Today, seventeen-year-old Harleen Quinzel was exactly where she wanted to be: in the zone. She was so much in the zone, she felt as if she were glowing. Good thing—this was it. Today was the day. The gymnastics lessons her mother had scrimped and saved to give her, the hours she had spent training and practicing, pushing herself and never settling for “good enough,” all the studying, developing her mind as well as her body, never blowing off her schoolwork to hang out at the mall, and today was the day it all came together, just the way she planned, just like her mother had said it would. Her mother had been so sure—sometimes she had even been surer than Harleen herself was. The way her mother believed in her, it was like she’d already seen proof, like she knew for a fact that Harleen was going to get the gymnastics scholarship to college—full ride, four years.

No doubt that was why her mother didn’t feel the need to be here, Harleen thought. She scanned the people in the bleachers anyway, but she hadn’t been there when Harleen had looked thirty seconds ago, and she still wouldn’t be there thirty seconds from now. But all of Harleen’s friends were; that was something at least.

“Next up,” said the voice on the gymnasium loudspeaker, “Harleen Quinzel!”

Her friends cheered loudly, waving at her, calling out, Go, Harleen, go! You got this, girl!

Harleen stood and walked gracefully to the corner of the spring floor. She gave her friends a nod to show she was glad they were there. Still no Mom.

No Dad either, but he was months away from parole. He’d probably get it, too—he’d been a model prisoner. If only he’d been a model citizen, he wouldn’t have been in there in the first place and both her parents would be here today.

Dream on; that was somebody else’s life, not hers, never hers. She was on her own and she should be used to that by now.

Harleen raised her arms and her music began. Scheherazade by Rimsky-Korsakov—she felt her heart lift and she took flight. Two full tumbles one after another, then an aerial cartwheel. She stood for a fraction of a second facing away from everyone before she bent gracefully backward and went into a handstand. She held it for a few seconds, then folded herself in half, keeping her legs perfectly straight in a V-shape, as she swept them just a few inches off the floor. She held it for a few seconds without touching down, then went back into a handstand, followed by a walkover.

Then she was flying across the floor again, flinging herself into a pike, a split, and a straddle in rapid succession before rolling into a pose with her chest on the floor and the rest of her body bent up and over, her pointed toes barely touching her head.

Her legs flowed forward into another back bend as she let the music carry her up into three aerial cartwheels, hitting the floor progressively harder on each one to build up enough lift for the double twist.

She heard everyone in the gym gasp as she came down perfectly, finishing without a wobble. The applause was heartier this time and it wasn’t only from her friends.

Harleen felt her throat tighten. Don’t cry—no tears! she thought as she walked gracefully back to her seat. She had told herself she wouldn’t look at her scores until she sat down again, but just as she reached the chair, she heard her friends scream and the rest of the audience break into wild applause, and she couldn’t help herself.

Harleen felt her jaw drop. Every judge had given her a ten, every single one of them, even that old stick-in-the-mud Anna Carrera. Getting a seven from her was like a nine point five from anyone else. But even she had given Harleen a ten, making it a perfect score. Her friends were still screaming and whistling; everyone in the bleachers was smiling and cheering for her.

And her mother still wasn’t there.

“Malenki zirka! Little star! You did it!” Harleen’s coach, Liliana Lewenchuk, hugged her tightly and gave her a loud smacking kiss on each cheek. Liliana’s eyes were bright with happy tears; she looked at Harleen with so much affection that Harleen had to look away. Liliana didn’t notice—she was already hugging Harleen again, squeezing her tightly.

“I can’t breathe!” Harleen said, laughing to cover how awkward she felt. Liliana let go of her for all of a second, then immediately hugged her again.

* * *

“Of course you did,” said her mother when Harleen told her she’d gotten the gymnastics scholarship. “I knew you would. I never doubted it for a second.”

They were sitting on the shabby sofa in the employee lounge at the cafe where her mother worked her second job, waiting table. Harleen had had to wait ten minutes before her mother could get a break. It was only part-time—thirty hours a week. So was the job at the charity clinic. The clinic didn’t have the budget to put her on full-time. Two part-time jobs added up to sixty hours a week—time and a half at the regular rate. Her mother was a real bargain.

Harleen knew she wasn’t being fair, but she couldn’t help feeling angry that her mother hadn’t told her boss that, just this one time, she needed a couple of hours for her daughter’s important gymnastics competition. She’d missed all the others but this one she had to be there for. Just this one time and she’d never ask again, because this was Harleen’s last high-school competition ever.

She told her mother all about it, only there wasn’t much to tell, seeing as how her mother knew all along that she’d come out with the top score and the scholarship. Somehow that made the post-competition letdown even worse.

“I’m glad you knew it,” Harleen said. “I didn’t.”

Her mother laughed.

“Well, I didn’t,” Harleen insisted.

Her mother laughed harder.

Harleen went into tough-Brooklyn-cookie mode. “So I guess it’s true what they say—Muddah knows best, right? Ya knew it all along so ya didn’t haveta bothah showin’ up, didja? Cuz ya already knew, right?”

Her mother’s laughter cut off instantly as her expression went cold and stony. “Yeah, I was having so much fun here serving crappy coffee for quarter tips that I couldn’t tear myself away to watch you do your gymnastics thing.”

“My gymnastics thing is going to put me through college,” Harleen said. “Not you.”

Her mother’s hardened expression intensified. “No, not me. Just because I paid for all those gymnastics lessons, went without so you could have the best trainer—whose house I cleaned to make up the shortfall when there wasn’t enough money—that doesn’t mean I contributed to your going to college at all. The only thing I can do is make sure you and your brothers get enough to eat and keep a roof over your head. And in my spare time, I chillax by visiting your father in the pen—by myself, not because I don’t want to take you with me but because your father asked me not to, because he doesn’t want you to see him like that. My life is such a whirlwind of fun and games that, occasionally, I have to let something go by. Suck it up, buttercup.” Pause. “And don’t talk like that, people’ll think you’re a ditz.”

“The more fool them, because I’m not,” Harleen said. “I just don’t understand. All the things you’ve done—all the trouble you’ve faced, that we’ve faced together—and you can’t tell your boss you want a couple hours off to watch your daughter’s gymnastics competition. Why? Just tell me that at least.”

Her mother’s expression didn’t change. “Because I’m not allowed to bring a giant hammer to work.”

Harleen gaped at her, shocked. “Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?”

Her mother gave her a sidelong look. “You hear anyone laughing?”