#anyways if you do fall into the center of the venn diagram i want to be pals

[miau-exe]

LOLA AND LOLA !

This one is for the specific audience of rainbow high enjoyers and people that are obsessed with gerard way’s 2014 solo album hesitant alien and its mascot lola. Anyways, been wanting to draw this for a while, theyre both lola and thyere both pink and fluffy and cute :) kind of a pain to shade but really fun!

#rainbow high #hesitant alien #lola wilde #lola lovesu #lolaplusg #lola hesitant alien #shadow high #fan art #doll fanart #digital art #clip studio paint #two arts in one day everyone clap #art #artists on tumblr #lola and lola love them ive drawn them together before but that was a doodle #might draw them again :) just for me #anyways if you do fall into the center of the venn diagram i want to be pals #i need friends that are weird in the head for the same things as me #girlboss and nonbinary joint slay

[myownsuperintendent]

New Fic: “A Freshman Class to Watch”

Dana Scully, Monica Reyes, Samantha Mulder, and Diana Fowley complete their freshman year as college gymnasts. This is a wildly self-indulgent AU combining my two favorite fandoms, The X-Files and gymnastics. I hope I've made it comprehensible for the non gymnerds. Thanks to @scullys-right-eyebrow-txf for some help with the technical details (of course, any mistakes are my own). Also tagging @thefutureisporcelain as the only other person I know at the center of the XF/gymnastics venn diagram. The fic is rated T and is also here on Ao3.

.....

May

It’s Dana’s last JO nationals, which is still hard to believe. She knows it won’t be the last time she puts on a leotard, fastens her grips, salutes before the judges, and it’s not as though she’s not looking forward to college, to what comes next. Still, it feels like the end of something; everything feels like that, around this time. Last time running to her locker, last high school party, last time competing alongside the other girls from her gym.

She’s happy she can end it on a good note, though. She’s never totally satisfied with her own performances—there’s always something that could be better—but even she has to admit that everything goes well today, even bars, especially vault. She places fifth in her division, which is more than she’d hoped for, and she feels a flash of pride as she collects her flowers.

She sees Monica Reyes after the competition; they don’t live in the same city or train at the same gym, but they know each other pretty well by now, from running into each other here every year. She’s glad they’ll be going to college together, that she’ll go in knowing someone else on the team already. After training in the same place for much of her life, it’ll be nice to have someone familiar there when it comes time to make the switch.

“Hey, great job!” Monica says, giving her a hug. “You kicked ass out there today.”

“You did great too,” Dana says. “I love your floor.”

“Thanks!” Monica says. “Yeah, I was pretty happy. If only beam wasn’t a thing.”

Dana smiles sympathetically. “We’ve all thought that at some point.”

“Oh well,” Monica says. “Onwards and upwards. Did you see that college gym site? They said that we’re a freshman class to watch.”

“No, I can’t read that kind of thing,” Dana says. “It makes me too nervous.” She knows that’s weird—why should reading about gymnastics make her more nervous than actually competing? — but it’s true. She doesn’t like to think about people judging her, even if, as in this case, the judgment seems to be positive.

“Well, I think it’s going to be great,” Monica says. Someone calls her name then, and she turns to look. “That’s my coach. I’ve got to run. Text me, okay? And I’ll see you in a couple of months.”

“Definitely,” Dana says, and they hug again, quickly, before they go their separate ways.

She rides back home with her family, and they all go out for dinner that night, to celebrate. She keeps thinking about what Monica told her; she can’t help it. She wonders what the article actually said, if it was talking about her. It might not have been: there are plenty of other reasons they could be called a freshman class to watch. They have an Olympic champion, a world medalist. It might not have anything to do with her.

But she thinks about her vault today. She’d opened out at just the right time. Straight down the middle. Stuck it cold.

 .....

June

Monica’s texting with Dana, because she always seems to have her shit together, which Monica could really use. When are you going to start getting stuff for your dorm?

Probably not until August, Dana texts back. Not enough storage space in the house. But my mom’s already freaking out.

How come?

Not sure, Dana says. I’m the third. You’d think she’d be used to it by now.

LOL, Monica texts. Are you excited?

Yeah. I don’t believe it’s real yet, though.

Monica knows what she means. It’s strange to think she’ll be off to college at the end of the summer, after thinking about it for so long. She’s excited for a lot of different things—classes and dorm life and even dining hall food—but she thinks she’s excited for gymnastics most of all.

That’s funny in a way, because gymnastics won’t be something new: she’s been doing it since she was six. But everyone says it’s different in college, being part of a team, competing more for the group than for your individual scores. She thinks she’ll like that. She wouldn’t change anything about her time in JO—it’s always been the sport in which she’s felt at home—but sometimes she has been jealous of the girls in other sports, on the soccer team or the basketball team, who have a lot of friends competing along with them, who aren’t doing it alone. She likes the thought of being a part of something. She likes the thought that they’ve chosen her to be a part of it. She could be intimidated, when she thinks about the competition history of some of the girls who will be her teammates—in just two and a half months! — but, somehow, she’s not. They wouldn’t have recruited her if they didn’t think she had something to add. And she’s going to work her hardest to contribute to the team.

She wonders about it all a lot. Who her friends will be. When she’ll start making lineups. If they’ll ever want her to compete beam (she kind of hopes not, but then on the other hand you are supposed to stretch yourself in college). What she’ll use for her floor music—she wants to do something more fun now.

She texts Dana again. Do you think I could do a floor routine to whale music?

Um…what?

You know, whale music. Like whale sounds.

I know what it is. I just don���t know if you could do a floor routine to it. There’s no rhythm.

You’re no fun, Monica texts back, but she guesses Dana has a point. And she doesn’t know if she’ll get to pick her own music right away, anyway. Still, no harm in thinking about it. She spends a while scrolling through her phone, looking at her music selections, until it’s time to go to practice.

.....

July

Samantha didn’t think it would be a big deal, watching Classics. All that’s behind her now. But she had to leave halfway through, and now she’s in her bedroom, staring at the wall. She doesn’t know why it bothered her so much, but she does know that she’s mad at herself. Mad and worried. If she can’t even watch other people doing gymnastics, in a competition that has absolutely nothing to do with her, what is she going to do when she gets to college?

There’s a knock on her door, and she considers not answering; she doesn’t want to talk about gymnastics with her parents any more than she absolutely has to. But then she hears Fox’s voice calling, “Sam?”, and she relaxes. It’s just him. She gets up, shuffling over to open the door.

“You okay?” he asks.

She shrugs. “I don’t really know.”

“You want to talk about it?” he asks. She shrugs again, but she backs out of the doorway, and they sit down side by side on her bed.

“What if I suck?” she asks, eventually. She’s not sure it’s the main question, but it’s one of them. “What if I get to college and I just suck, and everyone’s like, ‘Wow, what happened to her?’”

“That won’t happen,” Fox says. “Since when have you sucked at anything?”

“Last year,” she says quietly. “Last year I sucked.”

“No, you didn’t,” he says. “You…you were having a rough patch.”

“Don’t,” Samantha says. She knows he means well, but she doesn’t want to hear it. Everyone had said things like that: that her performance last year didn’t mean anything, that she could get past it, that she could come back even better than she’d been at the Olympics. But they’d all said it like it was somehow her fault that it hadn’t happened yet. That she just needed to try harder, eat better, practice more, change her attitude. Stop being such a baby. Want it enough. She knows that’s not what Fox thinks, but it reminds her of everyone else, just the same.

“Okay,” he says. “Well, I still don’t think you sucked. Me trying to do balance beam, that’s what sucking would look like.”

She can’t help giggling at that. “It just made me think about last year,” she says. “Watching, I mean.” Classics last year was the first time she’d really competed since the Olympics, and it had been…well, awful. Three falls across her first three events. She had really wanted to scratch vault, the last one, but she hadn’t wanted to end on that note. She’d landed it, admittedly with a few steps back, but that still made it her best event of the night. No one had said, that night, that it was the punctuation to her elite career. But looking back on it, she felt like she shouldn’t have expected anything different—that she should have known, going in, that she wasn’t going to be at the top anymore and didn’t even want to be.

“I get it,” he says. “But college will be different, Sam. And I’ll still be around if you need me.” They hadn’t planned on going to the same college—they probably would have laughed at the idea if anyone had asked—but now here they are, if only for one year. She’s gladder about it than she’s willing to admit.

“I know,” Samantha says. “And I know college is supposed to be when you have fun. And remember why you fell in love with the sport and all that.” She can’t help sounding sarcastic. It was so long ago, when she fell in love with the sport. “But I just feel like everyone will be watching me. Come see if they broke the Olympian.”

“Maybe at first,” he says. “But not once people get to know you. Then they’ll forget you ever went to the Olympics. You’re not that special.” He elbows her.

He’s teasing, she knows—he really is proud of her, proud of what she’s done, sometimes more than she is herself. Still, she likes the idea of everyone forgetting she went to the Olympics. It’s hard to forget it herself, with the medals hanging up in the living room. She wishes that she could just remember the feeling—that beam routine, knowing she was on from the first second, the spins perfectly connected, the barani landed without a wobble—and forget where it happened and what it all meant.

.....

August

Diana’s packed. It’s something she’s good at—two world championships, three times at Jesolo, and three world cups (and that’s besides all the domestic competitions and training camps) will do that to you. The only hesitation was about whether to bring her medals, which she’s got arranged in a display on her bedroom wall, but after a minute she decided to go for it. She doesn’t care if it looks snotty; it’s not. She earned them. She didn’t practice five times a week, didn’t train that dismount day after day, didn’t tear her fucking labrum so that she could leave her medals at home and pretend she’s not anyone. She’s got two world medals on bars and two with the team and she earned every bit of them.

Her mom pokes her head in. “You’re packed already, Diana?”

“Yes,” Diana says. “Just finished.”

“And you have everything?” her mom asks. “Everything you need?”

“Yes,” she says. She’s always been very independent; she’s packed her own bag every morning since she was five, and she came back from her first day at gymnastics class announcing in a loud voice what kinds of leotards she would need and how often she was going to practice. Her mom tells that story a lot, but Diana sometimes thinks she’s kind of sorry about it, that she’d like to do more for her. Not that she’s one of those gym moms, thank God. Diana’s been really lucky there; her parents have always been the good kind of supportive. They’ve come to all her competitions, even the ones that were on the other side of the world, and waved banners with her name on them, and they’ve also made it completely clear that she could quit tomorrow if she wanted to. She’s never, never wanted to.

Her mom looks at the wall. “You took down your medals?”

Diana nods. “I’m going to put them up in my dorm room.”

Her mom nods too. “Dad and I are going to miss you so much,” she says, after a minute. “Well, you know that. But you’re going to do amazing things in college.”

“You’ll come and visit,” Diana says. “You can come to my meets. It’s not like I’ve never been away from home before.”

“Still,” her mom says, “it won’t be the same. But I am looking forward to watching you.”

She’s looking forward to it too, to this new field of competition. Everyone says NCAA is all about the team, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t have its stars. And Diana’s pretty sure she’s going to be one of them. She knows other people think so too: she read an article online, a couple of months ago, about how her cohort was a freshman class to watch. That has to have been because of her. The other girls in the class are two JO girls and Samantha Mulder, who—well, she was great when it counted. In the year it counted most, the Olympic year, Samantha was still all tiny and crisp form and 6.3 beam d-score, while Diana was all recurring injuries and low stamina and downgraded bars. Not that Diana has anything against Samantha, personally. The shoe could easily have been on the other foot. The shoe easily is on the other foot, now, because the last time she saw Samantha compete, she’d clearly entered the burnout phase, and she hasn’t been training seriously for a while, as far as Diana knows. And Diana’s ready. She’s healed and she’s been practicing and she’s ready to be a star in college, to make sure her gymnastics career ends on a high note. Because she’s in control of that.

She checks over her packing, carefully, and she zips up her suitcases. They’ll be driving down tomorrow, for a team training camp before classes start. She can’t wait.

.....

September

Dana’s parents dropped her off this morning (her mom cried a little, and her dad hugged her tight), and now she’s getting ready to head over to the gym. She’s redone her bun about five times. It’s silly, she knows. They’re just training; it doesn’t matter what her bun looks like. But this is her first day really on the team, and she wants to make a good impression, and she figures having a neat bun can’t hurt.

She checks her bag, too, where she’s packed her things, her water bottle and her muscle roller and some extra hair elastics. She can’t delay it any longer, she guesses, and most of her doesn’t really want to. So she heads out of her dorm, towards the gym building.

She’s left extra time, in case she gets lost, but it doesn’t take that long to get there. She pauses outside the door when she sees Monica coming toward her, also carrying a gym bag, also with her hair pulled back (ponytail for her). “Hi!” Monica says, when she gets close enough. “You get here this morning?”

Dana nods. “Yes. You?”

“Yeah,” Monica says. “I’ve just been unpacking a little. But I couldn’t really concentrate.”

“I know what you mean,” Dana says. She’s been trying to put her things away all morning, but there’s just too much adrenaline. “Are you…are you as nervous as I am?”

“Well, I don’t know how nervous you are,” Monica says, “but probably. But we’ve got to go in there, right? It’s not going to make a very good start if we just lurk outside the gym like weirdos. Plus, you’ve got nothing to be nervous about. I’ve seen you do gymnastics. You’re good!”

Dana has to smile at that. “Thanks. You’re good, too.”

“See, that’s the spirit,” Monica says. “We’re two good gymnasts, and we’re going to go in there and show them what we’ve got.”

“That’s right,” Dana says, firmly, and they walk into the gym side by side. She’s glad she has Monica with her. A team already.

Some of the upperclassmen are there already—Dana’s met a few of them, when she came here for recruiting, and she’s watched some of their meets, so they’re not entirely unfamiliar. There’s the girl who did the disco floor routine. There’s the girl who vaults an Omelianchik. And there’s their coach. Walter Skinner is one of the big reasons Dana wanted to go here, why she picked it over other schools. A lot of people say he’s strict, but that’s not something Dana minds, so long as he’s fair. She wants someone who can push her to be better, who takes the sport as seriously as she does.

He sees them as they come in. “Dana, Monica,” he says. “Welcome.”

“Thank you,” Dana says. “I’m really excited to be here.”

“Me too,” Monica says, nodding.

“You can join your teammates if you like,” he says. “We’ll be getting started in a few minutes.” They nod again, wandering over to where the other girls are chatting in the middle of the room. They stick together, still.

