“Oww.” He rubs at the space, but since his eyes aren’t open, I know I didn’t do any real damage.
“That’s great. We’ll eat breakfast with both of you. Are you on your way there now?”
Considering Cyrus is still in bed, partially coveredwith a sheet, the correct answer would be no. We’re not our way. I can’t tell my mother we’ll be right there. But if I go out like this, she’ll want to know why my hair is a rat’s nest and I don’t have any fresh clothes.
“No, I’m waiting on Cyrus. You know how he is.” I hit him again with my elbow. “He’s like a woman, taking forever to get ready.”
That works and finally for the first time, heopens both his eyes to shoot me with an annoyed expression.
“Well hurry up. Your father thinks he’s starving.”
“Okay, Mom. We’ll meet you there…soon.”
“Yes, but remember we can’t get in without you. It’s absolutely horrible they won’t let a parent in unless there’s a sponsor with them. So tell Cyrus to put some gel in his hair and hurry up.”
“Okay. We’ll be right there. Gotta go.” I quicklyhit the end button on the phone and toss it on the nightstand. There is no other way to get her to stop talking.
I wiggle my way out of the bed, hoping Cyrus will follow, but all he does is use the opportunity to steal the last of the covers. Wrapping them around his shoulder, he cloaks himself in the material.
“Get up. I have to use your shower.” I yank on the covers to no avail.
He rollsover. “You don’t have time to shower. Your dad is hungry.” He laughs. Have I also mentioned my mother talks ridiculously loudly on the phone?
“They expect to see you too. How can I explain I was in your room if you don’t come to breakfast?”
He shrugs. “I tripped and broke a leg?”
“Very funny. Don’t laugh about breaking legs.” I slide open the door of his closet, and the heavy wooden piece slidesoff of the tracking to fall against the door behind it. “I have to steal one of your shirts.”
“Like that won’t be obvious. My shirts are about two sizes too big for you. Take one of my rommate’s. He’s smaller.”
It takes another seven and a half minutes for me to get dressed, comb my hair so it looks like maybe I washed it this morning and pull Cyrus out of bed. Eventually, we end up on our wayto the athletes’ cafeteria, stationed on another floor in the complex.
My dad spots me as soon as we turn down the proper hallway. “Charles…” I can’t help but wonder if he wanted a boy every time he calls me by the nickname Charles, “didn’t your mother tell you I’m starving?”
“Sorry, Dad. Cyrus had issues with his gel. Couldn’t get the look just right.”
My dad stares at Cyrus, his eyes narrowingto see closer. “It doesn’t look like he has any gel in it.”
Cyrus smiles. “That’s the point.”
“Let’s go. Standing around here isn’t getting your father fed.” My mother leads us into the cafeteria like a woman on a mission. A mission to get her husband food. There are a lot of things you can say about my mother, but her determination and go-get-‘em spirit aren’t things I like to complain about.As long as she’s in the pursuit of food rather than something bound to embarrass me, that is.
The Gold Medal committee may call this place fine dining but it’s anything but. It reminds me more of a college cafeteria. It’s just one small step up from what most high schools boast. There are long lines where you grab a tray and then a poorly dressed person wearing a hair net scoops out unidentifiedfood products. Except in this case the food isn’t unidentifiable because it’s so bad, but because it’s so healthy. Everything here is laden with protein and other nutrients the coaches have decided the athletes must consume before we compete. This is science food. I dare you to find a healthier place on the entire planet.
It also usually tastes like crap. When I’m done competing, there is normallyno way you’d find me here. Cyrus owes me a double cheese pizza when get back to the states. My father, unsatisfied with his options, stops at the small booth at the end of the line to ask for a homemade omelet. The omelet station is the committee’s lackluster answer to athletic complaints about the quality of the food at previous events.
Cyrus has eaten half his meal by the time my dad makesit back to our table.
My dad sits, looking forlorn. “They made me get spinach,” he says, looking down at his green and yellow omelet.
“It’s healthy.” At least it’s supposed to be.
“It’s absolutely barbaric is what it is. Who puts spinach in an omelet?” With a simple quick look back to the line, he uses his fork and picks off the green parts from the top of the omelet.
A security guard ina dark blue shirt walks by our table, his eyes flickering across our faces before he moves on. He’s the third one I’ve seen making rounds since we left Cyrus’ room. Normally they do a better job at hiding. The American team has really stepped it up this year.
“So, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, Charlie has something she’d like to tell you.”
