Bending Over Backwards (4 page)

She tilted her chin towards the trash can. “We should throw away our trash, Gold Medal Girl. Bell's going to ring.”

“Listen—” I began, but Roseann was already on the move. I followed her across the lunchroom to tell her she was wrong. I wasn't training for the Olympics. I wasn't anywhere near good enough for that.

Not yet,
said a voice inside my head.
But you could be.

I stopped walking. I'd never considered the possibility. Could I train to be good enough? My old coach did say I was extremely talented.

The bell rang. Roseann waved before hurrying off to art on the other side of the building. I thought some more about gymnastics. I could be really good. I could train for something big if I put my mind to it. I turned the idea around in my head, liking the sound of it.

Molly Larsen, Olympic champion.

I'll wait until tomorrow, after I check out my new gym, to set everyone straight,
I decided.
Maybe by then, I'll be training for real.

“Ready?” Mom asked that afternoon. We stood in front of a huge building and stared at the small sign on the plain metal door:
TOP FLIGHT GYMNASTICS
. We both were expecting something grander, considering we had heard that this was the best gym in the state.

“Incredibly ready!” I wore my favorite shiny lavender leotard with the rhinestone sunburst design. I'd stretched for over an hour at home, and my muscles felt loose.

Inside I breathed in the familiar smell of sweat and chalk. The
thwack
of bare feet hitting mats echoed off the high ceilings. A girl on the uneven parallel bars on one side of the gym and a girl flying over the vault on the other side stuck their landings at the same time.

“It's enormous,” I breathed. My old gym had been half the size.

“I think this building used to be a warehouse.” Mom
folded her arms and watched a row of six girls do one-arm push-ups as a tiny woman counted loudly. “This is intense.”

“It's great,” I assured her. This was the kind of gym that got girls into the Olympics.

“Hello, hello!” A blond man in a navy tracksuit headed over to us. “You are Moll-le, yes?” He said my name with a strong Russian accent. “I am Andre Kamenev.”

“We spoke on the phone. I'm Monica Larsen, and this is Molly.” Mom reached out her hand.

Andre grasped it between his huge ones, and I thought I saw her wince at his grip. She quickly smiled and asked questions about the gym.

His face was serious. Everything about him was angular, from his sharp cheekbones, to his square jaw, to his wide shoulders. His ice-blue eyes scanned me from head to toe. “Moll-le, your mother says you are a gymnast, yes?”

“Yes,” I said. I shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. I sensed him eyeing my arms. I hoped they looked strong.

“You can do a roundoff–back handspring–back layout? A front handspring–front tuck?” He spoke as if he were barking commands in the army.

I nodded, suddenly unable to speak. Andre was the complete opposite of Daria.

Daria had owned the gym I'd gone to since Eden and I had started there together in first grade. Everything about Daria was soft. Her face. Her body. Her long, red wavy hair. The chiffon skirts she wore. Even her voice.

He's the real thing,
I told myself and stood straighter.

“Okay, we try. First you must change,” Andre said.

“Change?” I asked.

“You wear this to practice.” He handed me a plain red leotard. Only then did I notice that every girl in the gym wore the same one.

“Wait.” Mom touched my hand that held the leotard. “Why must all the girls look the same? At Molly's old gym, the girls were encouraged to express their identities.”

Daria believed that gymnastics was more than tricks and flips. She wanted us to express who we were with our music, our steps, and what we wore.

“Here the girls wear a uniform. We train my way. Conditioning. Stretching. Strength exercises. All together. The same for everyone.” Andre focused his steely gaze at my mother. “We make champions here.”

Mom turned to me. “Molly, what do you think?”

She sounded unsure. She had liked Daria and her artistic way.

I didn't mind wearing the same leotard if I could be a champion. “I like red. I'm ready.”

“Sofia!” Andre bellowed.

A tiny girl with muscles rippling along her tan thighs hurried across the mats. Her light brown hair was slicked into a tight ponytail. “Hi, Andre!” she greeted him.

“This is Moll-le. Take her to the locker room and then bring her to Nastia's group.” He turned to my mom and gestured to a glassed-in space. “So we go over some papers now?”