The door opens, and another girl comes into the gym. She’s shorter than Dana, which isn’t that unusual in the realm of gymnastics, but it’s something she notices anyway. Monica nudges her a little, but Dana knows who it is, of course. Samantha Mulder: she was on the last Olympic team. She won the gold on beam; Dana remembers her routine, its perfection, its precision. She knew Samantha was in their class, but seeing her in person is still a little bit exciting. She says hello to Coach Skinner and then makes her way towards the rest of them, slowly, looking a little shy.

Dana smiles at her. “Hi,” she says. “I’m Dana.”

“And I’m Monica,” Monica says. It’s all a little weird—are they supposed to pretend they’ve never seen her before?

“I’m Samantha,” she says. “Hi.”

“How are you so good on beam?” Monica blurts out. So they’re not pretending, apparently. “I mean, have you ever fallen? I’d be in a cast if I tried to do half the things you do.”

Samantha shrugs. “I just like beam, I guess,” she says, and then she’s quiet, fiddling with the end of her ponytail.

Other girls are filtering in, and Dana sees the last member of their class, Diana Fowley. She’s not as famous a face as Samantha, but you’d still recognize her if you’d been following gymnastics during the last quad: she went to worlds twice and medaled on bars. She clearly spent some time this morning redoing her bun too; it’s pristine, sitting secure at the back of her head. Her tank top and shorts match. Dana doesn’t know if she was trying to make an impression, but she’s certainly succeeding. “Hello, Samantha,” she says when she joins them. They must know each other already, from the national team.

“Hi, Diana,” Samantha says. Her voice is quiet; she’s fiddling with the ponytail again.

The last girls come in, and Coach Skinner, along with the assistant coaches, groups them in the center of the room standing in a circle. “Returning athletes, welcome back,” he says, “and new athletes, welcome. As always, I’m looking forward to working with you this year. I’m here to help each one of you achieve her best as an individual, but, more importantly, to help all of you work together to achieve our best as a team. We made the final round at nationals last year, and I’m confident that we can do it again this year. It will take a lot of hard work, but you’ll get out of it what you put in. What I ask is that you bring a willingness to work hard, to try your best, to be open to feedback, and to always help the team. In return, I’ll be here to support you in what’s best for your gymnastics. Let’s go get ‘em this year!” Some of the older girls whoop.

They do some introductions—Hi, my name’s Dana Scully, I’m from California, I’ve been doing gymnastics since I was five, and my favorite apparatus is vault—but they get into actual training pretty quickly. Dana likes that; she’s never been a fan of icebreaker games. She wants to get to know her teammates and make friends, of course, but she thinks she can do that better by working with them towards a goal. By knowing they’re all in this together, as they spread out around the mats, doing leg lifts and handstands and back tucks off blocks. She can tell she’s going to be a little sore tomorrow—she hasn’t really been practicing in the last couple of weeks, there’s been too much to do to get ready for school—but she doesn’t mind. She’s back in the gym, as part of a team she can contribute to, and she’s so glad about that.

She watches the other girls too; they’re doing a circuit as the last exercise of the day, and everyone has to complete it before they can go. Monica’s front tuck is high and powerful. Diana points her toes in the air and seems determined to stick every landing. Samantha looks at the blocks like they might be snakes, but her air awareness is like nothing Dana’s ever seen. She remembers what Monica told her at JO Nationals: them, a freshman class to watch. In this moment, as she cheers her teammates on, she fully believes it.

Dana looks around for the other freshmen after practice—it would be good to have people to stick with, she thinks, while they start trying to navigate campus. Diana’s gone before she can see where, and she doesn’t see Samantha at first either. But when she and Monica make their way out the door, talking about exploring a little, she sees Samantha trailing after them. “Hey,” Dana says, “you want to come with us? We were going to look around.”

“Yeah, I want to find food,” Monica says. “And maybe if there’s a store or something? There’s already stuff I need for my room.”

“I said I’d meet my brother,” Samantha says. “But he could probably tell us.”

“Your brother?” Dana asks. “Does he go here?”

“Yeah, he’s a senior,” Samantha says. They’re outside the gym now, and she points to a tall guy leaning against a tree. She’s really smiling for the first time since Dana’s met her. “That’s him.”

Samantha’s brother waves as they head towards him. He looks a little bit like Samantha—same eyes, same smile—but the height difference is almost comical. He’s got to be over six feet, and Dana doubts Samantha quite reaches five. Not that she wants to make fun; she’s used to being a lot shorter than the people around her. “Hi, Fox!” Samantha says. She turns to the two of them. “This is my brother, Fox.”

“Samantha, don’t tell him that,” he says.

Samantha rolls her eyes. “He hates his name so much,” she says. “So just call him Mulder. I’m allowed to call him Fox because it would be too weird otherwise. Anyway, these are Dana and Monica. They’re on my team.”

“Hi,” he says, smiling. “How was the first practice?”

“It was fine,” Samantha says. “We want to find out where stuff is. Will you show us?”

“Of course I’ll show you,” Mulder says. “What kind of stuff do you want to find? Library stacks? Anatomy lab?”

“Actually, I wouldn’t mind,” Dana says. “I have a class there next week.” They seem a little surprised from the way they look at her. “I’m pre-med.”

“Hey, that’s cool,” Mulder says. “We can swing by the science buildings. And then there’s a dining hall near them, if you want food.”

“We do want food,” Monica says. “Sounds good to me.”

So they set off across campus, the four of them. It’s turning into evening already, so Dana decides she’s made it: her first day at college. She hasn’t gotten lost, she hasn’t embarrassed herself, and she’s met people who are going to be a big part of her life here: her coaches, her teammates. Maybe her friends.

.....

October

Monica invited the other three freshmen over to watch world championships tonight; she’s always watched it with the girls from her gym, and she thinks it’s more fun in a group. Diana said she was busy—she’s made it clear she’s here to do gymnastics, not to make friends—but Dana’s there right at 7:30, popcorn in hand, and Samantha shows up a few minutes later. They settle around Monica’s laptop to watch. “I want to be her when I grow up,” Monica says, as they watch Oksana Chusovitina vaulting; she’s in her forties and still making finals when most gymnasts are long retired. “Just keep doing gymnastics until I die. That sounds awesome.”

“You don’t think you’d get tired of it?” Samantha asks.

“No,” Monica says. “Why would I? I love it. I mean, my body might give out on me before I get that far.” She can’t really imagine being in her forties, let alone what doing gymnastics would feel like then. “But even if I can just do some cartwheels, I’ll be happy.”

Dana laughs. “Maybe if you have kids, you can be on a team together.”

“Yeah!” Monica says. “Definitely.” She watches as Chuso’s score comes up. “Did you ever meet her, Samantha?” she asks. She knows they were at the Olympics together.

“Just for a couple of minutes,” Samantha says. “We weren’t in the same group or anything. She’s nice, though.”

“That’s so cool,” Monica says. “Seriously.” Samantha sort of shrugs, but she’s smiling a little bit.

On a break between subdivisions, she looks at her phone, wanting to see how scores are stacking up. “Hey, here’s an article,” she says. “‘NCAA Gymnastics Stars of the Season: Our Predictions.’ And it says—”

“Stop!” the other two say, almost at the same time. They don’t like following college gym sites, but Monica doesn’t see the harm in it, so long as you don’t take anything too seriously.

“Why do you always read those?” Samantha asks.

“I know,” Dana says. “I don’t want to know what a bunch of people online think about me!”

“None of us are in it, anyway,” Monica says. “It’s Diana.” She scans the blurb. “Four-time world medalist…flawless lines…do you think Diana wrote this herself?” She laughs.

“I think it’s kind of hard for her,” Samantha says, quietly. “Doing so well and then getting hurt before the Olympics and having to start all over. I think that’s hard.”

Samantha has a point, she knows. That can’t have been easy, and if Diana’s kind of standoffish, kind of full of herself, maybe it comes out of that. Besides, they’re teammates; they should be on the same side. “You’re right,” she says. “I shouldn’t make fun.” She clicks out of the article.

“Besides,” Dana says, “she is really good. I wish I could do bars like that.” She shakes her head. “I hate bars.”

“Why?” Monica asks. “You’re pretty good at them.”

“I guess,” Dana says. “It’s been a process, though. I actually…I had to redo level five because I couldn’t get the routine.” She lowers her voice when she says it, as if someone might be eavesdropping, looking for scandalous gossip about the level five bar routine.

“Well, you obviously came back strong,” Monica says. “No shame in that.”

“Still,” Samantha says. “I get it. That’s hard too.”

“It’s just never natural for me,” Dana says. “I wish it was. And it obviously is for Diana.”

“We can only do what we can do,” Monica says. “We all have our strengths and weaknesses, right?” She turns back to the screen, where the next subdivision has started; a gymnast is vaulting a Cheng. “Like I could never do that. But I’ve still got some things going for me.”

Dana smiles then, and they keep watching.

.....

November

It’s two months into the semester, and Samantha decides that, all in all, things aren’t going so badly.

Her classes are pretty good. She was worried about them being hard, but she’s found she can keep up. She was worried about people recognizing her and asking questions, but so far that hasn’t happened much either; maybe it’s been long enough since the Olympics, or maybe people just don’t watch gymnastics as much as she thought. It probably helps that she never had her face on a cereal box or anything like that, thank God, thank God, thank God.

But even gymnastics…she’s liking it a lot more than she’s liked it in years. She’s only really training bars and beam for now, although she’s played around with a couple of floor passes. (She doesn’t think she could get anything more than a full twist around now on vault, and they’re already got plenty of those.) Her sets are a lot simpler than what she did in elite, and sometimes she misses some of the moves that used to be a part of her, but mostly she likes it. And Coach Skinner…he’s serious but he’s never mean. He doesn’t yell at her if she misses a dismount. He doesn’t ask her if that means she doesn’t care about it. He doesn’t say that maybe she doesn’t belong in the gym.

And she likes having a team, a real one, where they’re all working together and they all know they’re part of it. She likes having the other girls cheering for her, and she likes cheering for them too, likes dancing on the sidelines when they practice floor routines. She’s got friends here, she thinks.

She spends the most time with the other freshmen, and she likes them, especially Dana. She thinks they have the most in common, especially in the gym: they’re both serious about it, but it’s not the only thing in their life. She doesn’t think she’d ever want to be as competitive as Diana is, all the time, and she doesn’t know if she could ever have as much fun as Monica seems to, even here. But she can take pride in a skill well done, can love the feeling of flying. She thinks Dana’s like that too.

The two of them hang out outside of practice a lot. Sometimes they work on their homework together; Dana’s really smart, and she’s good at explaining things that are confusing. Sometimes they go off-campus to explore. “You know what sounds really good?” Dana says one Saturday afternoon. “Actual pizza. Not from a dining hall.”

“You want to get pizza?” Samantha asks. She’s not used to being invited to that kind of thing, not when she’s training, which is basically all the time.

“Yeah,” Dana says. “If you do.”

Why not? She’s in college now. Her parents and her old coaches can’t tell her what to do. “Yeah,” she says. “I’ll ask Fox. Maybe he knows a good place.”

He does, and they go, the three of them, to a place that’s a complete hole in the wall but has some of the best pizza she’s ever eaten. The whole time they’re there, they talk and laugh. She’s with two people who she likes spending time with. She’s doing something she wanted to, because it sounded fun. She’s not dreading having to be back in the gym on Monday. It almost doesn’t feel real, but she tries her best to trust it.

.....

December

There’s about a month until the season starts, and tonight they’re having an intrasquad competition, blue versus red. Diana’s on the blue team, and she’s doing the all-around; she knows that doesn’t necessarily mean she’ll make all four lineups in actual competition, so she’s using this as an opportunity to show that she should, that all of her skills are clean and consistent. She deserves to be out there, come January.

It’s not as crowded as she assumes it will be during the season, but there are some students there to watch. Coach Skinner is very big on trying to replicate the conditions of competition, even in an event like this that doesn’t count towards anything. That works with Diana’s mindset. There’s no point in doing things you aren’t going to take seriously.

They start on vault. She’s gone down to the full for college, at least for now; she’s grown since she last did the double, and it’s hard to get around. And the blind landing on the one-and-a-half is trickier than it looks. She’s hoping she can work up to it eventually, but even now, she thinks they could still use her, even without a ten start. Her full is very clean, and when she lands it solidly, there’s basically nothing to take. She lands it solidly tonight, and the other girls on the blue team cheer. She keeps her eye on the other fulls. They all have something to take away.

But she’s been looking forward to bars the most. She knows it’s where she can shine, and so it’s where she feels the happiest, the most solid. Her routine’s a lot simpler now, but she’s trained a couple of her favorite moves; she’s got her half-twisting shaposh in the routine now (she’s not about to jump to the high bar like an eight-year-old, come on). She goes over it in her head while she waits. Samantha’s the last one to go before her, on the blue team, and her routine goes pretty well, until she stumbles out of the dismount. She looks upset, afterwards, and Diana pats her on the shoulder, but she’s not really thinking about it. And she’s not paying any attention at all to the senior who’s going for the red team, because it’s about to be her turn.

Diana’s heard other girls say that she thinks she’s perfect. Girls at her gym back home, and girls on the national team, and even girls here already. Here’s the thing, though: she doesn’t. She knows what her weaknesses are, and she knows when she’s fucked up. She’d never say it to anyone, but she wouldn’t have picked herself for the Olympic team either. She would have been right for it once, only the year before, but by then other girls were better.

But all that means she knows when she’s doing well, too. And she knows, tonight, that she’s on: that her toes are pointed, that each transition is smooth, that her release is high and that there’s no way she’ll miss the catch. And when she comes in for the dismount, her feet are not about to move. She doesn’t need to hear them screaming for her. She doesn’t need a score. It feels for a minute like she’s back at worlds again and they’re about to put that bars medal around her neck. She thinks she might cry, if that weren’t totally ridiculous.

You’ve got to put each event behind you to go on to the next, Diana knows, so she thinks about beam and then about floor. They go well too. She thinks she’s made her case. Coach Skinner says, “Good job, Diana,” as they head out of the gym, and he’s not what you’d call an effusive guy.

She’s forgotten about the other girls, who are chatting around her as they change. As far as she’s concerned, this was her night. Again. Finally.

.....

January: Week One

She’ll be competing as a college gymnast for the first time in less than half an hour, and Dana is both extremely excited and extremely nervous. It’s a home meet, and she can’t decide if that makes it better or worse; they’ll have more support, but there will also be more people to see if she messes up.

