Flip Side

By Lena Lario

Despite her Russian heritage, seventeen-year-old Nina Solomon is exactly like any other American teenager, except for one major difference. Unlike her friends, she spends hours in the gym working toward her dream of becoming an Olympian. After holding a place on the US National Team for a year, her chances of achieving what she’s worked her entire life for are within reach, that is, until she fails a mandatory doping test.

Forced into suspension until the investigation can be completed, Nina accepts an offer to train with the Russian gymnastics team. Unexpected friendships arise, trips to Moscow create much needed distractions, and a love she never knew existed await all while Nina works to prove her innocence. The European Championships in Paris are the last competition and will determine if she makes it to the Olymipics as part of the Russian team. And once again, things don’t go according to plan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781483556642

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CHAPTER 1

From the thirty-seventh floor of the hotel room, Shibuya looked like a giant anthill. Hundreds of people were coming in and out of the busiest train station in Tokyo. The ten-story advertising screen flashed a fast food commercial. My stomach growled, but it could’ve been as much from nerves as hunger. It was the first day of the World Championships. The excitement of making the team had evaporated a month ago, leaving behind the residue of pressure and anxiety. I glanced at a group of teenagers playing soccer on a small field on top of a skyscraper. Why hadn’t I picked a sport that didn’t involve flipping over insanely narrow objects?

I sneezed at the smell of hairspray coming through the wide open bathroom door. Susie’s reflection separated her Barbie-blonde hair into half-inch pieces and curled each one into a perfect spiral. I wasn’t too excited to be roommates with her, but I was the new girl on the team which meant that I got to choose last. I should have been thrilled to spend time with the best gymnast on the team, but other than gymnastics Susie and I didn’t have much in common.

Hey, Suz, you gonna set off the hairspray alarm, I yelled. I was talking to myself; I could hear Lady Gaga blasting out of her headphones from several feet away. I peeked into the bathroom and pointed at my watch. We were supposed to be in the lobby in twenty minutes. Susie was staring intensely at her reflection. With all that hairspray in the air, her eyelashes had probably gotten glued to the brow bone. I waved my hand in front of her face.

I’m practicing my poker face, she finally responded. For the Snow Queen, of course.

She was talking about Oksana Gavrilova, an Olympic champion and one of the most controversial gymnasts in the history of the sport. A TV reporter gave Oksana the nickname from the clouds of chalk she made when preparing for her uneven bars routines. It fit her well, and in just a few hours I would find out if Oksana’s steel gaze was as chilling in person as it was in a close-up camera shot.

It had not been a good year for the Russian team. Their third place at the European Championships had been an epic embarrassment. Losing to Romania was more or less acceptable, but losing to Italy? A slap in the face. Russian coaches blamed it on injuries, but gymnastics fans had a different opinion. After the fall of the Soviet Union, many talented coaches had left Russia in search for better life. Some had settled in the US, others in Europe. In a few years, you saw them on TV coaching national teams of their new home countries.

I thought gymnastics blogs were boring, but Mom read them with the discipline and dedication of a former gymnast. The topic of troubled Russian gymnastics came up before every international competition.

The real reason why the Russians are not doing so well is because the kids are not committed, she explained. We had nothing, not even a pair of American jeans when I was a kid, and these kids are spoiled rotten.

So you trained for a pair of jeans? asked Dad.

You’re missing the point, snapped Mom.

I usually do, said Dad. But I signed up for it when I married a Russian.

Being around my parents was like living in a sitcom. I hoped they tivoed this week’s episode.

I glanced at the soccer game again. The striker missed an easy shot, shook his head in disappointment, and seconds later had the ball again. If I made a mistake at Worlds, there would be no second chances. It was just my third international competition. I was a rare late bloomer in gymnastics, making the national team at seventeen. All the girls on the team had proven track records; if they had a bad meet, the coaches would find a good excuse for it. For me, doing well at this meet would not guarantee a spot on the Olympic team, but it would make it a reachable goal.

As soon as I thought of the Olympics, I heard Mom’s voice, Russian accent and all: Ninochka, one step at a time. But the Olympics were too close not to think about it. Two years ago, my plans were to compete for either Stanford or UCLA. When I qualified for Elite Nationals for the first time, my coach Greg suggested that I should go just for fun. I did terrible that year, barely making my vault and falling on beam. But to everybody’s surprise, I made finals on bars and floor, and even though I got last place on both, Greg said that everybody talked about the tall girl with beautiful lines. As soon as we came back from Nationals, we changed my routines, and at this year’s Nationals, I won bars and got second place on beam.

I closed my eyes and mentally went through my routines. The head coach would announce the lineup for each event right before the competition, but I was sure that I wasn’t going to be picked for vault. Vault requires power and explosiveness, which are two qualities missing from my genetic pool. Mom is a former rhythmic gymnast with the figure of a delicate porcelain ballerina. I am a more compact version of Mom, but my arms and legs are still too long for a typical gymnast. Mom tried to convince me to switch to dance, but there was no way I was going to trade a trampoline for a ballet barre.

