We finally reach the curb, and Mom gives my hand another squeeze. The driver leaps out of the car and opens the door for us. Emma and her parents are already on the sidewalk with her luggage. Her parents don’t really work, per se. They both come from old money—like Sons of Liberty and the Daughters of the American Revolution old—and their penthouse with Central Park views speaks for itself. My parents—a cardiologist and a CUNY professor— do pretty well, but the Sadowskys leave us in the dust.
“How was Dr. G?” Emma asks, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Are you all fixed?”
“Yep, good as new. I’ll be busting out Amanars by the time we land.”
The driver brings around our luggage, and horns blare in protest at our prolonged stay on the curb.
I pull Mom into an extra-long hug.
“Take care of yourself, sweetheart. Text me as soon as you get settled at the training center and let me know how the first day goes.”
Nodding, I pull away and smile up at her as Emma finishes her goodbyes. Our parents get back into the cars, all of them wiping at misty eyes. We stand with Pauline, watching the black cars pull away into the sea of vehicles. This is it, then.
“Okay, ladies,” she says, straightening her shoulders and using her firmest coaching voice. “IDs and boarding passes out. Let’s get going.”
I send a sidelong glance at Emma, who rolls her eyes at Pauline’s impatience with any emotion that isn’t grim satisfaction or controlled disappointment. The thing is, though, that mind-set works pretty well when you’ve got weeks of intense training and the most important competition of your life looming at the end of them. It’s why Pauline is a great coach and how she turned Emma and me into great gymnasts capable of sticking landings and winning medals.
So, as she marches into the airport, commandeering a luggage cart and pretending to be oblivious as she briskly cuts in front of a large group of people to get into the security line, I smile. We fall in behind her, keeping our heads down, letting her lead the way. She’s gotten us this far, and I wouldn’t want to do it with anyone else.
“How did you do that?” Emma asks as we put our seat backs into their full upright and locked positions, like the captain asked over the intercom.
“Do what?” I ask, yawning and stretching forward with my fingers interlocked.
“Pass out the minute we took off and wake up as we’re landing,” she shoots back with a disgruntled wrinkle of her nose.
I shrug, relaxing back into the seat. Mostly, it was because I didn’t sleep a wink last night while my back spasmed like crazy and I freaked out about heading to Olympic camp, but I can’t really tell Emma that. She’s never had a major injury before, and she doesn’t stress. Ever. It’s like she’s got some kind of anxiety-repellent skin. Everything slides off her.
Deplaning at LAX is always an adventure when we’re traveling to Gibby’s gym, but it’s rare that we’re noticed among the actual celebrities coming and going all the time. Apparently, those days are over.
Photographers mob us as soon as soon as we enter baggage claim.
“Emma! Audrey! Emma! Look over here, girls!”
The reporters press forward, their flashes and shouts coming in rapid fire.
I try to imitate Emma’s ease as she blithely ignores them, looking cool and composed despite it all. Security surrounds us, quickly helping us gather our bags and move through the crowd and out to a waiting car. It’s one of those sleek, high-end vans with three rows of captain’s chairs and a ton of legroom.
There’s plenty of time to catch our breath. The ride to Gibby’s gym, otherwise known as the National Gymnastics Committee Training Center, is stop-and-go all the way. LA traffic is never cooperative. I shoot a quick text to my mom and then snap a silly picture with a scrunched-up nose for Leo. He messages back almost immediately: a picture with one eye closed in an exaggerated and really freaking adorable wink.
Emma’s in the seat beside me, trying to nap, and when I turn to Pauline to ask how long she thinks it’s going to take, her eyes are firmly fixed on her phone and her thumbs are moving over it like mad. I know better than to talk to her when she hasthatparticular look on her face—eyes narrowed, mouth set in a thin line.
Finally, the van comes to a halt beside the huge chrome-andglass building. The air is warm around us as we climb out and smells of hot asphalt and car exhaust, a lot like home, just without the crushing humidity. Yep, we’re definitely in LA.
“About time you got here!” Chelsea says, coming out of the front door with a huge smile on her face.
Emma laughs. “Some of us don’t live fifteen minutes away!”
Chelsea hugs me—apparently, we’re friends who casually hug hello now—and then she pulls Emma in too. Their friendship is less new, since they bonded at worlds last year. “Is everyone else here?”
“Sierra and Jaime’s plane was delayed out of Oklahoma City,” Chelsea says.
We freeze and fall silent as Gibby comes out through the doors.
“Ladies, welcome,” he says, nodding to us as he goes to greet Pauline at the curb.
“C’mon,” Chelsea says once he passes us entirely, and we follow her into the glass atrium, dragging our suitcases behind us.
The door is barely closed before Chelsea says, “Rumor has it we’re having our first internal competition tomorrow. Gibson wants to start figuring out rotation order as soon as possible.”