Coach Skinner put her in the all-around, which surprises her. She’s confident about vault and floor, and beam is beam but she feels all right about it, but she’s very nervous for bars. As she fixes her hair one last time, she gives herself a pep talk, reminds herself that she’s being silly, that she’s put extra work into bars for years just so that it won’t go wrong. That this is not like that time in level five, that she’s gotten a lot better since then, that her issue with bars is one of confidence, not skill. She still wishes Coach Skinner hadn’t picked her, but she knows they need her, that it’s not their strongest event as a team and there aren’t that many routines to choose from. You just need to hit, Dana, she tells herself. No one’s asking you to get a ten. It’s your first college meet and you’ve got to enjoy it and stop psyching yourself out.

She wonders if she put on too much face glitter. Or not enough face glitter.

She turns to look at the other girls in the locker room. Most of the upperclassmen seem to have their getting ready rituals; they’re excited for the season to be starting, of course, but they already know what they’re doing in a way that she doesn’t. Monica has her headphones on and is bouncing on the balls of her feet, but she’s smiling. Diana’s sitting down with her eyes closed; she looks calm, like she always does. Samantha is clinging to her bag like it’s the only thing between her and death, and she looks like she’s about to throw up.

“Are you okay?” Dana asks her.

“I’m…I get really nervous,” Samantha says, her voice so quiet Dana can barely hear it.

“We all get nervous, I think,” she says gently. “But it’s going to be fine. You’re great at this. Your beam is so beautiful.”

But Samantha shakes her head. “I haven’t even competed since last year,” she says. “I’m not going to be any good. I’m going to let all of you down…”

“You’re not going to let anyone down,” Dana says. “We’re a team. We’re here to lift each other up.” She knows a lot of people think that kind of thing is cheesy—Melissa always used to roll her eyes, when she’d hear Dana say that. But she really does believe it, and she wants Samantha to believe it too.

She doesn’t seem to. “I shouldn’t even be here,” she says.

“That’s not true at all,” Dana says. “And it’s only the first week. We don’t have to be perfect.” She’s worried about Samantha, though; she looks terrified. “Do you want to talk to Coach Skinner?”

Samantha shakes her head. “No,” she says, her voice still small.

“Maybe we could do some breathing exercises?” Dana says. She doesn’t know if it’ll help, but she figures it’s worth a shot. “We used to do them before competitions at my gym back home. They can really calm you down. Does that sound okay?” Samantha nods, after a moment, and they sit down across from each other on one of the benches. “All right,” Dana says. “Copy me.”

She breathes in, holds it, breathes out, counting all the while; she sees Samantha doing the same, after a moment. It’s time to march out after a couple of minutes, but Samantha doesn’t look quite so scared, and she murmurs, “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Dana says. “Here, we can walk out together.” She keeps an eye on Samantha while they’re waiting to start. She’s not thinking about her own nerves anymore, not much anyway.

She’s fourth in the vault lineup, after Diana, who lands her full with just a small hop. “Great job!” Dana says to her, as she goes up, and Diana nods. And then it’s her turn.

She’s done this a million times, and she loves vault best. And everything feels right today, starting from the run. Her block is good, and she can tell she’s on in the air, opening out for the landing after one and a half twists. She has to take a step at the end, but only a little one.

The other girls are cheering for her, running to give her hugs and high fives. Monica’s first, shouting, “That was amazing!” Dana’s a little nervous waiting for her score, but mostly she’s happy. And when they show the 9.95, Monica screams and hugs her again. She doesn’t scream herself. She almost can’t believe it.

She’s not as worried as she was before the meet when they go to bars. She takes a few more deep breaths before she goes up, reminds herself how many times she’s hit her routine in practice. It goes fine, not as well as her vault, but for her it’s a good bars routine. And everyone cheers for her again, and it’s hard not to feel happy about that, even before she sees the score. 9.85. She thinks she must be hallucinating for a second, but there it is up on the screen. She knows NCAA scoring is looser than J.O., but still!

She cheers for the other girls too. Samantha looks scared again, when she’s about to go up, and Dana squeezes her shoulders. “You’re going to be amazing,” she tells her, and Samantha manages a smile at that. And she hits too, coming off the mats looking stunned and relieved. Diana’s the last to go, and she’s almost perfect. Dana wishes she could fly like that on bars, everything looking effortless.

At the halfway point of the meet they’re in the lead, and Dana’s happy as they move over to the beam. Coach Skinner talks to them as they warm up, giving them last-minute reminders. “Don’t rush your turn, Dana,” he tells her, and she nods. Now that she’s gotten through bars, she’s feeling a lot more confident. Beam can be unpredictable, but it doesn’t scare her. She knows she can hit for the team, if she just concentrates and does everything like she did in practice.

She takes her time setting up for the turn, like Coach Skinner told her. She snaps her arms down so that she doesn’t wobble when she lands the acro series. When she lands the dismount, her feet don’t move.

It’s a 9.9 for her beam, and she’s thrilled with that, but she’s more worried about Samantha than she is about herself at this point. She’s looking pale again, and a lot of girls from the other team have turned around to watch. Dana can’t blame them—she wouldn’t want to miss one of Samantha’s beam routines either—but she doesn’t think it’s helping. “We’re a team,” she says. “It’s going to be okay.”

“I’m not worried about you, Samantha,” Coach Skinner says. “Don’t worry about anyone else.” That seems to do something, because Samantha nods and draws herself up a little straighter. She walks up to the beam and salutes.

The thing about Samantha is this: she has a quality of movement on beam that none of the rest of them have. They probably won’t ever have it, no matter how much they practice. Dana can’t explain what it is, exactly. But it reminds her of something Melissa said to her once, after one of her meets. “I don’t get how you do all this stuff,” she said, “and you don’t feel like it’s freaky. It’s just like walking for you.” Dana hadn’t known how to answer her then, but now she thinks she knows how Melissa must have felt, because what Samantha does is different, somehow, even when they’re doing the same skills. She looks like beam is what she was meant to be doing. It’s not a question of being perfect, even: she has a big wobble after her side aerial, and even when she’s saving it, she still looks like that.

They mob her when she comes off the beam, with hugs and cheers. “You were so good,” Dana says. “So, so good.”

“I wobbled—”

“Fuck wobbling,” Monica says, and even Samantha grins at that. “That was amazing.”

“Pretty great,” Diana says; she’s been in her own world most of the meet, her face concentrated, but now she’s smiling too.

Floor is last. Dana’s already realized how different competing in college is—a lot more screaming—but floor is something else again. The crowd claps along to all their music, and they all do each other’s moves. Monica’s routine is going to be a big hit, she can already tell; the music is insanely catchy, and she knows how to perform, how to get everyone on her side.

Dana’s own routine isn’t as flashy, but she loves the music they’ve chosen: it’s a big band piece, “Beyond the Sea.” She hits the tumbling passes cleanly, remembers to smile, ends with a little shimmy. And then it’s over. She’s hit four for four in her first college meet, and her score comes up, 9.9, and that’s it, she’s done for today.

But she’s not, quite. Monica’s tugging on her arm. “Dana, you won the all-around!”

“What?” She looks around for some confirmation. She wasn’t adding up her scores over the course of the meet; there was too much going on.

“Yeah, look!” Monica points to the scoreboard. “Not bad for week one, huh?”

“I…is that real?”

“Of course it’s real,” Monica says. “You think they put fake stuff on the scoreboard?” She’s smiling as she hugs Dana. “You deserve it. You did awesome today.” The other girls are hugging her too, congratulating her, but she still can’t quite take it in. It’s not that she’s not happy or proud. It’s just that she didn’t expect it at all.

And she guesses she’s not the only one who didn’t expect it. Diana says, “Congratulations, Dana,” in the flattest voice she’s ever heard, and the expression on her face can only be described as scary.

But Dana wants to be nice. “Congratulations to you too,” she says. “Your bars, they were amazing.” Diana’s 9.95 was the highest score on bars for the meet, and that’s something Dana wishes she could do.

“Thanks,” Diana says, her voice still flat. “It helps to have difficult moves, I guess.” Dana tries to figure out if that was meant as an insult—she’s pretty sure it was—but Diana’s already moving away, so she decides to leave it, not to respond.

It’s not worth it. She’s too thrilled anyway, too filled with adrenaline, too eager to see what the rest of her college career holds. It’s started on a high note. She thinks she can keep it there.

.....

January: Week Two

They have their first away meet this week, and Monica is excited. It’s at Utah, which has a huge stadium, and a lot of people come out to all of their meets. Monica already knows that she can thrive off a crowd; sure, it’s not a home crowd this time, but she doesn’t think that’s going to stop her.

The only downside is that she’s rooming with Diana, and it doesn’t look like that’s going to be a super fun time. They’re only here for one night, and Diana’s already arranged all of her hair products in height order on the edge of the sink. What is the point?

Still, it doesn’t really affect her, she guesses. She’s lying on her bed, reading on her phone, when Diana looks over at her. “What are you doing?”

“Reading,” Monica says. “College gym site. Got to find out what they’re saying about us, you know.” She smiles, so that Diana can take that as a joke if she wants to. She knows that Dana and Samantha hate it when she does this, that they won’t let her read anything out loud.

But it seems like Diana will. “So what are they saying?”

“Well, they put this as one of the top meets for this weekend,” Monica says. “Both teams had really strong opening weeks…oh, and they say that Dana’s one to keep an eye on.” She watches Diana as she says it. She knows Diana’s mad about the attention Dana got last week; she hasn’t said anything during practice, but she’s not exactly subtle.

“Sure,” Diana says. “Of course.”

Maybe it’s not a good idea to piss Diana off the night before their meet, but Monica’s never been a particularly cautious person. “Why are you mad?” she asks.

“I’m not mad,” Diana says.

“Yeah, you are.”

“I’m not,” Diana says. “That’s so juvenile. I just think…they’re really ready to throw out the high scores for the 10.0 vaults, aren’t they? Even if they’re not perfect.”

“First of all, you’re bullshitting me,” Monica says. “And second of all, even if that’s true, why is it a problem? Dana’s on our team, the last time I checked. So it’s good for all of us if she does well.”

“I never said it wasn’t.” Diana’s not looking at her.

“And besides, she deserves it,” Monica says, because Dana’s her friend, and because it’s the truth. “She’s really, really good.”

“She’s fine,” Diana says.

“Okay, be bitter,” Monica says. “Again, reminder that this is a team sport.”

“It’s not really,” Diana says. “It’s a fake team sport.”

“Maybe when you were in elite,” Monica says. “Not here.”

Diana sighs. “Look, I just see it differently, all right? And there is an individual part, even here. If we want to make lineups—”

“You’re still going to make lineups,” Monica says. “I really don’t think you have to worry about that.”

Diana’s looking at her now. “Do you even care?” she asks. “About how you do, I mean. Not just this rah rah we’re a team shit.”

“Of course I care,” Monica says. “But I wouldn’t, like, break any of your legs. And I don’t care that I’m not in the bars or beam lineups, because I know other people are better there.” Diana’s looking at her like she’s insane now, so she goes back to reading. “They did shout out your bar routine,” she says. “That ought to perk you up.”

“Yeah, I saw,” Diana says. “Earlier this week.” Of course she did.

But at least Diana’s willing to discuss online coverage with her. “Did you see the American Cup announcement?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Diana says. “It wasn’t really surprising. She did get the silver at Worlds.”

Monica nods. “Yeah. I just wish she’d get a more interesting floor routine.”

“I wish ninety percent of people would get a more interesting floor routine,” Diana says, and then Monica’s laughing, she can’t help it. And Diana smiles at her, just for a minute.

.....

January: Week Three

Samantha’s still getting used to competing again. She was sure something awful was going to happen, the first week, but it didn’t. It didn’t happen the second week either. But this week, the third, she’s off on her beam series and there’s no chance to save it. She barely gets half of one foot on the beam before she’s falling.

She takes a deep breath and gets back up to finish, but the damage is done. She’s let the team down. She doesn’t know what Coach Skinner is going to say. He’s never yelled at her before when she made mistakes, but that was in practice: there’s more at stake when you fall in a competition, where everyone can see.

“Do you know why that happened, Samantha?” he asks her after the meet.

Maybe she’s supposed to say that she wasn’t trying hard enough. But she thinks she was. “I was trying,” she says. “I swear.”

“I know you were,” he says. “I meant, do you know what was off technically?”

“Oh,” she says. “I think…I wasn’t straight when I took off for the back handspring.”

“That’s what I think too,” he says. “It happens. I just wanted to make sure you understood, so you can try to check for that next time.”

She nods. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he says. “That’s why we have a whole season. So you can keep getting better.” She nods again. She doesn’t know what to say. She tries to imagine her coaches back home saying that to her. She might as well imagine that she’s suddenly seven feet tall.

Dana’s waiting for her outside. “Hey,” she says. “You okay?”

“I think so,” Samantha says. “I’m sorry I fell. But Coach Skinner was really nice.”

Dana hugs her. “The rest of the routine was beautiful,” she says. “And your bars.”

Dana’s always so sweet, so kind. She was worried that people might only want to be her friend here because she went to the Olympics, even though that might be kind of a conceited way to think. But she thinks Dana just…likes her. And that might be the thing she likes most about being here so far.

.....

January: Week Four

Competing every week has been different, but Diana feels like she’s into the rhythm now. In some ways, she likes it more. She’s always been at her best in competition; she’s not one of those girls who trains well and then chokes. She likes attention, which she knows some people would say is a bad thing, but she doesn’t agree or care.

Actually, she thinks she should be getting more attention, although that’s not something you can really say. Aside from her bars, she hasn’t been as much of a standout as she expected here. Beam’s probably her second best, but it’s hard to stand out on beam when you’re on the same team as Samantha. She gets that, because Olympic champion and all, but she couldn’t have predicted Dana. Dana’s been outscoring her on everything but bars, week after week, and it’s maddening. And the worst part is that she always acts so damned surprised about her scores. At first Diana thought it was an act, but now she’s beginning to think it’s real. She can’t decide which possibility pisses her off more.

But in college they’re supposed to be all about the team. So she’s supposed to jump up and down and scream every time Dana gets another 9.975 on vault. Ugh.

She keeps working her own routines, of course, but there’s a closed ceiling here; it’s not like in elite where she could keep adding difficulty. As long as the routine starts from a 10, they’re all evaluated on the same scale. So there might be a limit to where she can go, and she doesn’t like that idea. It makes her think of Olympic trials all over again, of coming in knowing she wasn’t going to get there.

So maybe she’s not smiling and screaming after this meet as much as everyone else is, even though they won. She doesn’t think anyone would notice, or care, but Coach Skinner beckons her over as they’re leaving the arena. “Diana. Is everything okay?”

She can’t put it exactly as she’d like to, of course; she could pretend she’s tired, but she wants to be straight with him. “I just want to be better,” she says.

He looks at her for a moment. “You did very well today.”