Susie came out of the bathroom with her hair pulled back into a perfect ponytail. She stopped by the closet mirror and shook her head side to side. The ponytail bounced back to its original shape.

What about the flip test? I joked. Susie’s obsession with her hairdo reminded me of the best hair award at invitationals. Rachel and I used to do each other’s hair, but we didn’t stand a chance compared to sophisticated hairdos of girls from Chicago. I got tense as soon as I thought of Rachel. She hadn’t spoken to me for almost a year, and yet she was still a part of every memory.

Susie did a handstand in the narrow hallway and went back to the mirror to check on her hair. I regretted my joke as soon as I saw her reaching for the hairspray. After two more rounds, one extra-hold and one glitter, she was finally done.

You can have the bathroom, she said. My makeup artist said I should apply makeup in natural light. Otherwise I might overdo it.

It’s also the advice that Susie’s hairstylist should have given her.

I’m all set, I replied. A coat of mascara and lip gloss was already more makeup than I usually wore.

You mean you are going like this? asked Susie. You do realize that we are going to be on TV.

I shrugged. Looking pale on TV was the least of my concerns. Maybe if I was a star like Susie I would know the difference between blush and bronzer.

Susie settled in a chair by the windows. She chatted nonstop about the trendiest shops, the best restaurants, and all the events she’d been asked to attend in Tokyo. Somewhere in the middle of Susie reciting the speech she was supposed to give at Tokyo Disneyland, I realized I needed a few minutes of quiet time. I patiently waited for her to stop talking so I could leave the room, but the speech was as endless as a song in a Disney movie. She finally paused to apply mascara. I quickly grabbed my bag and headed toward the door.

I’ll meet you downstairs, I said, rushing out of the room. As soon as I closed the door I realized I hadn’t checked the contents of my bag. I leaned against the door and sighed. If I went back in, I could be stuck there for another twenty minutes. At least I didn’t forget my good luck charm, a strange little character from a Russian cartoon. Chebyrashka was swinging happily on the strap of the bag. Mike had given it to me as a gag gift for Homecoming, and I was still trying to teach him how to pronounce Chebyrashka’s name. Mom found it absolutely adorable, and Dad thought that it looked like a Gremlin. I’d stuck every beam routine since I’d gotten it, so adorable or not, he was going to every meet.

I looked through my bag while waiting for the elevator. It was stuffed with leotards, grips, lotion, lip balm, used tape, an old banana peel, and a few PowerBar wrappers. I’d thought about cleaning the bag before the trip to Japan, but I wanted everything to feel like I was just going to practice—which meant that I should have added more trash to it.

Wait up, yelled Katie as the elevator doors were about to close. I frantically looked for the button to keep the doors open but pushed the wrong one.

Great, I whispered. I’d probably upset the only person on the team who liked me, despite the fact that we were competing for the last spot. I’d beat Katie by mere two-tenths of a point at the last intrasquad, and she’d ended up being the alternate.

Katie’s elevator arrived in the lobby a minute after mine. Don’t worry, I’ll get you back, she joked. She opened a Japanese Kit Kat bar and offered me a piece.

I better wait till after the meet, I said. At the same time, my stomach growled loud enough for Katie to hear.

I’m pretty sure your stomach disagrees, she smiled. Katie dug through her bag and handed me a sandwich. I never travel without a snack.

Katie had had more bags than anybody else when we’d checked in at the airport. I wondered what other snacks she’d packed.

A peanut butter and jelly sandwich was exactly what I needed to calm down my stomach and nerves. I’d had one before practice every day since I was twelve. Dad packed it for me in the morning—a thick layer of crunchy peanut butter and grape jelly. When he traveled, Mom would make the sandwich. She added bananas and strawberries and used apricot jelly instead of grape. I still liked Dad’s version the best, probably because it meant that he was home.

I found a comfy chair and checked messages on my phone. All the good luck texts had come in yesterday—from my club teammates, from Mike, and from a guy I barely talked to in Chemistry. I called Mom and got her voicemail. Her plane must still be in the air. She would arrive any minute and head straight to the competition venue.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed somebody taking my picture.

"Say arigato, said Michelle, pointing her phone at me. How’s our starlet doing today?"

If you are asking about Susie, I think she is doing great. She should be here as soon as she is done painting.

Painting?

Her face, I explained. After seeing Susie’s finished makeup look, nobody would argue that she was an expert in lighting, color, and layering.

Cute and funny, said Michelle. Exactly the type of person I want to feature on my YouTube channel.

I think your fans will find me pretty boring compared to you. I wasn’t trying to flatter her. Michelle was well on her way to becoming a popular media personality. Earlier this year, she’d been a guest star on a teen show and a runner-up in a reality dance competition.

Aw, that earned you twenty-three brownie points, which are redeemable for a Frappuccino or a fat-free smoothie. I want to write about you because I’m old news, and you’re the next Cinderella story.

That’s really nice of you, but I don’t like the spotlight. With the exception of a few close friends, nobody back at home knew I was at Worlds, and I wanted to keep it that way.

Silly girl, we’ve got a business to run, insisted Michelle. Thousands of girls will see your story and beg their moms to do gymnastics.

