Return to You (Letters to Nowhere Part 3)

  By Julie Cross

  Copyright © 2013 Julie Cross

  chapter one

  ~jordan~

  “Liberty!” I jog down the path, trying to catch her.

  She finally stops when I’m right beside her, in front of her cabin. She turns to face me. “Hey.”

  “Can we… you know, talk for a minute?” I take a swig from the Gatorade I’ve been carting around all day, hoping to keep my energy up.

  Liberty tosses her hair over one shoulder, glances around, and nods for me to come inside. She’s in charge of eight campers in her cabin when they’re not in the gym working out—eight little girls and their exploding suitcases. I step over stuffed animals, pillows, leotards, just to get to a clear space in the center of the room.

  I rub the back of my neck with one hand, avoiding eye contact with her. “I’m sorry about everything… not talking to you and all that. I mean, maybe you didn’t even want to talk to me, but still, I should have handled it differently.”

  She sits down on one of the bottom bunks. “It’s fine, Jordan.”

  “Look,” I say, because my small knowledge of the female mind is telling me that it’s not fine. “Honestly, I felt extremely inferior to you and hanging on to that relationship was setting myself up to get burned.”

  “I get it.” She shrugs. “You weren’t ready for the real thing yet. You think I didn’t know that?”

  “I don’t think I knew that.”

  She cracks a smile. “I was kind of a bitch last summer. I don’t know how you put up with me. Things just got out of control.”

  I’m too stunned at first that she actually admitted to being bitchy, so it takes me a while to process the rest of what she said. “Are you like… okay now?”

  There’s a moment’s hesitation where I think she’s truly considering her answer. “Yeah, I think I am. I had a pretty good year. College has been great.”

  I lean against the bed across from her. “I’ve had some eye-opening moments over the past year too.” I think I just had another one of those moments out on the lake with Karen.

  “You seem different,” she says. “And then there’s Karen…”

  “Right. Karen.” I don’t know what she meant by, and then there’s Karen, but I’m too relieved by the fact that this chat is very civilized thus far to ask for specifics.

  She laughs and shakes her head. “I think we should both admit that we pretty much know nothing about each other.”

  This is very true. I never dished out any personal shit to her. She doesn’t know about my mom and my sister and my grandparents being gone. She doesn’t know how much I struggle daily to connect with my dad, to even decide if I’m angry or hurt by him. Or both. She’s just a girl I shared summer stories with, made out with a lot, and had sex with once.

  And that’s exactly why I’m not in any hurry to go farther with Karen. We have everything else. We have all the things that make you want to hold on rather than let go.

  “With Karen, it’s kind of the opposite for us,” I admit, hoping she doesn’t take it the wrong way. Or take it personally.

  “Then I’m happy for you.” She smiles again, glances at her cell phone and says, “The exhibition starts in twenty minutes, don’t you need to be there?”

  “Shit.” I pull out my phone checking the schedule. “I should probably get over there early and try to coerce some painkillers out of one of the coaches. I have the worst sore throat and I’m maxed out on Advil for the day.”

  “I have some leftover Vicodin from getting my wisdom teeth out,” Liberty says, yanking out a big suitcase from under her bed and flinging it open, “Will that work?”

  I accept the pill from her hand and down it with some Gatorade. “Thanks. Seriously. I was about to go to desperate measures.”

  “Aren’t you worried about getting your girlfriend sick? She’s in training, isn’t she?”

  I pause, holding the bottle at my lips. I’ve taken way too many antibiotics to be contagious, right?

  ***

  “We totally kicked ass tonight,” TJ says, thumping me on the back.

  The pain pill from earlier is already wearing off and that thump causes aches to spread everywhere, all the way to my bones.

  But he’s right. We kicked ass. TJ did a double back flip off my hands and I managed a double front over him and another guy. The kids went nuts. I think I saw Karen’s mouth hang open when we were performing Irina’s choreography. I haven’t exactly hidden the fact that I’m not a terrible dancer, but the opportunity to pass this knowledge on to her hasn’t presented itself before tonight.