I followed Sofia along the edge of the gym and through a door against the far wall. The locker room had rows of benches, small metal cubbies, and a bathroom. Quickly I stripped off one leotard and put on the other. Sofia told me she was my age, but she went to a private school. She pointed out different girls as we returned to the floor. “Kelsey Wyant is the best here,” she said.

My eyes widened as I watched Kelsey land a double salto with a full twist.

“She's in the top tier. Elite training. You think you'll qualify?” Sofia asked.

Would I? A few minutes ago, I would've said yes. I'd told Roseann the truth when I said I was the best in Daria's
gym. Compared with Eden and the other girls there, I was really good. But Kelsey Wyant was a different story.

“I'm not as good as her,” I replied. “I'm hoping to get better.”

Sofia watched Kelsey with dreamy admiration. “She'll compete in college. Maybe even the Olympics. That's my plan too. I might get homeschooled next year. Andre says I have potential. That's megapraise from him.”

“Has Andre ever sent anyone to the Olympics?”

“Of course. Izzy McCabe and Hannah Rice both trained here.”

Wow. I had seen both Izzy and Hannah compete on TV.

All summer Mom kept telling me that every cloud has a silver lining. Suddenly I wondered if Top Flight wasn't the silver lining of our move. I'd get really good here. Supergood.

Sofia led me to Nastia, the short woman with a blond ponytail. Her powerful shoulders and thighs told me that she'd once been an elite gymnast.

“We stretch,” she said instead of hello.

Joining Sofia and six other girls on the mats in a straddle, I was glad I'd stretched at home. Nastia moved much
faster than Daria. Daria had played classical music and allowed us to talk while we stretched. Here the only sound was Nastia's rapid commands: pike, squat, lunge, split.

“Extend.” Nastia pulled my leg behind me. Then she pushed down hard on my shoulders. “Get deeper into the split.” I cringed, sure my hip bones would crack like a Thanksgiving wishbone.

Twenty painful minutes later, she handed each of us a jump rope.

“What's this for?” I whispered to Sofia.

Sofia raised her eyebrows. “Conditioning.” She twirled the jump rope so fast it blurred. With a million tiny jumps, she kept the rhythm.

I started to hum as I jumped. Conditioning at Daria's gym had been dancing to pop music.

“What is that noise?” Nastia asked, coming up behind me.

“I do better with a beat. A melody, you know?” I hummed a few notes.

“No noise,” she commanded. “Jump!”

I kept tripping and slapping my shins with my rope as she pushed me faster and faster. My heart was racing by the time we finished.

I glanced across at the parent waiting area. Even
from this far away, I saw the frown lines Mom gets in her forehead when she's worried. I flashed a thumbs-up to tell her I was fine. I just needed to get back into shape.

“Floor warm-up. Do what they do,” Nastia said before she walked away. Everything moved so fast here.

I followed the other girls, who lined up at the corner of the large mat. The warm-up started simply. Forward rolls diagonally across the mat. No problem. We went one at a time. Then cartwheels, front walkovers, and then back walkovers.

“Move on up . . . up to the top . . .”

Voices chanted as I did one back walkover after the other. I tried to concentrate on my form. Not only were Nastia and the other girls watching me, but I also sensed that Andre had his eyes on me.

“Wait, don't hesitate . . . move on up . . .”

The chanting grew louder as the first girl began back handsprings. I couldn't believe the height she got.

“Dominate . . . intimidate . . . move on up . . .”

Was it someone's floor routine music? It was catchy, but I'd never heard anyone use anything with chanting.

“What's going on?” I whispered to Sofia, who waited in front of me.

“The cheerleaders.” Sophia pointed to the wall
behind us. “The building is divided in two. The other side is Top Flight Cheer. The wall doesn't go all the way up. Andre said it has something to do with air flow.”

I noticed that the cinder block wall stopped several feet before the ceiling.

“They're awfully loud.” I tapped my foot in time with their chant.

“And annoying. We share the locker room with them.” Sofia scowled.

“You don't like them?”

“Of course not, they're cheerleaders. You know what
that
means.” She stepped to the edge of the mat, readying herself to start.

