Page 62 of Where We Belong
And then Clara moves, and my entire focus goes to her.
The good thing about gymnastics is scores are posted almost immediately after a performance, so you don’t need to wait for the end of the event to know what the podium will look like. Even before competing, you know which score you need to beat.
The bad thing about it is when you see that score and know there’s no way in hell you can top it.
She went for a roundoff onto the spring board, half turn onto the vault table, followed by a tucked front salto with a 540-degree twist. It’s a move I’ve rarely seen in competitions. She doesn’t land it perfectly—she takes a step before stabilizing and saluting the judges, which tells me this move must be somewhat new for her—but it’s still going to give her a score that’s too high to beat.
The numbers appear on the screen a minute later, and yep, that’s too high. I want to look away from the red neons burning the score into my retinas, but I can’t. And even if I wanted to, the announcer shouts the score, creating a roar of applause throughout the stadium as people call out her name and cheer for her with large signs elevated above their heads.
Fuck.
Vault is one of my strongest elements. If I can’t win gold for it, how am I supposed to get a chance at an overall podium?
I shake my hands in front of me as I crack my neck left and right and think of what I could do. I’ve had vault performances with higher scores than Popov’s. For instance, a Cheng—which is similar to her move, except that the front salto is straight—would allow me to top her. I’ve done it in the past, and done it well. I’d just need to change my plan at the last minute and go for a move I haven’t practiced in more than a year.
Minutes pass as I move on to new stations, juggling different ideas in my head. Cheng or not. Gold or silver. Land something confidently or risk doing something that could potentially send me to a hospital, or leave me paralyzed or even dead.
When my name is called, I barely hear it, too lost in my head. On one hand, we always have two turns at the vault, so I could count the first one as a practice shot and make sure my Cheng is good on the second run. On the other hand, if I miss the first one completely and hurt myself, there might not be a second one.
My smile is not as confident as I’d like as I salute the judges. When I turn to face the vault table, I can still feel my mind raging like a storm.
Focus, Lexie.
I breathe in, and on the exhale, I start running. It’s only when I’m one step away from the spring board that I make my decision. I chicken out and go for a sure silver. My roundoff is clean, my shoulders use just the right amount of force to propel me, and my spins are clean. When I land, there’s no wobble. It’s a brick thrown onto a mat, strong and sturdy. And yet even as I smile and salute once again, I know that score will never beat Popov’s.
Polite applause comes from the audience as I walk off the mat. I try to keep a collected air and stare at my feet, but something makes me look up.
A loud whoop, followed by a “Let’s go, Lexie!”
I need to squint and blink a few times to make sure I’m not imagining things. It’s only when a few moments pass and the image does not change that I feel myself break into the giddiest grin in the world. Because up there in the stands is Finn, cheering for me with a homemade sign that says “Crabbys do it better.” Next to him is Shelli, who’s clapping so hard her hands must be hurting.
I’ve never felt like crying during a competition. When I lost or fell or fucked up, I was overwhelmed with anger, not sadness. A bronze medal wouldn’t fill me with sorrow; it’d fill me with fire. It would push me to practice harder, to get to the gym earlier and stay later.
And yet looking at these two people in the stands cheering for me, I have the strange urge to fall to my knees and sob like a baby.
My cheeks and neck are warm as I give them a quick wave, then turn to the panel so I can see my score. My foot is tapping the floor repeatedly as I wait with bated breath. When the numbers finally come out and I get the answer I expected—I’m in second place, and will likely remain so—I feel a mix of embarrassment and relief. Maybe Finn and Shelli haven’t seen me give my best performance, but this is still better than anything anyone could’ve expected when I got injured and started my rehab journey.
I’ll settle on the positive for now.
Looking over my shoulder one last time, I give my two supporters another thankful smile, then get ready for the rest of the competition.
“Lexie!”
The sound of the voice I could now recognize anywhere makes me turn around, and when I see Finn’s face, full of so much happiness and excitement, all the negative feelings I had about today disappear. People are filing out of the stadium, both from the seats section and from the floor, but Finn must’ve found a way to get to me because he’s here, mixed in with all the gymnastics professionals and not looking the least bit worried about not being allowed down here.
He’s still on the other side of the floor mat, but the second he starts walking my way, I drop my training bag to the ground and run toward him. I stop abruptly once I’m inches from him, my heart beating faster than it has all day.
“I don’t understand,” I say, beaming. “What are you doing here?” While New York isn’t on the other side of the country, it’s still a more than four-hour drive from Sonder Hill.
“Wanted to see if all that training had been worth it,” he says. I laugh as he plugs his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “And I didn’t want you to celebrate that first success alone.”
His words grip my throat and make it so tight I can barely swallow. Without him saying it, I know that’s the real reason he’s here. Not to see me, but to make me feel less alone.
It’s the most beautiful gift I’ve ever received.
His eyes crinkle at the corners. “You were amazing, Lex.”
And in this moment, it doesn’t matter that I choked the dismount that would’ve given me the highest difficulty points, or that I only won bronze in the all-around category, because when he says it, I believe it’s the truth.