  “Maybe we’ll be exempt from leotard wearing for the rest of the summer.” I’m trying to match TJ’s energy, probably to deny the whole “I’m sick again” issue.

  “We better.” He shakes his head, aiming his flashlight a few feet in front of us so we can see the path back to the cabin. “What’s the deal with that Stevie chick? She’s not underaged, is she?”

  I snort out a laugh. “Did you not see the death glare she was giving you during the whole show tonight?”

  Stevie and Karen are still back in the gym signing autographs for campers. They’re so popular after the Pan Am games I won’t be surprised if they get hand cramps tonight from all the signing.

  “Oh, I noticed.” TJ grins. “I’m having a lot of fun getting under her skin. It’s too easy.”

  “Well, she is adult age, but Stevie’s way tougher than you’re giving her credit for. Never underestimate the power of a world champion.” I’m not kidding with this advice either. TJ’s got the tough guy wall up and he maintains it pretty well, but I have a feeling Stevie could hit him right where it hurts most. She’s dealt with rejection on so many levels. I think TJ would throw in the towel at the first sign of rejection. But I could be wrong.

  “I’m just having some fun, man. Quit getting all philosophical on me.”

  We’ve just arrived at our cabin. After walking into our room, I crawl onto my bottom bunk and TJ heads for the shower, yelling something about another coach throwing a party in his cabin tonight. I can barely understand him with the water running, but I already know that I’m not up for a party. I spend fifteen minutes attempting to read some of the material Stanford sent me to help choose a major—something I’ve been procrastinating for way too long. The pamphlet says, “Your Major, Your Career, Your Life—Placing Your Foot on the Right Path from Day One.”

  Somewhere between analyzing the percentage of undergraduate Library Science majors and figuring out what kind of career evolved from a Multi/Interdisciplinary studies degree, I must have dozed off. Next thing I know, TJ is gone and Karen is leaning over me, dressed in pajama pants and a tank top.

  “Must be interesting reading?”

  I rub my eyes and glance at my cell phone—I’ve only been out for thirty minutes. “Guess I’m more worn out than I realized.” I slide back toward the wall and pat the space beside me. “Lie down with me.”

  “You’re not going to the party?”

  “Are you?” God, I hope not because then I will have to go.

  “Nina would kill us,” Stevie shouts from across the hall, in her and Karen’s room.

  “She’s right.” Karen finally slides in next to me, stretching out on her back and holding the pamphlet up so she can read it. “Big decisions, huh, Geek Boy?”

  “Apparently, if you have no major, then you have no career path, which in turn means you have no future.” I toss my arm across her stomach and bury my face in the space between her chin and shoulder. My eyes drift closed again.

  “This is like goal setting,” she says, still reading the information. “I’m very good at goal
setting.”

  “What are you going to major in?” I figure she’s just as clueless as me, being so focused on gymnastics right now, but of course I’m wrong. Karen’s always got her shit together. Unlike me.

  “Either communications or kinesiology and maybe a minor in political science in case I want to go to law school.”

  I give her a squeeze and kiss her bare shoulder. Karen’s dad was a lawyer. Maybe she’s thinking about following in his footsteps. “I feel extremely inferior right now.”

  “We just need to explore the realm of possibilities,” she says, quoting from the pamphlet.

  It’s adorable how dead serious she is about this. “All right, what are my realms?”

  “Start with things you’re good at.” She flips to the next page and scans it quickly. “There’s music…”

  “Unless I want to teach music, which I don’t, or be a classical musician”— like my mom, I can’t help thinking; she went to Juilliard—”which I’m not made for, then I don’t need Stanford’s seal of approval on anything music related.”

  “Okay.” Karen nods. “What do you think were your admission strengths? GPA? Test scores? Extracurricular stuff? Essays?”

