Atlanta Olympics

The blinds were permanently bent. Lying in bed, eight years old, I would cry myself to sleep silently. Bending the blinds looking at the street lights. New house. New school. New life. All I wanted to do was run down that street back to Hannah and Ashley and catching ladybugs on recess in our empty milk cartons. I would never find friends like I had in my old neighborhood. Hannah and I would go swimming without sunscreen. Her mom stocking up towels in the old VW Beatle. No air conditioning, so we would eat ice cream on the drive home complaining about our sunburns. And now, I was alone.

The tears only lasted for about a month. I quickly adjusted to this new school and couldn’t even remember what I had liked so much about that old school in the first place. Katie and I would jump rope under the ramada. Heather and I would hang upside down on the monkey bars to see who could hold that position the longest. Megan would sit next to me in class and we would work together on practicing for the spelling tests. But in my room our new kitten had found her entry into the window. She continued to climb through that little blind section that I had bent back to peacefully look out on our neighborhood every night.

It was the year of the Atlanta Olympics. Americans were winning gold medals left and right. And every good gymnast that year seems to be named Dominique for some reason. Hair pulled tight into ponytails, glitter on their cheeks, leotards paying honor to the American flag. They pranced out across the floor to begin their performance. This was the floor routine night.

Look at how pretty they are. If you want to be a pretty teenager, make sure you’re skinny like them. My mind wandered while they chalked their hands and swallowed down their nerves.

Outside, our desert sky was turning red with monsoon fury. Lightening flashing. Dust consuming the entire street. Branches rapping against the windows and walls.

Lightening would flash and then I would count. one, two, three, four… Thunder cracked. I jumped. That meant that the lightening was four miles away. And if it got much closer, it might strike our roof and then my kitten and I would burn up. I hope mom gets home soon. I prayed as I ran down the hall to peak out my bent blinds. Nope, not yet. Just a dusty brown window with a few of God’s tears beginning to hit the pane.

I ran back to the TV just as Dominique began her floor routine. Leaping into the air she flipped and flew. She would stick the landing, throw her hands into the air. Dance. Squeeze into a corner. Take a deep breath and then do it all over again. The crowd cheered her on. Music that I’d hear on KZZP radio serenaded her performance. She never left the white box. She never fell. She threw her hands up triumphantly up in the air and the commentators couldn’t stop singing her praise. She walked off the floor and the crowd went wild.

I hopped up and stood in our corner. Thunder cracked. I lifted my arms into the air. Branches applauded me against our wall. I lifted my leg and flung myself into a cartwheel. Then another. Lightning. Then another cartwheel. Then a round-off. Landed and threw my hands into the air. Thunder. Rain. The crowd on the television went wild and flung their American flags into the air. And a small smile crept across my face.

All of a sudden, our latched front door whipped open and blowing dust flooded into our house. I screamed and coughed. The door opened up to its full width slamming into our wall and I lifted my head to see if anyone was there. Just the storm. I scurried to the door, my hands shaking. Shut it, and locked it. Lightening. Thunder.

The kitten and I hid under my blanket looking through the hole in the blinds until I saw the white Corolla roll into the drive way. My mom stepped out. McDonalds Happy Meal in hand.

I jumped up and ran to the front door before she could unlock it.

“Mom, mom! Dominique is going to win the gold medal. Can I go to gymnastics? The door flew open. And the lightening and thunder are only four miles away. What’s my toy? Did you get ketchup?”

She bent down, hugged me. “That’s great honey. So who’s next for the floor routine? You know that’s my favorite part of the gymnastics night.”

We watched the next Dominique, and Kerri, and all the rest of the 1996 Magnificent Seven fly though the air that night. Rain pattered against the window. The thunder grew duller and duller.

The next day at recess Katie, Megan, Heather and I cartwheeled across our soccer field agreeing that we should all start taking gymnastics classes so that we could be that pretty American Magnificent Seven team when we’re older. The boys yelled at us telling up to get out of the way of their soccer game. We stuck our tongues out at them and giggled. I launched into another cartwheel, threw my hands up in the air and smiled at my girls. “I’m Dominique. You can be Dominique too.”