“I don’t know why you took off your boxers,” I mutter, shaking my head.
“Are you kidding me? I’m going to need to be quick. And speaking of quick, after I do this, you have to come pick me up because once I start running I’m not stopping until I get to the park bathrooms on Apricot and Third.”
I gawk at my friend. He’s really put a lot of thought into something incredibly dumb. If he put half this much effort into geometry, I wouldn’t have to tutor him. If I didn’t think this scheme would at least distract Eleanor from the pull of sadness, I would have forbidden it. I think it will make her laugh, though. The good kind of laugh. The kind we all miss hearing.
“Promise me you’ll pick me up,” he says.
“Promise me you’ll put pants on before you sit in my Bronco.”
He grimaces as if my request is weird.
“Fine, yeah. I’ll pick you up.” I’m not rushing out behind him, though. No way in hell do I want anyone thinking I’m a part of . . . that.
Our conversation gets cut off by the announcement calling Oak Forest High to the mats. The lights dim, but I can tell, even in the darkness, which one is Eleanor as everyone on the squad spreads out to their positions. I’m nervous for her. Not for the tumbling and stuff. She could do that in her sleep. It’s the other stuff, the things inside that are still very much trying to take her down. Her support system is behind her, though. All of us. Her parents, grandparents and sister are all sitting at the side of the stage. My mom took today off from her second job to be here. I left Mom and Grandpa in the chairs by the floor. I want to be able to film everything on my phone so Eleanor can relive it when she’s ready, and the view up here is perfect.
When the lights go out completely, I steady my phone between my hands and begin to record. The spotlights come on as the familiar—and by this point fairly obnoxious—music kicks in.
The first few passes of tumbling look good and from what I can tell, nobody’s out of place. Bodies shift and move like clockwork, girls being tossed and caught in sync with sound effects. Seeing this routine go down in a place like this makes it all seem so much more intense. Maybe it’s acoustics, or maybe it’s the fact that inside, you can tell exactly how high those girls are being thrown.
I recognize sections and brace myself when Eleanor’s first solo tumble is coming up. I take a deep breath, imagining myself in sync with her, and hold my breath as she backs herself into the far corner of the mat, nodding when she’s ready. Her feet thunder toward the open middle, and she dives with her hands forward, punching the mat with enough force to spring her body around completely, feet over her head, head over feet, until she stops hard in the very center as if a magnet drew her feet to the perfect spot.
I don’t let my breath out until I hear the crowd cheer, but within a beat I’m holding it again. Pass after pass goes by without a single error that I can see. They’re getting close to the part when Eleanor finishes with the splits, so I focus on the view through my phone, taking special care not to miss any of the big tricks, and to make sure I don’t jiggle the focus.
“Damn!” Jake muses next to me just as Eleanor holds her body weight up in a position that would give both of us nightmares.
The end of the music is approaching. It’s sad that I actually know this compilation by heart. There’s one trick left, the one with Eleanor’s twist. All eyes follow her, and I count to myself while her teammates pump their arms, priming them to send her soaring up to the rafters. On three, she goes up, and her body makes its full rotation. As she comes down, though, her leg slips loose right before she’s caught, sending her along with two of her teammates tumbling to the ground.
“Shit,” Jake says, and I stop recording because I don’t think she’s going to want to see this part, or hear our friend’s commentary.
“She’s okay, right? Is she okay?” I ask Jake as if he can see something I can’t. I’m bouncing on my toes, wavering and unsure whether I should rush down there or wait this out. The music has stopped and all of the lights are back on. Her coach is crouching next to her, stretching and flexing her leg while the training team climbs up on the mat. Her team is huddled around her, all of them kneeling while she grabs at her ankle. She’s definitely crying.
“I should go,” I say, but Jake holds his arm across my chest before I turn, stopping me. He motions to the floor.
Eleanor is attempting to get to her feet. Her coach on one side, Gemma on the other, she steadies herself as they brace her under her elbows. Eleanor keeps shaking her head, and I can’t tell if those are winces of determination or excruciating pain. Finally, after a full minute of testing her weight on her ankle with the help of her team, she sets out to try it on her own. Everyone backs away to give her room, and she hobbles to the far corner then tumbles her way to the center. It’s obvious that she isn’t one-hundred percent. Her right foot never fully lands on the mat, but what’s even more impressive is the way she holds it a half-inch from the ground to make it look like her landing is clean. The strength of that left leg and foot is epic.
Hopping toward the front of the mat, Eleanor leans forward to say something to the judges.
“Come on,
