toward the difficulty score, though additional points can be earned by connecting multiple elements. Points are docked if you miss out on certain skills. I take Ryan’s binder from the shelf under the stereo and flip through it until I find the section of the Code of Points that details the requirements: I’ll need to include a leap or jump series, a front flip, a back flip, a flip with a full twist or more, a double flip, and a final tumbling pass with a difficulty value of at least a “D” (skills are ranked alphabetically, with the easiest ones labeled as “A”). In other words, choreographing a winning floor routine isn’t just an art—it’s a science, too.
I hook up my phone to the stereo system and roll my head and ankles out in a light stretch as I find “Jazz Fling,” the piece of music we’ve chosen. I play the first ten seconds to jog my memory—Dun dun dun… dun-dun-dun dun dun dun—and experiment with movement on the floor. I could start with this pose, or that one. There could be a flashy kick, or a spin, or a flick of my wrists. I watch myself carefully in the mirror as I string together a sequence of dance, and try it out to the beat of the music. It’s good. But what if I squeeze in a jump series before the first tumbling pass? I rework the choreography three different ways before I settle on a version I like. I try it out—and this time, I’m pleased.
The next section of the melody soars, and I make a mental note to reserve that for Hallie’s first tumbling pass, the impressive double Arabian. I listen as the music unfurls and try to imagine what could come next. The song has flaring trumpets and a sassy beat. You don’t just dance to this music—you strut. I pop my hip, flick my fingers, shimmy my shoulders. I let myself get lost in the song, leaping and pirouetting with abandon. It’s been close to a decade since I’ve allowed myself to indulge in this way, and I can practically feel my heart glowing with joy.
That is, until I catch sight of the mirror across the floor, reflecting stiff joints that don’t bend the way I envision. It’s cringeworthy. I hear echoes of Dimitri’s criticisms: the split in my leap isn’t crisp enough; my Shushunova doesn’t get enough height; the routine would really look better if my thighs were thinner. I thought I was done mourning the loss of my ability years ago, but fresh grief springs up again. It’s overwhelmingly sad to know that no matter how hard I train, I can never regain the body I once took for granted.
I take a break, letting the music play out as I take an ice-cold slurp from the water fountain. Then I tighten my ponytail, take a deep breath, and queue up the beginning of “Jazz Fling” again.
Over the next hour, the bones of the routine begin to take shape. I’m reminded of one of the many things I loved about gymnastics: if you work hard, you can become a superhuman version of yourself, at least for a time. If I were in prime shape, I could spiral like a ballerina, contort myself like a circus performer, catapult myself like a soldier, and defy gravity like a goddess. There would be no limits on what I could do. Outside the gym, that’s never been true for me—I couldn’t make it through college, and I couldn’t make Tyler stay in love with me. But here? This is my world. Or at least it was. Until I went to Trials.
I run through the light version of the choreography—I cartwheel across the floor where Hallie will tumble for real; I spin on my butt where she’ll do a wolf turn. I don’t want to overextend myself and trigger another flare-up of back pain, so I take it easy. Watching the choreography gel together is satisfying, and I get so lost in performing it that I don’t hear the soft creak of the door on the other side of the gym. When the song finishes, there’s a beat of silence, then the sound of applause.
I whip out of the dramatic final pose—chest thrust out, back arched, arms outstretched—and turn toward the noise. I’m mortified to see Ryan walking down the vault runway toward the floor.
“Impressive,” he says.
I cross my arms over my chest, embarrassed. “I had no idea anyone