Free Panic by K.R. Griffiths

the happy fog of childhood behind, or maybe it was the effect of seeing her parents so relaxed, happy and smiling, cheering on the country's athletes, instead of stressing about the day ahead. The chores that needed to be done, the bills that needed to be paid. For that one month, which seemed to stretch out endlessly before her, Rachel's house had the same wonderful, intangible feel as the small cottages or chalets her parents had always rented on the North Welsh coast for week-long holidays each June.
    She hadn't ever paid much attention to sport before, whether on television or thrust in front of her face by eager PE teachers, and in truth, when that summer ebbed toward autumn, she never would again. By the time the next Olympics rolled around she was older if not necessarily wiser, and her head was dominated by thoughts of the boys in her class and fears that her body, somehow, was different to that of all the other girls, and they all knew it.
    Still, for that one month, she became obsessed, devouring all the amazing events that took place under the baking Georgia sun, before rushing out to try to replicate them in her garden or the local park, staying out for as long as the remnants of the summer sun would allow, before hurrying home through the gloom in a vain attempt to avoid her mother's wrath at her staying out so late and arriving home long after dinner had cooled.
    Her best friend at the time, Jeanette, had little interest in sport, and resisted Rachel's infectious enthusiasm for several days, but Rachel knew she was the leader out of the two, and she knew that eventually Jeanette would follow her. It wasn't long before Jeanette was rushing over to the Roberts house each morning and they would watch together, before devising how to go about recreating whichever event had caught their attention.
    The feats of strength and speed were impressive, of course, and ofte n got their young blood pumping; adrenaline coursing through them as their chosen favourite stumbled to a glorious victory or a noble defeat, but it was the gymnastics that truly entranced the two girls.
    Watching the girls, barely older than they were, hailing from exotic -sounding places like Yugoslavia or Czechoslovakia, as they twisted and contorted in a dazzling cascade of colourful ribbons; dancing across the screen with such poise and grace, the two girls instantly made their minds up: they would become gymnasts.
    They immediately scurried out into the sunlight, practising handstands and rolls, twirling sticks tied at the end with string in place of ribbons, and squealed with glee when their motions reminded them of the otherworldly beauty they had seen on the TV.
    It was only natural that once they had conquered throwing and catching the sticks and colourful string, Rachel would suggest that they needed to up the ante.
    So it was that on one late morning in August, Rachel found herself clapping hands in delight as she watched her friend walking the high beam.
    The wall they used wasn't quite narrow enough, of course, but it was high – maybe six feet off the ground – and dramatic enough that as Jeanette placed one foot confidently in front of the other, Rachel could almost hear the roar of the capacity crowd.
    Jeanette beamed as she reached the end of the wall, her ten foot journey a raging success. She held her arms aloft, saluting the invisible crowd, accepting their rapturous cheers.
    “Do a turn!” Rachel squealed, and Jeanette nodded.
    It was as she turned, that brief moment where the difficulty curve suddenly shot up, where her balance was truly challenged, that it happened.
    For a moment Rachel felt as though a small, manic laugh might escape her lips as she watched her friend fall from the wall into the neighbouring garden. But then she heard the crashing glass. And the scream.
    When she climbed the boxes they had used as a makeshift ladder to get to the top of the wall and looked down at her friend, Rachel felt her head swim, and her