Hopes and Dreams

Chapter 2

San Francisco, California, late August

I've always been confident in my routines, but I'm not entirely sure what is in my red Solo cup. When the guy pouring drinks asked me what I wanted, I just shrugged, and he gave me whatever this is. It tastes somewhat like Coke, which I have finally learned the taste of.

Over the past few weeks, I've had more soda than I've ever had during my seventeen-and-a-half years on the planet. Perks of not being on a strict eating plan to fit with the strict training schedule I was forced to follow for my entire career, I guess.

The tempo of the music speeds up and I find my feet starting to move. I'm not really sure what I'm doing, but soon I've put my cup down on a counter and have started doing turns and find myself even doing an aerial, then climbing onto the couch. I'm on top of the headrests of the couch, dancing, feeling...free. I start to perform my Olympic routine to the beat of the music, and I hear people clapping. I go on for my back tuck, but instead of landing on my feet on the springy, suede surface that I expect, one foot touches the cushy leather surface, while the other flails, searching for a landing point. Then the couch moves, and I slip, landing on my butt on the cold, hard tile floor.

"Ow," I whimper.

"Some Olympic gymnast she is," I hear somebody say, seemingly far off. I lay my head back on the floor as everything seems to thud to the beat of the music. What even just happened?

"Sam." Somebody's shaking my shoulder and saying my name, but I'm not sure who. "Samantha." The guy - or at least I'm assuming it's a guy, from the voice - shakes harder.

"Huh.." I find myself grunting.

"Get up," he says.

"I'm good," I close my eyes.

"Nope, you're getting up," he picks me up, one hand supporting my knees and the other around my shoulders. "Wasn't expecting you to be this light," he remarks with a laugh. I recognize that laugh.

"Who are you?" I mumble as he carries me out the front door. I open my eyes to see a skinny Asian teenager with worried eyes behind silver rimmed glasses. He's kinda cute, I guess. Not really my type, though.

"Johann Ling," he answers.

"Oh," I reply, feeling stupid. The Lings are old family friends, his dad and my mom grew up together, though they've lived about an hour away for most of my life. His older sister, about a year or two older than me, used to be a gymnast, and we were rivals who went to many of the same meets, so I used to see the family quite often. "What are you doing here?"

"This," he jerks his head back towards the house, "is my girlfriend's friend's boyfriend's cousin's party. She wanted to come but didn't want to third wheel. Also, designated driver. Lucky for you. Could ask the same of you."

"Where's your girlfriend?" I ask as he sets me on the ground, but keeping my arm around his neck for stability.

"Not really sure. She had to have a girl talk a few minutes ago," he shrugs. "Gonna answer my question?"

"What question?" I ask, confused. I rack my brain, but I can't remember him asking me anything.

"Why are you here?"

"Didn't have plans. Saw an invitation on the internet and they let me in, so figured it was okay. Kinda a lame party, though, but what can I do when I get invited to the big ones in Beverly Hills and my mom doesn't let me go?" I roll my eyes. Since I had won at the Olympics and retired, my mom had been determined to make me a normal teenager - normal teenage parties, NOT ones with celebrities, no sponsorship deals, she hadn't even let me go on tour with the rest of the team because she believed it would interfere with me attending public school.