Read Online Hot Little Hands by Abigail Ulman - Free Book Online Page B

bits of red in his beard, and a squinty look behind his glasses. He was taller and bulkier than the average gymnast, but just as graceful when he moved around. He seemed more like a dad than a coach; he had a kind word of praise or encouragement for everyone.
    “All right!” he said as I began my routine with a flic-flac then lowered myself into a straddle split. I held my legs straight out to the sides as I somersaulted, and then raised myself onto the beam for a handstand. “Nice transition,” I heard him say. I turned my hands on the beam, pirouetting around with my legs in the air. I felt calm and happy, the way my dad always describes me on the beam:
You look so at home up there, they should be charging you rent.
    I lowered myself into bridge position, and then flung my legs up and over, willing my feet to find their way back onto the beam, one in front of the other. Once upright, I raised my arms and stood in place for a moment, evening my breath, before flinging myself into a double back, and off onto the mat.
    It was a clean landing. I smiled like there was a crowd and a TV camera, and a bunch of nodding judges taking notes. But really there was just the scattered sound of light applause. That’s when I knew I’d done well. The better you do in gymnastics, the less your competitors clap for you.
    A girl in a black leotard prepared to mount the beam and I went and sat with the others. “That was great.” Anastasya tapped my shoulder. “I saw him pull your form and photo out of his folder. I think you’re gonna get in.”
    “Who knows?” I said, shrugging, but I hoped she was right.
    “Will you stay to watch me?” she asked. “I’m worrying my tits off.”
    She started out strong in her floor routine with a double front handspring, but she stumbled badly on the landing. Coach Zhukov smiled and said, “It’s always good to get the stumble out of the way at the beginning.” She blushed, moved back to the corner of the mat, and started again. After she was done, she came and sat next to me. “I’m finished,” she whispered.
    “You never know,” I said.
    She shot me an insulted look, like we had been best friends for years and I owed her the truth. “Come on,” she said. “I wouldn’t let myself in after that performance.” At the end of the afternoon, though, my name was on the acceptance list, and so was hers.
    —
    Coach Zhukov said we would have to clear our calendars for him, and he wasn’t joking. Practice started the next week, three evenings after school and all day Sunday. It was exhausting. I had to go to bed right after I did my homework every night. I fell behind on socializing with my friends. I had to miss out on my first best friend Lara’s birthday, when she took some girls from school to see
Pirates of the Caribbean,
and at my second best friend Raya’s slumber party I had to go to sleep way before the others did so I could get up early the next day. I barely had time to flirt with the boys in my class anymore. If one of them wanted to talk to me alone, he had to walk me to practice after school.
    “You’re no fun, Kira,” Dimitri said one day in November. He was walking beside me, with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “All you care about is gymnastics.” He kicked his feet into a pile of leaves on the sidewalk.
    “What would you prefer? One of those dumb girls who can’t think about anything besides which boys like them?”
    He curled the top corner of his lip up in disgust.
    “That’s what I thought,” I said. “Wait until you see me compete in the regionals at the end of term. Then you’ll see where all my spare time’s been going.”
    I started to set my alarm clock ten minutes early in the morning, so I could lie in bed and picture myself competing. Every morning, the daydream got more elaborate; one day I would be wearing a sparkly turquoise ensemble like Alina Kabaeva in Athens, the next day I would be perfecting difficult routines I’d been messing