“What?”

“They weren't good enough to be serious gymnasts like us.” Sophia began her series of back handsprings.

I couldn't hold back my gasp. Sofia's back arched perfectly as she launched into each flip with incredible power. In seconds, she'd covered the length of the mat. She was good. Crazy good. Everyone here was.

“Move on up . . . up to the top.” I chanted along under my breath as I began my turn.

I grasped the banister as I crept down the stairs the next morning. If I let go, I feared my body would slump and I'd tumble. My arms throbbed from push-ups and handstands. My legs burned from squats and extensions. Even my toes ached from gripping the mat. Last week, Mom yelled because I kept sliding down our curvy banister. Now I was hobbling worse than my great-grandmother!

I'll stretch as I bake,
I told myself as I entered the dark kitchen. The clock on the microwave read 6:22. I was never up this early.

I padded quietly in my blue fuzzy slipper socks, hoping Mom wouldn't hear. The gurgling in the pipes told me she was already in her shower. Alex needed a fire truck to wake him. I pulled out the box of brownie mix and the oil from the pantry. In the cabinet, I found a bowl and a wooden spoon and got to mixing.

I was good at making brownies. I was even good at cracking the egg.

As I waited for the oven to preheat, I lifted my phone from the charging station on the desk. I'd been too wiped out last night after gymnastics to check my messages. I wasn't surprised to find one from Eden.

I swirled my finger in the batter, then licked it. Eden thought I was great at gymnastics. She hadn't seen the girls at Top Flight. She hadn't heard Nastia list all the things I do wrong. She didn't know how my body hurt this morning.

I started texting but stopped. Gymnastics was the one thing I'd always done better than Eden. Eden got better grades. Her hair always blew out glossier and straighter. Eden's parents were still married and even held hands when they watched a movie. Plus she had two adorable little sisters who idolized her. But I was the gymnastics star.

The move had messed me up and gotten me out of shape, I decided. With time, I'd be the star here too. A superstar!

I began again.

“What are you doing?” Mom demanded.

I whirled around. “Baking brownies.”

“I can see that, Molly. Hear all the clanging too. Why, may I ask?” Mom tried to sound angry, but I could tell by the way her lips turned up that she found it kind of funny that I was in my pajamas baking so early.

“Today is Sweets Friday. Not for the whole school. Just our lunch table. Roseann made it up. Every Friday we're going to bring a sweet snack to share,” I explained as she helped me slide the pan into the oven.

“That sounds nice.” Mom rummaged in her leather work bag. “You've found friends so fast.”

“I did.” I knew Roseann would be happy that I'd remembered she loved chewy brownies. Best friends remembered things like that. “Need this?” I asked, pulling her work ID badge from under a dish towel.

Mom sighed. “Yes. This house is a mess, and I have
no time. I need to leave for an important early meeting.”

“What about me?” I'd been planning on Mom dropping me at school. I could walk, but I was too lazy in the mornings. Plus, today I had the brownies.

“A woman I work with is picking me up. I'm leaving the car for Alex to drive you.” She grabbed a pear from the fruit bowl as a car horn honked. “I woke Alex. Tell him there's a list of chores on the fridge. He needs to do his, and you need to do yours. Got it?”

“But Mom—”

“I'm sorry, sweetie. I've got to go. Have Alex help you with the oven and remind him to pull up the weeds by the mailbox. It's weird having grass all over our front yard, isn't it? Next up is fixing the backyard.” She kissed me on the forehead, then left.

I stretched out my sore legs as I licked the last of the batter off the spoon. Back home, Mom would brew coffee and have breakfast waiting when we woke. Then she'd drop us at school on her way to work as we listened to her favorite country-western station. Even after Dad moved out, the mornings had stayed the same.

We'd lost our routine here, I'd realized. I guessed we'd have to find a new one.

“Are you kidding me?” Alex shuffled into the kitchen
in jeans and a faded polo shirt. His dark red hair stuck up where he'd slept on it. “Why aren't you dressed?”

I pointed to the oven. “I'm baking brownies.”

“Now? I need to get to school to get a parking space. Hurry up and get dressed.”

