Return to Sender by Julie Cross Page B

the last time he and I have even spent more than one hour together.
    I blow air out of my cheeks, forcing back the anger. It’s not Karen’s fault. And it’s not exactly Dad’s fault that his gymnasts all made the Pan-Am team and that the USA Gymnastics National Committee made them all go to Houston first for a weeklong training camp and then straight to Brazil for two weeks.
    Karen jumps into her mount and I quickly replace the air I just released from my lungs, holding it in. There’s an eerie calm to her expression that makes me ten times more nervous, like one of us has to do the worrying and if it’s not gonna be her…
    She takes every handstand to the very edge and I know by the time she gets to her most difficult release move that this is daredevil Karen. Normally, daredevil Karen is my favorite because she’s totally bad-ass, but right now, I just want her to catch the bar even if that means she loses some height.
    No such luck. She’s so high above the bar, the commentators actually gasp, anticipating another face-plant.
    But this time she hangs on and when she finishes the rest of the routine with only a small hop on her dismount, I’m physically exhausted and have to slump back against the couch.
    “That was good, right?” Tony asks.
    I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing the Advil wasn’t so far away in the other room. “Yep, very good. Now she needs to stay on the balance beam.”

CHAPTER THREE
KAREN
    I can’t stop staring at the medals weighing down my neck. Three gold—team, all-around, and vault. Two silver—uneven bars and balance beam. One bronze—floor exercise. I medaled in every event possible. Bentley and I are both shocked about the floor medal because there were several girls with much higher difficulties and we haven’t added any upgrades to my routines (yet, if I have anything to say about it), but one injury and two major mistakes by the frontrunners and the door swung wide open for me.
    All this has led to Stevie, Bentley, and I being forced into a Brazilian dinner with Nina Jones, National Team coordinator (aka—female elite gymnast dream maker/crusher), and a head publicist for USA Gymnastics to discuss our futures.
    A waiter sets down a basket of bread and Stevie, who’s seated beside me, leans in to whisper in my ear, “Don’t touch the bread. Nina will flip.”
    I jerk my hand back and rest it in my lap, but stare at the basket, drawn by the delicious scent of white flour and yeast. I needed that bread. Or at least something plain that results in lengthy digestion.
    “My stomach can’t take any more mystery meat covered in mystery sauce.”
    Bentley’s sitting on my other side and he must have overheard me because he waits for Nina and Riley, the publicist, to be deep in conversation before leaning toward us. “Your stomach’s been upset?”
    I nod and Stevie adds, “Mine, too.”
    “Why did neither of you say anything?” Bentley asks. Because we don’t feel like talking about bowel movements with our coach. He shakes his head. “Let me order for you, okay?”
    Stevie and I both agree to this. I hadn’t even planned on eating much anyway. Bentley waves over a waiter and proceeds to give a lengthy order in Portuguese, pointing to Stevie, then to me, then to himself. My mouth is hanging open in shock, I glance over at Stevie and she says, “Well, that’s handy.”
    “No kidding,” I mumble.
    The waiter returns seconds later, setting glass bottles of Coke in front of each of us. Nina looks at our beverages and frowns, but Bentley holds up a hand to keep her from commenting. “I ordered for them. They need some adequate calories to replace what they burned at the meet today.”
    “Well then,” Nina says, clapping her hands together and flashing her I’m-being-nice-because-you-won smile, “First of all, wonderful job at the meet today, both of you. Karen, you surprised everyone. They never saw you coming and Stevie…” Stevie straightens up in her chair,