Risk the Fall Read online

  Copyright © 2012 by Steph Campbell

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission of the author except where permitted by law.

  Published by

  Steph Campbell

  Cover design by: Okay Creations

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  “Where should I look?” I ask.

  Jeff, the tech who has been setting filming equipment up in my house all day, looks at me with exasperated eyes.

  “Sorry, I’ve just never done anything like this before,” I say.

  He lets out a long sigh, signaling that he likely thinks I’m the stupidest person alive. “The camera is here,” he says, pointing to the small camera mounted to the wall of the makeshift “confessional booth” which is actually just our porch. The walls have been filled in, and the porch swings replaced with a large, comfortable chair which has my trophies and medals arranged behind it. Gold ones up front, of course.

  “So, looking there would probably be a good idea,” he finishes.

  “Right,” I nod. I’m trying to be polite, but Jeff here is making it awfully difficult.

  “So, here’s what we’re going to need from you.” He continues. “At least once a day, you’re going to have to set aside some time to come in here and talk for about thirty minutes. Just sit down and press this button.” He points to a small black remote. “Tell us what you did at gym, tell us about school. If you took a test, we want to know. If you got asked out on a date, we want to know.”

  “I have a boyfriend already,” I interrupt. “I mean, I won’t be going out on a lot of dates.”

  “Boyfriend?” He flips through the small stack of pages on his clipboard. “That’s not listed anywhere in your notes.”

  For a reason, Sydney. Crap.

  “He’s really private.” I say.

  “I see. Well, Ms Pierce, you signed away your right to privacy when you signed your contract. You’re the one that applied to be a part of this documentary. Anything that we film is ours to use.”

  It’s my turn to sigh. I’m the last person cut out for something like this. But when my best friend, Quinn, showed me the flyer for an upcoming documentary on young Olympic hopefuls, it was too good an opportunity to pass up. Elite gymnastics is pricey, and though my dad makes decent money, I just don’t think that every cent he earns needs to go to coaching and travelling. Sure, I could take the prize money I win at competitions, but doing that would make me ineligible to compete in college which is important if I want to get a scholarship, plus who knows how long I’ll be able to compete for – everyone knows this elite-level career has an expiration date. So, signing away my life for a couple of months sucks, but I know it will take some stress away from my dad, and after the last couple of years we’ve had- I’m willing to sacrifice a little privacy for him.

  “The boyfriend is fair game. We want to hear everything, this romance stuff sells.”

  I nod, but I know that there’s no way Trevor will go for being a part of this. He’d blown up at me when I told him I applied in the first place and it was only because my odds of being picked were so slim that things settled down. But now there are cameramen in my house doing test shots. They’ll be showing up at school. They’ll be at the gym with me this week. Yeah, now it’s looking more real. Ugh. I wonder if it’s too late to back out!

  “Your school has only granted permission for us to film there two hours a week, so we’re really limited on that stuff.” Jeff says, interrupting my thoughts. “You’ll definitely have to fill in some blanks. We all know that gymnastics takes up the majority of your time – but it’s not everything. Just think of this like writing in your diary.”

  “I don’t keep I diary,” I say.

  He rolls his eyes and wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

  “Look kid, pretend. Give us something good. Keep people watching.”

  There isn’t a more boring person alive. Quinn would have been perfect for this. She’s witty. Sarcastic. Fun. That would be entertainment. But I don’t exactly lead a normal teenage life. There aren’t any parties, or wild nights out with friends. I go to gym twice a day – at five in the morning before school and then straight after school until six or seven in the evening. Then I come home, do my homework and crash out.

  “So, let’s give it a shot.” Jeff says, “When you come in, just press this button, have a seat and talk about whatever comes to mind. Fake it, I don’t care. Make it good, though.”

  Fake it.

  Like when some stranger wants to talk about how Mom died and asks if it bothers me.

  Fake it.

  Like when I’m standing in the bronze medal place and a reporter asks how I feel about the gold medal winner.

  Fake it.

  Like when Dad asks if he’s doing a good job on his own. If he’s keeping things running like when Mom was here.

  Fake it.

  Like when Trevor holds my hand a little too hard when other guys are around and I don’t say anything, because that’d be admitting that I felt like something was wrong.

  Fake it.

  That’s something I do know how to do.

  I readjust my hands on the uneven bar, gripping it tighter under my chalk-covered palms, knowing that I only have letting go left in the routine.

  “Hurry up, Sydney,” my coach, Sam, booms from below.

  I swing my body up over the high bar, completing another full Giant Swing.

  “Sydney, one more Giant and I will pull you down from the bar myself. Dis. Mount.” Sam clips his last word and I know that he means business.

