Tumbling by Caela Carter

was
still
beating Leigh. Monica was in Leigh’s rotation, which meant their scores were comparable. And it was basically agreed upon that Monica didn’t even deserve to be present that day. The gap between Grace and Leigh was not simply because they’d competed different events so far: it meant Leigh was having a terrible day. And Grace was having a good one.
    Grace was supposed to be scared for Leigh. She was supposed to be her friend and feel her losses. But Grace wasn’t. She couldn’t be.
    It was perfect.
    The only thing that could stop Grace was encasedwithin her own skin.
Just do what you’re supposed to
.
    The green flag waved in the corner of her vision, and Grace dropped her hands and squinted at the beam. Her beam coach always told her “focus can make the beam grow.”
    And she was right. When Grace’s insides were still and her mind was laser sharp, she could make the four-inch surface of the beam spread to six or eight. And on the rare day that Grace was off, the beam got skinnier. Sometimes, mid-routine, when she stood with her ten toes lined up for her single standing back tuck, her pinkie toes hung off the edges. Other times, the creamy cloth that covered it seemed to go on for inches on either side of her feet.
    Today, she would turn this beam into a sidewalk.
    She signaled the judges, stormed toward the springboard, and leaped onto the beam, the soles of her feet landing squarely with a
bang.
Her heart beat solidly in the pit of her chest. Everything was as it should be.
    For the next ninety seconds, the gym disappeared and she saw only the glowing sidewalk-beam. Ninety seconds of only her limbs and her hands and her muscles. Then, with a roundoff double back layout, it was over.
    Grace threw her hands over her head as she faced the judges, then brought them immediately to her heart.
Thank you, thank you
, she told it.
Only one rotation left. We can do it.
    Her father patted her sleek ponytail once she wasoff the platform. “Not quite as good as bars,” he whispered through his fake smile. “You can get more height on that dismount. You swung your arms before your switch leap, so you missed that connection. And you weren’t solid on your full turn.”
    Grace nodded. His critique was unfair, as usual. She said nothing, as always.
    He turned his back on her and scanned the gym, seeming to look at nothing.
    Was he punishing her? Had he found her phone? Had he taken the time to go on her fan page on his phone?
    Did Dylan post again?
    If he kept it up, Grace would have to tell Dylan Patrick to stop. She’d be freaking out about him until the Olympics, even through the Olympics, if she didn’t put a stop to it. They were stupid messages from some patriotic celebrity, and it would be 100 percent mortifying to acknowledge them with more than a simple “like” button. But she’d have to do it. All those silly fantasies that sometimes danced in her head when she was outside the gym—dates and candlelit dinners and midnight phone calls—she couldn’t have them anyway. Even if that was what Dylan Patrick meant when he said
hot.
    So Grace would reply to him on her fan page and say, “Thanks for the good luck message! Please don’t post on my page anymore. I can’t afford to be distracted by boys.” That would placate her dad. And then it would be over . . . Dylan . . . her crush . . . her distraction from the world of beams and bars and vaults . . .
    It would be over. Soon. She’d take care of it before her dad found out, hopefully.
    But Dylan had called her
hot
.
    Maybe Leigh was right. Maybe her father wouldn’t bother to check her fan page.
    â€œI think you probably got what we need to take the lead, though,” her dad said, turning back to her.
    Grace nodded again, even though she knew better than that. She gave a stellar beam routine. It was more than they needed. Why