Return To Sender (Letters to Nowhere #2)

Chapter 33

~TJ~

I'm lost.

Completely shit-faced lost.

Again.

            My side smacks hard into the landing mat in the foam pit and the impact knocks the wind out of me. I roll onto my back mentally stringing a dozen swear words together since talking is impossible right now.

Yeah, so it probably wasn't the best idea ever to hit the gym at five in the morning after staying up all night. But it's not like I've ever been good at this fucking double twisting double backflip. My logic was: Who knows? Maybe sleep-deprivation will improve my lame-ass twisting.

            Obviously that didn't work out for me. But what else is new? My mom's been telling me I suck practically since birth—in Spanish and English, so that every insult counts as two.

            "Thomas, you're just like your papi—lazy and sneaky, always want ways to get gold without mining."

            I clench my fists, squeezing away the anger and then I relax and sink further into the mats. Maybe I won't get up. Maybe I can't get up.

            The second one. Definitely the second one.

            "One of these days you're going to break your neck and no one will be around to do CPR."

            I stop thinking about the pain radiating through my body and jump to my feet, taking in Stevie Davis's figure in the doorway of the gym. "Are you offering to give me mouth-to-mouth, chica?"

            "Not a chance," she says, so fast I'm almost hurt.

            My normal quick insulting reply is held back because I have to put every ounce of effort into climbing out of the pit without showing even one painful wince. By the time I make my way to the end of the tumbling strip, Stevie is on the big gymnastics floor, her iPod fastened to her waist and ear buds in her ears. I shake my arms out, giving myself a second to decide if I should just give up for the day and crawl into bed for a few hours of sleep.

            Thomas, you're just like your papi—lazy and sneaky.

            Adrenaline pumps through my veins, covering the pain from my last crash, which was only one of many this morning. I take off in a sprint, flipping fast down the tumbling strip. But halfway through the double twisting double backflip I get lost again, so bad I can hardly tell which way is up. My face hits the mat first, the impact causing my nose to burn and my eyes water like one of the little bawling girls I have to coach later.

            "Goddammit!" I shout before remembering that I'm not alone. I glance around the gym and see Stevie prancing across the floor, headphones still in place. I breathe a sigh of relief and make my way out again. Her back is to me and I can't stop myself from watching her move. She's not doing much, just jumping and leaping around, which is a freakin' waste of time if you ask me, but the way her muscles flex with every movement—it's hard not to stare. It doesn't help that she's wearing a leotard and skintight leggings.

            I abandon the twisting for today and go back to my straight passes. I haven't done a triple back in competition yet, but I'm fucking doing one at Nationals. There's no way I'm walking onto that floor with a bunch of entitled veterans and then throwing some cookie-cutter, average passes. I'm doing my best tricks. I don't have the luxury of failing. Either I get sponsorship to keep training or I go back home and . . . Well, that's not an option I'm even willing to think about right now.

            "What's the difficulty value of a triple back?" Stevie asks after I've tumbled several passes and it's almost time for the other girls to start morning practice.

            I tell her the answer and ask, "Why?"

            She shrugs. "Just trying to figure out if it's worth the risk."

            I snort back a laugh. "Hell yeah, it's worth it. It's a fucking triple back."

            "Whatever." She rolls her eyes and sits on the floor to stuff her headphones into her gym bag. "Wouldn't it be smarter to up the difficulty a little on two skills in the pass rather than dump it all into the triple? Just seems a lot like putting all your eggs in one basket."

            "Baby, where I'm from we're lucky to get one basket. People like you must get a few dozen to work with?"

            Stevie shakes her head, a look of disgust on her face. "You are such a cliché. You're gonna face-plant on that triple at Nationals, quit after failing to make the senior team, and then blame the world for your screwups."

            I dig my fingertips into my palms, channeling the anger to one spot. This sounds way too familiar. "Oh, I get it. You've got a little color to your skin, too, and that makes me and you exactly the same. Except your daddy is cashing in on his Olympic medal and Nike ads from twenty years ago and mine is in prison."

            I don't know what made me say that out loud. That was not the comeback I needed. Now she's going to freakin' feel sorry for me. I'll shoot myself if I have to see one single look of pity coming from Stevie Davis.

            She cocks her head to the side, examining me. "Now I know how the story ends. You fail at Nationals, blame the world, and end up in a cell beside your dad. Poetic justice at its best."

            Ain't that the truth. Nice to know we're on the same page.

            "And after you fail at Nationals, you'll go back home, go to college, become a doctor or a lawyer," I say. "I bet you have some fancy grades and test scores, plus buckets of scholarships like Campbell."

            She jumps to her feet, taking a step in my direction. "I bet you do this close-minded judgmental thing with everyone."

I shrug. "It's been working for me so far."

"That's a great plan, TJ. It'll come in handy when you need to point blame at people for your inevitable failures. "

            "Screw you." If I squeeze my fists any harder, I'm gonna break a finger.

            She steps closer to me, arms crossed, glare pointed right at my chest. "Just don't pretend you know shit about me. Do that with someone else."

            "You know what—" I start to say, raising my voice. But then I feel the eyes. Lots of watching eyes. Both Stevie and I turn to face the gym entrance and see four of the girls, including Karen, and Nina Jones staring at us.

            We turn and walk in separate directions—me headed toward the tumble track and Stevie toward her teammates and Nina. I'm still breathing hard from holding back all the insults I'd wanted to throw her way. What the hell? My triple back is way more solid than my damn twisting skills. Maybe because she hasn't seen me land it outside of the pit, but this isn't gymnastics, we get a nice soft landing zone in power tumbling. It's not that different than coming down onto mats stacked in the foam pit.

            Whatever. Why do I even care what she thinks?

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