  I know everyone has their hang-ups. Mine just happens to be more of a nemesis. It’s called an Arabian Double Front- it’s a half-twist into not one— but two front somersaults in the air, then landing without being able to spot the ground first., Lucky me, it’s the skill that we’re working on in this morning’s session. I hate it – not in the way that I hate soggy french fries, humidity, or the way I look in green – I mean, I really despise it. It’s not that it’s the most difficult gym skill by any means, but that doesn’t stop me from nearly hyperventilating every time I do it. It’s not a fear of heights, or the flipping multiple times, or even being afraid of getting hurt – I’m an elite gymnast, I’ve been training for years, I’m used to those things. No, for me, it’s deeper than that. It’s the anxiety that comes with letting go of the bar and landing blindly. It’s the crippling feeling I have when I think about purposely giving up control, and not being able to see where I’m going to land when it’s all over.

  I hold my breath and fling my body away from the bar, tucking my legs as I flip. I spot the ground and lock my eyes on the blue mat, waiting for my feet to meet it.

  They don’t.

  Instead, my heels slip as they slam into the mat and I lose my footing. I stumble backwards. One step, two, until I fall flat on to my back.

  “That’s gonna leave a bruise,” Sam says, shaking his head as he walks away from me.

  I pull the grips off of my hands and shove them into my duffel bag, knowing that Sam is exactly right, I knew before I even hit the ground that the fall is going to leave a nasty mark.

  “Won’t be the first, or the last,” I mumble to no one.

  Oh yeah, except the camera guy in my face.

  “That was perfect,” he says with a giddy smile.

  It isn’t even eight o’clock in the morning, and already
the Georgia heat and humidity have plastered my hair to my face in frizzy waves. Perfect.

  I pull my backpack off and rummage through the loose pencils, hoping for a hairband to pull my hair back into a ponytail with. No such luck.

  Then Trevor, my boyfriend of just over a year, walks up behind me. I don’t need to turn around to know it’s him, I always smell his heavy cologne before I even see him.

  “Morning, beautiful,” he says.

  I turn around and stand on my tip-toes to give him a quick kiss.

  “How was gym?” he asks.

  “It was good. I got a lot done.” I lie. I can’t tell him the truth. That that stupid skill paralyzes me every time.

  It’s not that Trevor doesn’t get sports. He’s really athletic too. But he’s also fearless. Unlike me. I question everything. I’m always a little uncertain. Insecure. He wouldn’t understand me letting one move get to me so much.

  “Good,” he says. “Next question. Did you talk to him yet?”

  “Talk to who?” I ask.

  Trevor runs his hand through his thick blonde hair and lets out an annoyed sigh.

  “Your dad, Sydney. Have you talked to your dad about the lake house?”

  I try not to visibly wince. I was really hoping he wouldn’t ask me about that again this week. I know I’d told him that I was ready to spend the night with him, but every time Trevor brings it up I have to remind myself why I said that. Am I really ready? Trevor’s a senior, a year older than me, and his parents are letting him and some friends stay out at their lake house after prom this year. It seemed like the perfect idea when he first mentioned I should stay over. I do want to be with him, and really I don’t know why I’ve put it off this long. Plus I’ve heard the comments when Trevor and I are together.

  “Why is he even with her?”

  “She doesn’t even know what to do with a guy like him.”

  “I bet he’s cheating on her.”

  I want to be closer to Trevor. Closest. To have something with him that will make me more secure in our relationship. To silence those whispers. But, God, I’m so nervous. Especially when it comes to having to lie to my dad.

  “I’ll talk to him tonight. I promise,” I say.

  “That’s my girl,” Trevor says. He picks up my hand and kisses each of my knuckles.

  I met Trevor two years ago. I was dealing with the loss of my mom and shutting everyone I knew out. It was easier to do that than to have to try and constantly convince everyone that you were okay … really. With everything going on at home, I hadn’t turned in my schedule request on time at school, so I was stuck with Theatre Arts as an elective. Trevor and I were partnered up, and at first I I could barely breathe around him, because he was just this hot, older guy. But even though he made me really nervous, he also made me laugh for the first time in months. For the longest time, I was scared to let him in in case he saw how totally broken I was and ran a mile. But that semester, our relationship changed from a lighthearted friendship, to something more. I felt safe. And happy.

  And that is why I agreed to the lake house.

  “What are you thinking about?” Trevor asks.

  “You. And how we’re both going to be late,” I say. I motion to the door of my Oceanography class.

  Trevor lets out a smooth, sexy laugh that makes me smile.

  “Fine, have it your way,” he says, kissing my forehead before he turns away, waving casually over his shoulder.

  I dive into the classroom and slide into my seat just as the bell rings. I like to be prepared, so getting to class at the last second makes me anxious. I quickly unpack my heavy textbook and ring binder and organize them neatly on the table. I don’t know anyone in my first period class. In fact, I’m pretty certain no one in here even knows my first name. Mostly people just know me as Trevor’s girlfriend. At the beginning of the year, a girl had been in the seat next to me, but she moved a couple of weeks in, leaving me alone on my own little island. But I don’t mind.

  I tap my pencil on the top of my binder, waiting for the lecture to begin. I really need an A in this class. If I can manage straight As again this semester, Dad said he’ll consider letting me home school so that I can go to the gym more often. I already go twice a day, but still, it can’t hurt. Plus, I miss a ton of school as it is with competitions. Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone enter the room. He walks to the front of the room and hands something to our teacher Mrs Drez.

