NOVEMBER 2019
• CHAPTER 4 •
A familiar voice blares from the TV. I crunch an apple noisily between my teeth to block out the sound. My parents are sprawled out on the couch in the living room with their feet kicked up on the ottoman, passing a single glass of red wine between them as they watch the World Championships on TV.
“Hon, you’re sure you don’t want to watch with us?” Mom calls from the room next door.
“It’s Jasmine!” Dad adds. “She’s doing great.”
I groan.
“I’m fine in here!” I call back.
Jasmine has been a regular commentator for televised gymnastics competitions since the last Olympics. As jealous as I am, she does a fantastic job. Her deep knowledge of the sport, status as a household name, and pretty features make for good television.
It’s been two weeks. Ryan never called. I assume he must have gone with the other coach. I bet the coach is even there with Ryan and Hallie in Stuttgart right now. Truly, I can’t imagine a worse evening than watching a person who knocked me out of the running for a job while listening to commentary that—had life gone differently—I could be delivering instead.
I chomp on another bite of apple while swiping left on three more dating app profiles. I haven’t been out with anyone since my Jade Castle date with Lucas. In fact, I’ve barely done anything at all. I’ve half-heartedly cobbled together a résumé and scanned job boards. I know I can’t coast like this for much longer—my bank account is running low—but I can’t get the thought of the Summit job out of my head. Nothing else compares. I’ve been slightly more proactive on the dating front; I have a handful of conversations going with different guys, though honestly, I’m too wary to meet up with any of them. Another profile pops up.
Cali > Mass, the profile reads. Love football, hockey, and 420.
I flick disinterestedly through the guy’s photos, if only because we’ve made the same geographic move. In his third photo, he’s wearing a Rams jersey with Tyler’s name stamped across it. I swipe left and, in a fit of frustration, delete the dating app from my phone.
“Ave, you gotta come in here!” Mom shouts. “That girl from Summit is coming up next.”
“And this coach, remind me, what’s his name?” Dad asks.
I won’t get any peace in here.
“Coming!” I shout back finally.
I trudge into the living room and perch on the arm of the couch. There’s a glare on the TV from the overhead lights reflecting off the trophy case along one wall. I’ve told my parents to move them. Jasmine and a decorated male gymnast from the ’90s are on-screen. In some ways, she looks the same: her eyes still sparkle with a hint of the glittery eyeliner she’s always loved, and her warm, brown skin pops against a tight, long-sleeved, magenta top that looks vaguely reminiscent of a leotard. But now, dolled up for the cameras, she’s wearing bright lipstick that matches her outfit, and her hair is smooth.
A banner running across the bottom of the screen lists the commentators’ names: Barry McGuire and Jasmine Floyd-Federov. I always forget she works under her hyphenated married name. That was the other thing that happened during my downward spiral in LA: Jasmine and Dimitri. They got together. The news felt like the most violent hangover of my life. I turned down the invitation to their wedding, citing a family reunion that same weekend. It was a lie.
Nothing about it feels real. For starters, he’s more than twenty years our senior. He called us each “girl” interchangeably, like it would’ve been too much effort to learn or use our names. And between me and Jasmine, he was always harder on her. When he mocked my vault, chided me for running like a girl, and made me do laps around the gym with weights strapped to my ankles, I could get through it. I knew his next compliment was just one good routine around the corner. But when Jasmine wobbled through a beam routine and he screamed that she was a “sloppy cow,” everyone knew that he really meant it. His abrasive demeanor, stormy mood swings, cruel nicknames, and outsized punishments were intended to mold us into champions, but they left me with pure distaste for him. I can’t fathom how Jasmine survived all that and could stomach marrying him. If we were still friends, maybe I could ask her. Maybe I’d see a different side to him. But my chance is long gone.
“Now, Hallie always has very strong showings on vault and bars, and today was no exception. Her beam routine was fairly decent, but floor hasn’t historically been her strength,” Jasmine explains. Her tone is authoritative but sympathetic—she knows exactly how it feels to be the underdog.
Barry tuts in agreement, launching into a list of her floor scores from the past year.
“But I hear she’s been training hard on floor recently, so let’s see how she does,” Jasmine adds diplomatically.
She tucks her hair behind her ear, and I catch a flash of a diamond ring glinting on her left hand. I just can’t fathom how or why she’s with Dimitri. I certainly can’t imagine her loving him.
The camera pans to Hallie lingering by the edge of the floor, awaiting her turn. She rolls her toes under her foot, bites her lip, and tugs on her ponytail to tighten it up. She’s alone. Jasmine and I at least always had each other. Before every competition performance, we’d huddle up, arms looped around each other’s shoulders. We’d chant something encouraging, like, “We got this,” or, “You’re gonna nail it.” It made us feel confident, centered. And as we approached each performance, we’d call out the same singsongy chant for each other: “Let’s go, Avery, let’s go!” Clap, clap. “Let’s go, Jasmine, let’s go!” Clap, clap.
A high-pitched beep rings out across the arena, indicating that Hallie is permitted to start. She strides to her spot on the floor, settles into position, and waits for her music to begin. I watch carefully as she hits the opening steps of choreography. Her movements aren’t quite as elegant as they should be, but at least her chin is lifted proudly and her toes reach toward a sharp point. Her first tumbling pass is sky-high, but there’s too much power in her landing; she bobbles out of place, and then out of bounds. She takes three separate steps as she winces and struggles to slow her inertia. Not good.
Mom and Dad gasp and squint. Old habits die hard—they still get anxious and overly invested, even as unattached bystanders, rather than parents with skin in the game.
“Three steps, that’s a three-tenths deduction,” Jasmine notes.
Hallie slides down into a one-legged squat to wind up for her wolf turn, looking determined. She pushes off the ground into a hasty spin, but her left hip drops like usual, and her left heel drags across the floor—another deduction.
“Oof!” Barry says. “She’s struggling.”
Duh. I really could do better commentary than this.
I feel a prick of pain in my hand, and realize I’m biting my knuckle out of nerves. It’s tough to watch her sloppy execution and stiff style while powerless, stuck here in my parents’ musty living room.
Hallie drags herself through the rest of the routine and sheepishly salutes the judges before trotting off the floor. Ryan wraps his arm around her shoulders and walks with her quickly away from the cameras. He’s muttering something under his breath.