“We have plenty of time.” I slid gracefully into a split.

“I'm leaving,” Alex warned.

“Mom wants you to weed,” I called as I headed up to my room.

Alex grumbled, and he was still grumbling when I came back down in my white jeans and bright green shirt. He shook the car keys. “Out the door.”

“The brownies have five more minutes to bake,” I protested.

“Too bad. I'm not waiting.” He slung his backpack over his shoulder and headed into the garage. I heard the garage door rise.

I had no choice. I turned off the oven
. Roseann likes chewy brownies,
I reasoned. These would be extra chewy.

Alex beeped the car horn. He was serious about leaving.

I slipped my backpack over both shoulders, then pulled on two of Mom's flowered Vera Bradley oven mitts. I slid the steaming pan from the oven.
The
brownies can cool on the way,
I decided.
I'll open the windows. The breeze will help.

Carefully I shimmied into the car. “Buckle me in, okay?”

Alex rolled his eyes but leaned over and helped. “Leave the baked goods behind. You'll burn yourself.”

“No way. It's Sweets Friday.”

“Make it Salty Friday. Bring pretzels. Who cares?” he said.

“I do. The treat has to be sweet. It's Roseann Bleeker's idea. Her sisters used to do it when they were in sixth grade.”

“Bleeker?” He backed out of the garage and stopped at the end of our driveway. “Bleeker?”

“Yes, Bleeker. She's my . . . new friend.” I wanted to say best friend, but that wasn't right. Not yet.

Alex gazed out the windshield, deep in thought. “She has a sister. My year.”

“She has lots of sisters, so? Are you going to drive? My arms are starting to kill from holding up this pan.”

Alex twisted around and snatched his thick math textbook from the backseat. “Put this on your lap, then rest the pan on it.”

“Thanks.” I did what he said. “What's with the caring?”

Alex shrugged and drove down the street. “Her sister is cool. Really cool.”

“Ooh, you like her!” I sang.

“Every guy likes her. I've just seen her, that's all.”

I zipped my lips, even though it would've been so easy to tease him. Alex has never had a girlfriend, and he hates it when my dad tells stories about all the girlfriends he had in high school.

I felt bad for Alex. He was shy, and I was sure Roseann's beautiful sister was way out of his orbit.

“How am I supposed to carry these in?” I asked Alex, tilting my chin at the heavy metal pan balanced on the book in my lap. There was no way I was entering middle school wearing flowered oven mitts on my hands!

“You have the craziest problems, Mollster.”

“I know.” I sighed. Dad always said I plunged into things without thinking about them.

“There's a brown bag in the back. Mom bought something at the hardware store.” At the next stop sign, he grabbed it for me. Talking about the Bleeker sisters had certainly made him less grumpy.

I pulled a hammer and a wide putty knife from the bag. I struggled to hold the knife with my big oven-mitt hands. “Presto! It's now a spatula.” I stabbed it into
the warm, gooey brownies and sliced them into jagged squares.

Using my fingers, I scooped the squishy brownies into the brown bag. Chocolate smeared on my hands and on the outside of the bag. Just as I pushed in the last one, Alex pulled into the school's drop-off lane.

“You're making a mess,” he said, inching the car forwards. A burly gym teacher waved us on.

I wiped my hands on the oven mitts. I licked my wrists. Chocolate smudged on the leather seat.

“Paws off the car! Mom will go nuts.” Alex stopped by the curb.

I squirmed. Sitting with the backpack had made my shirt ride up and given me a wedgie. The gym teacher motioned to me, but I wasn't getting out like this.

“You're holding up the line!” The teacher knocked on the window.

I pretended not to hear him. Placing the pan of brownie bits on the floor, I unbuckled my seat belt and straightened my clothes.

“Move it, Mollsters.” Alex nervously eyed all the cars waiting behind us. He was still pretty new at driving.

I tried to balance the warm bag of brownies as I opened the door and stepped onto the sidewalk. With one hand, I smoothed my pants again.

“Wait, Molly, you—” The teacher slammed the door, cutting Alex off. Alex pulled away, and I had no idea what he'd been trying to say.