“Not as well as I’d like,” Diana says. “Is there anything you think I should do to train differently?” He is her coach, after all; that’s what he’s here for.

“I’ve been happy with how you’re doing,” he says. “Is there something in particular that you feel isn’t working for you?”

“It’s not exactly that,” Diana says. “But I’d like to focus on correcting my problems, so that I can score higher.” For the team, she thinks about saying, but she doesn’t think she can pull it off without sounding fake.

“Everyone has room for improvement,” he says, and his voice sounds careful, “and I’m happy to work more with you this week, if you like. But you need to remember that it’s your first year here, Diana. And it’s only our fourth meet. You shouldn’t necessarily expect to be getting top scores right away.”

She doesn’t know what to say to him. She knows she’ll sound like a jerk if she says she wants to be the best on the team. “I think I’m just very competitive,” she says, finally.

“And that can be a good thing,” Coach Skinner says, “if it helps motivate you. But you don’t want it to take over your headspace, either. You should be proud of your work, Diana. You’ve been very consistent this season. You’re going to be someone we can count on.”

She knows he means it, and she is pleased, even if it’s not everything she wanted. “So we can work some more this week?” she says. “I think there are things I could refine on beam, especially.”

“I’m happy to work with you,” he says. “But think about what I just told you, all right?”

“All right,” Diana says. “Thanks.” And she picks up her gym bag and turns and goes.

.....

February: Week Five

“Wow,” Diana says to her after the meet, when they’re back in the locker room. “Way to go out there.”

Dana doesn’t say anything, but Monica does. “What the hell, Diana?” she says. “We’re a team.”

Diana shrugs. “Well, then, it would be great for the team if people could hit when they needed to.”

“The point of being a team is that we lift each other up,” Monica says. “So it doesn’t matter if one person falls. Like it’s completely possible for someone to never fall.”

“There’s falling,” Diana says, “and then there’s losing your shit all over the place.”

“Look, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Monica says; her voice is getting louder now, and this is becoming way more of a thing than Dana wants it to be. She already feels bad enough. “Do you think you’re helping? How would you have felt if someone said that to you after Olympic trials?”

There’s a silence, and Dana feels like she has to say something. “Guys, please just stop it,” she says. “Monica, it’s fine. I did mess up.”

Everyone ignores her. Diana’s gone pale. “You little bitch,” she says to Monica. “You little bitch!” Dana’s never heard her sound so upset.

“Okay, okay.” It’s Karen; she’s one of the seniors. “You both need to cool down. It’s not okay for you to be talking to each other like this.” As she turns to Monica and Diana, Dana finishes changing as quickly as she can. She wants to get out of here.

She doesn’t want to keep thinking about the meet, but of course she can’t help it. She had a good vault, but everything went wrong with bars. She missed a hand on her transition to the high bar and fell, and then…well, she just couldn’t get out of her head about it. It made her think about all her old bars nightmares, and the rest of the routine, after she got back on, wasn’t much good either. And the more she tried to shake it, the more it lingered. She fell on her turn on beam, and then she sat the dismount. After that, Coach Skinner pulled her from the floor lineup. He did it nicely, saying that he just wanted to make sure she was okay, and after the meet was over he pulled her aside and talked to her about focusing on the mental game and putting this behind her. He told her he knew she could do a great job again for the team next week. He was saying all the right things, but she couldn’t take in any of it. At least she didn’t cry.

She might cry now, though, she thinks as she leaves the locker room. Just go back to her room and cry for about an hour.

She didn’t see Samantha leave, but she’s sitting on the wall at the end of the path. “Hi,” she says, as Dana comes up to her. “Are you okay?”

“Not really,” Dana says. “I feel so bad about today.”

“I know how you feel,” Samantha says. “It’s so hard, when you don’t have a good day.”

Dana nods, sitting down next to her. “Bars is just so hard for me,” she says. “Even when I hit, I don’t feel good about it. And when I mess up…I just can’t bounce back. But I should be able to. I know it’s all a mental thing. But I…” She trails off. “It’s hard. And I let you all down.”

“No, you didn’t!” Samantha says. “No one’s mad at you.”

“You heard Diana,” Dana says.

“Well, I’m not mad at you, anyway,” Samantha says. She puts an arm around Dana’s shoulders. “I still think you’re great.”

“Thanks, Samantha,” Dana says. It does help a little, hearing that. “I’m just…I’m mad at myself, I guess.”

Samantha nods. “I know what that’s like,” she says. “The mental part really is the hardest.”

“Yeah,” Dana says.

“Gymnastics really makes you hate yourself, sometimes.”

That’s not exactly what she was saying. She hopes Samantha doesn’t think she’s making this into more of a thing than it is. “I don’t…hate myself,” Dana says. “I’m upset with myself, yeah. But I’ll be okay.”

Samantha’s hugging her knees. “When everyone’s expecting you to be good,” she says, “and you just don’t have anything that day, and you know you’re disappointing them…that’s the hardest.”

Dana doesn’t think Samantha’s talking about her falls today, anymore. “It’ll be okay,” she says, for both of them. “I’ll practice a lot this week. Work on the mental stuff. And it helps, knowing you’ve got my back.” Samantha smiles at that. “I don’t think I’ve really disappointed anyone.” She’s not sure she totally believes that, but she thinks it would be good for both of them to hear. They sit together for a little bit longer, not talking.

.....

February: Week Six

Monica knows she should apologize to Diana. She wouldn’t want anyone bringing up things she’d messed up, especially things that were important to her. And gymnastics is one of those things, for both of them, even though she knows Diana thinks she doesn’t take it seriously. She likes to have fun, sure, but that doesn’t mean she won’t give everything she has to perfecting a skill. They’re not so different, in that way. And she knows she was mean, even if Diana was mean to Dana first.

So she’s glad when she gets to practice early on Monday and sees that Diana is early too. “Hey, Diana,” she says. “I just wanted to say…I’m sorry for what I said to you on Saturday. I was being a jerk.”

“Yeah,” Diana says. “Okay.”

That’s not much of an answer. “I really shouldn’t have said it. I’m sorry.”

“I said okay,” Diana says. “So you can feel better about yourself now, all right?”

“I’m not trying to feel better about myself,” Monica says, even though maybe she is, a little.

“Then just drop it, okay?” Diana says. “It’s not something I love discussing. If that wasn’t obvious.”

Maybe she should just drop it. Instead, she finds herself saying, “You shouldn’t be ashamed.”

“Oh my god,” Diana says. “Are you my therapist now? I’m not ashamed.”

“All right,” Monica says. She’s had about enough of this. At least she apologized. Diana hasn’t apologized to Dana, as far as she knows. “I’m sorry I started this, okay? I just wanted you to know I was sorry. We’re a team, and we shouldn’t be tearing each other down.” Diana rolls her eyes and goes back to stretching, and fortunately Monica doesn’t have to push things any further, because Dana and Samantha show up then.

“Hey!” Dana says. “How’s everything going?” She’s not really looking at Diana.

And Diana’s not looking at her either—she’s looking at her own feet—when she says, “Hey. Sorry if I was too much on Saturday. I get really competitive.”

It’s not what Monica would consider much of an apology, from anyone else, but she’s surprised Diana’s giving Dana even that. Dana’s surprised too, if the look on her face is anything to go by. “Okay,” she finally says. “Yeah, it wasn’t very cool of you. I didn’t need you to tell me I’d messed up.”

“Well, okay then,” Diana says, still not looking. “I won’t.”

“Well, good,” Dana says. And they stand around a little awkwardly until Coach Skinner appears and practice starts.

.....

February: Week Seven

Samantha was happy yesterday.

She was happy because she was on beam, and sometimes she can forget about everything else when she’s there. This was one of those times. Her double turn was steady. She flew through the side aerial and both of the layout step-outs. When it came to the part of the choreography where she smiled and winked, it felt like a natural expression of how she was feeling. She stuck the dismount.

The other girls screamed and hugged her after she saluted. And then they did it again when her score came up. A ten.

It might sound silly to a lot of people, but she couldn’t remember being happier in gymnastics. Not even when she won her gold. Because there weren’t people screaming and hugging her then. Dana even tried to pick her up, which was pretty silly, because Dana’s barely taller than she is and they almost fell over. But they just started laughing then. And Coach Skinner patted her back and said, “Well done, Samantha.” And she could see Fox waving to her from the stands.

But that was all yesterday. This morning there was an article about the meet on the school website. She wishes the article didn’t have a picture of her at the top, and she really wishes it didn’t call her “Olympic gold medalist Samantha Mulder.” She’s not sure why she wishes it, because it’s true, after all, and they do cover all the meets, and it makes sense for them to talk about her getting a ten, because that’s important in gymnastics. But she doesn’t like people looking at her, thinking about her, expecting things of her. She wants this to be for her and her team, not for everyone else.

So she was already feeling weird about things, and that was before she opened her email. Before she saw the message from her parents. They saw the article and they’re glad she’s working to her potential here, because it really would be a shame to keep throwing everything she’s worked for away, after all the time and money they spent on her training. There’s no reason you can’t still be the best, Samantha. Being tired or upset or so sick of it all isn’t an excuse not to practice, Samantha. Bring home only the gold for us, Samantha.

This is the first time they’ve emailed her since January. She hates reading their emails, so she doesn’t know why she’s upset about that now.

She sits on her bed and hugs her knees. She doesn’t even feel like crying. She doesn’t even feel like anything.

She’s not sure how long she’s been sitting when she hears a knock on the door. “Who is it?” she calls.

“It’s me.” Dana’s voice. “Can I come in?”

“Okay,” she says, her own voice tight. “The door’s not locked.”

Dana pushes the door open. “Do you want to get dinner with me and Monica?” she asks. “We thought we could—hey, are you okay?” She crosses the few steps of the dorm room, looking concerned. “You look really upset.” Samantha tries to answer, but she can’t. “What’s wrong?” Dana asks, and her voice is gentle, and Samantha starts to cry.

Dana doesn’t ask anything more right then; she just puts her arms around Samantha and lets her cry. “I’ve got you,” she says. “Let it out. It’s okay.” Samantha wishes she’d had a friend to say that to her before. “Do you want to talk about it?” Dana asks, when she’s mostly stopped crying.

Samantha tells her about the email. And about how it’s not just the email, how it’s years of things like that. Of her parents only caring about her winning. Of her coach forcing her to keep going when she didn’t have anything left. “I really…I hated it so much at the end,” she almost whispers. She doesn’t look at Dana when she says it. She hasn’t even told Fox this. “I just couldn’t…I couldn’t be good anymore and I knew people were going to be so mad at me.”

“Is that why you said that to me when I fell?” Dana asks. “About hating yourself?”

“Yeah,” Samantha says. “I didn’t mean you should hate yourself. It’s just that’s how I always felt.”

“You know,” Dana says slowly, a little cautiously, “you know you shouldn’t have to feel like that, right? That it’s not right how they treated you?”

“I guess I know it,” Samantha says. “Like when you say it, it makes sense. But it’s hard to stop feeling it.”

“I’m sorry,” Dana says. She’s still hugging Samantha; she hasn’t let go.

“And I know it’s better here,” Samantha says. “Coach Skinner’s so much better. I guess that’s why I got upset. I thought I could like gymnastics again here, you know? And then their email…I’m worried everything is going to be the same.”

“It won’t,” Dana says. “We won’t let it.”

“How?” Samantha asks.

“Well, first,” Dana says, “we’re going to set up your email so that everything from your parents goes into a different folder. And you don’t ever have to look at it, if you don’t want to.”

“You can do that?” Apparently, she can. Samantha sits and watches her.

“And now,” Dana says, closing the screen triumphantly, “we’re going to meet Monica for dinner. And we’re going to get pizza and laugh.”

So they do that too. And Dana hugs her again at the end of the night, and she says, “You can always talk to me, okay? Text me any time.” And Samantha thinks about that for a while, before she falls asleep.

.....

February: Week Eight

They have an away meet this weekend, and it’s near Diana’s hometown, so her parents are coming. They haven’t seen her compete live in college yet, although she knows they watch every meet on TV. Usually, they call her up afterwards to tell her how proud they are. It’s a little embarrassing, but mostly she’s happy about it.

“My parents are coming to the meet tomorrow,” she mentions in the hotel the night before. She’s rooming with Monica again, and Samantha and Dana are in their room too right now; she did not ask them to come over, but Monica apparently did, sometime when her guard was down.

“Oh,” Samantha says. “Are you nervous?”

“No,” Diana says. What a dumb question. “Why would I be? They’ve seen me at worlds, so a meet like this isn’t suddenly going to intimidate me.”

“It was just a question,” Dana says; she’s painting Samantha’s nails and not looking at Diana. “You don’t have to be snotty.”

“Who says I’m being snotty?”

And Dana turns around and looks at her now. “A meet like this,” she says, putting on a voice that is, in fact, snotty but that isn’t what Diana sounds like. “We get it. You’ve been to worlds. You think elite is better than NCAA. Well, no one’s forcing you to be here if you’re too good for it.”

She didn’t expect that from Miss Good Girl Dana. “Wow,” Diana says. “Jealous much?”

It’s a dumb comeback, and she knows that as soon as she says it. “No, actually,” Dana says. “I was completely happy in JO. I’m just tired of you having an attitude with the rest of us.” Samantha’s looking away, as she always does at the faintest sign of conflict. Monica’s watching them as if she’s waiting for the scores to come up.

“I’m just a very self-motivated person,” Diana says. “I don’t need to be in a screaming lovefest to succeed.”

“Oh, of course,” Dana says. “And that explains why you take it out on us when you’re not happy with how the meet went.” Her face is turning red. “So if I fall, that’s something to lord over me, and if I do better than you, that’s a reason to freeze me out. For someone who doesn’t care about these meets, you sure seem to care when you don’t have the top score.”

She can’t let Dana rattle her. “Yeah, it’s a sport,” she says. “So, you know, I care about my scores. I’d rather do that than your fake ‘Who? Little old me sticking a vault?’ routine.”

“I’m not fake,” Dana says. “I’m just happy to be here. I’m sorry if you think that’s awful.”

Diana rolls her eyes. “That’s cute. Really.”

“But I don’t know why I thought I’d get through to you,” Dana says. “If all you care about is yourself, I guess that’s just the way it is.” She turns to Samantha. “Want to go back to our room? It’s kind of late.”

“Sure,” Samantha says, and they go.

“Wow,” Monica says, when they’ve left. “That was…something.”

“Whatever,” Diana says. “I know you’re on Dana’s side.”

“You have this whole thing about sides,” Monica says. “I’d like it if we could all be friends, actually. Believe it or not, I think things would be more fun that way. For you, too.”

