A twenty-something producer in a headset comes flying toward us.
“Hiiii, you’re in hair first,” she says to Jasmine, then glances down at her clipboard. “And you, Avery? You’re in makeup.”
“Oh, I actually did both at home,” I say.
Jasmine shakes her head. “Everyone gets touch-ups,” she insists.
The producer drops me off in a room just big enough to contain a single chair in front of a mirror decked out in lights and a table full of beauty products. A makeup artist dabs concealer under my eyes, as Jasmine promised, and slicks on hot pink lip gloss before I can protest that I don’t really feel like myself in so much makeup. Next, the producer brings me to the room next door, where a hairstylist finishes the transformation with a curling iron and an intense blast of hair spray. When she’s done, I look like… well, I look just as polished and professional as Jasmine always does. With a pang, I realize that if my life had turned out differently, none of this would faze me. I wouldn’t be bare-skinned in a ponytail at Summit; I would be contoured and curled at NBC. This would be my reality.
I find Jasmine back in the greenroom. On TV, the meteorologist talks about the seventy-five-degree days coming this week. Jasmine stares vacantly in the direction of the TV, but she’s not focused on the screen. Her knee bounces up and down. I understand why she’s nervous—my heart is pounding, too—but I’m surprised the pressure is getting to her, of all people.
“You okay?” I ask gently.
She turns toward me, and her jittery knee slows to a stop. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I will be.”
“You sure?” I ask.
“I’ll be fine once I’m out there, trust me,” she says. “It’s just… this is bigger than anything I’ve ever done before.”
“You’ve been on this same channel, what, a hundred times? A thousand times,” I remind her.
“Commenting on other people,” she says. “This time, the spotlight’s on us.”
I grab her hand, and she gives mine a squeeze.
Soon, the producer breezes back into the greenroom. “Come with me,” she says to us, jerking her head. “Commercial break just hit.”
We follow her down a hallway and around a corner into a dark studio space jumbled with lighting equipment, rubber cables, and, further back, a glossy, L-shaped desk with two open seats for us diagonal from Cynthia King, the news anchor. Another producer clips tiny microphones to the necklines of our dresses. If I hadn’t watched Jasmine do it first, I would have been bewildered: Jasmine expertly threads the thin cable over her shoulder, hiding it under her hair, and turns to let the producer clip the mic’s battery pack to her bra underneath her dress. I follow her lead, flinching at the feel of his hands. He zips my dress up again and gives the first producer a thumbs-up. We’re ready.
“Thirty seconds,” she barks. “Go.”
I follow Jasmine onstage, letting her take the seat closest to Cynthia, who greets her warmly. In contrast to the dimly lit backstage, the lighting here is bright and white and blinding. Cynthia, clad in a pearly pink dress with a neat bob and gravity-defying eyelashes, looks like a Real Housewives star in the sense that she could just as easily be thirty-five or fifty. She says hello and asks how I am, but I’m too nervous to squeak out anything more than a hello. She and Jasmine make pleasant small talk, which seems frankly insane to me with just seconds to go before we’re on live television, but Jasmine looks unfussed. I’m relieved that she’s settling into her element.
“The producer says it’s Jasmine Floyd, not Floyd-Federov now, right?” Cynthia confirms.
“Floyd’s perfect, thanks,” Jasmine says.
Cynthia cocks her head like she’s connecting the dots. “You’re leaving your husband the coach, and speaking out about abuse in the sport?” she asks slowly.
Jasmine freezes next to me. “Well, um…”
“Five, four,” the cameraman calls out.
Cynthia raises an eyebrow, shuffles her papers, and clears her throat.
The cameraman falls silent, flashing three fingers, then two fingers, then pointing straight at us.
“Welcome back. The Olympics are just around the corner, but before you get too excited about watching the gymnastics, you might want to hear what two former athletes are saying about the sport,” Cynthia begins. Her voice is strong and smooth like honey. “Olympic gymnast Jasmine Floyd and her former teammate Avery Abrams claim that the culture of competitive gymnastics puts young athletes at risk, and they’re launching a new organization called the Elite Gymnastics Foundation to offer these gymnasts what they believe is much-needed support. Ladies, tell us more.”
“Thanks for having us, Cynthia. It’s always great to be here,” Jasmine says weakly.
We’ve practiced that Jasmine will deliver the announcement of the foundation, but now she seems shaken. I glance at her, unsure if I should take over her lines. On live television, every second feels like it stretches out for ten minutes. But finally, thankfully, she collects herself and launches into the speech we wrote together.
“As many people unfortunately saw with the recent sexual abuse claims against Dr. Ron Kaminsky, gymnasts aren’t always safe. And as two former elite gymnasts ourselves, we know there are other issues out there that threaten the athletes’ well-being. Not every gymnast out there is struggling, but there are real challenges in this sport. I’m talking about eating disorders, depression, anxiety, emotionally abusive coaches, and yes, sexual abuse. There’s a serious lack of regulation from the sport’s governing body—the American Gymnastics Federation—and given our personal experiences, we know how challenging it can be to advocate for yourself to get the help and resources you need in order to thrive. That’s why we’re launching the Elite Gymnastics Foundation, an organization that offers mental health support for elite gymnasts.”
“That’s very admirable,” Cynthia says. “We’ve heard a lot about the allegations against Dr. Kaminsky—who, by the way, is set to face trial early next year.”
A chill runs through me. Delia, Skylar, and the other girls should have justice.
“While I’m saddened to hear of the mental health issues that plague top gymnasts, I’m also not exactly surprised,” Cynthia continues. “It seems like a particularly high-pressure sport—and who is looking out for these girls?”
“The sport’s toxic culture is a real problem,” I agree. “That’s why our first step was to create what we’re calling a wellness network for elite gymnasts. We’ve assembled an excellent team of professionals, including therapists and sexual assault educators, to provide top-notch care for these athletes. Gymnastics is a mind-body sport—gymnasts, mostly adolescents, train hours a day to keep their bodies strong, but it’s equally important for them to take care of their mental health, too.”
I pivot to the sales pitch. “This is important work, but it’s not easy, so we are raising money on EliteGymnasticsFoundation.com to fund these initiatives.”
I’m surprised at the steady way my words flow. It feels as if the lights and cameras and unnatural stage makeup fade away, and all I need to do is explain why I’m here.