Free Tumbling by Caela Carter Page B

rush, her heart feeling cool and slow all of a sudden. It wasn’t joy she felt, or accomplishment, or even happiness. Not yet.
    Instead, what overwhelmed her, what rushed through her blood like ice, was relief.
    It had all been worth it. All the sacrifice. All the heart-wrenching choices. All the grueling practices even through injuries and the flu. The physical therapy. The diets. The pushing through off days. The names her coach had called her. She was one of the best. She was an Olympian.
    For a few hours.
    GRACE
    Grace was a willow tree on bars. Something natural and beautiful to look at. Something certain and steady yet light and flexible. Something long and lean and wispy.
    Grace spun on her hands on the high bar in pirouettes that looked like they were powered by the wind. She floated to the low bar like a leaf in autumn. She straddled, and her straight legs and pointed toes embraced the audience.
    They watched her with reverence. They didn’tscream and whoop at the height of her release moves or squeal when she transitioned from bar to bar. Instead the stadium held a collective breath in devotion to the beauty before them: a beauty that exists only when a small and perfect body does impossible things.
    Inside, Grace felt peace. She felt zen. She felt what she used to when her mother would put her to sleep as a little girl after telling her the tale of the spider and the silkworm. “
Wo ai ni
,” she would say, and Grace would feel so loved. She’d kiss Grace on the forehead, and Grace would drop to sleep.
    There was no adrenaline on her breath like there had been an hour or so ago when she was lined up on the vaulting runway. Vault was about being impressive. Bars was about being beautiful. Bars was hers.
    Grace did a one-handed straddle giant, named a Cooper because she’d been the first to perfect it in international competition, and then re-grasped the bar with her left hand to begin her dismount series.
    Her muscles were screaming, her breath was strained, her palms were burning despite her grips, but Grace didn’t feel any of that. Her heart was pumping sunshine and fresh running water. She was alone, practicing bars in a cave next to a babbling brook. She felt like her mother was there, somewhere, watching her and helping her breathe. Once she landed her Mustafina, Grace would be back in the gym. She’d be back to the cameras and the numbers and Leigh and, worst, her dad.
    But for now it was Grace and the bars.
    Then, as she piked to start her dismount, she felt that flutter in her chest: her heart divided like a swarm of moths in her rib cage, and she was back in the gym sooner than she planned. Her entire body flinched and Grace hoped the judges didn’t notice. It was so scary when her organs split like that.
    Still, she released the bar and threw her legs over her head, twisting her body to the left, then finding the floor and thrusting her arms into the air. The gym swung dangerously, the judges a pendulum in her vision, but she managed to keep her body anchored and upright.
    She was sucking down oxygen. It felt like she couldn’t get any past her throat and into her lungs.
    All gymnasts breathe hard after bars routines
, she reminded herself.
No one will notice.
    To prove her right, her father lifted her off the podium and immediately broke into analysis of her routine, saying nothing about her labored breathing or the fact that Grace was sure he could see her pulse punching through the skin beneath her jaw.
    â€œGood,” he concluded with a nod.
    Grace tried to smile, wishing her body would calm down enough for her to enjoy the rare compliment.
    He handed her a water bottle and she sucked some down, her nerves finally slowing, her heart finally solidifying.
    â€œJust watch the transition into the dismount.”
    Grace nodded.
    He didn’t understand. He didn’t know. It wasn’ther gymnastics breaking down in that moment; it was her entire body.
    It