“I had to take care of my little brother. My mother…Look, can we just get to jumping?” I don’t have time to put my family’s business in the street, nor do I want to. I just grab the ropes and begin untangling them.
No one says another word. We all just assume our positions. Mimi and Eva turn while Drea and I jump. Drea is a little chubby, probably from eating a lot of her abuela’s rice and beans, but she can jump like nobody’s business and she’s a really good turner. Eva is a lot like me, and sometimes we bump heads on ideas, but after a few frustrating arguments we’ve realized we make each other better. And although Eva’s glasses make her look nerdy, she’s quite bossy herself. Sometimes she gives me this feeling like she’s jealous of me or something. But whatever; they’re my friends, and we make a great team. And because we’ve known each other since third grade, unfortunately they know things aren’t always cool at my house. So I just push whatever is going on at home to the back of my mind and focus on the ropes. We get started with the warm-up routine that we all know inside out. Two of us turn, two jump, then we switch as we sing our warm-up song.
Jump in! Jump in! Warm those legs till they burn!
Get loose! Get loose! Watch the ropes while they turn.
Pick up your feet, pick up the pace! No time for us to waste.
Keep up! Keep up! No time-out.
Let’s show ’em what the Double Dutch Jets are all about!
Go! Go! Go! Go! Go!
We’re moving so fast that everybody stops and stares. We take up as much space as we need to do our tricks: cartwheels in and out of the ropes, double high hops, knee lifts, twirls, and other stuff we do carefully so we don’t catch the ropes with our feet. Everyone clears away, giving us room ’cause we’re just too fly for a small area. We get to my favorite part: speed. I always try to beat my last time and jumps per minute. Whistle! Ms. Jackson calls it quits on warm-ups. Even after the whistle, I still speed-jump.
“Keep turning!” I demand.
“One-two, one-two,” Mimi says to keep me on track.
Eva rolls her eyes but turns feverishly while Drea thumbs the clicker on a handheld counter. After a few more speedy jumps, my feet catch the ropes. I haven’t even broken a sweat. Whistle!
“What’s the count?” I ask in a big breath.
“Three hundred seventeen,” Drea answers with a smile.
Any number over three hundred jumps within two minutes is very impressive to judges. But before we can get excited about our progress, Ms. Jackson blows her whistle for the third time.
“I’m not going to blow this whistle again! I need y’all to come front and center!” Ms. Jackson yells as she pops gum. My mom says popping gum is tacky, but Ms. Jackson has mastered it like a form of art. She says it helps her dieting, and she’s probably on a new one now ’cause she’s killing that gum. Either way, Ms. Jackson is always blaming her crankiness on her diet and telling us that “you need not get on my nerves.” Whoops. I think I already did.
Having been one of the famous Double Dutch Divas, Ms. Jackson is familiar with the addiction to double Dutch, but she will not be disrespected by any “wannabe” champions, as she says so often. She’s constantly telling us how she struggles to volunteer her time and loves seeing us having fun, and how she believes someday we’ll keep the dream alive of bringing double Dutch to newer heights, maybe even making it an Olympic sport. In the meantime, she’ll “be damned if you all drive me crazy.” Ms. Jackson clutches her clipboard in one hand and rests the other on her hip. Her gum-smacking slows down as she stares at my team, the Double Dutch Jets, but mainly me, as we find a spot on the gym floor.
“Double Dutch is not just about jumping rope. It’s also about respecting the sport, fellow jumpers, and everyone involved. And I don’t have to explain the meaning of ‘respect’ to you again, do I?” Ms. Jackson says, expecting the right answer.
“No, Ms. Jackson,” the group says in unison.
“Good, ’cause when I blow this whistle, that means it’s time to stop what you’re doing and listen up.” Ms. Jackson says this looking dead at me, and then at the rest of the Jets. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Ms. Jackson,” we all answer respectfully.
I know Ms. Jackson is referring to me. I twist my lips and roll my eyes, which I know she hates, but I can’t help it. Some of the kids are here just for fun, but I’m here to compete and win big. I think she understands my mission more than she cares to let me know, so she just gets on with her business.
“Now, I’ve got some good news and some bad news. The good news is, regionals leading up to the National Jump-off at Madison Square Garden will start next week,” Ms. Jackson informs us. Everybody gets all excited. “Wait a minute, now. Let me finish.” She tries to settle us down. “The bad news is that not everyone from this league will make the cut,” she says matter-of-factly. The crowd moans.
“I don’t know about you guys, but I’m going to be in that competition,” I say without hesitation. There is a murmur among the teams about who’s going and who’s not. Some of them don’t think I can hear whispering that we’re—well, that I’m—conceited and stuck-up. Whatever. My team is good and they know it.
“All right, everyone, settle down. And, Ms. MaKayla Mac, if you don’t humble yourself, you and the rest of the Double Dutch Jets won’t be going anywhere,” Ms. Jackson replies with
