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Authors: Abigail Ulman
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mother called.
I ran into their room. She was propped up on her pillow, her eyes puffy, the lids a smudgy blue with the residue of yesterday’s eye shadow. I kissed her on the cheek and she tugged on my ear. I usually hate it when she does that but I didn’t say anything; I was waiting for my present and didn’t want to start a fight. Then she said, “Look under the bed.”
I got on my hands and knees. Licorice was under there, snoozing on the floor among the dust balls. I shooed him away. There was a small white paper bag sitting there and, inside that, a carton the size of a jewelry box. My dad came and sat on the bed. They both watched me run my fingernail along the edges to break the sticky-tape seal.
“Oh my gosh.” Inside the box was a digital camera. It was a metallic navy-blue color, 6.0 megapixels with a zoom and LCD screen. “How did you—” I looked from my mum to my dad and back again. They seemed tired, but they were smiling.
“It’s to take with you to America,” my mother said then.
“What do you mean, America?” I knew my voice was getting loud but I couldn’t help it. “I thought the answer was no?”
“Coach Zhukov came to speak to us last week.” My mother looked at my father.
“He said it’s the opportunity of a lifetime,” he said. “He’s convinced us to let you go.”
I know I had just become a teenager but I could not stop myself from squealing like a little kid. I stood and started jumping up and down on their bed. It made them laugh. A minute later my grandmother was in the doorway, rubbing her eyes and asking what the noise and commotion was about. Then the neighbors’ babies started crying—the one next door as well as the one upstairs—but I was too excited to feel guilty.
—
I am a gymnast. I have wanted to be a gymnast my whole life. I have been taking classes since I was four years old but my first real lucky break came last October, when my father read an article in the paper about Mr. Zhukov, a gym coach and choreographer who had just moved here from St. Petersburg, where he had his own gymnastics academy. He was planning to start one here in Vladivostok.
My mother called and arranged for me to audition. On the day, she wanted to come with me, but I wouldn’t let her. It’s embarrassing, being escorted around by your mum when you’re old enough to look after yourself. It was a group audition and there were probably fifty girls stretching their legs in the foyer of the church hall. I watched one girl practicing her punch-front salto, taking off from two feet and then pulling them into a tight tuck before she rolled. Another girl hand-walked past me.
“Those beam shoes are too small for you,” she said when her face was next to my feet.
“I know. They’re really old,” I said. “I’ll probably do my routine barefoot.”
She turned herself right-side up. “I’m Anastasya,” she said. “I’m best on the floor.”
“Kira. I prefer the beam.” I couldn’t help wondering how she did well at anything gymnastic. She was the tallest girl there and, with her round hips, big breasts, and long legs, she had the body of a model rather than an athlete. I felt like a child standing next to her, with my skinny legs and flat chest, wearing the same leotard I’ve been using since I was eleven. When Coach Zhukov’s assistant came out and called for everyone’s attention, Anastasya took my hand and squeezed it.
“I’m shitting myself,” she said.
The assistant’s name was Xenia. She was plump and smiley and middle-aged, and she used the same color maroon to dye her hair as my mum. She explained that we would each perform a routine on the apparatus of our choice. She read the list of compulsories. For the balance beam, it was a 180-degree split and a 360 turn, plus a clean mount and dismount. Easy-peasy, I thought. We went into the hall and chalked our hands.
Coach Zhukov was less intimidating than I expected. He had strawberry-blond hair with
I ran into their room. She was propped up on her pillow, her eyes puffy, the lids a smudgy blue with the residue of yesterday’s eye shadow. I kissed her on the cheek and she tugged on my ear. I usually hate it when she does that but I didn’t say anything; I was waiting for my present and didn’t want to start a fight. Then she said, “Look under the bed.”
I got on my hands and knees. Licorice was under there, snoozing on the floor among the dust balls. I shooed him away. There was a small white paper bag sitting there and, inside that, a carton the size of a jewelry box. My dad came and sat on the bed. They both watched me run my fingernail along the edges to break the sticky-tape seal.
“Oh my gosh.” Inside the box was a digital camera. It was a metallic navy-blue color, 6.0 megapixels with a zoom and LCD screen. “How did you—” I looked from my mum to my dad and back again. They seemed tired, but they were smiling.
“It’s to take with you to America,” my mother said then.
“What do you mean, America?” I knew my voice was getting loud but I couldn’t help it. “I thought the answer was no?”
“Coach Zhukov came to speak to us last week.” My mother looked at my father.
“He said it’s the opportunity of a lifetime,” he said. “He’s convinced us to let you go.”
I know I had just become a teenager but I could not stop myself from squealing like a little kid. I stood and started jumping up and down on their bed. It made them laugh. A minute later my grandmother was in the doorway, rubbing her eyes and asking what the noise and commotion was about. Then the neighbors’ babies started crying—the one next door as well as the one upstairs—but I was too excited to feel guilty.
—
I am a gymnast. I have wanted to be a gymnast my whole life. I have been taking classes since I was four years old but my first real lucky break came last October, when my father read an article in the paper about Mr. Zhukov, a gym coach and choreographer who had just moved here from St. Petersburg, where he had his own gymnastics academy. He was planning to start one here in Vladivostok.
My mother called and arranged for me to audition. On the day, she wanted to come with me, but I wouldn’t let her. It’s embarrassing, being escorted around by your mum when you’re old enough to look after yourself. It was a group audition and there were probably fifty girls stretching their legs in the foyer of the church hall. I watched one girl practicing her punch-front salto, taking off from two feet and then pulling them into a tight tuck before she rolled. Another girl hand-walked past me.
“Those beam shoes are too small for you,” she said when her face was next to my feet.
“I know. They’re really old,” I said. “I’ll probably do my routine barefoot.”
She turned herself right-side up. “I’m Anastasya,” she said. “I’m best on the floor.”
“Kira. I prefer the beam.” I couldn’t help wondering how she did well at anything gymnastic. She was the tallest girl there and, with her round hips, big breasts, and long legs, she had the body of a model rather than an athlete. I felt like a child standing next to her, with my skinny legs and flat chest, wearing the same leotard I’ve been using since I was eleven. When Coach Zhukov’s assistant came out and called for everyone’s attention, Anastasya took my hand and squeezed it.
“I’m shitting myself,” she said.
The assistant’s name was Xenia. She was plump and smiley and middle-aged, and she used the same color maroon to dye her hair as my mum. She explained that we would each perform a routine on the apparatus of our choice. She read the list of compulsories. For the balance beam, it was a 180-degree split and a 360 turn, plus a clean mount and dismount. Easy-peasy, I thought. We went into the hall and chalked our hands.
Coach Zhukov was less intimidating than I expected. He had strawberry-blond hair with
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