McKenna

  For Peyton, and all the girls at

  Perpetual Motion Gymnastics

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: Ready to Fly!

  Chapter 2: A Dessert Date

  Chapter 3: The Take-Home Test

  Chapter 4: The Fourth-Grade Slump

  Chapter 5: Lightning Strikes

  Chapter 6: One Step at a Time

  Chapter 7: Picture This

  Chapter 8: A Weekend Away

  Chapter 9: The Waterfall

  Chapter 10: No More Secrets

  Chapter 11: Smack, Crack

  Chapter 12: Starting Over

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Letter from American Girl

  Real Girls, Real Letters

  Preview of McKenna, Ready to Fly!

  Copyright

  Most kids don’t live for gymnastics, but I do. As I hopped off the school bus, I watched my shadow lengthen on the ground before me. I practiced perfect posture—shoulders back and head held high—which made me look taller than I really am.

  The September sun warmed the sidewalk outside Almost Home Coffee Shop. Bikes filled the bike rack. Customers sipped warm drinks at outdoor tables as a few dogs rested beside their owners. I headed inside and set the brass bells jingling—ting-ting, ting-ting. Smells of fresh-baked cookies, scones, and muffins greeted me. The coffee shop was full of customers chatting, reading, or working on laptops.

  “Hi, McKenna!” said Mom, stepping out from behind the giant churning coffee roaster, her red apron tied over a skirt. Tucking strands of her sandy hair into her bun, she asked, “So, how was your second Tuesday of school?”

  “Oh, fine,” I said. “I want to start practice a little early today. Is Grandma Peg here?”

  “Of course. A herd of wild horses couldn’t keep her from watching you girls at gymnastics,” Mom said with a grin. She tilted her head toward the break room. “Grandma is in back with Cooper and the twins. But, McKenna, before you hurry off, do you have homework?”

  “A little,” I answered, my backpack burning with three unfinished assignments.

  How could I tell Mom I was struggling in school, especially when my dad is a high-school principal?

  As it turned out, I didn’t have to say a word. Mom already knew.

  “Your teacher sent an e-mail,” Mom began. “He has a few concerns. Time for a ‘dessert date’ tonight. You, me, and Dad.”

  “Dessert dates” weren’t always a bad thing. The last time we went on a dessert date, it was to celebrate the fact that Shooting Star Gymnastics had sent a letter inviting me to move up from Hurricanes to Twisters, the Level 4 preteam. The letter also said that I was on track to join the competitive team next spring—something that made my heart leap. My parents and I went on a dessert date, and they asked if I wanted to keep moving up in gymnastics. My answer: “Do birds want to fly?” And then we’d toasted with milk shakes.

  But now, my stomach knotted up. “Mr. Wu has concerns?” I asked. “What did he say?” I didn’t know Mr. Wu very well yet, my wiry new teacher who loved to write on the board every five minutes. The first words he wrote were Mr. Wu. Beneath that in big letters, he wrote WORK. “I’m going to work you hard, fourth-graders,” he had said with a sly smile. And he wasn’t kidding. I could barely keep up.

  “Mr. Wu has concerns about your schoolwork, McKenna,” Mom said gently. “Why don’t you get started on that now, and we’ll talk about this later.” She glanced at the round wall clock. “You have at least a half hour to do homework before you need to leave.” She squeezed my shoulder and then stepped back behind the serving counter, where a new employee was working.

  I chewed my bottom lip as I unzipped my backpack. I found an empty chair beneath a painting of yellow flowers and pulled out my homework. Even though Mom brought me a vanilla steamer and half a grilled cheese sandwich—which usually perked me up—I couldn’t seem to focus on my science chapter. That meant I couldn’t answer the worksheet that was due in class tomorrow.

  I recognized the words I was reading, but their meaning went past me in a blur. So I finally gave up and turned to something I could do—finish up my map for social studies.

  But just what exactly had Mr. Wu said in that e-mail? A sick feeling stuck between my ribs, and I caught myself staring out the window toward the harbor and Mount Rainier, frosted white in the distance.