"You want a good story? How about this one: A little nobody comes out of nowhere and makes it to the Olympics, where they decide to hold the gymnastics competition at midnight. She loses her grip in the middle of the bar routine and, devastated, runs out of the arena.

A prince watches the competition from the nosebleed section because he is allergic to chalk, chimed in Katie. But he still falls in love with the gymnast because of her pretty toe point. He gets the grip from the head judge and announces that the girl who can do a Tkachev with the grip on will be his bride.

Wait, does that mean I have to show him my callus-covered hands? I asked.

Katie laughed. Do you think Cinderella’s feet were pretty?

Go away, Michelle said to Katie. We gotta finish this. Just be your charming self, she instructed me as she pushed the record button on her phone.

I’m here with the newest member of the US National Team, Nina Solomon, who is about to compete in her first World Championships. Michelle flirted with the camera as if it was a cute guy. Let me tell you something about this girl, she continued. I met her when we were ten years old in the TOPS training camp. It was brutal, right?

Michelle shifted the phone camera toward me. I nodded. What kind of inspiring answer could I possibly give to that question?

All the girls in the camp were super-talented. And this girl here got last place in every event. Michelle pointed the camera at me and paused. Once again, I missed the perfect setup, but Michelle must have been used to dealing with amateurs because my poor interviewing skills didn’t throw her off the track.

At the end of the camp, I overheard Nina talking to her coach, said Michelle. Do you remember what you said, Nina?

Her comment caught me off-guard. I had no idea Michelle even knew I existed before the last National Championships.

"You remember me from that camp?" I finally muttered.

Cut, sighed Michelle. No, I don’t. It’s called research. Now work with me. Say something meaningful.

I do remember, I responded. I hated being last, so I told my coach I wanted to quit.

Cut! yelled Michelle. She was smiling, but the furrows on her forehead gave away her frustration. This is how you’re planning to inspire the next generation of gymnasts? I’m going to give you a little more time to think about it. We’ll continue tonight.

Michelle shifted her attention to Katie, and I quickly put in my headphones, trying to discourage other conversations. I closed my eyes for a few seconds. When I opened them, I saw Emily and Jenny taking selfies with a bellhop. If there was a cookie cutter for a perfect gymnast body, those two would serve as molds. Five foot one, one hundred five pounds, perfectly proportionate bodies that didn’t obey the laws of gravity. Emily and Jenny looked like they were about to head to a picnic. I couldn’t hear their conversation, but based on their excited faces and gestures toward the bellhop, I guessed it wasn’t about the upcoming meet.

A few minutes later, the elegant and tranquil hotel lobby was buzzing with the energy of an amusement park. A small group of gymnasts came with an extensive entourage of coaches, parents, and dedicated fans. The only person I wanted to talk to was Greg, but Greg hadn’t been selected as one of the official team coaches and couldn’t take a week off to watch me compete.

If I didn’t know better, I would say that you’re missing Greg, teased head coach Christy.

Maybe I am, I said. But let’s not tell him. It’ll go right to his head.

You’re right about that. She smiled. If you need anything, just let me know. I promised Greg I’d take a good care of you. She gave me a hug and motioned for everybody to get on the bus.

Susie was fashionably late. Emily joked that she needed an audience for her entrance. I looked at the competition credential hanging around Susie’s neck and realized that I’d left mine in the room. While the rest of the delegation headed to the bus, I raced toward the elevator.

My credential was lying on the desk next to Susie’s makeup kit. It wouldn’t have taken much effort for her to bring it. I took a deep breath, trying to calm down. Maybe Susie was smarter than I gave her credit for. She’d found a subtle way to remind me that, in gymnastics, the team is not whole; it’s a sum of parts. And my part might have been just too small for the girls to care.

CHAPTER 2

The rest of the day was a blur. Shortly after the warm-up, the Championships officials took me in for a doping test. It was not something I was used to, but I’d gone through it at Nationals and knew what to expect. Michelle handed me a bottle of water before I went in.

I’ve had plenty today, I said.

Take it, insisted Michelle. It won’t hurt.

I wonder if I’ll get extra credit for filling the whole cup, I joked. I took a few sips and walked into the test room. The doping inspector’s wild hair and long white coat reminded me of 101 Dalmatians’ Cruella de Vil. She spoke with a strong French accent, making it seem like we were in an upscale restaurant.

Now you pee in a cup and wait here, she instructed.

I giggled, thinking that it would be the strangest phrase anybody has said in a restaurant. Cruella shot me a disapproving look and disappeared behind a curtain. Sitting still was making me anxious. I tried to distract myself by thinking about anything but gymnastics. My mind went from humming the Jeopardy theme song to finding rhymes for everything in the room. I was stuck on a rhyme for pipet when Oksana walked in. I thought about saying hi, but froze and gave her half a smile, which probably looked like a smirk. Oksana ignored me and whispered something to Cruella. She spoke to Cruella in French and got out of the room less than five minutes after taking the test. I would definitely have paid more attention in French class if I’d known it would get me out of the room with urine samples.

My hands were getting sweaty. I rubbed them on my pants, leaving chalky marks on black Lycra. "Is my test