Heroes' Day Page 2

  “Buck up, kiddo,” Greg said. “The recruiters are on their way. With any luck we’ll be able to get you on some crutches. The girls can rig up a system of ropes and pulleys. You’ll go out in a blaze of glory, knock everyone’s socks right off! Send the military men back to their commanding officers with a tale or two about the spunky little girl from Sussex who did a beam dismount, crutches and all, without even breaking a sweat!”

  Sarcasm. It was one of Greg’s many tools, in the office and on the mat—regardless, Monica found herself pondering three seasons’ worth of ignorance from the United States’ governing athletic body: the National Patriot Athletic Association. She’d been all-around champion at three consecutive National Conventions, and had placed in the top five at nearly two dozen of the smaller conferences, national and regional—and yet she was ignored. Every year the military men came to KG, and every year Monica’s friends were snatched up, taken to the National Training Center to train as Patriot athletes while she herself was relegated to staying behind. She would be turning fourteen next April, making her the oldest in the club—and the only junior elite (Greg had a small elite program, two to three juniors at a time, and the other two girls he was working with—Amy and Sarah, respectively—wouldn’t be ready skill-wise until next season).

  Nowadays, though she kept her skills polished and fresh, Monica was more of an older sister to the younger girls who were rotated in each season. She showed them the ropes, made sure they warmed up properly, stuck to their diets—in fact, while her training partners had celebratory badges sewn onto their leotards with labels like “Cadet” and “Junior Keene in Training,” Monica’s read “Big Sister,” and was supposed to reflect genuine recognition of her mentoring contributions to the gym. But sometimes she almost felt embarrassed to walk around with her badge, her “rank,” showing like an unwanted blemish, a reminder of how she was stuck in her own little niche.

  Still, she wished she didn’t have to leave.

  Greg let go of her foot. Somewhere along the way he’d unwrapped her ankle, and was tucking the medical supplies back into their kit.

  “All patched up,” he said.

  Monica got to her feet, tested her newly-repaired ankle. She was about to thank Greg for services rendered when Donna stuck her head inside the office and announced, “The recruiters are here.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Badged and uniformed (and looking more than a little doggered by the late August heat), the recruiters—two of them—sat in a pair of foldout chairs that had been set at the periphery of the KG training room. Since there were no other qualifying elites at the club, it was just Monica, changed into her leotard, stretching, waiting as her guest judges spoke to one another in hushed tones, fussed with their notebooks. Off to the side, the other KG girls sat, smiling, watching, silently cheering her on.

  At long last, one of the recruiters lifted his hand and said, “You may begin, Ms. Sardinia.”

  Monica stood straight, presented, and took a deep breath. She started on the vault, then moved on to the uneven bars, followed by the balance beam. Her performance on each apparatus was utilitarian, her skill choices up-to-date with the current Code of Points, her combinations seamless. She focused specifically on her neatness, her toe point, and covered up any wobbles with clever adjustments. She finished with her floor routine, a solid set choreographed to a thundering techno beat and ending with an impressive tumbling pass, which she landed perfectly. Then, raising her arms and presenting once again to the recruiters, she jogged over to where the other girls were waiting.

  “Stellar-high marks!” whispered Amy.

  “Oh, you are so going to Olympus!” whispered Sarah.

  The younger girls offered words of encouragement as well.

  Monica thanked them, taking a swig from her water bottle and catching her breath. She paced slowly, eyes fixed on the recruiters. Greg and Donna were talking with them, no doubt quoting statistics, records, wheeling, dealing—doing what coaches did when it came time to promote their product. Nevertheless, Monica knew not to expect much. Despite the appraising looks, the nods of approval, she knew she was well past the pivotal age preferred by the NPAA.

  As such, her heart missed a beat when Donna waved her over.

  “Wonderful to meet you, Ms. Sardinia,” greeted one of the recruiters as Monica stepped up to the group. “Your routines were quite impressive.”