  “I’m in the top quarter of my class, but not the top ten percent, so it isn’t GPA. I got twenty three hundred on my SATs—”

  Karen slaps a hand to my back and shakes me. “Seriously? You got like two hundred points higher than me! I hate you right now.”

  I laugh and kiss a new spot on her shoulder. “You had a scholarship regardless of your SATs, so get over it.”

  “Fine,” she mutters.

  “My essays were my strongest application point,” I admit. “The lady who interviewed me said that, anyway.” I wrote about remembering a piece of music my mom used to play on the cello note-for-note, but not being able to recall details of her face without looking at photographs. And about remembering the tone of my older sister, Eloise’s, voice when she used to read to me, but not being able to picture her moving around me, walking and interacting. Except for her voice, she’s become two-dimensional in my memories. Her English accent leaps out in my mind. What would she be like here in America? Would she have been too old to lose her accent like I had?

  Sounds and words. That’s what seems to stick with me more than a face or physical trait.

  “Jordan?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Writing,” Karen says like she’s repeating something I must have missed seconds ago. “You’re good at writing. Plus you’re daring and adventurous. What about journalism?”

  I roll that idea around in my head for a minute. “That’s… a possible option.”

  Karen’s face lights up. “Really?” I nod. “Okay then, want me to Google the required courses at Stanford for journalism majors? I’ll read them off to you.”

  There’s no point in answering her. She’s already got her phone out, her index finger flying over the touch screen. “I think journalism is a masters-only program so you would do English literature or communications as your undergrad. These courses look interesting.”

  “Interesting, huh?”

  She begins reading course titles and already the sound of her voice is etching itself into my memory just like my mother’s cello and my sister’s British accent. I close my eyes and enjoy the warmth of Karen beside me so much that I fall asleep, and the last words I hear are—English 103H: The Active Life or the Contemplative Life?

  CHAPTER TWO

  ~KAREN~

  “You can’t take two turns when everyone else takes one,” Stevie shouts.

  My back is turned so I can’t see what’s going on, but I’m sure she’s arguing with TJ again. We haven’t even reached the end of our first week here, but I predict TJ won’t make it much longer if he keeps this up—Stevie’s going to kill him.

  “Handstands, Karen,” Nina reminds me, as I chalk up for bars. “Stretch more on that layout Jaeger, open your hips. And higher on the dismount.”

  This week has been all about amplitude and even though Nina drives me nuts, the philosophy is a good one. We have a little over a month until National Championships and now’s the time to push for those changes so that there’s plenty of time to fully form the new habit. Coach Bentley’s coaching philosophies are actually somewhat similar, but with Nina, one bad day and she could easily write you off. And why not? She’s got twenty talented senior elites to choose from. Whereas Bentley only has me and Stevie if he wants to get a gymnast on the World team this year. He’s on our side. He’ll back us up no matter what. Once Nina names the team, it’s like that with her, too, but until then—every day here is judgment day.

  After jumping into my mount on the low bar, I feel myself coming up short on a handstand, so I give an extra kick and end up overcompensating. I turn quickly, swing down again and have to redo the handstand after getting myself facing the correct direction.

  “No, no, no!” Nina says. “Start over.”

  I come down from the bar with a sigh of frustration.

  “Here’s how it works, Einstein,” Stevie’s voice invades my concentration bubble again, “I tumble, Ariel tumbles, then TJ tumbles. Rinse. Repeat. Got it?”

  “I wouldn’t have a problem with that if you’d haul ass to get back in line like a normal person would. And if you quit with the voodoo witchcraft talking to yourself shit before you take a turn. I counted to twenty last time while you stood there calling the gods forth to help your sorry excuse for a double double layout.”

  Oh boy.

  I dip my hands quickly in the chalk bowl again, then glance at Nina to see if she’s listening to this heated argument on the tumbling strip, but she’s walked off to talk to one of her National Team Committee members.