“I don’t know how long it’s going to take for all of you to get it,” Diana says, “but fun is not my number one priority here.”

“Okay,” Monica says. “It’s not worth us arguing.”

“You’re right about that,” Diana says, and they don’t talk much more before they get ready for bed.

She sees her parents in the stands when they march out the next day—they’re kind of hard to miss, because they’re waving a giant banner that says GO DIANA! on it. It’s goofy, but she stands up a little straighter at the sight.

It’s a good meet for her, it really is. Her best bar routine of the season yet: a 9.975. The ten so close she can almost reach out and touch it.

And then the ten is there, in the next rotation. You don’t even have to wait for the scores to come up to know. Everything is perfect from the first step of Dana’s vault run: her block is straight on, she’s laid out all the way in the air, she gets so much height, and her feet don’t move on the landing. Diana loves her sport because when it’s done right, it’s beautiful. This is one of those beautiful moments.

But she stands frozen, with her hands at her sides, when the ten does come up and everyone else is screaming and cheering and hugging Dana. She can’t even make herself clap or smile or do something, anything, that makes it look like she’s a team player.

She sees her parents in the stands again, their banner still flying high. She knows this won’t make them any less proud. They’ve seen her be second best before, and they’ve celebrated her silver medals as if they were platinum. No, it’s Diana who’s less proud. No matter what the other girls say about NCAA and elite, there is a difference. There’s a difference between coming second behind Aliya Mustafina, who was the most decorated gymnast at the 2012 Olympics, and second behind Dana Scully, who’s spent her whole life in some rec gym. And there’s a difference in what it’s doing to her mental game. When she concentrated on herself, it used to be a good way, one that made her work on perfecting her skills. Now it’s just in a way that makes her stew.

She can see Coach Skinner watching her; he’s probably going to pull her aside later, going to talk to her about her attitude. She can’t even blame him for that. But she turns aside, and stretches for beam, and doesn’t look back at him.

.....

Week Nine: March

Dana doesn’t go to church every week now—she knows her parents wouldn’t be thrilled, but college is just so busy, and sometimes she’s exhausted and can’t get up on a Sunday, especially if they’ve just gotten back from a meet. But she goes this morning, and when she’s praying she thinks about gratitude. Her season’s gone so well so far, and even though she knows that’s probably not God’s number one priority, in the grand scheme of things, it means a lot to her. She still finds it hard to believe, though. When she came here, she wanted to do her best, but she wasn’t expecting to be a star. And now she’s freshman of the week for the fourth time. She knows Diana thinks she’s fake for being surprised by it, but she honestly is. She wants to let it sink in, though, so she can really feel all the gratitude it merits.

When she’s back in her dorm room, her parents call her. They congratulate her on being freshman of the week: she can tell they believe it, that they’re proud. She’s glad, because they’ve always supported her in gymnastics, even though they’ve never really gotten past referring to the individual skills as jumps and flips. (Mulder knows the name of every skill Samantha does. Dana’s very impressed by that.) She’s just finishing up the call when Monica and Samantha arrive; they’re all going to get lunch together.

“My friends are here,” she says into the phone. “Thanks so much for calling, though.” After they say goodbye, she turns to the other girls. “I was just talking to my parents,” she says. She feels a little guilty saying it to Samantha, even though she knows it’s not her fault that Samantha’s parents are awful about things.

“Mine called me this morning too,” Monica says. “They want to know what I’m eating and if I have a boyfriend.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know where I’d find the time.”

Dana laughs. “Yeah,” she says. “Anyone we’d date would have to be right there in the gym.” She’s thought about it herself, having someone special, but for now she likes being with her friends in the gym. She likes getting to know all the people she’s met.

“I guess some people manage it,” Monica says. “There are those gymnast couples. And I heard there are a ton of hook-ups in the Olympic village. Is that true, Samantha?”

Samantha looks thrown. “Um,” she says, “I was fifteen.”

“Good point,” Dana says.

“And I don’t really…” She’s fiddling with her ponytail, which she used to do almost constantly at the start of the year, so she must be nervous about something. “I don’t actually like boys.”

Dana hugs Samantha right away, because she wants her to know that she has nothing to be nervous about. “Thanks for telling us,” she says.

“Yeah, that’s cool,” Monica says. “Now if I ever do find the time to get a boyfriend, at least I know you won’t try to steal him.” She grins at Samantha.

Samantha smiles too, for a minute. “I hadn’t told anyone except Fox before,” she says. “It’s actually…it’s part of the reason I didn’t want to go pro after the Olympics. I didn’t want to be public and have to hide myself like that. And I wouldn’t like all the attention you get, anyway.” It’s completely obvious, if you’ve known Samantha for more than five minutes, that she’s not the kind of person who likes attention, but Dana doesn’t laugh.

Instead, she says, “I get that. You can always talk to us, though. Right, Monica?” Monica nods. “Let’s get lunch.” And she winds her arm through Samantha’s, as they walk downstairs together. She’s grateful for this, too.

.....

Week Ten: March

Monica can’t believe the season is this close to being over. She feels like she just got here. She’s happy with how she’s been doing—she’s in the floor lineup every week, and usually in the vault lineup—but there’s still stuff to keep working on. In terms of her skills, of course, and she likes how Coach Skinner helps them with that, how he works with each of them as an individual. He doesn’t expect her to stick every vault like Dana or swing bars like Diana or have Samantha’s spooky sense of where the beam is every time—he just expects her to keep getting better at what she can do.

Which brings her to another thing she wants to work on: getting Diana to see that so that things can be less uncomfortable at practices. She thinks Coach Skinner must have talked to Diana after their away meet two weeks ago, because she’s been pretty subdued since then; she’s not what you’d call friendly, but she hasn’t lobbed any additional insults at Dana, and she did clap for everyone’s routines last week. Maybe Monica should leave it there. She doesn’t know herself why she wants to get Diana to be friends with the rest of them. Except that she feels like you can do both—try to be the best you can be and still see your teammates as friends instead of direct competition—and that college is the place to do it in. She doesn’t like to think about anyone having a bad time here, and she thinks that Diana is, even if her way of dealing with it is making it a bad time for everyone else too.

So she runs to catch up with Diana after practice. “Hey,” she says. “What are you up to tonight?”

Diana raises an eyebrow. “Why are you asking?”

Monica tries for charming. “Because I need some company to save me from having to study.”

“Why don’t you ask Dana and Samantha?” Diana says. “Don’t you always eat dinner together?”

Is Diana jealous of that too? “You could come,” Monica says. “If you wanted to.”

“I don’t,” Diana says. “And anyway, I doubt that invitation comes from all three of you.”

She probably has a point. “Well,” Monica says, trying another tack, “I was going to watch the Stuttgart world cup, since we missed it yesterday. You want to watch?”

“I already saw the results.”

“Well, it’s still fun to see the routines,” Monica says. “Don’t you think? Come on.”

Diana’s clearly unsure; maybe this isn’t worth it. But then she says, “All right. If you want,” and that’s something.

They settle down to watch it on Monica’s laptop. “Do you know any of them?” Monica asks.

“Yeah, I’ve met a bunch of them,” Diana says. “I don’t know them that well, though.”

“That’s still really cool,” Monica says. She doesn’t share Diana’s belief that elite is the only worthwhile form of gymnastics, but that doesn’t mean she can’t fangirl.

Diana seems to pick up on this logical inconsistency, though. “So you think I’m too snotty about having gone to worlds,” she says, “but that’s still the reason you want to hang out with me?”

“I didn’t say you were snotty,” Monica says.

“You didn’t exactly defend me either,” Diana says.

“Well,” Monica says, “I do think it’s kind of a big deal to you. Maybe bigger than it needs to be, here. But that’s not the reason I want to hang out with you. I just…I like to be friends with the people I’m in the gym with.”

“Okay,” Diana says.

“And I don’t mean you shouldn’t care about what you’ve done,” Monica says. “I think it’s awesome you can do all this kind of thing.” She gestures towards the screen, where one of the gymnasts is doing an impossibly packed bar routine, transitions and releases all back to back. “I know I never could in a million years.”

Diana’s fiddling with the zipper on her bag. “But that doesn’t matter here,” she says quietly. “Knowing how to do bigger skills…that doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t not matter,” Monica says. “I mean, it’s not as important, sure. But that doesn’t mean it’s not still cool that you can do it. It doesn’t mean…” She pauses, trying to figure out what she actually wants to say. “I don’t know why you get so upset when Dana does well. It doesn’t take anything away from you.”

Diana’s so quiet for such a long time that Monica’s sure she’s really put her foot in it. But she tries to give Diana space. She watches a French gymnast stick her dismount. She listens to the commentators opine.

“I thought I’d do better here,” Diana finally says.

“You do great,” Monica says. “You’re our best on bars by a lot.” She might have thought, earlier in the year, that she was stroking Diana’s ego unnecessarily by saying that, but now she’s beginning to think her ego isn’t as big as all that.

Diana shrugs. They watch the meet.

.....

Week Eleven: March

It’s almost the end of the regular season—next week is conference championships, and then regionals, and then nationals, if they make it, which Samantha thinks they will. Of course nothing’s sure, but they’ve been ranked in the top six pretty consistently.

She’s reading in her room, the night before their last regular meet, when there’s a knock at the door and she gets up to open it. It’s Fox. “Hi,” she says.

“Hi, Sam,” Fox says, and she can tell something’s wrong. He’s worried about her. “Did you know Mom and Dad were coming tomorrow?”

She stares at him. “No.”

“They called me just now,” he says. “They want to come see your meet. They said they’d emailed you, but you hadn’t answered.”

The filter Dana set up. Her throat is dry. “Why?” she asks. “They don’t really want to see me. Not really.”

“Look, I can try and head them off,” Fox says. “Meet them tomorrow and take them somewhere else. They won’t be there if you don’t want them to be.”

He’s always done everything he can to protect her. That’s why she feels safe and happy with him. That’s why she wants him at the meet tomorrow, cheering for her, not off somewhere doing diversionary action with their parents. “No,” she says. “You don’t have to do that.”

“But Sam—”

“I don’t want them to think they can control how I feel,” Samantha says. “They’ve already done enough of that. They’ll come and I’ll compete like it’s any other meet.” She doesn’t know if she can really do that. It sounds nice, but she doesn’t know.

He’s quiet for a minute, and then he bumps his fists against hers. “I know you will,” he says. “You’re the toughest person I know, Sam.” He means it, and that means something.

She and Dana sit together in the changing room before the meet, the next afternoon; she’s told Dana her parents are coming. “You okay?” Dana asks, squeezing her hand.

“Yeah,” she says. “Let’s just…let’s pretend it’s a regular meet.”

“I don’t know what you’re even talking about,” Dana says, widening her eyes. “What are we pretending? There’s nothing special about this meet.” And Samantha has to laugh, and she feels a little bit better. They do the same breathing exercises they do every time, and she concentrates on her breath, in and out, in and out. She remembers how nervous she used to get every time she competed, how fast her breath and her heart would get, how she always felt like she was about to throw up. Even at the Olympics. Sometime this year, that stopped. And she won’t let it start up again today.

She waves when they announce her name—she still doesn’t love that part, and probably never will, but she can get through it. She sees Fox in the crowd; he waves back. She doesn’t look for her parents.

The waiting through vault can be tough, so today she concentrates as hard as she can on watching the other girls and cheering for them. They have a good rotation; Diana and Dana both stick.

She tightens her grips before bars, making sure everything’s all set. And then she salutes and she goes, before she has a chance to think about anything. She has a close catch on the tkatchev and a couple of steps on the dismount, but she makes it through. That’s what matters. Doing her best and making it through. She knows why she had those mistakes, and she can work on them before next week. The other girls hug her anyway. It doesn’t mean she’s a failure or she wasn’t trying or she doesn’t belong on this team.

Dana hugs her before beam, but she’s not nervous about that, really. Beam’s always been for her, no matter what. Even when she hated everything else, she felt all right during the ninety seconds she spent up there.

She flies through her routine. Her feet are hitting the mat before she knows it, solid, unmoving. She doesn’t look at the crowd afterwards, just the other girls; she barely looks at the scoreboard either, until the ten comes up and they all scream.

After that, it’s easy: watching the rest of the girls on floor and doing their choreography and shouting her lungs out. Because she’s one of a team. And that’s why she had a good meet today, not because of anyone who told her she wasn’t good enough.

“Great work today, Samantha,” Coach Skinner tells her afterwards. From the way he’s looking at her, she thinks he’s not just talking about her scores: he’s talking about her mental game. She doesn’t know how he knew something was bothering her today, except that he’s a good coach and he doesn’t miss much.

She leaves with Dana, arm in arm, and Fox is waiting outside. “Hey,” he says, smiling. “You did pretty good today, Sam.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I thought so.”

“I saw Mom and Dad by the parking lot,” he says, “if you want to sneak out in the opposite direction.”

She thinks about it. A part of her wants to say something to them, defy them; a part of her wants to let her gymnastics do the talking and not waste any more mental energy.

Dana’s looking at something on her phone. “Monica says we’re getting pizza.”

That settles that. “Yeah, let’s do that,” Samantha says, and they head back around the gym to meet Monica, away from the parking lot.

.....

Week Twelve: March

Conference championships are tomorrow, and tonight they’re settled into their hotel rooms. Diana’s rooming with Monica again, which she’s used to by now.

“Here’s an article,” Monica says. “Conference championship previews. And what they mean for the future.”

“They don’t really mean that much,” Diana says. “Just bragging rights.”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I love bragging,” Monica says, grinning. “Besides, it helps build up our reputation.”

“True,” Diana says. “What else does the article say?”

“It talks about the different conferences,” Monica says. “Predictions for the teams and the individual events. That kind of thing. You want to hear?”

She’s already leaning over to look at Monica’s phone—she wants to know if they think she might win the bars title—when she stops to think. “No, actually,” she says. “It’ll happen however it happens.”

“Oh, man,” Monica says. “Don’t say you’re leaving me alone in the world of feverish internet gymnastics gossip. Dana and Samantha already won’t read it.”

“Maybe they have a point,” Diana says. “It just makes you get in your head.” She’ll start thinking about whether she could win bars. She’ll start thinking about other girls who are mentioned in the article, and if they could beat her on bars, and if they’re actually better than she is.

Monica watches her narrowly, but she doesn’t ask her again. She starts talking about an essay she has to finish, instead.

They start on beam, the next day, which means bars will be last. Diana’s glad about that, because the scores will build—everyone knows it happens, even if they claim not to—but then she tells herself not to think about it. The judges will do what they do, but she’s in control of whether she hits. Besides, there are three other events to go before that, and she needs to concentrate on those. On everyone, not just herself. Coach Skinner told her that, when he talked to her a few weeks ago. That she should try to be present when the other girls were competing, to think about all of their performances as making up one whole.

