Definition of Glamorous:
Dazzling; Beautiful
Misty catches up to me
in the locker room.
Practice leotard?
What’s up with that?
My jaw tightens and
I grit my teeth. “Ask Cal.”
Oh. Is he here? Misty knows
he can be a distraction.
“Where else? Not like we can
leave him home alone.
He’d probably blow up
the microwave or something.”
True. And it’s not like anyone
would want to babysit him.
“Not even for a million dollars.”
Well, that leotard looks okay.
It’s just not elegant. Misty makes
her voice all husky and low,
like an old-time Hollywood star.
Sometimes Misty watches
ancient movies with Mom and me.
Mom thinks they’re rad.
“I know it isn’t glamorous,
but it will just have to do.”
Come on. Let me do your makeup.
Maybe some glittery eye shadow
will help. Misty knows makeup, too.
Mom only lets me wear it
for performances, so I’m
glad to have Misty’s help.
If I tried to do it myself,
I’d probably look like a clown.
Shadow.
Mascara.
Blush.
When I look in the mirror,
I have to smile. My eyes
and leotard are color
coordinated, and there’s
at least a little sparkle.
Better? asks Misty.
“Better,” I agree.
Which is good,
because when Coach calls
us for warm-ups, if she notices
what I’m wearing,
she doesn’t say a word.
As I jog and jump around
the mat, I find Mom and Cal
in the stands, but not Dad.
Well, there’s still lots of time
before the meet starts.
If he’s a little late, it’s better
than him not making it at all.
Especially if I flub the bars.
Definition of Pirouette:
Whirl; Spin
Coach claps her hands.
Okay, girls, line up.
Time for the march in.
My tummy flutters as we line
up by height, putting me
right in the middle of the stack.
A rhythmic applause fires up,
and the announcer declares that
the competition has officially begun.
When our team—the Comets—
is announced, we salute the judges,
then continue to the bars.
I watch my teammates perform
with one eye, keep the other
on the stands. There. There’s Dad!
I give him a little wave and he blows
me a kiss, which gives me confidence.
Also, a huge attack of nerves.
I close my eyes, take deep breaths.
When my name is called, I tell
myself: You’ve got this.
I spring onto the lower bar.
Glide forward, backward.
Point the toes. Point the toes.
Lift my pointed toes to the bar.
Rotate back beneath it.
Arms straight. Arms straight.
Arms straight, up into a handstand.
Pirouette to face the other way.
Legs together. Legs together.
Legs together, stand on low bar.
Jump over to the high one.
Elbows locked. Elbows locked.
Elbows locked, arms straight.
Legs together. Take a giant swing.
Set up dismount. Set up dismount.
Setting up my dismount, another swing.
Reach for height. One twist. Down I come.
Nail the landing. Nail the landing.
I nail the landing.
Not even a small stumble.
The judges dock me a little
for not holding my handstand
long enough and a slight elbow break.
But I did well, and when my score
comes up a 9.6 out of
a possible 10, I hear my parents.
Cheering together.
Applauding together.
Sitting together.
Exactly the way things
should be. And together,
they’re double proud of me.
Definition of Contentment:
The Feeling That All Is Well
Figure in Cal,
who’s whooping, too,
that’s a triple dose of pride.
A huge wave
of contentment
splashes over me,
and as we move to the next
event rotation, my confidence grows.
That’s good, because
the four-inch-wide padded steel
balance beam is especially challenging
to tumble and dance across.
With every landing, your feet
have to hit just right so you
don’t fall off the narrow beam.
Today, I ace every move
from my mount, straight
into sideways splits,
to my back-somersault dismount.
It’s a near-perfect performance,
barely a bobble.
I glance up into the stands.
Dad gives me a thumbs-up.
Mom does a little happy dance.
And Cal? He’s not around.
As we rotate again, this time
to the floor, I tap Misty’s shoulder.