Courage to Soar: Chapters 9–13

And in the gym, I’d press Aimee to teach me more of the tricky, high-start-value combinations that might one day land me on the same podium as the top elite girls in my sport.

Adrenaline coursed through me as I visualized just how I’d hit the springboard.

A part of me felt as if the result was a fluke, but another part of me was starting to believe I really could go all the way to Nationals—and make the 2011 women’s junior team.

I’d never been invited to gymnastics camp at Bela and Martha Karolyi’s sprawling ranch in Huntsville, which meant I hadn’t been identified as a possible candidate for a spot on the USAG’s national team.

I also knew that the women’s national team members went to camp at the ranch every four to six weeks for skills training and assessments, known as verifications.

As Aimee and I drove down a long, wooded road to the corrugated metal main building, I have to admit I was picturing roasting marshmallows over a campfire, movie nights with popcorn, pool time with new friends, and outdoor games designed to help campers bond.

But I had to keep that side of me tamped down because laughter in the gym would’ve been seen as a sign that I wasn’t committed.

The repetition was so relentless that, instead of feeling sharper, I was actually starting to feel blurry and a little bored—which might be why I started wobbling on my beam routine.

It was not just a privilege, but also a rite of passage simply to be invited to the ranch, so I dug deeply and did everything the coaches asked.

It seemed that any little thing—a bird flitting by outside, footsteps in the hallway, one student whispering to another at the back of the room—was enough to distract me from what the teacher was saying.

I was so ecstatic that now I was crying from the pure joy of finally catching the bar!

So just before it was time to march out onto the floor with the other competitors, I was in the bathroom crying from sheer nerves and the fear that I was about to humiliate myself.

One month later, it wouldn’t be the Tkatchev that would put me out of contention for the USA women’s junior team by just one spot—it would be that dang Amanar.

They knew I was tired and hungry, and that my exhaustion was probably making everything worse. When the food came, they coaxed me to have some.

Now, in our debrief, he stressed what I already knew—that the Amanar would have increased my degree of difficulty, and that would’ve raised my starting score, possibly enough to push me up to number thirteen in the standings.

Aimee talked to me about adding hours to my training regimen so that I could become so rock solid on all my skills, I could go out and just enjoy myself in competition.

In this case, I think they were being more lenient than usual because they knew how much I’d wanted the social experience of high school after my lonely year in private school.

He’d said, “Simone, never squander what God has given you.”

He’d been researching online high school curriculums ever since the homeschool question first came up, and now he was ready.

It was true that I had a slight cold and felt a little under the weather, but Aimee wasn’t cutting me any slack.

Whatever was going on with me, it didn’t help that my days were so long and my routine so regimented.

What I recall is a lot of under-the-breath talking back and mumbling, but, really, she was never outwardly defiant.

"...You don’t go out there grudgingly and think, Oh, I need to beat that person. No, no, no. You go out there and be the best Simone you can be. And whatever that outcome is, we’ll take it.”

On the last day of camp, Martha put to rest all the speculation about who would get the upcoming assignment.

“The joys of car ownership,” my father said, sauntering away from me cheerfully.