“USA!” we shriek, raising our hands to the sky and then fanning out as one, turning and waving to the crowd. The lights have come up in the arena, and I think my parents are sitting a few rows behind the vault table.
Yep, that’s them, and I don’t even have the heart to be embarrassed by the way Mom is jumping up and down, waving frantically for my attention while Dad smiles and claps with the rest of the crowd.
I wave back but can’t go over to them, not unless I want to spring over the wall separating the competition area from the stands and give security apoplexy. I’ll see them in a bit.
But first we have interviews.
The NGC worker, whom we’ve followed like ducklings all weekend, corrals us down from the floor. Tissues are pushed into my hands as we move back into the tunnel toward the media area. There are stools waiting for us with our names plastered behind them.
Sliding onto the stool, I try my best to wipe away the tears without completely destroying my makeup, and a few reporters wander over to me. There are predictably massive crowds around Emma and Chelsea’s designated seats, but it’s cool to see that Dani Olivero has got a group as big as theirs plus all of the Spanish-speaking media. She’s Mexican American and speaks Spanish at home, so she can actually give those journalists a good quote. There are six empty stools on the other side of the room for the girls who didn’t make it. They’re still in the locker room. How close was it really? How close was I to being one of them, instead of sitting on this stupidly uncomfortable stool?
A few reporters clearly decided to talk to me first, waiting to interview our stars once the crowds thin a bit.
“Audrey,” begins a tall blond woman, hair pulled back into a French twist, “what’s going through your mind now that you know your comeback was successful?”
Oh, that makes sense. They’re interested in a redemption story. Redemption from what? Pain, I guess. I’m still on such a high that I don’t even feel it, when normally sitting on a stool without a back would be the worst. Adrenaline is my new favorite thing.
I grin and bite my lip, but can’t stop myself from saying, “Don’t call it a comeback.”
A few reporters laugh, getting the reference. I’m from Queens, and LL Cool J’s “Mama Said Knock You Out” is probably way more important to me than it is to most people. The woman who asked the question furrows her brow in confusion, and I shrug awkwardly. “Sorry. It’s gymnastics. There are injuries all the time. We all go through them. I’m really happy I had enough time to rehab and get myself to a point where I could make the team.”
“Speaking of the team,” a tall man with long sideburns and hipster glasses cuts in, “what do you think about finishing in fifth place all-around, but making a team of four? Is that fair?”
It takes everything I’ve ever learned about dealing with the press to not roll my eyes. “That’s way above my pay grade.” I smile and shrug again. It’s something my dad, a surgeon, says all the time about decisions his chief makes at the hospital. “The way the team finals work can be complicated math, piecing together the top three athletes on each event, so I’m sure that had something to do with it.”
That’s exactly why I made the team. I’m top three on bars and beam. Chelsea is top three on vault and floor. Dani and Emma are our top two all-arounders, great across all four events. We’re four athletes whose strengths and weaknesses complement one another perfectly, adding up to three great routines on each apparatus in team finals. It’s just math.
An older woman I recognize as a reporter from Sports Illustrated asks, “Were you surprised to make the team?”
“Surprised? I don’t know if I’d describe it that way, but was I sure I’d make it? No way.”
“What’s it like going through this with Emma Sadowsky?”
I could kiss this reporter for finally asking a decent question.
Emma is a few stools away, fielding questions like a pro. Any skill I have at this kind of stuff, I learned from watching her. “It’s fantastic, amazing, and totally mind-blowing. She’s my best friend, and I don’t know how I would have made it through the last year without her. Seeing her in the gym every day motivated me to keep going, and going to the Olympics with your best friend? That’s ridiculous in the best way. A total dream come true.”
“Do you think she can beat Irina Kareva?”
“She beat her last year.” Even though I wasn’t able to compete at worlds last year, it was still super satisfying watching Emma take down Kareva. Everyone thought the Russian superstar was untouchable, but Emma beat her by nearly a point after Irina faltered on beam.
“Kareva posted a video of a triple-twisting Yurchenko last week. That gives her a huge difficulty advantage over Emma if she can hit it.”
That’s a ridiculously big if. No woman has ever landed a triple-twisting Yurchenko in competition, and in that video Kareva’s looked pretty terrible. It’s the only thing I don’t admire about the Russian team. Their gymnastics can be beautiful, but they always seem to be chucking vaults way beyond their abilities. Not that I’m going to say that on camera. “Guys, again, that’s way above my pay grade.”
“You and the other girls were just verified on social media. How do you feel about that?”
The first thing that comes into my head pops out of my mouth. “Have you seen who they give those check marks to?” The reporters laugh, but there’s an NGC worker side-eyeing my flippant answer from over her shoulder. “I’m kidding. It’s amazing. Totally a dream come true.”
I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore. The adrenaline is starting to wear off, and a sudden pain flares in my hip. I’ve been sitting still too long if the pain isn’t localized in my back. My eyes fly toward the NGC worker at my side, who somehow understands my need to be finished with these interviews.
“Sorry, everyone,” she interrupts, pushing through the group, “but Audrey has to get some treatment on her back before she stiffens up. Thanks for your questions. The girls who didn’t make the team will be made available to you in a few minutes.”
I slide off the stool and pick up the bouquet of flowers that I received after the announcement. Mom will be excited. She always feels like I’m missing out on normal teenage things, so she’ll be thrilled to press these flowers into a memory book like it’s a prom corsage or something. Olympic team or prom? Yeah, that’s not even close.
Speak of the devil. As soon as I leave the media room, I see my parents with the other girls’ families. Dad’s head of dark curls towers over everyone else, and Mom is tiny beside him, her long black hair hanging down her back. If I were ever allowed to take mine out of a bun, it would look just like hers.
People are constantly curious about the three of us. Mom was adopted from South Korea as a baby, and I definitely take after her in the looks department, so if it’s only me and her, people will just flat-out ask where we’re from or what we are, like it’s somehow any of their business and not super fucking rude. When Dad and I are out together, people just assume I’m adopted. Then my last name, Lee, adds another layer of confusion, because it comes from my Dad’s English ancestors, but that’s going way back.