Chapter Text
“Do you think if I stare at this chart long enough, this note will write itself?”
Trinity gazes over the top of her computer at Mel, who is laser-focused on her own monitor. Mel startles a bit upon making eye contact with her.
“Um, no. Sorry, I thought that was a rhetorical question. I didn’t know you actually wanted me to respond.”
“Forget it. I was just trying to make conversation,” Trinity mumbles.
Or procrastinate on writing this fucking note on this depressing-ass patient.
“Can I just copy yours?”
Mel shakes her head rapidly without glancing up this time.
“Kidding.”
16-year-old female, BMI of 16.87, irregular heartbeat. She didn’t start crying until Trinity told her she should probably quit her cross-country team for her own safety.
Nothing she hasn’t seen a million times. It doesn’t get easier.
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Just five more seconds. Five seconds from now I’ll have nailed this thing.
Trinity takes a deep breath and stares down at the opposite end of the beam. Her favorite apparatus. She feels strong and powerful; calm and in-control. Superior and superhuman. Until it’s time for the dismount. She exhales. Five seconds later, her feet hit the mat. She loses balance and stabilizes herself by planting her right foot way off to the right, then her momentum drags her left foot forward too. Shit. Before she can even put her hands all the way up…
“SANTOS!”
She grits her teeth and turns to face the gravelly voice.
“I was close that time.”
“You call that close?”
“Did you see the rest of the routine? I stuck everything except the dismount.”
“That argument didn’t work last time, I don’t know why you think it’s going to work now.”
Trinity rolls her eyes theatrically. She gets a thrill out of arguing with Coach McIntyre. She sees how her peers cower under his shadow and hates the way they look. She has convinced herself that she is making him angrier than he is making her, therefore, she must be winning this game.
“You know how I feel about your beam dismount. You shouldn’t even be throwing that skill,” he scoffs. “You’re not ready for it and you’re going to break your leg.”
Her heart starts pounding louder in her ears. This is how she knows she’s winning. He has to stoop to insults that aren’t even true. Coach McIntyre can be a really pathetic man for someone who’s supposed to be a gymnastics whisperer.
“I stuck it when you weren’t looking earlier. Like three times.”
“I’m sure you did.”
McIntyre turns around and pretends he’s going to walk away, then turns back and leans down to get closer to Trinity’s level. She can smell the cigarettes on his breath and she winces.
“You know, Grace mastered this in like three weeks.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
He smirks.
“You could be a good gymnast, Santos. Really. You already know what’s stopping you.”
She refuses to break eye contact. She likes to imagine that if she focuses hard enough, he will wither away and disintegrate.
“Your landings are too heavy.”
There it is. She feels overwhelmed with rage at McIntyre and Grace and Grace’s beanpole legs and her own too-stocky legs. She invites the rage in and welcomes it. She can feel the other girls watching and turns on her heel to walk to the other end of the beam.
“And remember Santos, you need to smile more,” he calls out over his shoulder as he begins to scan the room for another gymnast to put in his sights.
Trinity knows that most of the others think she is nuts for fighting him so much, baiting him into personal, hurtful jabs. Although more than a couple have told her they admire her for it. She enjoys performing this ritual. She feels as though she is putting on a performance of the same play every day for the same audience. McIntyre is her scene partner. It doesn’t feel good, but it feels necessary. It is the only effective way she has found to motivate herself to repeat her routines hundreds, thousands of times. Her ankles are throbbing and her hands are bleeding and her whole body feels on the verge of collapsing. She mounts the beam again. And again.
Trinity is in the middle of removing her ankle tape when she senses him approaching her from behind. It’s always more of a sense than an audio cue. His footsteps are very quiet, unlike Coach Bigfoot.
“How’re ya feeling?” he asks.
“Great. Never better,” she responds.
He chuckles, then sits down next to her.
“I don’t know whether to believe you. You’re the toughest one here. You’re also the most sarcastic,” he smiles. “So, I’m torn.”
Trinity laughs. She can relax for the first time all day.
“I mean…today was pretty tough. But I’m getting so close on my beam dismount. I can feel it.”
“I saw. Your connections are really coming together though.”
“Thanks. I know.”
He watches her put her sweatpants and t-shirt on.
“It seems like Mac was laying into you pretty good today,” he says quietly.
“No worse than any other day,” Trinity feels a lump form in her throat as she pulls her t-shirt on and realizes it feels slightly too tight on her. “He’s a dickhead.”
He looks at her sympathetically.
“I know I shouldn’t condone you girls talking about him that way, but…I tend to agree.”
He begins his slow walk towards the recovery room, waiting for her to follow him.
“But he just wants to push you to be your best, ya know? Even if he does end up a bit out of line. Old-school approach. But Mac does care about you, Trinity.”
“I know that. It doesn’t bother me. It motivates me.”
“I can tell. You’re not like most of the others,” he says.
He closes the door behind them as they enter the recovery room. Trinity’s mother will be here soon and she sighs, anticipating the verbal play-by-play of today’s routines she will soon be delivering so her mother can pick her apart.
“As always, I got something for you before you go,” he says as he digs through his gym bag. He produces a Snickers bar.
Trinity smiles. She is starving. The one part of her day she looks forward to. But as she takes it from him, the lump forms in her throat again.
“You know what, I’m good actually. I don’t need it. I’m not that hungry.”
He looks puzzled.
“That can’t be possible. You worked your tail off out there today.”
“Yeah…I don’t know why. You can give it to someone else. Give it to Brianna. She was having a bad day today.”
He puts his hand on her shoulder and squeezes it.
“That’s very kind of you, Trinity. She’s lucky to have you as a friend. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
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“Dr. Santos!”
“What?”
Trinity hastily locks her computer as though her train of thought has dictated itself onto the screen. Something about Mel makes her feel transparent.
“You appeared to have zoned out. If you’re not going to chart right now, I think they need some assistance in 14. Anaphylactic shock.”
“Cool. I’ll be right there.”