Tuesday after breakfast, we have flex training in one of the small studios downstairs. Gillian, our flexibility coach, has arranged the mats on the floor. She isn’t one for small talk. “Let’s get down to work!” she calls out as we file into the room. “On your mats! Let’s go! Now!”
Gillian looks strong. She’s short and muscular, which makes me think she was probably a circus tumbler.
Unless, of course, she was an army sergeant. Because that’s how Gillian runs flex class—like it’s boot camp and we’re soldiers in her private army.
“Start by loosening up your wrists and ankles,” she commands. We press our wrists down on the mats, then shake out our hands. Next, we stretch our ankles, then shake those out too.
Gillian barks out one instruction after another. “We’ll begin with the pike stretch. Sitting up tall, legs stretched out in front of you, toes pointed. Now keep your backs long and reach for those toes! Or better still, past them! Let’s go!” She counts off the seconds. “One, two, three…get deeper into that stretch…five, six…deeper still!”
The stretch is making my hamstrings sore, but it’s a good sore—and it’s waking me up. I reach for my toes and then a little farther.
“Eight, nine, nine and a half, nine and three-quarters”—Gillian is trying to be funny by counting halves and quarters, but we’re working too hard to laugh—“ten!”
Hana is on the next mat. I heard her sobbing again last night. At breakfast, I asked whether she had phoned her parents. She shook her head. “I sent a text message saying I am well. If we speak by telephone, I am afraid I will become weak and want to go home. I must try to be more strong—for my parents and for me.”
Six more pike stretches in a row and soon my muscles aren’t just warm—they’re on fire.
Gillian circulates around the room. She shakes her head when she sees Cécile’s toes, which are not pointed. “In gymnastics class, you probably learned to do this exercise with flexed toes. But you’re training for the circus now, and I said point your toes. Pointed toes look prettier than flexed toes. Details like that matter in circus. Seven, eight, nine…”
Genevieve, who is in the row in front of me, turns in my direction and smiles when Gillian says the word prettier. I know what she’s thinking: I told you so.
Gillian only gives us thirty-second breaks between exercises. It’s a good thing I filled my water bottle before class. I take a quick swig. Water dribbles down my chin and onto my chest, but there’s no time to wipe it off. Gillian is making us do another pike stretch.
After the pike stretches are done, Gillian explains why flex training is so important. “In this room, you won’t only be developing flexibility, but also strength and endurance.”
I think of what Hana said about trying to be stronger.
“As circus performers,” Gillian continues, “you’ll need all three of those skills. And, of course, the more flexible you are, the less the chances are that you’ll injure yourselves.”
Though only a few of the students in flex class are specializing in contortion, Gillian wants us to do some pretty advanced moves, starting with the bridge. She makes us lie on our bellies and then use our hands to push ourselves up from the mats and move into downward dog position. “Now bend your left knee and bring your left foot to your left shoulder. Grasp your foot with your hand,” Gillian says. “One, two…”
I feel Hana watching me, trying to figure out what Gillian wants us to do. I wish I could tell Gillian that Hana probably doesn’t know what the word grasp means, but I don’t want to embarrass her.
Gillian makes us go from the bridge into a position she calls the pretzel. “Without moving your legs, bend your arms and drop your chest to the floor. Eyes ahead of you! That’s right! Now you’ve got it!”
After those killer chest and back bends, we move into the splits. Gillian gets us to fold our mats up like accordions. Then we rest one heel on the mat so that the foot is about eight inches off the floor. My thigh muscles are throbbing.
“Breathe into the stretch,” Gillian tells us.
I inhale deeply and take an even longer time to exhale. The memory of how the tightwire performer did full splits on her wire the other night pushes me to go a little deeper.
When I look at Hana, I see that her thigh is pressed flat against the mat, her face perfectly calm. Leo and Guillaume are at the back of the gym, but I can hear their raspy breathing.
When Gillian comes to where I am, she pauses to watch me, then presses down on my hips and lower back. She’s telling me to go farther into the stretch.
When I look into the mirror at the front of the room, my eyes meet Genevieve’s, and I see she is grimacing. “It might be easier if you bring your foot in a little closer,” Gillian is telling her. Genevieve sighs.
I may not be as flexible as Hana, but at least Gillian didn’t tell me to bring my foot in closer. Wanting to be better than Genevieve makes me push myself even harder. I want to show her that pretty only goes so far, that what really counts in circus is skill—and effort. I’m working my thigh muscles so hard now they won’t stop shaking, even when I release the stretch a bit.
It’s as if Gillian can read my thoughts. “The only one you should be comparing yourself to is yourself. Every body is different,” she says from the back of the gym. “Flexibility training is not a competition. Circus camp is about improving your skills and having fun. It’s not a contest.”
But we all know that isn’t true. There is not much chance that Genevieve and I will both be picked for MCC. I need to be better than her in every way. And the truth is, I don’t know if I can be.
I press down harder. My whole body feels jangly, like I’ve gone too long without eating.
“Breathe deeply!” Gillian calls out.
I’m pushing so hard my breaths have become shallow, and they’re coming too quickly.
I don’t even notice that I’m crying. It’s Hana who does. She comes out of her stretch and leans toward me. “Oh, Mandy,” she says, reaching out her hand to wipe the tears from my cheeks. “Is something wrong?”
Gillian gives us a water break, and I head for the girls’ bathroom. I’m refilling my water bottle when Genevieve and Anastasia push open the bathroom door. The two of them are laughing. “Can you believe that girl?” Genevieve is saying. She brings her fingers to her forehead and makes the letter L. “What a capital-L loser!”
I cringe, because they must mean me. Did they notice that I was crying?
“Imagine being fifteen years old and crying for Mummy and Daddy. Next thing you know she’ll be wetting her bed!” Anastasia says.
My first reaction is relief that I’m not the capital-L loser Genevieve and Anastasia are laughing about.
My second reaction is that Genevieve and I both promised Hana we would not tell anyone she was homesick, and Genevieve has broken her promise.
Genevieve is probably not the best person to get into a fight with. But what she’s done isn’t right—and Hana has no one else to defend her.
Genevieve purses her lips and flips her dark hair in front of the mirror. Because I’m still standing at the sink, I speak to her reflection. It feels easier than speaking directly to her. “I thought you promised you wouldn’t say anything about Hana.”
Anastasia nudges me with her elbow. “Don’t be a sourpuss,” she says. “Genevieve was only telling me a funny story. Don’t you like funny stories?”
This time I don’t say what I’m thinking: laughing at someone else’s troubles isn’t my idea of funny.