Emma is up next, and her routine to Copland’s “Hoedown” has a similar tone to Sierra’s, but Emma’s gymnastics is head and shoulders above hers. Her tumbling is high and clean, with stellar landings, and her dance is impeccable. I can practically hear the Olympic crowd clapping along as she wraps up the routine in the all-around final, cheering her on to gold as she finishes dancing across the floor, playing an imaginary fiddle, before collapsing to the mat with feigned exhaustion. It really is a spectacular routine, and I’ve never allowed myself to hate her for it, but watching her run back to Sierra and Jaime for high fives and congrats makes that feeling super easy to let in.
“Dani, you’re up,” Janet instructs for the final time that day. I have no illusions now. We’ve had a morning workout on vault and floor, and I fully expect that we’ll be visualizing for the remainder of the day once Dani has landed her final pass.
She’s one of the best floor workers in the world, and it shows. Even before she was a top all-around contender, she’d always been incredible on floor. Her charisma, tumbling, and dance training seep into every step of the routine, and she expresses every note of the music, even with her tumbling. An instrumental remix of songs fromThe Greatest Showmanhas been her floor music for two years now, but even after all this time, it’s still awesome up close.
As she finishes up her routine, Mrs. Jackson comes in through the doors, dressed more for a business lunch than a gym as usual, and applauds with the rest of us when Dani sticks her triple twist to end the routine.
She runs to us, and Chelsea and I give her hugs and fist bumps. Over Dani’s shoulder, Emma glares, but I roll my eyes. She treats Dani like a leper and sides with Sierra and Jaime, and I’m supposed to feel bad about it? No way.
“Lovely, Dani,” Mrs. Jackson says, moving toward the edge of the floor. “I’m sorry to interrupt your training session, but if you girls could gather around, I have an announcement.”
I want to tell her not to worry about it, that Janet was probably about to declare us finished for the day anyway, but I figure it’s probably not a great idea to mouth off to the head of the USOF.
We stand in a semicircle around her, but the divide is clear: three on one side, three on the other. Her mouth twists into an unhappy pout, but she shakes her head and says, “I had been hoping to avoid this, but after consultation with the board of directors at the USOF, they’ve raised concerns that I think we all share about the decisions made prior to our arrival here and any potential conflicts of interest in our current situation. As such, they’ve made the unanimous decision to host another competition to determine which girls shall represent the United States in Tokyo.”
“We trained for months to peak at trials,” Chelsea says, her voice firm but respectful. “I could have qualified individually, you know? I could have done what Sarah and Brooke did, but I wanted to help this team win gold, and now I might lose my spot entirely because of something that isn’t any of our faults?”
Mrs. Jackson holds up her hands in supplication. “I know, and I understand your frustration, Ms. Cameron, but the decision has already been made. I suggest you focus your energies on the competition ahead instead.”
Chelsea nods but keeps her arms crossed over her chest. It’s clear what she really thinks of that suggestion.
Mrs. Jackson raises an eyebrow. “The team will be determined by a group of judges who were not at trials, and their scores will be the final word. The combination of girls that will bring in the best scores across all four events for the team will be chosen, not necessarily the top all-around gymnasts. Obviously, we know that regardless of the outcome, you girls will represent the United States with honor and dignity. Do you understand, ladies?”
“Yes, ma’am,” we all say as one, a leftover instinctive response from Gibby’s tenure.
She leaves us as quickly as she appeared.
“We got this,” I say, and both Chelsea and Dani nod quickly. A few feet away, the other girls are practically in a huddle, maybe saying the same thing.
Janet clears her throat, and we all snap to attention. “Okay, girls. Good workout. I want you mentally prepared for training tomorrow, so please take the rest of the session to visualize or meditate. Go over your weaknesses in training from today and yesterday. Tomorrow we’ll be working on those particular issues.”
We all start to disperse, but then she calls us back.What now? A new meditation technique? An announcement that we’ll only be training one event a day from here on out?
“Also, ladies. If you six can’t get your heads out of your asses long enough to see that dividing up this way is never going to win you gold, then please let me know so I can resign. I have no interest in watching a civil war play out in the next few weeks. Get over yourselves or get the hell out of my gym.”
chapter twelve
There’s been almost a full week of peace.
Training is smooth as silk. We’ve started working together to set up every apparatus the way each of us likes, chalking the bars, moving mats, placing springboards, and working through our rotations like clockwork. It’s exactly what we’ll have to do in Tokyo with just Janet on the floor instead of a cadre of coaches like we’ve always had at international competitions. If nothing else, figuring out the logistics of who does what and when has been a welcome distraction.
They should send Janet Dorsey-Adams to every war-torn corner of the world to broker cease-fires with a few pointed words and a raised eyebrow.
When I roll out of bed on the morning of our second Olympic trials, I immediately sit on the floor and begin my stretches, making sure my back is loose after stiffening up overnight.
As my range of motion starts to improve, my split fully extended and my arms finding the space well beyond my toes, Emma rolls over with a groan and then slides out of bed, careful to avoid tripping over me, or worse, making eye contact and actually having to exchange a word.
She heads for the bathroom first and is done with her shower by the time I’m finished stretching out.
Then we swap so she can get ready and leave for breakfast by the time I’m back.
The routine doesn’t leave much room for talking things out, but it’s also kept the awkward silences to a minimum here and in the gym. It’s actually kind of sad. I doubt we’d have come to such a perfectly in-tune pattern of avoiding each other if we weren’t so close in the first place.
I take a little extra time with my makeup. Our leos are a bright metallic red, and I want my lips to match, with winged eyeliner to play up the drama. I’m blotting my lipstick just as Dani leans against my doorjamb.
“Ready?” she asks.
“Who cares?” Chelsea grumbles behind her. “I need caffeine, and it can’t wait for Rey’s smoky eye to be perfect.”
