“Hey, man. Move.”
He doesn’t, so I go around him.
I’m so focused on catching the action
that I don’t notice where I am.
Bam! I bump into the judges’ table.
Still trying to hold on to the shot,
I don’t see whoever grabs the back
of my shirt and yanks. Hard.
“Leave me alone! I’m just trying
to get a video!” Now it’s ruined.
My heart races and blood throbs
hot through my veins.
You can’t be here! yells the man,
who turns out to be security.
“If you can, I can!” I fight
to hold my ground, but a couple
of coaches start pushing the guy
and me toward the exit.
The competition has halted and
I notice Hannah, who’s crying.
All of a sudden, Uncle Bruce appears.
He’s puffing like he just finished a sprint.
He grabs hold of my arm,
tugs hard. Let’s go, Cal.
I jerk away. “Don’t touch me!”
The phone flies out of my hand, smashes
against the floor. “Look what you
did!” I shout at Uncle Bruce.
What I did? His face is the color
of overripe cherries—blotchy purple.
Take it easy, Bruce. Aunt Taryn
is cool and calm as an April breeze.
She retrieves her phone,
and pushes between the men and me.
They let go, but I stay rigid,
fists clenching and unclenching.
Aunt Taryn looks me straight
in the eye, and it could be Mom
standing there, shaking her head.
Disappointed. In me.
We should leave now.
I drop my gaze to the floor. “Okay.”
Now I glance over at Hannah.
If scowls could kill, I’d be in my grave.
She’s steaming. Sorry, I mouth.
Aunt Taryn puts an arm around
my shoulders, steers me away.
FACT OR FICTION:
The Judges Will Let Hannah Start Over
Answer: *shrug*
I chance looking back
as we start toward the exit.
Hannah’s coach says something
to her. She nods, and Coach
goes over to talk to the judges.
I have no idea what the rules
are, but they have to let
her go again, don’t they?
It was the security guy’s
fault, not Hannah’s.
Guess crying messes up
a girl’s makeup, because even
from here I can see dark streaks
running down Hannah’s cheeks.
When the light hits them
just right, they glitter.
Her team has gathered
around her, watching
Misty wipe Hannah’s eyes
and face with a tissue.
I turn away, and as the big
door closes behind me,
I hear “On Top of the World”
start again. One good thing.
But there’s plenty of bad
to get sorted out, with me
right in the middle.
Aunt Taryn directs me toward
her car, and when we get
there, she opens the front
passenger door.
You can sit up here. Just
don’t fiddle with stuff, okay?
She knows I like to push
buttons and see what they do.
I’ve been a “fiddler” since
I was little. Mom told me
I learned how to use a TV
remote before I could walk.
“Whatever you say.”
She starts around the car,
pauses, then says,
Oh, no. I left my jacket inside.
Stay here. I’ll be right back.
I sit, not touching anything,
trying to quiet the noise
inside my head. It’s loud.
Tiny explosions of anger
sizzle like sparklers.
It wouldn’t take much
to turn them back into
a major display of fireworks.
Definition of Runner-Up:
Not Quite the Best; Non-Winner
So, yeah, the judges agreed
to let me start over. I tried.
But when the music began,
I’d lost my stride. The tumbling
passes were good enough,
but my dance was stiff
and I forgot to smile.
Small dings against my final
score, but enough to keep
me well out of first place.
It’s so not fair.
Our last event of the rotation
is the vault. Straightforward.
Sprint down the runway.
Hit the springboard.
Land hands on the vault table.
Push off into a pike somersault.
Stick the landing. And repeat.
I’ve practiced it hundreds
of times. Don’t even have to
think about it. I lift an arm,
signaling I’m ready. Off I go.
Full speed down the runway.
But now I see my parents.
Not clapping. Not cheering.
Arguing.
I lose
concentration
momentum
velocity.
And it all goes wrong.
Not enough
speed
spring
straightness.