  “Yes,” added the second recruiter. “We were particularly impressed by your ability to incorporate fluid dance elements with your more difficult acrobatic skills. Very nicely done.”

  “Thank you,” said Monica, smiling on the outside—frowning inside, for although the recruiters had readily dispensed with the compliments, she could see it in their eyes: Having said that, we regret to inform you that we will be unable to offer you a contract for the upcoming competitive season.

  In quite the cookie-cutter fashion, the first recruiter knelt so that his face was level with Monica’s and said, “Having said that, we regret to inform you that we will be unable to offer you a contract for the upcoming competitive season.” A pause, a sincere sigh that may or may not have been practiced beforehand. “Ms. Sardinia, the NPAA has had its eye on you for quite some time. Your scores are among the top in the country, and from what your coaches tell me, your work ethic is impeccable. But, unfortunately, your overall presentation isn’t quite what we’re looking for.”

  The second recruiter nodded. “Please understand, this in no way reflects on your technical abilities. It’s merely our experience that the world-class stage requires a certain…technique, shall we say? We feel an athlete with your specialties would be best suited in the collegiate arena.”

  Monica kept her posture straight, her tummy tight, her chin up—she managed a polite smile, even. “I understand. Thank you for your time.”

  “No, thank you, Ms. Sardinia.”

  “Yes, Monica. It’s been a pleasure.”

  Everyone shook hands. Then the recruiters donned their hats, tucked their notebooks under their arms, and headed for the exit, fanning themselves as the Keenes showed them out.

  Afforded a moment’s privacy, the girls flocked to Monica, asking what the word was.

  “The word,” Monica sighed, “is no.”

  Amy’s expression faltered.

  Sarah snorted and folded her arms, aiming a glare in the direction of the club entrance. “Typical military suits. They probably don’t know a cartwheel from a somersault.”

  But they do know their sweetheart types from their ordinary, everyday athletes, Monica thought.

  Amy put her hand on Monica’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Monica.”

  Though she wanted to curl up somewhere and cry for a while, she forced it down, kept her composure as she shifted gears. “It’s three hours till quitting time,” she said, addressing the younger girls, “and Donna’s going to want you warmed up when she gets back—so come on. Lunchtime is over.”

  On most days, it took a little prodding to get the girls motivated after their afternoon break and study period, but today everyone seemed to sense the need for compliance. Without the slightest protest, they all ducked into the changing room, swapped their casual clothes for their workout gear, then reemerged to take their places on the floor.

  Monica had them start off with a series of stretches. She herself joined in, counting out loud until Greg and Donna returned and took over. Greg looked like he wanted to take her aside, ask her how she was holding up—but he knew her well enough by now, knew the best thing to do was pretend it was any other day at the gym.

  Even though her last chance had come and gone.

  Doesn’t matter, she told herself as she slipped into the well-rehearsed motions, flexing arms, legs, neck, and spine in succession. The odds were never really in your favor—you saw how quick the scouts were to get out of here, to get on with their business. They’d made their decision long before setting foot in the gym.

  She let the memory of her display stew i
n the back of her mind, kept coming back to the recruiters’ lame excuses for turning her down. They’d stated it quite succinctly: She was a very technical gymnast. Her lines were neat, her skills impeccably executed—but she was no sweetheart, no dainty little pixie trailing fairy dust wherever she walked. She was utilitarian, neck too thick, hips too narrow, overall musculature a little too prominent. Instead of a cute ponytail or braided hairstyle like that of the other girls, she’d opted to cut her hair short and have it flipped out in the back. While the other girls said they would gladly kill for her calves, give up an extra slice of pizza for a tummy as toned as hers, she, conversely, would have preferred softer lines, larger breasts, a less boyish figure. She wasn’t the spritely type at all, but rather a rugged, dependable athlete, and the military men knew this. They wanted to win hearts first, points second, and Monica simply wasn’t a looker.

