Free Hot Little Hands by Abigail Ulman

up in practice: back handsprings from corner to corner on the floor, or a double-twist dismount from the beam.
    Dimitri was always in the fantasy, too. I couldn’t picture his face, of course, but I could see all the kids from school he’d be sitting with. He would jump to his feet as soon as I’d finished and clap louder than anybody, louder than my parents even. Later, after I’d been awarded a perfect ten, he’d meet me outside the locker rooms and the shake in his voice would tell me that he was so impressed with me, it scared him a little.
    “It’s still me,” I’d say, and he’d laugh. Then, I imagined, he’d kiss me. At first the kissing was tame—a quick brush of his lips on mine—but one morning I imagined he kissed me and opened his mouth. I saw him put his palm out and hold my cheek while he showed me how to kiss with tongues. I lay on my side and slid my hands, palms together, up the outside of my pajama pants and between my thighs. It felt nice, lying there. I decided that if he came to watch me in the regionals, I really would let him kiss me, and maybe even be my boyfriend.
    But one Monday afternoon in December, after two months of solid practice, Coach Zhukov sat us all down and told us that we would have to postpone our participation in the regionals until the following round. We all looked at one another and groaned.
    “What the hell?” Anastasya muttered beside me.
    “I’ve already got my costume,” a girl called from the back.
    “I know you’re all upset,” said Coach Zhukov. He was sitting on a chair, with his forearms on his legs, leaning forward to talk to us. “But I promise there’s a good reason. I’ve been invited to give a talk at a conference. It’s in America and it’s called ‘The Global Gymnast.’ Colin, the director, called me last week and asked me to give a presentation about competitive gymnastics in the new Russia.” He sat up straight in his chair and beamed at us. “Now the exciting part. He’s asked me, also, to bring a small group of students to present something in the showcase section of the conference. So a few of you, I hope, are going to come with me to the USA and perform.”
    We all burst into speech simultaneously, like guests at a surprise party. Who would get to go? How would he decide? “It’s totally gonna be you,” Anastasya said. “You’re one of his favorites.”
    “No way, I’m sure it’ll be you,” I said, but I didn’t really mean it. She was a good gymnast but not outstanding and, at sixteen, she was too old now to even think about serious professional competition.
    “Girls, girls, quiet down,” Coach Zhukov said. “I’ll cure you of your curiosity. I wanted to make this decision right away, before we break for Christmas, so we can start the preparations in time. So, after a difficult weekend of deliberation, and some discussion with Xenia, I have come up with a list of four. Four girls.”
    He said all the usual stuff about how it had been a hard decision and we were all deserving, in a perfect world we could all go, blah blah. And then he took a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and cleared his throat. “I’d like these girls to come to the front of the room,” he said. My heart was beating so hard in my chest I felt like a cartoon character with a crush. “Vera.” A fourteen-year-old girl called Vera with blond hair down her back got up and stood next to his chair. Her face was borscht red and she had a crazy grin on her face. “Ehma.” Ehma stood up. She was a pretty brown-eyed girl, stupid as anything, but she could twirl with a ribbon like it was a limb she’d been born with. Then he said my name. “Kira.”
    “Yes?” I said. I thought he wanted to tell me something or ask me for a favor. I didn’t think he was actually calling my name to go to America.
    “Told you so,” said Anastasya, pushing me in the back until I stood up and went to the front of the group. I felt so dazey. It was cold in