  After exactly thirty minutes—and with my homework barely started—I packed up, knocked on the break-room door, and stepped in. “There’s my girl,” Grandma Peg said, rising from the armchair and hugging me.

  “Hi, Grandma,” I said. “Mara, Maisey—time to go.”

  Maisey and Mara are my five-year-old twin sisters. They look alike, with big brown eyes framed by ridiculously thick eyelashes and wavy brown hair, but their personalities couldn’t be more different. Grandma likes to say that “Maisey is a mover and a shaker, and Mara takes her own sweet time.” And it’s true. Mara was bowed over a coloring book, just starting to put her crayons away. Maisey was bouncing at the door, ready to go.

  Cooper, our young golden-doodle, nearly knocked me over trying to lick my chin. I’d picked him from his litter because his energy and caramel-colored hair matched my own. “Cooper, Mom will take you out,” I promised him. “And I’ll walk you tomorrow, but right now, I have to go.”

  I couldn’t wait to get to gymnastics—something that came easily to me. Ever since I was three, when I started watching gymnastics on television, it’s been all I’ve wanted to do—especially beam.

  At the gym, a hum of energy filled the air. Maisey darted off, and Mara followed to join the Twirlies group. Their teenage coach waited by the red “wedge,” a foam training tool used to teach bridge kick-overs and rolls. The gym was full of equipment: two trampolines, a huge pit full of colorful foam squares—a blast to jump into!—the vault, bars, beam, and floor mats. During practice, we rotated in groups from one station to the next.

  I stood by the rows of lockers and pulled off my sweats as girls of all ages arrived. Before hitting the mats, I studied the wall of photographs of gymnasts, including my coach, Isabelle Manning, former state champion. I wanted to do well at the upcoming demonstration to make her proud.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Coach Isabelle passing by, her movements as graceful as a dancer’s. I caught up with her and said, “Coach, I’m worried.”

  “About what, McKenna?” Isabelle asked, her dark eyebrows arched. At just a little over five feet, she isn’t much taller than I am. She reached up to tuck her cropped brown hair behind her ear.

  “I’m worried I won’t be ready by November,” I confessed. “I barely know my routines.”

  Isabelle laughed lightly and rested her hand on my shoulder. “Gosh, don’t worry,” she said. “We have about two months of practice ahead. And keep in mind, the demonstration’s just for fun—a chance to see how it feels to perform before an audience. It’s something to look forward to, not stress about.”

  From across the gym, Coach Chip Francesco shouted at one of the advanced gymnasts on the uneven bars. “Do it again!” he bellowed. “I’m pushing you because I know you can do it!” Pacing along the edge of the mat, Coach Chip reminded me of a restless tiger.

  I liked Isabelle’s “fun” approach to coaching. If I made the competitive team, Chip would be my coach. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

  “C’mon, McKenna,” Isabelle said, steering me by the shoulders. “Let’s get started with the others.”

  My eight teammates were already on the mats, limbering up. I dropped down next to Toulane Thomas, her mink-brown hair pulled into a low side pony.

  “Ready to work?” I asked, our usual greeting.

  Toulane’s dark, penetrating eyes me
t mine. “Ready to fly!” she answered with a grin.

  Toulane and I are in the same class at school and have been training side by side in gymnastics since we were three-year-olds in Roly-Polies. She was the only other teammate of mine who was invited to try out for the competitive team next spring. Ever since we’d received our letters, Toulane had been extra competitive at the gym, but that was okay. She always pushed me to do my best, too.

  I thought of the e-mail Mr. Wu sent my parents. What did it matter if I was falling a little behind at school? I’d catch up soon enough. Right now, I was at gymnastics, and it was time to fly!

  “Level 4 girls,” Coach Isabelle announced, walking toward us with a lanky, red-headed girl, “I want you to meet our newest member, Sierra Kuchinko. She comes from a club in San Francisco.”

  I recognized Sierra from school. She was in the other fourth-grade class, but she looked older because she was about a foot taller than the rest of us. While the other girls took turns introducing themselves, Toulane leaned toward me and whispered, “She’s really big. I bet she’s flexible as a rock.”