  But, she reminded herself, supposed setbacks such as these were auxiliary annoyances. She could only imagine what it was like for normal girls who came home from public school every day and, with nothing better to do, stood in front of the mirror counting their various imperfections.

  That’s not me, she thought. I’m better than that.

  CHAPTER 3

  At just after five, when the parents started pulling into the KG parking lot to pick up their daughters, Greg, Donna, and the girls decided to spring Monica a surprise “graduation” party. In hindsight, she should have seen it coming; for the first time in her seven years at the club, the shower was free, the dressing room empty. But there was a lot on her mind—and so she missed all the signs until, back in sweatpants and T-shirt, her duffel bag slung over her shoulder, she emerged into the training room to find everyone gathered in the center. Donna bore a cheesecake.

  “Surprise!” the girls shouted, whooping and clapping.

  Reactivating her happy face, Monica swooned appropriately and, setting her bag down, exchanged hugs with her coaches and training partners. She allowed herself a sliver of cheesecake and half a can of soda. She sat on the balance beam, posed for pictures with the girls, with the Keenes. She pretended it was the most wonderful experience in the world to be leaving behind everything and everyone she knew and loved.

  One by one, the parents wrangled up their daughters. When it was time for Amy to go, she jogged up to Monica and hugged her tightly.

  “I’m going to miss my Big Sister,” she said.

  Monica returned the hug. “Hey, I’ll still drop by from time to time, just to make sure you’ve done all your crunches.”

  Amy laughed. Then, summoned by her mother, who’d started to get impatient, she started towards the club entrance. “E-mail me!” she called over her shoulder.

  “I will,” said Monica.

  There were more hugs, a few tears, even, as everyone cleared out. Monica stayed behind to help the Keenes tidy things up. (One of the reasons she’d been able to stay at the club so long was the fact that it was a small, family-oriented gym. Recognizing Monica’s talent from the outset, Greg and Donna had offered the Sardinia family a considerable discount, and had even provided free transportation, with Monica’s mother driving her to the gym in the mornings, the Keenes driving her home each night. The only stipulation—and it was more than fair—was that she serve as custodian in lieu of an expensive cleaning bot.)

  Once the training room was dusted and brushed, the mats folded, the medicine balls and rubber bands put away, Greg announced that it was time to go.

  Outside, the sun was fast retreating below the horizon. Monica stood by Greg’s van, waiting for him to finish locking up. She watched the sky with heavy eyelids, studied the speck-tiny shuttle paths—Earth’s skyways, leading to and from the various high-altitude skyports—criss-crossing against the azure and amaranth canvas. Among the first points of light to brave the night was Olympus, the international space station, the jewel of the heavens—a promise that was, for Monica, to go unfulfilled.

  Donna came to her side. “How are you managing?”

  “Kind of bummed out,” she replied.

  “Don’t be.”

  “Don’t be?” Monica snorted. “My competitive career has all but fizzled out!”

  Donna leaned against the van. “It’s been hard for us all. No major U.S. victories for the last three Olympic terms, Canada and Mexico getting restless—the entire North American Union is hurting, and we’re getting the blame. It’s not a very prosperous time for the sport.”

  “That’s a lousy attitude,” Monica said.

  “I’m not saying I like the way things are, nor do I agree with how the NPAA has handled its affairs as of late. I think it’s been decades since they put their athletes before their image. But what can we do? You’ve seen the military men, this afternoon and all the other afternoons. You’ve seen how they come here and watch our elites, and when it’s time to go, who do they pick for Olympus?” Donna sighed. “I love each and every one of my girls, mind you, but I can see as plain as the next person that it’s looks before skills. Who has the right smile, the right curves, the right charm—who wiggles her butt the right way. Greg and I, we train athletes, Monica. Not pop stars. If our girls have been taken to Olympus, it’s because their parents have decided they want their daughters to join America’s current pop culture posse. It’s their decision. Our influence ends once you step off these premises—while you’re here I wouldn’t dare spoil you by emphasizing flirtatious winks and scandalous gyrations over good, solid sportsmanship.”

