Page 20 of It’s All in How You Fall
“Um, well, probably not. And I’ve never landed one anyway.” I mean, only 0.00000589 percent of the gymnastics population can land one, but it’s still somewhat embarrassing to admit that despite all my training there’s something I can’t do properly. “I meant I could show you a video.”
Alex can probably YouTube as well as any other sixteen-year-old boy. Lord knows Nat spends most of his nonmoving hours watching videos of people daring each other to eat pig feces and scale buildings. But instead he says immediately, “That’d be cool.”
And the student becomes the teacher.
The light turns green and I’m surprised when Alex shoots another question my way. “Can the girl on your shirt land one?”
“Oh, no—this is Nadia Comaneci. She’s Romanian too, but her career ended long before Amanar even started. Something as difficult as that vault wasn’t even a pipe dream then.” I pull out my phone and page through my videos for the last meet of my season—regionals. The Amanar is something Sunny started performing last year. When we hit a red light, I shove the queued-up screen under his nose. “Here, look, watch.”
The competition floor is raised, and the video is taken from the athletes’ area, which is nearly four feet below that, but I think I still managed to get a decent angle of Sunny performing the vault. The video is less than twenty seconds long.
Sunny waiting to salute, rubbing chalk on her hands as her eyes zone out in visualization.
Saluting and checking her mark.
Sprinting down the runway, arms pumping and legs flexing under the weight of each step, her competition bun the only thing immobile.
Then the skill: a round-off onto the board, back handspring entry to the vault table, and then two and a half twists while flipping through the air.
Like my Arabian, the landing is front-facing and therefore blind. Sunny’s feet hit the mat before she spots it. She takes a big step forward—a good three-tenths off—but considering the difficulty, it’s solid.
“Damn.”
I’ll admit—I’m quite pleased with Alex’s reaction. “Right?”
The light changes and the car growls into motion. I can’t help it; I start paging through the pictures from that same meet. Selfies with the team in a never-ending rotation of pairs, triples, and the whole team. I even got a few of Olga, all serious eyebrows and pinched lips as she gave advice to Peregrine before a bar routine that won her yet another medal.
This. This is what I’m missing. I’ve opened Pandora’s box and now I can’t wrench myself away. My heart clenches as I page through my old life one smile, laugh, mid-motion conversation at a time.
I’ve basically lost touch with the current time and place when Alex’s voice cuts through the void. “Um, so is that Sunny Chavez?”
There’s something in his tone that demands I catch a glimpse of his face. He’s watching the road a little more intently than before, his posture pin straight and no longer relaxed. He’s golden brown from spending so much time outside, but I swear his cheeks flush with color rising into his neat hairline.
“The one and only.” I can’t help but grin a little as I watch Alex seem to shed his perfectness before my eyes and display real, messy, human emotions. “Do you know her?”
“Used to.” Yes, he’s red. Definitely red. “Freshman year mathletics.”
Of course. Sunny was at Northland before I got there, but decided to go the homeschool route after becoming elite. She would’ve been a sophomore when Alex and Nat were freshmen.
Something Nat said during his weird overprotective rant pings through my brain.I know for a fact you think gymnasts are cute and all, but my sister is off-limits.
Oh.
That uptick on my lips widens into a full-on grin. “Alex Zavala, do you have a crush on Sunny Chavez?”
His nose crinkles and his eyes stay pinned to the white lines. “Did.”
“Did?I’d say youdo. Look at you—you’re sweating.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” I pointedly press the back of my hand to his forehead. He perspired less kicking my ass with volleyball drills in ninety-five-degree heat.
Oh my God.
I nearly start cackling with glee because suddenly, surprisingly, I have a way to pay back Alex Zavala. I click my phone to life and check the time. Four fifty-three. Perfect. “Drop me at the gym?”
“Thegymgym?”
