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better, um, if we changed my routines to reflect my strengths.”
    Coach meets this challenge with a cold silence. “Ms. Jordan,” he says finally, his voice sharp with anger. “Twenty passes. Now. Your feet will not touch this floor until you are done.” He gives me a long, hard look before turning and walking away, as if I’d said nothing at all. “Alex,” he barks. “Come here!”
    The only sound is Alex’s hurrying feet. Everyone else has gone silent. I don’t need to look to know that all my teammates are watching me, waiting to see how I react. Inside, I know that my instincts are right, that with changes to my routine, I’d have a real chance at winning. But here at this gym, Coach’s orders are law, so there is nothing else to do but obey. I walk to the very end of the beam, my bare feet pressing against the rough, springy texture, my toes gripping the edge with each step, and once again, I am staring down the ends of my fingertips, my arms outstretched, ready to launch into my first of twenty back handspring, back handspring, back layout passes — that is, twenty if I stick every single one in a row. I could be here for the full six hours of practice if I can’t pull myself together.
    â€œCome on, Joey.”
    I hear Trish’s whisper off to my side, giving me courage, and I raise my head high.
    Then, once again, I throw my hands over my head to carry out the sentence Coach handed down, even if it takes me all day to do it.

As I’m dressing to go home after practice, taking care not to touch the dark, purple bruises developing on the side of my right leg from my three-hour stint on the beam, Alex surprises me.
    â€œSo do you want to walk back to your house together and hang out a while? Maybe we can swim,” she says.
    I turn to her, eyebrows raised. I thought maybe Truck Boy would be picking her up too. “Definitely,” I say, slipping my feet into my flip-flops. “I’m ready if you are.”
    But Alex is busy in front of the mirror, removing the elastic from her ponytail, fixing her hair. What has gotten into her? Does she think Truck Boy will be at the pool along with us or something? Everyone else disappears, saying their good-byes, until Alex and I are the only ones left.
    Our assistant coach, Maureen, pokes her head through the door to the changing area. Her dark eyes light up with her smile.
    â€œGreat job, Joey,” she says.
    â€œReally?” I ask. Practice felt devoted entirely to my punishment on beam, which barely left time for even a few quick trips through my routines on the other events. Also, Maureen usually stays out of our path if Coach is on the rampage with one of us.
    â€œYour form is impeccable on floor and beam too, but your grace and that flexibility …” She stops, as if searching for the right words. “It’s breathtaking to watch. And I was thinking about what you said….”
    I look at her, confused. “What did I say?”
    â€œOn beam today. You were talking to Angelo about adjusting your routines to emphasize those strengths. I think we should try it.”
    I perk up. “We should?”
    She smiles, but I can tell she’s nervous. Nobody “adjusts” routines without the approval of Coach, and I highly doubt Maureen has gotten a green light from him. “Yes. Let me think about how for a bit and then I’ll get back to you. All right?”
    â€œSure,” I say, curious what she might have in mind, yet doubtful I’ll ever have the chance to find out. Coach is unlikely to change his mind, especially since I dared suggest the idea first, and you don’t go against him, not without dire risk to your place on the team. I can’t help but be at least a little hopeful, though. It’s nice to dream about things going my way. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll spend some time thinking about how too.”
    â€œGood,” she says,