  Of course, Donna was right. Monica hadn’t the slightest desire to alter her look or step up her willingness to “put out” in order to snag herself a spot on the Patriot team. She’d always believed, perhaps naively, in a world where image was supplemental to hard work—now the utter reality was sinking in, and she was certain that someone of her make could never excel beyond a few local competitive circles. The worst part: failing to find a way around the Catch-22, failing to live up to her own expectations.

  Failing to live up to her parents’ expectations.

  Greg approached the van. When he saw Monica’s downcast expression, he tossed the car keys to Donna and wrapped his arm around Monica’s shoulders. “Come, now. No soggy memories.”

  “I’m fine,” Monica insisted, surprised to find a tear trickling down her cheek. “Really.” She shrugged out of Greg’s grasp, hauled open the van door, and climbed inside.

  * * *

  The ride into Sussex was a somber one. Monica stared out the window the entire time, taking in the familiar side streets from an objective point of view—as if she were coming home from an extended stay elsewhere. As a young child, the small-town village feel of her neighborhood had always been comforting, but now it seemed claustrophobic. Many considered Sussex quaint and cozy, but Monica could see the cracks, the chipped paint, the rust. Her family was at the lower end of the middle class bracket, citizens of what the news folk frequently referred to as “a nation rapidly falling into disrepair.”

  The Keenes dropped her off in front of her parents’ house. She waved goodbye and then let herself inside, softly opening and closing the door and stepping between the stacks of boxes as she made her way towards the staircase.

  Her mother was in the den, grading papers.

  “Dinner in half an hour,” she said, catching Monica in passing.

  “Okay.”

  “How was practice?”

  Starting up the stairs, Monica called over her shoulder, “It was fine.”

  In her room, she closed the door and stood very still with her bag resting at her feet. She tried to feel like a champion would, tallying the accolades around her, the medals and certificates hanging on the walls, the photographs of her on the balance beam, the bars, the podium, in group pictures at various conferences. Her entire competitive career was encapsulated in this bedroom. She should have been proud; instead there was a feeling of constriction, a renewed urge to jump or cry out loud offsetting the day’s soreness. It might have helped if her mother had offered
more than a mere, “How was practice?” Something to mark her awareness that this wasn’t just the closing of an average day—something to show that she understood.

  Instead there was quiet. Soft noises. The muffled sound of a news broadcast emanating from down the hall, silverware rattling downstairs, trees rustling gently outside.

  I’m really home, she thought, glancing at the half-packed cardboard boxes, the piles of clothes. And even home is mine no more.

  CHAPTER 4

  At six-thirty sharp, the Sardinias assembled at the dinner table: Monica, downtrodden, still wearing sweats and her favorite T-shirt; Chris, her younger brother, rounded up from whatever corner of the house he’d made his fort for the night, his school clothes untucked and disheveled; Mr. and Mrs. Sardinia (Mike and Sharon, respectively), the former still in his pressed white shirt and tie and leading the table in prayer, the latter looking like she was still in the den correcting her students’ worksheets.

  Conversation was sparse, and came in the form of brief, sporadic bursts—mostly when someone wanted another chicken wing, a fresh roll, more peas or carrots (no one mentioned, or even insinuated, the impending move…even though the dining room was bare, all the portraits tucked away, the china cabinet empty). Mike asked how Sharon’s day was, and Sharon responded with a pre-recorded comment about her affinity for Fridays. That out of the way, Mike offered a blow-by-blow account of his day at the store. Lastly, nodding at Monica and Chris and taking another mouthful of mashed potatoes:

  “And you two?”

  Chris immediately availed himself of the opportunity to relay a schoolyard tale involving himself and a wounded pigeon.

  Monica waited patiently, finishing her meal and nibbling on a slice of sweet potato pie. She’d resisted talking about anything gym-related (or anything at all, for that matter), but now that everyone was shifting into dessert, now that only the tail-end of dinner would be ruined if she got into it with her parents…