, then releases it. “And for it to happen at school! That has to be the worst! I heard she threw up in the middle of her civics class and was burning up with fever. You know Wilson, right? Wilson James? Football player? He carried her to the nurse, and the whole time was just like, ‘I hope she’s not contagious.’ But she wasn’t, of course, because it was an appendix.”

  “Wow,” I say as we reach the classroom. Mr. Alto sits at his desk, bent over a stack of papers. Looks like he’s finally finished grading our exams.

  “I’ll tell you the rest later,” Zoe whispers as she darts to her desk.

  “All right, all right.” Mr. Alto’s voice scrapes like sandpaper. He claps his big hands. “I’ve got exams to return here. And today we’re starting our projects, which are twenty percent of your semester grade.”

  I slide into my seat and set my folder on the desk. A project that’s twenty percent of my grade? I have to take a deep breath, hold it, and exhale slowly to calm my galloping heart.

  When I ease open my eyes, Mr. Alto’s standing next to my desk, handing me my exam.

  I stare at the C- written in red marker at the top of the paper, and groan. My parents aren’t going to be happy. They’re going to want to meet with my teachers, let them know about my “special circumstances,” and ask for considerations like giving me assignments in advance, making exceptions when it comes to taking tests and quizzes. Basically treating me special. Kids are going to start wondering why rules are changed for me, and Charlie Ryland is going to find herself exposed. I need to handle this before my parents feel a need to get involved.

  After class I sidle up to my teacher’s desk. “Can I talk to you, Mr. Alto?”

  “Of course, Charlotte,” he says. “Pull up a chair. What’s on your mind?”

  I settle on the edge of the seat he’s patting. “I’ve been monitoring my grades online, so I know that the score I got on the exam you passed out today is going to hurt my overall average. Is there anything I can do for extra credit?”

  Mr. Alto rubs his chin with a blunt-tipped finger. “It might help if you didn’t keep daydreaming in class.”

  “I don’t know why I can’t stay focused. Government is just so . . .” I don’t think it’ll help my cause if I confess that I find it boring. “Not my thing.”

  “Because you don’t understand it. Let’s look at your grade situation more closely.” He opens his laptop, taps a few keys, leans in. “Here we are. You’ve currently got an 82 average.”

  “I need to get an A, though.” I know it sounds ridiculous, but it’s true—at this point any other grade will raise flags at home and potentially get in the way of my college plans. “Can I retake any of the tests?”

  Mr. Alto shakes his head. “I don’t allow retakes in my class.”

  “Is there anything else I can do? I want to keep up my GPA.”

  “Have you got big plans?” he asks.

  Besides the Olympics? “Premed . . . hopefully.”

  “Those are big plans.” He pats my forearm. “I think part of the problem is that you need to see government in action.”

  “Okay,” I say slowly. If he’s going to make me go on a field trip to Washington, DC, I honestly do not have time for that.
>
  “Student council,” he says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “We have a fine student council at this school, and I happen to be the adviser. I’d like you to get involved, see how it works. Do you know Mandy Carrigan?”

  I lift a shoulder. “Does she play soccer by any chance?” This has to be the same girl Zoe was telling me about.

  “That’s the one. Mandy’s our student body secretary. But she’s recovering from appendix surgery. There were apparently some complications, so she may be out for a while. We’re looking for someone to fill in for her for a couple of weeks. I’m offering you the chance to earn some extra credit, and an opportunity to learn about government in a hands-on way. Tomorrow at lunch you’ll attend the meeting and begin serving as temporary secretary until Mandy returns. If you take this on and get good grades on future tests and projects, it could be enough to bump your overall grade up to an A. But no guarantees.”

  There’s no guarantee that I’ll make the Olympic team either, but that hasn’t stopped me from working my butt off.

  “I’m in,” I tell him. I hope I won’t live to regret it.

  Chapter Eight

  * * *

  “Charlie!” Mom cries as soon as I walk into the kitchen the next morning. She grips a piece of toast in one hand and her phone in the other. Her large purse, already slung over her shoulder, overflows with papers. “Charlie, Coach Chris just called. Gymnastics NOW! magazine has a reporter and photographer at the gym. They’re interviewing Gwen and want to interview you, too. It’ll be great exposure for you and the gym.”

  Gymnastics NOW! Wow! That they want to feature me is a big deal. A really big deal. It means I’m on their radar as a true Olympic contender. They think I have a chance. My stomach is flipping, my heart pounding. It’s practically a gymnastics meet inside my torso.

  The last time I was in a photo shoot, Gwen and I had just found out we’d been chosen to compete at the World Championships, and we had to pose for a series of photos that would become our official publicity shots for events. Nobody could’ve wiped the smiles off our faces that day if they’d tried. Now those pictures hang, larger than life, high up on the walls of Gold Star’s optional/elite gym.

  But . . . “This morning?”

  “Yes. As soon as you finish your workout. The shoot shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. Do you have any tests this morning?”

  “No. But I need to be at school during lunch.”

  Mom slips her phone into her purse. “We’ll stop to grab a quick bite when I’m taking you to school after the interview. I’ll talk with the principal, make sure you’re excused from your morning classes. This is kind of a big deal, sweetie.”

  “I know, but, Mom . . .” I did not want my parents to find out about this. “I have to do something during lunch.”

  Mom leans back against the counter and studies me. “During lunch? During lunch you eat.”

  “I have to go to a student council meeting today.”

  She looks thoroughly confused, and I can’t blame her. “Why?” she asks.

  I release a deep sigh. “It’s for extra credit. For government.”

  “Why do you need extra credit? Is your teacher not allowing you to make up work when you’re out of town? Do I need to have the principal speak with him?”