  Stevie laughs. “Admit you’re jealous of my tumbling pass. You don’t know how to twist, do you? It’s either double flips or triple flips with you. Very two-dimensional.”

  I hurry back to the low bar, take a breath, and jump into my mount determined not to screw up again. Sweat covers the front of my leotard and my hair. I’ve done eight bar routines already this morning.

  I pull off the first handstand with no issues this time and as I’m preparing for my release the high bar, I spot Jordan across the gym, taking a seat in the bleachers. He looks a little better today than he has the past couple days. I know he’s feeling sick again, but is too tough to admit it. I’m sure his immune system is shot after all the rounds of antibiotics he’s taken lately. That’s probably made him susceptible to every germ floating around.

  Regardless, I’ve been loading up on Vitamin C just in case he’s contagious. I should probably be ticked and refuse to kiss him, but I can’t. I’m pathetic like that.

  Fatigue from the long workouts and the stress of Nina’s watchful glare (and that damn clipboard) finally wins this nearly weeklong battle when I launch myself into a Hindorff release move—a move I’ve been performing since the beginning of my elite career—and completely miss the bar, landing on my knees on the mats below.

  This mistake doesn’t warrant a yelling lecture from Nina. She simply shakes her head and turns her attention to one of the other girls who’s just mounted the balance beam. My arms and legs are shaking from exhaustion as I watch Alicia, who was on the Pan Am team with me, mount the high bar. She might not have beaten me or Stevie in the all-around, but she’s amazing on bars and beam and Nina goes on and on about her execution all the time.

  Our morning workout is nearly over, so many of the campers are flooding into the gym, heading for the bleachers where Jordan’s still seated. Alicia has a piked Geiger release move in her routine, which isn’t all that uncommon or difficult, but she does hers with one arm. And that gets huge crowd reaction every time. It’s flashy. When she catches it in front of all the watching campers and coaches, there’s a huge gasp and a scattering of applause.

  I reach for the file in the chalk bowl and attack my grips with it. I need to hit this next routine. No more falls.

  Alicia
lands her full twisting double layout dismount with a resounding thud and gets more applause. I’m sure we’ve gone overtime in our workout because we’ve never had this many campers watching us in the morning. Lucky for me, I choose today to suck big time on bars.

  I hear Nina call an end to our practice, but I’ve already decided I’m not leaving until I hit a routine. Standing in front of the low bar now, feeling all the watchful eyes of kids we’ve been signing T-shirts and leotards and grips for all week long, makes it feel like the room is shrinking and the walls are caving in. I take a deep breath, closing my eyes and forcing myself to focus.

  This time, I make it to the layout Jaeger, near the end of my routine, before screwing up. That’s what sucks about this particular release; missing it usually means landing splat on your stomach, falling straight down from the high bar. It also means a whole different kind of gasp from the crowd. Not the kind of gasp I’d been hoping to evoke from my performance. I wait until my lungs are able to take in air again before peeling myself off the mat. My eyes stay glued to the ground while I’m rechalking, but a pair of dark-skinned arms are now invading my space. TJ’s hands cling to the sides of the chalk bowl.

  I’m so not in the mood for his taunting.

  I peel back my grips, wincing from the chalk hitting my stinging hands. I’ve got two new rips on each palm, one is about to get bloody, probably on this next turn. I blow gently on them to stifle the sting.

  “God, that’s nasty.” TJ leans in to get a closer look. “Are your hands supposed to look like that?”

  I roll my eyes. “I guess performing all your tricks on soft carpet made you squeamish when it comes to real gymnast hands.”

  Stevie comes up beside me and laughs. Of course she’s fully supportive of any and all TJ bashing. I’m starting to wonder if she’s got a crush.

  “I think your hands are spending more time off the bar than on, so don’t get too cocky, Campbell.”

  I glance sideways and spot Jordan on the floor helping two other coaches lead warm-ups for a group of at least a hundred campers. I wonder what he’d think of TJ’s taunting? With the exception of today, I’ve mostly had fun with it.