My eyes laser down at the beam where my feet are pressed together. I raise my arms over my head and let all my training, every drop of sweat from the last fourteen years, guide me backward, hands then feet, hands then feet and up, twisting, body line tight, legs extended, toes pointed—one, two, three twists, and land. I don’t move. I stand there and let the wall of sound explode out from the stands, thundersticks and voices uniting together into the most electric roar I’ve ever heard.
It’s the last dismount of my career, and I stuck the ever-loving shit out of it.
Finally, I let myself exhale—a shaky rattle in my chest—and turn to the judges to salute. The crowd is still cheering, so I wave to them as I leave the podium.
I need to sit and breathe. I need to hug my teammates. I need to thank my parents. I need to kiss Leo. I need to tell Janet and Mrs. Jackson how much I appreciate them.
First, though, I need my score.
Was it enough? It was good. It was great, even, I think. I don’t know. Sun Luli was great, and Ana-Maria and Irina still have to compete, and they’re great.
The crowd must see my score before I do, because the reaction is instantaneous and fierce.
“The score for Audrey Lee of the United States: a 15.4!” the arena’s announcer calls out.
That’s even more than fantastic.
Janet claps and then pulls me into her side, squeezing my shoulder, because we can’t fully celebrate yet. There are two more routines to go. Irina and Ana-Maria have gymnastics left to do.
And as that thought flickers through my mind, that’s when the tears spring. They have gymnastics to do, and I don’t. I never will again.
No matter what happens and no matter what color medal I wear at the end of this—and I am guaranteed a medal now—it’s over.
Gymnastics is over.
Maybe life is just beginning, though.
Ana-Maria is up on the beam, and she is amazing. That layout full isn’t any less impressive after an entire week of watching her nail it over and over again, and her triple twist is as good as mine.
Janet’s arm around my shoulders tightens a little bit as Ana-Maria salutes the judges and comes down the stairs. I pull away from her, and when Ana-Maria’s finished hugging her coach, I offer her my fist, which she bumps in celebration.
The crowd applauds and cheers, and I have no idea how they’re getting the scores before us, but then the announcer calls out, “And the score for Ana-Maria Popescu of Romania, 15.3!”
She’s in second.
I’m still in first.
One routine left. Irina Kareva. Of course it is. Of course it comes down to us.
I’ve edged her out all week, silver over her bronze in the all-around and then again on bars.
I don’t want to watch, but at the same time I have to.
One routine.
My fate tied to someone else for the rest of our lives.
Silver or gold?
chapter twenty-four
Itake a breath when Irina mounts the beam and force myself not to hold it. She’s brilliant, the kind of gymnast with no real weakness. But gymnastics is hard, and even the best of us can falter, if only in the smallest of ways.
So when she launches into her dismount, a roundoff into a full-twisting double back, and she takes a huge hop backward, then a second, much smaller step to steady herself, I know.
I know without a shadow of a doubt that I was better. My routine was as difficult. I didn’t make a mistake up on the four inches, and neither did she, but I stuck my dismount cold, and she did not. I knew during bars too, though, and look how that turned out. So despite knowing deep in my soul that it’s mine, that everything I worked for is about to culminate in a gold medal—even if it’s not the one I thought I’d win—I still wait and wait and wait.
The crowd is restless. The thundersticks start up again, beating out a rhythm as they urge the judges along.