  “Bet she’s strong,” I countered.

  When it was Toulane’s turn, she jumped up. “Hi. I’m Toulane,” she said, and then she launched into three cartwheels in rapid succession.

  Not to be outdone, I sprang to my feet. “Hi, Sierra. I’m McKenna,” I said with a wave. “Glad you’re on our team.” Then I threw myself into the same routine as Toulane’s and added a straddle jump at the end.

  Isabelle wagged her finger at us, but she was smiling. “Okay, you two,” she scolded playfully. “You know it’s not time for floorwork yet. Up the ropes!”

  Rope climbing is sometimes used as a punishment, but I know that Isabelle also uses it to help gymnasts build upper-body strength.

  “Race you to the top!” Toulane whispered, standing at the base of her rope.

  “You’re on!” I shot back, grabbing my own rope.

  Hand over hand, muscles burning the higher I climbed, I reached the red ball at the top—at the same instant as Toulane. Then I gripped the rope loosely between my hands and feet and started working my way back down.

  We reached the mats at the same moment, and Toulane glanced over at the rows of folding chairs for her mom. I spotted Grandma, who raised her hands over her head and clapped silently, sending “love beams” my way. She said that was her way of overcoming her worries that I might get hurt.

  I noticed that Toulane’s mother wasn’t looking at us at all. She was busy watching Toulane’s older sister, Tasha, on the competitive team. I saw a flash of hurt in Toulane’s eyes as she looked away from her mother and back at me.

  When Toulane and I joined the group again on the mats, the new girl, Sierra, was stretching into a perfect side splits.

  Toulane and I exchanged an envious glance. Neither of us could stretch that far!

  The hour-and-a-half practice flew by as we rotated by groups through the various stations. As always, practice ended all too soon.

  When Grandma pulled her red Jeep into our driveway to drop us off, she turned off the engine. “It seems I’m staying with the twins for a bit this evening,” she said, patting my knee and giving me a supportive smile.

  During gymnastics I’d been able to forget about the dessert date ahead, but now my stomach twisted at the reminder. I was trying my best at school, but it wasn’t good enough, and I still had unfinished homework waiting for me.

  After a chicken pasta dinner, Dad pushed back his chair and removed his thick black glasses. “Well, McKenna,” he said, blowing on his glasses and cleaning them with the edge of his denim shirt, “let’s rock ’n’ roll. And bring your backpack.”

  Rock ’n’ roll. It’s what Dad often says when he’s trying to get us girls out the door.

  Our house is in the Queen Anne neighborhood, close to downtown Seattle, so my parents and I hopped on our bikes and in minutes were at Sparky’s, a tiny new restaurant with orange-cushioned chairs. The minute after we ordered, Dad pulled out his cell phone and started reading Mr. Wu’s e-mail—out loud!

  “Dad. Whisper, please!” I begged him.

  “Sure, McKenna. Sorry,” he said, much more quietly. He started reading again:

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Brooks,

  McKenna’s records show that she has done very well in school in the past, but I have a few concerns as she starts this year. I’ve noticed that she’s not finishing some of her assignments on time.

  I’m hoping that we can meet as soon as possible to discuss strategies for helping McKenna get back on track. I know she can do it!

  Sincerely, Mr. Wu

  I slumped in my seat. “My teacher must think I’m a loser,” I groaned.

  “We all know you’re not a loser, McKenna,” said Mom, lowering her chin to look me in the eye. Then she asked about my homework. “Show us what you’re working on exactly.”

  I pulled out two textbooks and a few worksheets. I couldn’t fake it a day longer. “I don’t know what’s happening this year,” I admitted.

  I handed the worksheets to Mom as the waiter placed desserts in front of us. I love Mud Fudge cake, but now I wasn’t sure I could eat a single bite.

  As my parents reviewed my homework, they asked more questions. Finally, Dad ran the flat palm of his hand front to back over his nearly bald head. I knew that meant he had something serious to say. “McKenna, I know you don’t want to hear this,” he said, “but in order to bring your grades up, you may have to pull back on gymnastics. It has to be school first and gymnastics second.”

