This was her big moment coming up. She stood waiting, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, listening to what Mr. Hardistan was saying, but not really hearing. She slowly swept her gaze over the crowd; it was huge. Hard to believe so many people could be crammed together, watching, always watching. And the judges at their table at the edge of the mat. Always judging. Someone always judging her, she thought. Her teammates all turned toward her, comparing, some in awe of her, some resenting her, some jealous and wishing they had a fraction of her talent.
Her mother had insisted, "You must win tonight. We're all counting on you." Judging her; and it would go hard on her if she didn't do well. If she didn't win. Mr. Hardistan most of all, lurking right there behind her, face stony in concentration, as though he were concentrating for her. He concentrated more than she.
Why am I here? she wondered. I don't want to be a gymnast. I hate all this, I always have. Mom started me too young, made me do all this stuff I detest. I'm good at sports, but I don't like doing it.
It seemed like she had been "in training" all her life. After school, on weekends, during summer vacation. They had not let up on her, not allowed her to let up the least bit on her training exercises. "You have to get it down perfect--every move!" This is what Mr. Hardistan drummed into her every day. She heard his voice in her nightmares, awakening in the middle of the night, listening to the echo of his demands.
And then finally it was her turn. And she thought: Yes, it finally is my turn, and I am going to show them. I'm going to do my best to do my worst, and I wonder what they're going to think of that. What I am going to do is going to make them hate me. And that's all right, too. Because what they've made me do all these years has caused me to hate myself. It's time for me to do what I should have done a long time ago, so that maybe I can finally stop hating myself.
And then she got the go ahead, and time seemed to stand still. She had gone over and over it in her mind for the past week, and she knew, as she started forward, exactly how she was going to allow herself to fail . . . .
This was her big moment coming up. She stood waiting, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, listening to what Mr. Hardistan was saying, but not really hearing. She slowly swept her gaze over the crowd; it was huge. Hard to believe so many people could be crammed together, watching, always watching. And the judges at their table at the edge of the mat. Always judging. Someone always judging her, she thought. Her teammates all turned toward her, comparing, some in awe of her, some resenting her, some jealous and wishing they had a fraction of her talent.
Her mother had insisted, "You must win tonight. We're all counting on you." Judging her; and it would go hard on her if she didn't do well. If she didn't win. Mr. Hardistan most of all, lurking right there behind her, face stony in concentration, as though he were concentrating for her. He concentrated more than she.
Why am I here? she wondered. I don't want to be a gymnast. I hate all this, I always have. Mom started me too young, made me do all this stuff I detest. I'm good at sports, but I don't like doing it.
It seemed like she had been "in training" all her life. After school, on weekends, during summer vacation. They had not let up on her, not allowed her to let up the least bit on her training exercises. "You have to get it down perfect--every move!" This is what Mr. Hardistan drummed into her every day. She heard his voice in her nightmares, awakening in the middle of the night, listening to the echo of his demands.
And then finally it was her turn. And she thought: Yes, it finally is my turn, and I am going to show them. I'm going to do my best to do my worst, and I wonder what they're going to think of that. What I am going to do is going to make them hate me. And that's all right, too. Because what they've made me do all these years has caused me to hate myself. It's time for me to do what I should have done a long time ago, so that maybe I can finally stop hating myself.
And then she got the go ahead, and time seemed to stand still. She had gone over and over it in her mind for the past week, and she knew, as she started forward, exactly how she was going to allow herself to fail . . . .
Her mother had insisted, "You must win tonight. We're all counting on you." Judging her; and it would go hard on her if she didn't do well. If she didn't win. Mr. Hardistan most of all, lurking right there behind her, face stony in concentration, as though he were concentrating for her. He concentrated more than she.
Why am I here? she wondered. I don't want to be a gymnast. I hate all this, I always have. Mom started me too young, made me do all this stuff I detest. I'm good at sports, but I don't like doing it.
It seemed like she had been "in training" all her life. After school, on weekends, during summer vacation. They had not let up on her, not allowed her to let up the least bit on her training exercises. "You have to get it down perfect--every move!" This is what Mr. Hardistan drummed into her every day. She heard his voice in her nightmares, awakening in the middle of the night, listening to the echo of his demands.
And then finally it was her turn. And she thought: Yes, it finally is my turn, and I am going to show them. I'm going to do my best to do my worst, and I wonder what they're going to think of that. What I am going to do is going to make them hate me. And that's all right, too. Because what they've made me do all these years has caused me to hate myself. It's time for me to do what I should have done a long time ago, so that maybe I can finally stop hating myself.
And then she got the go ahead, and time seemed to stand still. She had gone over and over it in her mind for the past week, and she knew, as she started forward, exactly how she was going to allow herself to fail . . . .
This was her big moment coming up. She stood waiting, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, listening to what Mr. Hardistan was saying, but not really hearing. She slowly swept her gaze over the crowd; it was huge. Hard to believe so many people could be crammed together, watching, always watching. And the judges at their table at the edge of the mat. Always judging. Someone always judging her, she thought. Her teammates all turned toward her, comparing, some in awe of her, some resenting her, some jealous and wishing they had a fraction of her talent.
Her mother had insisted, "You must win tonight. We're all counting on you." Judging her; and it would go hard on her if she didn't do well. If she didn't win. Mr. Hardistan most of all, lurking right there behind her, face stony in concentration, as though he were concentrating for her. He concentrated more than she.
Why am I here? she wondered. I don't want to be a gymnast. I hate all this, I always have. Mom started me too young, made me do all this stuff I detest. I'm good at sports, but I don't like doing it.
It seemed like she had been "in training" all her life. After school, on weekends, during summer vacation. They had not let up on her, not allowed her to let up the least bit on her training exercises. "You have to get it down perfect--every move!" This is what Mr. Hardistan drummed into her every day. She heard his voice in her nightmares, awakening in the middle of the night, listening to the echo of his demands.
And then finally it was her turn. And she thought: Yes, it finally is my turn, and I am going to show them. I'm going to do my best to do my worst, and I wonder what they're going to think of that. What I am going to do is going to make them hate me. And that's all right, too. Because what they've made me do all these years has caused me to hate myself. It's time for me to do what I should have done a long time ago, so that maybe I can finally stop hating myself.
And then she got the go ahead, and time seemed to stand still. She had gone over and over it in her mind for the past week, and she knew, as she started forward, exactly how she was going to allow herself to fail . . . .