It doesn’t come naturally to her, and it probably never will, but she’s going to do her damnedest to master it. If that’s what she needs to do here. If it can help her.

She tries to concentrate on the details of their routines. What they do that she could learn from. What they do that’s different from her own style. She tries to think of cheering for them, of doing their floor choreography, as part of that whole.

She tries really hard, when Dana’s launching herself off the vault table, up and up and up, to keep thinking that way. To think of it as something beautiful. To mean it when she yells, “Yeah, Dana!”

When it comes to bars, she goes through her routine in her head one last time. And then she’s up, flying from bar to bar, hitting her handstands, keeping the rhythm, pointing her toes. Sticking the dismount before she knows it. Bars is so fast, so much a part of her muscle memory.

The other girls clap and cheer and hug her, like she’s been doing for them. Dana smiles at her and says, “Great job.” She probably wants to mend fences. That’s very like her. But Diana smiles back while she waits.

She’s spent the whole meet trying to think about the team, not just about herself. It’s hard to keep doing that, though, when her ten finally—finally—comes up on the scoreboard.

.....

Regionals

They’re a host site for regionals, which Dana’s really happy about. It means it’s close enough for her parents to drive up, and she’s looking forward to having them see her compete with the team. Besides, it means she doesn’t have to get up at the crack of dawn to get to the airport or deal with jetlag and an unfamiliar room and an unfamiliar gym.

She is kind of nervous, though. So far, the season’s gone better than she could have dreamed, but regionals means a lot more than any of the meets they’ve had so far. It’s sudden death: if they don’t finish in the top two here, they won’t be at nationals. She doesn’t want to have a repeat of her mid-season bars disaster. Nor does she want to start thinking about it, in case it throws off her mindset and becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.

She’ll go over to the gym early, Dana decides, and sit there and do some deep breathing. It’ll help her to be in the space. To remind herself that this isn’t anything new, that she’s done it a hundred times.

She’s so early she isn’t even sure she’ll be able to get into the locker room, and when the door does yield to her touch, she’s sure she’ll be the only one there. But she’s not. Diana’s sitting in front of one of the benches, stretching.

“Oh,” Dana says. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Diana says. “Decided to get here early?”

“Yeah,” Dana says. “I thought it might help calm me down.” She doesn’t know why she’s giving Diana that. She hasn’t been as much of a pill the last couple of weeks, true, but Dana’s still not sure it’s a good idea to show her signs of weakness.

But Diana just nods. “Makes sense,” she says. “I like to get warmed up early too. Plus my roommate’s boyfriend came over and they were dropping hints they wanted me out of there.”

“Awkward,” Dana says.

“You got that right,” Diana says.

This is awkward too, Dana thinks, as she sits down. It’s not easy to think calming thoughts with Diana right there in front of her.

“How are you feeling about the meet?” Diana asks her.

“Pretty good, I think,” Dana says. Even though she just said she wanted to calm down. Maybe Diana won’t notice the inconsistency. But Dana doesn’t think she misses much.

She doesn’t expect the response she gets, though. “I get if I’m…if I’m not exactly making things easier for you,” Diana says. “I haven’t been at my nicest here. Especially to you. I get competitive, and you were doing so well, and…well, that’s not an excuse. Anyway…” She’s still stretching, and she holds it for so long that Dana wonders if she’s ever going to finish her sentence or if they’re just going to spend the rest of their lives in suspended motion. “Anyway, I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” Dana says. She could be cold now, but what would be the point? She wants to get along with the other people on the team. She doesn’t want to waste time thinking about rivalries and grudges. “Thanks for saying that.”

“You’re a really good gymnast,” Diana says. “Your vault especially.”

“Thanks,” Dana repeats. “So are you. I wish I had your bars.”

“Yeah,” Diana says. “Put us together and we’d be the next Simone Biles.” She starts laughing then, and so does Dana. She doesn’t know if she’s heard Diana make a joke before. “So are you nervous for today?” Diana asks.

“Yeah, kind of,” Dana says. “The whole all or nothing aspect. What about you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t get that nervous anymore,” Diana says. “We’ll show them what we can do. We’re not the top seed for nothing.”

She’s acting a little cocky again. But cocky about the team, not about herself, and somehow that makes all the difference.

.....

Nationals: Semifinals

Nationals is different, Monica can feel it. It means being up against the best of the best, with every step counting. No room for error, she finds herself saying in her head. She’s not usually a no room for error kind of person, but the atmosphere can really get to you.

At least she’s not worrying about the individual titles. The semifinals are where those are determined, and she knows some of the girls on the team could definitely contend, but she’ll just be going out there and doing her thing. Performing her heart out on floor. She likes being a star for those ninety seconds and being part of a unit for everything else.

They’re starting on bars, which means Monica has to wait through two rotations to do anything, but she thinks it’s a good thing on the whole; they’re getting what’s probably their weakest event out of the way. The first routine goes smoothly; Dana, up second, is working well too, until she loses her legs in a handstand and goes over. It’s not technically a fall, but she has to take an extra swing, and she doesn’t ever really get her rhythm back. She looks frustrated with herself as she comes off the podium.

“Shake it off, Dana,” Coach Skinner says. “You fought through. Concentrate on the next routine.”

“We’ve still got the rest of the meet,” Monica says. “Don’t beat yourself up.” She squeezes Dana’s arm.

Samantha, who’s already got her grips on, bumps her fist against Dana’s. “We’ve got your back,” she says. “Right, Diana?”

“Right,” Diana says. “We’ll go up and hit, and while we’re doing that, you be thinking about how you’re going to knock us out on beam.”

“Thanks, guys,” Dana says, softly. Monica holds her arm while they watch the other girls’ routines. Samantha’s is quick and tidy. And Diana’s is as gorgeous as ever, her transitions and releases and pirouettes all pristine.

On to the next rotation. Dana draws herself up before her beam routine. “I’m going to do this,” she says, and Monica knows she’s thinking about that meet in February, when she missed bars and then missed beam. “I’m going to hit for all of you.” And she does. It’s one of the best beam routines Monica’s seen her do, actually; everything looks incredibly secure. By the end, she’s really smiling.

Samantha’s the star of the show here, of course. Monica watches her compete every week, not to mention all their training sessions, and she never gets bored with it. You can see, watching her, why Samantha was a champion. Why Samantha still is a champion. There’s a little step on the landing, but Monica honestly doesn’t see anything else wrong. She guesses the judges don’t either, because Samantha comes up with one of the top scores of the meet.

Now floor. She huddles with the other girls as Coach Skinner gives them some last words of encouragement. She cheers and does the choreography for the first four routines. And then she’s up.

There’s nothing like doing gymnastics before a crowd this big and hyped up. And within the world of doing gymnastics, there’s nothing like doing a floor routine. Monica can feel the adrenaline threatening to overtake her; she concentrates on making it work for her, on keeping the tumbling passes big but not out of bounds, on selling her routine to the hilt. She feeds off the music, off her team, off the audience. She knows she’ll remember this.

The other girls hug her afterwards, and she’s happy with her score when it comes up too. It’s funny to think that she’ll only do this particular routine one more time, tomorrow, if they make the finals. But it’s exciting, too, to think that she’ll have a new routine next year. Maybe one she’ll love even more than this.

It’s time to concentrate on vault, though. Monica’s glad she’s gotten her adrenaline out, because vault’s over so quickly that it doesn’t give you any time to course correct. She’s third in the lineup, and she’s going before she knows it. She takes a step back on the landing, but all in all she’s pleased.

Dana’s their anchor, and her face is set, determined, as she stands at the end of the runway. From her beam and floor, it looks like she hasn’t let the mistake on bars get to her, like she’s in a good frame of mind. Monica’s glad about that, because Dana can stick the crap out of a vault when she’s on, and that would be good for them tonight. Mathematically, they’re already into the finals, but it never hurts to make a statement.

It’s a statement. High and huge and stuck right down the middle.

Four of the judges give her the ten; two of them go with 9.95, for some incomprehensible reason. “Oh, come on!” Monica shouts, but Dana’s so happy that she’s jumping up and down, and it is the top vault score of the whole meet, so she might as well let it go.

She cheers for them all during the medal ceremonies, even though she’s exhausted at this point; when the competition’s over, it really hits you. And they’ll be doing it all over again tomorrow. She may be exhausted, but she can’t wait.

.....

Nationals: Finals

When she’s getting ready for finals, Samantha remembers how she felt getting ready for team finals at the Olympics. How she was sure she was going to throw up. How she was terrified she’d make a mistake. How she felt all wrong in her red, white, and blue leotard, and how sweaty her hands were. How she felt so alone—the other girls on the team were nice, but they weren’t her close friends. She didn’t have any of those, in the gym.

Tonight she’s wearing a green and silver leotard, and she feels all right. Monica is insisting that they put a truly outrageous amount of glitter on their faces. “It’ll hype us up,” she says.

“It’ll get in our eyes,” Dana says. “You want to be the girl who missed a catch because she was trying to blink away glitter?”

“I’ll never be the girl who missed a catch,” Monica says, “because I don’t compete bars like you suckers. Can’t miss a catch if you never try.”

Diana is spraying her hair into place. “Give me a little bit,” she says, and she smears it on her cheeks. “Not bad. We could do something to match with eye shadow?”

“Now you’re talking,” Monica says. “See, Diana gets it.”

“Will you put some on me?” Samantha asks, and Diana does her eyeshadow carefully, in the same colors as their leotards. When they look into the mirror, once they’re ready, they all match.

Dana takes a picture. “You think we can win this thing?” she asks, softly.

“Well, I was reading,” Monica says, “and statistically, if we have our best floor of the season…”

“Oh my god,” Diana says. “Stop trying to make this a thing!”

“I think we can win it,” Samantha says. She can tell the others are maybe a little surprised, from the way they look at her. “No statistics. Just my feelings.”

“I think Samantha’s right,” Dana says, and she hugs her.

“But even if we don’t win,” Samantha says, “we’re…we’re going to kick so much ass!” Now they’re definitely surprised, no doubt about it. But Monica whoops, and so does Diana, and then they hurry out of the room, because it’s time for the last team gathering, for a final talk from Coach Skinner.

“I’m very proud of how you’ve all performed this year,” he says. “We had a lot of new contributors on our team, and you’ve all stepped up and taken on new roles. You’ve made yourselves an indispensable part of the team, and we’ve had some great achievements.” His face is serious. “That said, tonight those achievements are behind us. It’s time to build on them, yes, but it’s also time to set new goals. You can’t coast on the past—you’ve got to leave it all on the floor.” Samantha clutches Dana’s hand. The past is gone, she thinks. “Know your routines. Know yourselves. Know your team. I know what you can do—now show everyone else tonight. We can do this.” They all nod seriously. It doesn’t seem quite the time for whooping.

They whoop afterwards, though, when the seniors lead them in a cheer. Samantha looks at the other girls’ faces: they look nervous but excited, determined, ready to leave it all on the floor. She takes a deep breath before they march out.

She knows she has Fox in the audience, which makes a difference. He asked her if she wanted him to come, and she said she did. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed: he’s the only spectator that she really wants or cares about. But everything else is different.

They’re starting on floor tonight, which means Samantha’s beam will be the final routine for the team. She used to hate waiting more than anything, always feeling like she was about to jump out of her skin. It’s still not her favorite part of a meet, but it’s better now. She has the other girls’ routines to watch and cheer for.

Floor goes well. She does the choreography on the sidelines: Diana’s fluttering arms, Dana’s shimmy, Monica’s salute to the audience. She thought the semifinals were exciting, but tonight’s even better, each girl selling her routine with everything she’s got.

On vault, they don’t have as much difficulty as some of the other teams: they’re using two Yurchenko fulls, but they’re both solid tonight. After that, Monica does well with her tsuk, Karen sticks her Omelianchik, and both of the one and a halfs are good, especially Dana’s. She always seems to know where the ground is.

At the halfway mark, they’re in second, but things are close. That’s another thing she’s had to get used to here—every routine being graded on the same scale, without the big difficulty gaps that were there in elite. At first it made her nervous; it was so much easier for one mistake to be costly. But now she doesn’t mind so much.

“Keep it up, everyone,” Coach Skinner tells them. “Nice and easy. Like in practice.” He stops to talk to those of them who are putting on their grips, getting ready for bars. “You ready, Samantha?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she says. “I am.”

He almost smiles at her, although he’s not really a smiley kind of guy. “I know we can count on you,” he says. She would hug him, if they weren’t in the middle of touch warmups.

She doesn’t love bars the same way she loves beam, but she likes having it come first, something to steady her. She squeezes Dana’s arm while they’re waiting. “You good?” she says.

“Yeah,” Dana says. “Thanks. I’m good.” She smiles at Samantha. And then it’s time to scramble off the podium—the rotation is starting.

The three routines before her are clean; she’s never seen anyone look as relieved in her life as Dana does, coming down from the podium. Samantha steps up then, pictures her routine one last time, salutes, and goes. It feels so quick, but then she’s done, and she’s hit, and the other girls are cheering. She hugs them quickly, before taking off her grips and walking to the side of the arena, where she can think about beam. She throws a back handspring. She wants to keep loose.

She still watches the last two routines, though. Diana’s is beautiful; two of the judges give her a ten. They’re still in a close second, going into beam.

“Do what we all know you can do,” Coach Skinner tells the six of them when they’re in the huddle. “Don’t think about the scoreboard. Think about the beam.” The one thing she’s never had trouble with.

Samantha couldn’t tell you much about the five routines before her. She thinks they go fine, because she doesn’t hear any gasping or groaning, but she’s busy concentrating. She doesn’t look at the scores—she doesn’t want to know what she would need, if it’s close enough at the end. Dana bumps fists with her before she goes up. “You’ve got this,” she says. “We all know you do.”

Her routine is almost over early; she can feel she’s off as she’s coming in for the landing at the end of her series, and one foot is almost off the beam. But she saves it, somehow, gripping with her toes, even though she has to wave her arms a few times. She takes a deep breath and slows down her choreography a little, to give herself the chance to refocus. Then the double turn. Then the side aerial. She’s moving smoothly now, and she’s able to smile, to look out at the judges and the crowd. She doesn’t see Fox—there are so many people—but she pretends she does, that he’s right at the spot where she’s looking. She sets up for the dismount then, and that’s on, high and stuck.