  “All right, listen up,” she says. Her raspy voice permanently sounds like she’s in serious need of a Ricola. “This is Grant, obviously he’s new. It’d be nice if you guys could do something for someone else for a change and show him around a bit. You know, help him out if needed.”

  A chorus of groans echoes through the room. Mrs Drez motions to the empty spot at my table, naturally, as it’s the only free seat in the class.

  Grant glances at me as he flops his book bag down on to the table. I smile politely, while squealing internally. Good lord, he’s gorgeous! Not conventionally handsome like Trevor. But there is something about him. The curious way his hair goes every which way, and I can’t tell if he woke up like that, or he spent hours perfecting it. Based on his v-neck t-shirt, jeans and Chucks, I’d go with the former. It isn’t normal for me to even notice any other guy but Trevor. But as Grant slides into his chair, he bumps my arm lightly with his and immediately, heat rushes through me. I lock my eyes on Mrs Drez, and bite my lip to keep from saying or doing anything stupid.

  Somehow, I manage to make it through the hour with my dignity intact. As soon as I hear the bell ring, I rush out of the room. I’ve just crossed the doorway and into the safe zone of the corridor, and am about to head down the stairs to my next class when I hear an unfamiliar voice. Clear, soft and polite.

  “Sorry to bother you…” he says. “Um, I didn’t catch your name earlier.”

  No, you didn’t. Because I’m a moron incapable of holding a conversation.

  “Sydney, sorry,” I stutter turning around. I teeter on the top step, trying to lean casually against the railing on the wall.

  “Sydney,” he says with a ferociously handsome smile, “I’m Grant. Nice to meet you.”

  I nod. Still not functioning properly.

  “Anyway, you wouldn’t happen to know where Economics with Mr Palmatier would be, would you? The room number is missing from my schedule.” He holds up the crumpled piece of carbon paper as evidence and flashes the smile again.

  “Um, yeah,” I stammer, heat filling my face. “That’s actually where I’m headed. I could show you, if you’d like.” My voice sounds foreign in my own ears. It’s several octaves higher than normal from my stupid nerves.

  “That’d be great. Thanks.”

  “Sure thing,” I say.

  I start to take a step, but haven’t correctly gauged how close I am to the edge of the stairs. As if in slow motion, I lose my balance and fall down the short flight of steps and on to my back. For the second time today. My head hits the floor with a loud smack and I squeeze my eyes tightly together, hoping to stop the tears of humiliation and pain from forming. And maybe if I’m really lucky, Grant will miraculously disappear too. I think I liked the camera crew in my face better.

  After what feels like ten minutes, although it’s probably more like thirty seconds, I crack one eye open. Through my damp lashes, I see Grant hovering over me, hand outstretched. I wait for the laughter, or at least a smirk, but he fights it off. His brow is puckered and his face holds only a look of genuine concern. I’d almost rather he laugh than pity me. I’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.

  “Let me help,” he says, pulling me up off of the ground and dusting off the back of my sweater.

  This is so far beyond mortifying. I have perfect balance. I can manage to stay on a four-inch-wide balance beam, four feet off of the ground, while flipping multiple times and somehow, in Grant’s presence, I can’t even keep upright standing still on a step more than twice its size?


  “Are you okay?” he asks. There still isn’t any amusement in his tone.

  “Fine,” I say, refusing to actually look at him. I brush the tears out of my eyes before he can see them, and fight the urge to rub the back of my pounding head. I feel stupid enough as it is, I’m not going to admit injury as well. I’m not sure why he’s making me so nervous, but I need to get away.

  I’m glad the cameras aren’t here to see me rush off to Econ, leaving Grant to find his own way.

  My younger sister, Maisy, is sitting at the kitchen counter when I get home from gym that evening. She has a faraway look in her eyes, like something’s bothering her.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer. This is our typical exchange. I try to talk to her. She ignores me in favor of our cat. Or a magazine. Or a donut. It doesn’t matter. Anything to avoid communicating with me.

  “Hey, it’s supposed to be beautiful this weekend. I was thinking you might want to do something together? Anywhere you want to go?” I press. I’m trying. I really am. I try to remind myself that Maisy was young when mom died. That she didn’t have the same childhood I did. That she might be even more lost than I am.

  “Nope. I have plans,” she says without looking up.

  Of course she does, the little social butterfly.

  “Okay. Well, let me know if plans change,” I say.

  I’m relieved when Dad comes home with bags of take-out and interrupts the uncomfortable silence in the house.

  My dad, Everett Pierce, is an architect. Designing buildings is the reason for his existence. At least since my mom died. They were high school sweethearts. And I know that sounds totally lame and generic, but in their case, it was really sweet. He’s a good looking guy, even though he looks tired tonight – in fact he looks tired a lot of the time now. I think, like me, he’s still having trouble getting a good night’s rest. His hair has just the right amount of gray to keep him looking handsome and distinguished, rather than over the hill. I worry sometimes that his loyalty to my mom will keep him from being happy with someone else. I guess only time will tell.