  My stomach clenched. Pull back on gymnastics? Gymnastics is my life! My bedroom walls are decorated with posters of my favorite gymnasts. Plus I have sticky notes all over my room with messages written on them like “Never give up!” and “If you can believe it, you can achieve it!” Had my parents forgotten what gymnastics means to me?

  “But, Dad, true athletes give up everything to be at the top,” I said, my voice rising.

  “Yes,” he said, “and some never finish high school or college, either. But that’s not going to be you.”

  “Dad. I’m only in fourth grade,” I protested, but I could already tell I was losing this battle.

  Mom leaned in closer. “Y’know, McKenna,” she said, “I left the corporate world to run the coffee shop because it’s closer to home. I had to reset my priorities to family first, work second. And you know what?”

  “What?” I asked flatly.

  “I see you girls so much more now,” said Mom. “And I’m happier.”

  “But I’m happy doing gymnastics,” I said in frustration. I felt as if I were talking to aliens.

  “Gymnastics is important to you,” Dad went on. “We get that. But schoolwork should be, too. If you can find a way to do both, great. But school has to come first. We’re going to try to set up a time to talk with your teacher later this week.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I sighed and then stifled a yawn.

  “It’s getting late,” Dad said. “Time to rock ’n’ roll.”

  That night at home, I stayed up until I finished my homework. It was stressful, but tackling it at my desk helped. My desk is a cozy place, tucked under my loft bed. In the warm glow of lamplight, I can see my bulletin board filled with photos, cards, and notes from friends and family. On the shelf to my left is a clock and my favorite books.

  And there’s Polka Dot.

  Creak, creak, creak.

  My brown and white hamster raced on her squeaky wheel in her cage.

  Cooper padded into my room, too, stole a lick of my chin, and then curled up on his dog bed with a deep doggy sigh.

  “I know, boy,” I said. “I’m tired, too.” I turned off my lamp and climbed the ladder to my bed. I lay on my back, took a deep breath, and exhaled. To help us deal with stress, Coach Isabelle had taught the team to breathe in our favorite colors slowly—always sky blue for me—and then exhale slowly.

  Blue sky in…gray sky out.

  I did
the breathing exercise two or three more times, but I still wasn’t sure I could sleep.

  I propped myself up on my elbow and peeked at Cooper from over the rail of my bed, where I usually feel as if I’m on top of the world. Cooper opened one eye and thumped his tail to show that he was listening.

  “I have to do better at school, Cooper,” I whispered down to him. “But what if I can’t?”

  Two days later, while our class was working on multiplication problems, I went to sharpen my pencil near the front of the room. Mr. Wu motioned to me to step closer to his desk.

  “McKenna,” he said quietly, “I know you’re having a tough time with school—that’s why I sent the e-mail to your parents. But keep working at it, okay? It’s important for your future.”

  “Okay,” I said softly. I couldn’t look at him. Hoping no one else had heard Mr. Wu’s words, I returned to my desk, my face flushed.

  Toulane, who sat across from me, whispered, “What was that about?”

  “Oh, nothing,” I said as casually as I could.

  “It’s never nothing,” Toulane insisted. Her intense brown eyes searched mine for clues.

  I shrugged and looked away.

  As we pulled out our reading assignment, I tried to focus on the words. Pretty soon, though, my mind was drifting. I imagined becoming a famous gymnast…bending my head to accept the gold medal. If I could see it and believe it, I could achieve it. But how was I supposed to work harder at school when it was so boring compared to gymnastics?

  “McKenna?” Mr. Wu said. “Please turn to page 17 with the rest of the class.”

  “Yes, Mr. Wu,” I said, my face on fire again.

  Near the end of the day, Mr. Wu stood before us clapping his hands to get our attention. “Time for the science test I warned you about,” he said. He reached for the stack of tests and began passing them out. “The answers are all in that first chapter.”

  That first chapter had put me to sleep, and it hadn’t made any sense. What if I bombed this test? “I don’t get this stuff,” I whispered to myself.