The first warning bell rang, and I hurried to my locker. The paper bag sagged from the heat building up inside. I had a bad feeling the brownies were congealing into a huge blob.

The halls emptied. Kids ducked into their first period classes. I placed the bag on the floor by my feet. Then I did battle with my lock. Right, left, right. Nothing. I always needed at least three tries to open it.

“Ewwww! You didn't!” shrieked a girl behind me.

Another girl giggled loudly.

I had only seconds before class started, so I kept twirling.

“Molly, maybe you want to use a bathroom?” Lyla slid up alongside me and pinched her nose with her fingers. Two of her friends folded over in giggles.

“What?”

“You—” Lyla covered her mouth, then burst out, “You pooped your pants!”

“What?” I twisted and saw streaks of brown across the backside of my white jeans. “No! You've got it wrong!” My face flamed. “It's brownies.”

They wouldn't stop laughing and holding their noses.

“It's not what you think!” I stepped forwards to show them. A loud
splat
made me cringe. The paper bag tore as I stepped on it. Warm brownie mush splattered across my green sneaker.

“Ew! Gross!” Lyla and her friends shrieked.

Mrs. Murphy raced out of the classroom. She sized up the paper bag and the mess on my pants. “Oh, dear. Oh, dear,” she repeated, shaking her head.

I cringed. Did she think I carried my dog's poop to school?

“It's brownies, I swear!” I cried. I reached down to prove it to her.

Mrs. Murphy shooed Lyla and the other girls into the classroom. She turned to me. “Molly, honey.”

And as I squatted on the floor, next to the bag of brown mush, Roseann appeared in the empty hallway. She held a late pass. She stared at me, her eyes wide in surprise.

“It's funny, right?” I said. I so wanted to cry, but I smiled instead.

“Roseann, just the person I need.” Mrs. Murphy turned to me. “Molly, why don't you leave that and I'll call the janitor? Go with Roseann to the bathroom to get cleaned up.”

“I'm fine. I don't need help.” I wanted to see the damage by myself.

“What about her pants?” Roseann asked.

Mrs. Murphy's eyes darted to my backside. Roseann looked too. I tried not to melt into the floor.

“That's a problem,” Mrs. Murphy agreed. “Can your mom bring—”

“She has a big meeting at work,” I said.

Mrs. Murphy nodded. She was a mom too. I'd seen a picture of her toddler son on her desk. “Roseann, detour to the nurse's office and see what she can dig up for Molly.”

I hurried into the girls' bathroom. Luckily it was empty. Cleaning off my sneakers was no problem. I soaked a wad of paper towels with water and rubbed my pants. The chocolate smeared even more.

Now my butt was brown
and
wet!

“This is all she had in lost and found.” Roseann pushed open the door and held up an enormous pair of black sweatpants. The words
UGGA BUGGA
were printed in red down the left leg.

I groaned.

“You can't wear these,” Roseann said. “They're gross.”

“Do I have a choice?” I took the sweatpants from her. “They were brownies, just so you know.”

“I believe you.”

“Thanks for helping me.” I was glad Roseann was here. Just the two of us.

“It's fine.” She leaned against the sink.

“They were for Sweets Day,” I called from the stall where I peeled off my stained white pants. “Extra chewy and gooey,” I said in a funny voice.

I expected Roseann to laugh. She didn't.

“Wow,” she said as I modeled the clownlike sweats. “That's bad.”

Next to Roseann in her crisp plaid shorts and matching baby-blue shirt with the green star pin, I looked beyond silly.

“What will people say?” She seemed concerned and nervous for me.

I shrugged. “Ugga Bugga?”

That made her smile. We walked back to class together.

All day when kids called out “Ugga Bugga,” I never stopped smiling. Dad always told me it's important to know when to laugh at yourself. Even in those dumpy sweatpants, I knew the brownie-poop thing was funny.

But I wasn't sure Roseann knew that.

I thought about one of the It Girl rules Eden and I had come up with over the summer.
Don't be the embarrassing weird girl.

Too late. I'd done that today.

Tomorrow I'd try harder. Roseann and I were on our way to becoming friends. I just had to make sure I didn't do anything else to scare her off.