And then it’s over. She won’t be competing again as a freshman, but the other girls are hugging her, and she looks at the scores again, to see hers come in. They’re second. It’s so close. She has to wonder what would have happened if she hadn’t had that check on her series.

But Coach Skinner pats her shoulder. “Good job, Samantha,” he says.

So she stops wondering. She jumps up and down with the other girls, instead.

.....

Afterwards

Diana feels a little flat; she always does, after a big competition. They were up late last night, celebrating, and now they have to fly back to school. She finished early, and now she’s helping Monica stuff things into her bag.

“Want to see what Dana and Samantha are up to?” Monica says, when they’re done.

“Sure,” she says, and they go over to their room. They’re almost done packing too. Dana’s wrapping her first-place vault trophy up, with an almost tender look on her face.

“Enjoy it,” Diana says, teasingly. “Because I’m going to train a one-and-a-half this summer, and then it’s over for you.”

Dana looks startled for a second—maybe it’s too early to say mean things to her as a joke—but then she laughs. “Thanks for the warning,” she says. “I’d better start working inbars. Beat you at your own game.”

“It’s kind of funny,” Monica says. “You’d think you’d want a break, right? But I actually can’t wait to get back in the gym.”

“Yeah,” Samantha says. “I think I’ll actually like off-season training this year.” She’s not going home, she’s told them; she’s staying out here with her brother, at the apartment he’s getting, and she’s going to train in the university gym with Coach Skinner. “But I’ll miss you all, though.”

“We’ll miss you too,” Dana says, hugging her. “But we can chat.”

“Are you actually going to train a one-and-a-half, Diana?” Monica asks.

“Yeah, I think so,” Diana says. “I don’t really think I’m going to threaten Dana. But it’ll be good for the team.” She can’t believe she’s saying that and meaning it. “How about you, Dana? Actually going to work inbars?”

“No thanks,” Dana says. “But I do want to work on cleaning some stuff up on bars and beam. And thinking about what I might do for my floor routine next year.”

“Definitely,” says Monica. “I want to do something really different from this year. And I want to get my vault more consistent.”

They all look at Samantha. “I want to train floor,” she says. “I’d like to compete it next year. I’d like one of those routines like the Dutch have.”

That’s surprising. Samantha’s elite routine, the last time Diana saw her, was basically still a junior routine: dependent on being tiny and cute. Samantha’s still pretty tiny and cute now, even though she’s eighteen, and Dutch routines are known for being elegant and dramatic. It doesn’t seem like a natural fit, but she can tell it’s something Samantha really wants, so she says, “Go for it.”

“Hell yeah,” Monica says. “That’d be awesome.”

“It’s a great idea,” Dana says. “Something really different.”

They’re quiet for a minute, and then Monica says, “Look at us jumping ahead already. We literally just finished the season. And we’re the second best in the nation!”

“Yeah we are,” Diana says, and then they’re quiet for another minute, to take that in. Dana finishes wrapping the trophy and puts it in her bag.

“And we’re only losing three routines next year,” Monica says, “which is a lot fewer than most teams. I was reading online—”

“Stop,” Dana says.

“You literally never stop trying, do you?” Diana asks.

“Nope,” Monica says. She’s grinning.

“We’d better go,” says Samantha. “We don’t want to be left behind.”

So they head down to the lobby, to join Coach Skinner and the rest of the team.

#my fic #the x files #gymnastics #Dana Scully #monica reyes #samantha mulder #diana fowley #alternate universe

[beatricebidelaire]

Vera are you still doing Various Final Dialogues??? If so, I’d love to read Esmé and Beatrice!!! 💓

Beatrice and Esme had both once anticipated that their last conversation would be the one at Beatrice’s wedding. The one which of course Beatrice had issued an invitation because she wanted Esme to see her in that glorious, fancy, exotic wedding dress and the wings that came with the dress, also to show she’s generous enough to invite her, and Esme had of course gone to because if she hadn’t gone, then that would mean letting Beatrice win. Letting Beatrice win what, exactly, was unclear. But nevertheless, Esme couldn’t let Beatrice Baudelaire win. Not when Beatrice had (or so she claimed, anyway) moved on from her.

The first person Esme ran into at the wedding reception was Kit Snicket. Her expression twisted into a displeased one as she recognized Esme. “I’m surprised you got invited.”

Esme smiled coyly at her, “If they don’t invite their exes, they would have almost no one to invite.”

Kit’s expression soured a little more, and Esme remembered, amused and vindictive, that Kit Snicket was never an ex. She might’ve committed a crime with the married couple, but she was not an ex, despite how it was clear, at least in Esme’s eyes, that Kit harbored more than affection for Beatrice. Ramona had a brief summer fling with Beatrice, and Esme herself a longer entangled love-hate relationship that ended up in angry kisses backstage, or the morning afters of various performances, but Kit had gotten nothing. How amusing.

Esme just smiled, overly sweet like the type of tea she knew Kit hated, and Kit’s annoyance deepened.

She greeted a couple of people perfunctorily once she entered, before her eyes landing on Georgina chatting with one of the Denouement twins. Esme couldn’t tell the twins from each other, but she doubted the firefighting side one would want to chat with Georgina, so she assumed he’s Ernest.

“The firestarting exes circle?” she asked, in lieu of greeting. Ernest raised his glass in salute, while Georgina eyed her speculatively.

“One and only,” Georgina said, her voice cool and calm just like Esme remembered. She’s wearing a very neat suit, unlike the lab coat Esme remembered.

“Lovely suit,” Esme said, the compliment slipping out before she could stop herself, before she could remember that she wasn’t one to compliment anyone. Georgina looked smug, and Ernest vaguely amused. Esme would blame it on Beatrice’s wedding making her temporarily a different person, someone who complimented others, except that would mean admitting Beatrice still had some kind of effect on her, which Esme was reluctant to do, even if Beatrice Baudelaire probably still had some kind of effect on half the guests invited today anyway.

“I’m going to congratulate our bride,” Esme recovered a bit from internal worrying about complimenting Georgina, and said in an almost clipped tone. She turned sharply on her heels – made from actual silver, thank you very much.

“We’ll see you later,” Georgina drawled. (Esme would hook up with her later, after the reception, but neither of them know that yet.)

“Say hi for me if you happen to run into the groom,” Ernest called after her.

Esme ignored both of them.

Esme found Beatrice soon enough, passing by several fake sugar bowls along her way, which angered her. She was sure Beatrice put those fake sugar bowls out deliberately to provoke her.

Beatrice was in a glorious gown that seemed to stretch out a mile, lavishly and outlandishly, after tightening in certain areas to accentuate her figure that complimented her upper body in a way that made Esme’s chest tighten, even after all this time. She was chatting with Jacques Snicket’s date, a man whom Esme recognized Geraldine Julienne had mentioned once in her report to Esme. Esme decided to look into it later.

Beatrice noticed Esme approaching, and authoritatively commanded Jacques Snicket’s date to dance with Jacques, and turned to Esme with a beautifully sharp smile. There should be some law of universe making sure annoying people were not allowed to be too beautiful.

“Esme,” Beatrice greeted her, her voice strong and smooth like honey, a single word managing to showcase her marvelous singing skills.

“I see you’ve collected quite a few sugar bowls.” Esme had planned for many things she could say once she actually talked to Beatrice – disingenuous congratulations, mostly – but now it’s all coming out as a single accusation. Well, perhaps it didn’t matter.

“You can take one of them, if you like,” Beatrice offered, generous and chivalrously, except they both knew that it was hardly generosity or chivalry, and none of those sugar bowls could not replace what Beatrice originally stole from Esme. The single sugar bowl with utmost importance, not those cheap replacements.

“How generous,” Esme simpered. “But no, thank you. I’m sure I will find better souvenirs to take home from this wedding.” She hadn’t decided what yet, but she was sure she would take something that would make Beatrice regret having invited her.

Beatrice narrowed her eyes. “Or you might find yourself accidentally leaving certain belongings of yours behind,” she suggested, with an innocent tilt of her head, her curls falling casually to one side. Esme wanted to run her fingers through those curls and pulled at them at the same time. It’s a mixed feeling.

“Don’t worry, I would be very careful with my belongings,” Esme said archly.

Beatrice opened her mouth to say something, but being the center of the attention at this wedding reception filled with her exes and admirers, someone else came up to talk to her, and Esme used this chance to slip away, eyeing her surroundings for potential wedding souvenirs.

Beatrice and Esme were both wrong about this being the last time they met, because it turned out being married didn’t exactly change one’s ability to remain fashionable if one was determined enough. And two people who were both good at being in ended up running into each other at expensive stores or restaurants sooner or later, if they both lived in The City.

But one day, perhaps the snide insults and nostalgia and odd tension that Esme almost mistook as sexual tension got too much for Beatrice to handle, they suddenly stopped running into each other. Esme hired an investigator and found out that Beatrice was still in the city, she and her whole family, but she seemed to start avoiding Esme skillfully, even if they seemed to still be running around the same circles (the venn diagrams of their social circles, after all, were still too overlapping for anyone’s liking) and shopping at the same places. But perhaps Beatrice had taken some efforts in avoiding Esme, and Esme considered that a win, despite the longing ache in her heart that never really left.

It was a good few years before they saw each other again, and at that time, Esme hadn’t expected it to actually be the last time they met.

It was at the Victorious Finance District. Right across Mulctuary Money Management, in fact. Beatrice was doing whatever shady stuff she was doing and Esme was busy being a fabulous and influential financial advisor.

“Mrs. Baudelaire,” Esme said, silkily. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Mrs. Squalor,” Beatrice replied coolly. She was wearing a dark blue suit that day, simpler than anything Esme remembered seeing her in, yet somehow maintaining a sort of elegance of her own. Esme didn’t know Beatrice was also capable of pulling off simple elegance, and she wasn’t the most pleased to find out.

Esme didn’t like the way Beatrice called her Mrs. Squalor, as if it was some kind of reminder that while Beatrice kept her own last name Baudelaire, Esme had taken Jerome Squalor’s last name. It was an annoying yet tolerable fact most of the time, because one had to make some sacrifices especially after the star reporter of Daily Punctilio told you that according to her research you had to take the Squalor name when married in order to be legible for inheriting the enormous Squalor fortune one day. However, the way the words “Mrs. Squalor” rolled of Beatrice’s tongue and away from her perfectly soft lips suddenly made the usually tolerable fact unbearable. It grated on Esme’s nerves.

As if reading what Esme was thinking, Beatrice smiled, brightly amused. She had always been good at realizing what Esme was thinking when they’d been dating, and apparently she hadn’t lost that skill even in motherhood.

“How is Jerome?” Beatrice asked pleasantly.

“Rich,” Esme replied in an instant.

Beatrice rolled her eyes, suddenly not the perfect smiles beauty she usually displayed in front of most people, and the familiarity hit Esme liked a sharp stab of nostalgia mixed with the delight of seeing this side of Beatrice Baudelaire.

“I see you haven’t changed,” Beatrice remarked.

“One of my many talents,” Esme replied. “I cannot say the same of you.”

“Thank you,” Beatrice said, easily twisting what Esme definitely did not mean as a compliment into a compliment anyway. Esme loathed her. She hoped she never see this horrible woman again. “Well, I’ll leave you to your business.” Beatrice told Esme, and climbed into her car before Esme could reply.

Esme watched her drive away, not knowing that her wish about never seeing Beatrice again was about to come true.

If she had, perhaps she wouldn’t have made that wish.

#asoue #beatrice baudelaire #esme squalor #thank you for the ask!!! #answered #the-joker-vs-batman #kit tag #beasme #otp: satan was god's best friend #various final dialogues

[lionheartslowstart]

Rejection Sensitivity

Unfortunately for me, rejection sensitivity is a symptom pretty close to the center of my lovely mental illness Venn Diagram. This means that in almost any situation involving other people, my brain will find a way to process something as a form of rejection. A rejection of me, a rejection of my friendship, a rejection of my feelings or opinions, whatever. It makes my already existing struggle with navigating inter-personal relationships even more challenging. Not only because my brain jumps to the worst conclusions, but also because I then don’t know how to navigate those feelings with the other party or parties involved. Do I voice these feelings? What if they feel like I’m attacking them and get mad at me? What if I hurt their feelings? What if I’m right and it turns into something worse? What if they feel like I’m a chore? And so on and so forth. But then if I don’t tell them how I’m feeling, it gets worse and worse, and I get more and more depressed. Sometimes those feelings end up bubbling out anyway, but in ways I have less control over, so it often makes things even worse. But the worst part is that it feels like, no matter what I do or say in any specific situation, it’s always the wrong choice.

Recently, I’ve had a lot of rejection sensitivity come up with a quite a few friends of mine. Of course, I’m not going to name any names, or talk about these situations in detail, especially because they’re all a little different from each other. I’m not sure if that’s better or worse - it does seem like each person has a different reason for acting the way they are, and the results vary as well. I’m absolutely certain that some of these people are truly having their own issues right now, and their distance has nothing to do with me. But there are other people who I am reasonably sure don’t care about our friendship nearly as much as I do, if they even care at all. The problem is that it’s very different for me to differentiate between these circumstances. My brain processes them all the same way, regardless of informational input. It’s a battle between logic brain and emotion brain that I experience quite frequently. But unlike a lot of the other logic/emotion battles, this is one I still really struggle to end in a timely manner, and without any casualties.

To make matters worse, some of these are friends I normally feel like I can talk to, but some of them are not. But even those with whom I normally do feel emotionally safe, I still don’t feel like I can broach this subject with, because I DO know they’re dealing with stuff, and I don’t want to put them in a position where they’re needing to put their pain and struggles aside to comfort and reassure me. I don’t want them to feel like I don’t care that they’re suffering, because that’s just not true. On the other hand, some of these people are people I do not feel emotionally safe with at ALL, and I feel extremely stifled because I don’t know how to move forward. It’s hard to be honest with someone when they’ve set up a precedent where you feel like you can’t be honest with them. And then, of course, there are people who fall in the middle. People who I’m not totally sure how they’d respond. That in and of itself is terrifying and paralyzing. (I will add that I did say something to one of these friends recently, and they basically just said they’re really busy but of course they miss me. This level of reassurance might be enough for a neurotypical person, but not me. At least, not when my anxiety is so high. So now I’m feeling stuck because I don’t want to ask them for MORE reassurance and risk them getting upset with me, but I’m also still feeling really anxious and hurt.)

Luckily for me, I do have a dear friend whom I have absolutely zero of these feelings towards, and was able to connect with them today. They were compassionate and receptive, and did their best to reassure me with the little knowledge they have of these other situations. This is someone from whom I have never worried about love or care, and I am beyond thankful for them. We’ve gotten a lot closer over the last year or so, so I may continue to be more open with them and discuss these situations and my feelings in more detail over the coming weeks. But I also know they’re dealing with their own stuff too, and don’t want to overwhelm them or make my problems their problems, so we’ll see.