  “No, Mr. Alto is good at taking my work late. And I’ve been there for all my tests. It’s just that I’m not doing so well on those tests. I’m afraid I’m going to get a C in this class if I do poorly on one more exam. So I spoke with him. I’m going to serve on the student council for a couple of weeks. The meetings are at lunch, so I have to be there for lunch.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

  “I didn’t want you worrying. My grades are my responsibility. I can get my grade up.”

  “I’m going to worry anyway. You take on so much.”

  I shrug. “That’s why I didn’t say anything.”

  “Do you want to do the interview?” she asks.

  “I do. If I can get to school before lunch.”

  “We’ll make it happen. Now go grab your favorite leotard and makeup bag. I’ll run you over there.”

  • • •

  I would have preferred to skip my morning workout, but Coach Chris never lets us miss a practice. So when I’m finished, I take a quick shower, scrape my hair up into a severe ponytail, and add a deep-purple scrunchie that matches my favorite deep-purple leo. I rush to apply eye makeup that also matches my leo. Then I head to the area of the gym where the journalist is waiting and the photographer has set up a white backdrop, with lights illuminating it. Gwen is standing there. She smiles at me, gives me a little wave.

  “I’m Marcia,” the journalist says, shaking my hand. “This is Todd.”

  The photographer looks up from whatever adjustments he’s making on his camera to give me a smile and a nod.

  “We’re glad you could make room in your schedule,” Marcia says. “I understand you go to public school. That’s a bit unusual, isn’t it? Aren’t most gymnasts homeschooled so that they have more time for practice?”

  I don’t think this is part of the interview. She’s just trying to put me at ease. “Many do,” I confirm. “But I enjoy the public school experience. My parents and the school administration are very supportive when it comes to working out a schedule that allows me to do both.”

  “Lucky girl. Before we get to the interview, we’d like to get a couple of photos with you and Gwen—best buds and all that. I know she needs to get to practice.”

  “No problem, but just so you know, I only have about an hour before I have to leave for school.”

  “We’ll make it work.”

  I prance over to Gwen, give her a quick hug. Then Todd has us face each other, raise one arm, put the other hand on our hip, bend one leg—

  Click, click, click.

  He poses us side by side, back to back, and when he’s finished taking those, he tells us to just do what we want. We go for sexy, presenting our backs, looking over our shoulders. Then for some reason we just start giggling. All the while, Todd is clicking away.

  Finally they send Gwen to her practice, and Marcia approaches me, holding up her phone. “Mind if I record the interview?”

  “Not at all.” I prefer it, actually. There’s less chance of being misquoted.

  “Great. Why don’t we get comfy over here? It shouldn’t take too long. Then Todd can get some shots of just you.”

  I’m not sure if she’s being sarcastic about the comfy part, because we end up sitting on the floor. There are very few chairs in the gym. But she seems okay with it as she opens a small spiral-bound notebook and studies what looks like a list of questions.

  “When’s this story coming out?” I hazard to ask while she’s reading her notes.

  “Next month. In time for Olympic trials.”

  “Cool. Did your interview with Gwen go well?”

  “Yeah, she has quite the story, doesn’t she? Moving all the way out here from Georgia. She mentioned that you two are best friends. I tried to work it out for you to have your interview and shoot together, but your coach said that wouldn’t work because of your schedule, but we got the photos of you together, and that’s probably just as good. How is it competing against one of your best friends?”

  “Fantastic, actually. We push each other to do our best. I don’t think I’d be where I am in gymnastics without Gwen.”

  Marcia laughs. “That’s pretty much what she said about you, too. So how long have you been doing gymnastics?”

  I start the story I’ve told during at least half a dozen interviews for blogs and magazines like this one that appeal mostly to gymnasts and those interested in the gymnastics world. I’ve never been too concerned about anyone at school reading the interview and figuring out that Charlie Ryland is Charlotte Ryland. The gymnastics world is just so insular—people outside it don’t tend to pay attention. Still, it’s a weird sensation, feeling so excited
for something, like being featured in a magazine—practically famous!—but with this underlying hope that no one I know actually sees it.

  When I’m finished, she asks, “What’s your favorite part of gymnastics?”

  I smile. “That’s easy. The travel. I’ve been to places that I might not have gone to otherwise—Belgium, London, Paris, Canada, Australia. Plus all the various cities in the States. I love meeting people from all around the world. Even at competition, when I meet gymnasts from other teams, I feel an instant connection because I know how hard they worked to get there.”

  “Sounds like you have a lot of respect for your competitors.”

  “I do. Coach Chris tells us that the only one we’re really competing against is ourselves. Our performance determines whether we stand on the podium.”

  “Being an elite athlete is pretty much a full-time job,” she says. “Plus you’re going to school. How do you keep the pressure from getting to you?”

  “Family and friends are essential to keeping things real. I spend time hanging out with Gwen or Zoe—”

  “Who is Zoe?” she asks, her brow furrowing.

  I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t want to bring my school life into the interview, but now it’s already there. What I told her earlier might be off the record, but I’m pretty sure she’s going to mention that I go to public school. “My best friend from school.”

  She smiles broadly. “How does she feel about hanging out with an Olympic hopeful?”

  I can’t answer truthfully, can’t say Zoe doesn’t know that my dream is to make Team USA. Because that would lead to a whole other set of questions and would start us down a path I don’t want made public. I remember my media training and how I learned to respond to a question without actually answering it. “Zoe keeps me sane, makes sure I have something to think about other than gymnastics.”

  “She sounds special.”

  “She is.”

  She moves on to the typical questions: What is my favorite skill? What am I working on? What are the judges going to see from me at the Olympic trials that they haven’t seen before?

  “More confidence,” I assure her on the last one. “A better command of each apparatus and the floor routine. I’ve been working hard. This is my year.”