“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Coach Michaels said from his office. He didn’t bother to get up from his desk, which was covered in papers, gum wrappers, and sequined leotards. I walked closer to him while adjusting my messenger bag higher on my back. His eyes roamed over my busted lip, but he must have decided it wasn’t worth his time to question me, because he didn’t say anything about it. It wasn’t the first time a teacher decided to overlook a problem at this fucked up school. He glanced at the clock. “You should be in class.”
“Hey, Coach,” I said sheepishly as I walked forward.
We were one of the few schools in the state with a gymnastics program, mostly because we were one of the only places with a tuition high enough to afford it.
Coach Michaels was one of the few adults I actually respected. He was a hardass and had no problem telling the obsessed mamas that liked to start cat fights in the bleachers to shut the fuck up and sit down. He was ruthless, demanding, and one of the best gymnastic coaches in the country. Only the best for Smith Academy.
“Your mama know you’re here? Wouldn’t want her to worry about your delicate figure,” Coach Michaels said with a distasteful sneer. He was also one of the only teachers here that didn’t kiss her ass.
Mama made me quit gymnastics before I started senior year. I couldn’t prove it, but part of me wondered if it was punishment for ruining my good thing with the Heirs. She always prided herself on my connection with the elite people of this town. She gave me a bunch of excuses, though. She was worried about my body. My muscles were toned—an “unsightly size for a well-bred woman,” and I had some joint pain, common with most gymnasts. She blamed my school work, too. She wanted me focused on my guaranteed acceptance into Harvard.
But really? I think she didn’t like that I was actually good at something. Mama became a principle because it was something to do, not because she was particularly interested in raising tomorrow’s youth. She liked the power it gave her, the insight to other well-off families. She used to be a beauty queen. Daddy once told me that she’d wanted to be Miss America, but then she got pregnant with me. Shit happens.
“She doesn’t know,” I replied honestly, hoping that he wouldn’t kick me out. I needed it. I missed it.
“Good. This gym is for gymnasts only.” Coach Michaels always played this damn game. “Is that you?” he asked, and I felt my chest constrict. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs that yes, I was a fucking gymnast, and a damn good one at that. But months out of the circuit were like years in the competition world. I could feel my skills slipping daily. Coach didn’t understand why I gave up so easily. But I wasn’t in a good place back then. Mama forced me to quit right after Rogue decided I wasn’t worthy of them any more. Feeling sorry for myself seemed to take over.
So instead of answering him, I gave Coach Michaels a challenging stare, one that said everything I couldn’t. “Get your ass on the beam, Livingston,” he finally said in that no-nonsense tone of his that I respected.
I smiled and then raced to the corner of the gym where the beam was. Nurse Courtney had lent me a pair of guy’s pants with a belt to wear for the day, which came in handy for what I wanted to do. I dusted chalk on my hands and then lifted myself up on the beam. I started off just walking, warming up my muscles with the familiar movement of traveling the line. I loved knowing that I was in control. Falling was up to me. How fast, how high, how far.
I stretched out once my muscles were warmed up. My tight limbs groaned when I straightened my legs and bent at the hips. It had been a while since I’d done this, but my body knew the drill. Fifteen years of muscle memory couldn’t be erased in a matter of months. Once I was loose, I started with a couple of pike jumps, getting my body in the groove. It felt good to hover both my legs over the beam, pointing my toes as I jumped and bent at the hips.
“Fucking Stephanie,” I cursed before doing a full turn. I was a little out of breath as I balanced on one foot and spun. “Fucking school.” I pounded my frustrations about everything with every landing, every jump. “Fucking Rogue.”
I let my breaths come in strong inhalations, then pushed them back out my chest with purpose. There, on the beam, I was in control. I didn’t have to hold back like I did with the bullies or with Mama. There, I was strong. I wasn’t powerless or devalued. I wasn’t trash. I went to the gym to remind myself of that, and the second my feet got into position, I let all the bullshit slip away.
I did a back handspring to a layout step-out, flipping through the air with finesse before landing with a thud. I could feel my muscles contract. I could sense how sore I was going to be in the morning, and I loved it. I relished in the feel of the beam beneath my feet. The way my toes curled and my upper body kept me balanced.
I did another and another and another, going back and forth down the line. On my third round, I almost missed my landing. “Don’t fall, Scar,” I whispered to myself before I got into position for a front tuck. It was one of the more difficult maneuvers. Each time I was in the air, I didn’t think of how alone I felt or how fucked up my school was. I just thought of what my body needed to do, and then I did it.
“You’re gonna wear yourself out, Livingston,” Coach Michaels yelled from his office. Didn’t he know that was the point?
I leaped, tucking my body and then expanding it once more before landing on the beam. But my ankle wobbled since I didn’t bend at the knee when I landed to absorb the shock. I fell off the beam, and my knees hit the mat.
“Dammit,” I hissed. But even the fall felt good because it had only been caused by me.
Coach Michaels was soon beside me, helping me up with a scowl on his face. “You’re getting rusty, but you’re still the best damn gymnast in my club. Keep some clothes in your locker, and I’ll look the other way if you want to come back tomorrow during study period.” I grimaced when my ankle gave a little twinge when I stood, but my expression turned into a beaming smile at his words. “And put some ice on that, Livingston.”
“Yes, Coach.”
Chapter Four
It was two days later, and I was relieved when last bell rang, freeing me from the constant press of unwelcome looks and jeering words. I’d texted my driver and told him that I wanted to walk home today. It was a risk, since any of the students of Smith Academy could have stopped to fuck with me. The last time I walked home, someone spun the tires of their daddy’s mercedes in the mud, getting it all over me. But today, I didn’t care. The crisp fall air taunted me. I wanted to walk off some of the anxiety in my soul and let my scars breathe for a little bit.
The downtown Savannah strip bustled with businessmen in their southern best, and college students walked by with bright smiles. My feet led the way. I didn’t consciously know where I was going, but the moment I saw the rusted and abandoned train tracks long out of use, I sighed in relief.
There was still a bit of magic in that place—still a bit of hope. That spot grounded me. It was filled with memories, and every track of metal felt nostalgic. I let myself relax for the first time today, and breathed in the smell of dirt and dust. Those train tracks used to be our special spot. Our little group might have stopped going there, but I couldn’t bring myself to give up that place that I loved.