Page 8 of Hidden

I put my phone down on the bed and look around the room again. There’re boxes still to unpack, my suitcase is open in the corner, and there’s the wardrobe with its stubborn door. I need to unpack, but I’m really not that type of person who unpacks straight away. I mean, it’ll be a few months before I even do anything like unpacking.

I pick the camera back up and smile. I have so many pictures to take; I’m going to make sure I take a picture of everything every day. No matter how small it is.

***

The gymnasium is on the east side of campus, a twelve-minute walk from my dorm if I cut through the science building and come out the other side. I know this because I walked the route three times yesterday after I arrived. I wanted to get to know the route I’ll be taking the most. There’s no way I’m getting in the bad books of the coach. I’ve worked my ass off to get here; I’m not going to fuck it up now.

I push through the gymnasium doors at seven forty-five, and the smell hits me first: chalk, and I smile. I love the smell of chalk; this is home for me. I stand just inside the doors for a second and breathe it in.

The gym is bigger than I expected. It’s a good big. The space has clearly been taken seriously, it has proper equipment, real floor space and lighting that doesn't flicker. Three girls are already on the floor, running through a routine in sections, their movements are precise, showing that they're not performing; they're working. A fourth is on the beam at the far end, standing still with her arms raised, holding a position with the focus of someone listening to something only she can hear.

I don't realize I'm smiling so hard until my cheeks tell me. I’m falling in love with collect even more now. This is going to be my happy place I just know it.

"You must be Sadie."

I turn.

The woman crossing the floor toward me is somewhere in her forties, with short hair, and a posture that comes from years of telling other people how to hold theirs. She has a clipboard, a coffee, and the direct, assessing gaze of someone who’s been watching athletes long enough to see things other people miss.

I have a feeling she’ll give me one chance, and one chance only. If I fuck up, I don’t think I want her to see it.

"Coach Pearce." She doesn't extend her hand; the clipboard is in one, and the coffee in the other, but she nods once. "I've seen your competition footage."

"Good competitions or bad competitions?"

Something shifts at the corner of her mouth. It’s not quite a smile. "Your tumbling is exceptional. Your beam dismount needs work." She looks around at the other girls, then back to me. "We'll address that."

"Yes, ma'am."

She looks at me for a moment longer than feels comfortable, it’s a look that’s so deep I’m sure she can see my soul. I've learned how to hold a look like that without flinching, which is its own kind of gymnastics.

I can’t show anyone I’m tired, or if I don’t get as much rest as I would like. If I did, then I’d be kicked off the team, and I can't have that happen.

Whatever she finds, it seems to satisfy her.

"Drop your bag," she says, turning back toward the floor. "I'll introduce you to the team.”

I put my stuff to the side and follow her as she points to them all, telling me who they are.

Bree, the one from the beam, who lands her dismount while I'm still crossing the floor and doesn't look at me until she's fully upright, which I immediately respect.

Cara, on the floor, dark hair pulled back so tight it looks painful, who shakes my hand with a grip that means business. Then looks me up and down once in a way that is not unfriendly but is absolutely an assessment.

Does she think I’m her competition? I’m not. I’m here to improve. I’m here to learn.

Juno is the one who grins at me before Coach Pearce even says my name. It’s like we're already friends and the introduction is just a formality. "We've been waiting for you," she says. "Cara bet me you'd be tall."

"I'm five four," I say.

Juno looks at Cara. Cara looks at the ceiling.

"I said taller than me," Cara shouts. "I'm five two."

"You owe me ten dollars," Juno tells her with a laugh.

The fourth girl, Maya, is quieter. She's been stretching against the wall this whole time, her long legs extended, watching me with dark, careful eyes from underneath a fringe she keeps pushing out of the way. She nods when Coach Pearce says her name. I nod back.

I recognize her. Not her specifically, but the type; the ones who work hardest and talk the least. They have something to prove that nobody else can see. I've been that girl. I understand that girl completely.