I don’t really know where to go from here. I don’t know what to do or say or what my next move is. On one hand I suppose there’s no rush, but on the other hand, the more time that passes, the worse I feel, and I’d prefer to deal with these feelings before they get out hand.

The trouble with rejection sensitivity is that it directly feeds into abandonment issues. The more rejected I feel, the more I worry about being abandoned. And fear of abandonment, especially when that fear is felt by a traumatized person, often leads to poor choices, rash decisions, and overall chaos.

I’m currently experiencing a pretty bad depressive episode, so these feelings of rejection and abandonment could not have come at a worse time. I’m already feeling so alone.

Why does it always seem like I put more effort and energy into my friendships than my friends? Why does it always feel like I make my friends a priority but not the other way around? 

(And now, of course, on top of everything I feel extremely guilty for thinking and feeling these things in the first place because I had this unbelievable birthday party last year where almost all of my friends showed up and it was probably the best night of my life. I know they wouldn’t have done everything they did if they didn’t care. But since then other things have happened that have made me question their feelings towards me. Also, you know, trauma. And I don’t want to minimize that party at all. It meant so much to me. But it was also one night. It’s hard to fixate on one amazing night when it feels like you’re forgotten or even discarded literally every other day of the year.)

I wish I could talk to my friends and know they wouldn’t hate me for it.

I wish I could talk to my friends without feeling so afraid.

I wish I could talk to my friends and know everything will be okay.

I wish it wasn’t so hard to make new friends.

I wish I could have normal relationships.

I just want these feelings to go away.

#rejection sensitivity #trauma #mental illness #mental health #friends #friendship

[seek-its-opposite]

transient luminous events | season 2, post-abduction | wc: 2874 | ao3 here

summary:  She suspects that if this were a sacrament, he’d already be absolved. But Scully is not a priest and she is not a miracle.

Central Florida after midnight is an oil painting, dry brush on rough canvas. Inky but thin, like you could tear it. They pull off the road just past a rusted speed limit sign, webs of Spanish moss flaring in their headlights, and for a second (longer, really) she already believes him: Science bends here like moss, like Dali’s clocks melting in the humidity. Mulder cracks the windows, turns off the car.

“Now,” he says, “we wait.”

She wonders if he hears the click of his slide projector when he narrates for her. As he unbuckles his seatbelt, he palms exactly four sunflower seeds from a bag in the cup holder, so smoothly it could be sleight of hand if he were the type to misdirect, and she thinks, You again. Mulder, waiting for an epiphany she doesn’t have to give him. Lately he’s been sitting with her like she’s still in the hospital, like he’s ready to jump up or fall to his knees.

“What exactly do you plan to do if she shows?” Scully asks.

“Follow her.”

His tone adds: Obviously.

As early as 1951, travelers headed to Lake Ashby before dawn have reported seeing a woman shrouded in blue walking ahead of them on this stretch of road, on the edge of the pavement. She is always gone by the time they catch up. Sightings picked up in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s before stopping abruptly in 1974—until, 20 years later, last week, a pair of young lovers saw a woman in blue vanish into the trees.

Young lovers is how Mulder said it when he told her.

“Has she killed anyone?” she asks, then frowns and shuts her eyes. Not like that, Agent Scully. Not like it’s Florida after midnight. “I mean,” she tries again, “have there been any documented fatalities tied to these sightings?”

“One man swerved off the road and hit a tree. Broke his leg.” He cracks another sunflower seed in his teeth. “But no fatalities, no. She just,” Mulder shrugs, “walks ahead of you for a while.”

“I see. So you flew me down here to observe an unsolvable phenomenon that doesn’t hurt anyone.”

“Yeah.”

“Just take me to see the Northern Lights next time, Mulder.”

He cracks a ghost-white smile. “I think I’ll need another few years before I’ve saved up enough money to take you to the end of the world.”

It surprises her that he sees the end of the world as a place. It surprises her that he sees it as a place they haven’t been. They drew their weapons on each other in an icy Arctic outpost. They work in a basement office at the far end of a crowded hallway where the laws of physics give way. She’s felt on the verge of falling into nothing since she offered him her hand, and now that she has—now that she’s vanished and returned, she understands that every point on the surface of this earth is the end of it. Most people have stopped feeling gravity.

“We have all night,” he observes. “I’ll keep an eye out if you want to sleep.”

“I’m not tired.” Maybe she says it too quickly.

“Are you still having nightmares?”

She doesn’t answer. She thinks of a window cracking. He keeps going, split as wide open as she is: “What do you see?”

White lights. Metal. Coarse bed sheets. Mulder jumping into a river to reach her and getting carried away in the current.

“Stories,” she tells him, in the voice she used to dismiss Missy over the phone last week. “Just fiction in the absence of fact.”

“Dreams are culled from memories, Scully, however muddled they may look.” He taps the steering wheel for emphasis. “I read we can’t dream a face unless we’ve seen it. And evolutionary psychology suggests that dreams are a way to process threats.”

“Mulder, recent neurobiological studies say we don’t even attach a cogent narrative to dreams until after we wake up. Our brains want to find logic in the illogical.”

He chuckles at that. “Do tell.”

Mulder. She holds herself in the lamplit contours of his jaw and remembers how clear his voice was in the senselessness of her hospital dreams. She says, “I just want to be awake.”

“You aren’t leaning against the window, are you?”

In answer, she leans further into the car, hands up in mock surrender. He turns the key, lowers the windows all the way, and turns off the car again.

“Crickets,” he explains. The shrill chorus is unmissable now.

She breathes an almost-laugh, matches his tone: “Mosquitoes.”

“Are you getting bitten?” There’s his hospital bedside voice. “We could listen to the radio instead.”

At sundown, on their way out the road, they stopped at a driftwood diner without any neon. As a radio in the corner played the Christmas staples, Scully had traced ringed coffee stains on the table and thought how unsuited this place was for Sinatra, for strings of tasteful white lights.

She’d expected to wear Florida like a wet wool blanket. In books, it was a state of heavy extremes, oppressive muggy heat and hurricane downpours, and she’d wanted its weight: as protection, as indictment, as any sensation that could flood the empty space in her memory. At the very least, she’d thought she might blend in among plastic flamingoes and tinsel trees and other bad mimics of living things. But so far there was no tinsel and no temperature in Florida, at least central Florida, at least in December. Just “White Christmas” in a land without snow. Two of the coffee-stain rings formed a Venn Diagram. She rubbed at the center.

She was raised on California breezes. Maybe it was rich that she wanted to find falseness here.

She realizes, in the car on the side of the road, how fiercely she’s rubbing the back of her hand.

“No,” she says. “I’m not getting bitten.”

The crickets chirp all at once. She can’t remember the last time she heard this many voices rise up for no other reason than to prove they can.

****

The second word she plays in Hangman is Evection, and Mulder guesses it.

"How do you always do that?" she asks.

“Well, I did consider a few other consonants.”

She swats his arm with her notepad, and he just holds out his hand. She passes him the pen.

“Evection,” Mulder shrugs. “A regular variation in the moon’s orbit caused by the attraction of the sun.”

“Fine,” she sighs, leaning back into the headrest. “Stump me.”

He doesn’t get the chance. They’re two vowels down when something that looks like a winged cockroach buzzes into her face, and she leaps outside, slamming the door before she knows what she’s doing. She doesn’t even notice Mulder followed her out of the car until she’s pushing the hair from her eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and she thinks, just for a second, What would you do if I said no?

“Yeah,” she mutters. It was a bug. She straightens her shirt rather than look at him, but here he is anyway, like this is nothing to laugh at.

“Here.” His fingers brush the side of her neck. “Your necklace is tangled.”

“I got it.” She stops him with a hand to his wrist, her heels sinking in the gravel as she takes a step back. Mulder just stands there, palms flat against the sides of his jeans, watching her fumble with the clasp. He just stands there.

She will not be his dead girl walking.

“You know Mulder, this was pretty transparent.”

“What?”

“This case,” she emphasizes, like it’s in quotation marks. “Did Skinner even approve this?”

Mulder closes his eyes. He is impossible to figure out but easy to read, her partner. He tells the truth at top volume in an echo chamber; he deceives by omission. His confession is to close his eyes and curl his top lip over the bottom, and she suspects that if this were a sacrament, he’d already be absolved. But Scully is not a priest and she is not a miracle.

She leans into her outsized anger. “I’m not your project,” she steams, feeling good and alive. “You don’t have to protect me.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“So you’re not sending me on fake cases that aren’t dangerous so you can trick me into feeling useful?”

Mulder looks stricken. “I didn’t lie, Scully. I never said we were assigned this investigation.” She runs it through: the thwap of a newspaper article on her desk, Mulder reciting the details of the case from memory while she tried to read. She’s back, Scully. We’ve got a flight this afternoon.

Fine.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and stares at the car. He says, “I thought we could both use a change of scenery.”

“Mulder,” she hesitates, glancing left to see what caught his gaze: their reflections in the windshield, glassy and distorted. “If you treat me like I’ll break if I breathe wrong wherever we go, it’s just the same shit in a different state.”

“Fuck, Scully, I know you won’t break.”

He knows she can. Three weeks ago, she fell apart in his arms at the bottom of a Minnesota staircase and he spread his fingers wide so he wouldn’t touch her bruises. She’s never doubted that he respects her vulnerability; she just doesn’t want him to accommodate for it. He’s reckless enough already.

He is still just standing there, the sleeves on the turtleneck he didn’t need to wear pushed up at the elbows. She is suddenly, vividly aware of the car, of the hot metal and the smell of rubber in stagnant humidity. Duane Barry’s trunk smelled like a spare tire. Her mouth goes cloth-gag dry.

“Can we?” she asks. She waves her hand at the road ahead and wonders how she’s so sure of this: He’d have known what she was asking even if she hadn’t.

“Sure,” Mulder nods. He looks relieved. He grabs their flashlights from the glove compartment and hands her one, and the flood of Pfaster’s headlights behind her eyes softens and clarifies into two beams that will never outrun her. And they walk.

****

“You’ve never been to Florida before?” Mulder asks.

“I spent most of my childhood in California, Mulder. We already had plenty of coastline.”

“Well, what do you think?”

“Of Florida?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not sure I’ve seen it yet.”

She couldn’t tell him what she’s waiting for. With Mulder, she’s learned to know states by back roads and diners—places that dot the map in every town but only happen once, like the people in them. He has a way of seeing the singular in the ordinary. Here, it just seems ordinary.

“What was your word?” she asks. “In Hangman.”

“Oh, it was Flying cockroach.”

She plays along in awed deadpan. “Was it really.”

“I recruited the bug as a visual aid,” he insists, smiling straight ahead. “He just missed his cue. Came in too early.”

“You know Mulder,” she skips to get ahead of him on the road, then spins to face him, walking backwards, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I think your presentations are getting a little too interactive.”

He winces. It’s only for a second, but it’s enough to make the flashlight heavy in her hand, and she halts him in its glare. Mulder blinks.

“That’s not what I meant,” she says.

“What?”

“Cases aren’t slide shows,” she tells him. “You’re not presenting the field to me.”

“Scully...”

“No.” She steps closer, curling her fingers around his. "You have to hear me, Mulder. I have always known the risks.”

He rubs his thumb across the back of her hand and nods, and when he looks her in the eye she thinks Maybe, and she doesn't know where that thought ends.

She drops his hand and turns to keep walking, but Mulder doesn’t follow. He just stands there, white knuckles around a cold metal flashlight. He just stands there. “A storm is coming, Scully.”

“Mulder,” she protests. She thinks of the two of them side by side staring into a tree, of her partner taking a chrysalis as harbinger of danger. Of how they always talk around change.

“No,” he says, “I mean it’s going to rain.”

Her face goes hot at her misunderstanding. “How do you know?” she frowns.

“It’s in the air. Listen to how loud the crickets are.” He seems awfully sure of himself for a man wearing a turtleneck in Florida, and she swells with infuriating affection for him. She turns back. They hike shoulder to shoulder.

“What was your word?” she asks again, quieter this time.

“Imprint,” he says.

****

She flipped pictures to talk to him the last time they were split up. She slipped messages through cracks in the walls he tried to build and called him to a parking garage beneath the birthplace of a scandal. To know that you’re all right, she said then, but she had never meant, Lie to me.

****

Sheets of rain are rolling in the distance by the time they reach the car. The edges of the clouds glow orange, whether from approaching dawn or approaching storm she couldn’t say. Lightning whips the horizon.

“Northern lights,” Mulder says.

He perches on the hood of the car and scoots backward, all limbs, leaving handprints in the wax. “Want to watch the show?”

“Mulder, this is a rental,” she reminds him, but he’s already offering his hand, and she’s already taking it.

He adopts performative gravity as she slides next to him, bumps his arm. “Whatever happens to this vehicle happens in pursuit of our solemn duty as agents of the law,” he intones. Two streaks of lightning crash and join together. “Didn’t you ever do something you’re not supposed to do and get away with it?”

She died once and got away with it. She does not say this.

“The summer I was 15,” he continues, “I would take my dad’s car out in the middle of the night and drive it around Quonochontaug. Just speed the back roads.”

“And you never got caught?”

“He never said anything to me. At the time I thought I was really getting away with something, but part of me knew he already knew. I think he thought rebellion would make me a man. So I wanted to rebel against that,” Mulder says, “but maybe that proved his point.”

The whole sky blazes white.

“I snuck out onto my the porch and smoked one of my mom’s cigarettes once,” she concedes. “She did not know.”

“Really? Dana Scully,” he feigns indignation. “I’ll have to call your mother about this right away.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she says. “You’re this close to being her new favorite, Mulder. Don’t blow it now.”

“Does she know a lot of Mulders?”

It takes her a breath too long to get the joke, but when she does she laughs, plainly and delightedly. And she could swear she sees something blue flash on the treeline.

“Did you see that?” She grabs his wrist.

“See what?”

The rain is minutes away. A rapid dip in barometric pressure, lack of sleep, expectation acting on perception...pareidolia. Rorschach’s test in bursts of light.

“Nothing,” she says, releasing her grip.

“I’m sorry, Scully.” Mulder scoots to the front of the hood and slides off.

“It was nothing, Mulder. Just the storm.”

“Not that,” he says, kicking the gravel like a guilty schoolboy. “I’m sorry I dragged you on a half-baked case.”

She slides down and takes his hand, squeezes it. She says, “You didn’t.”

The first drop hits her cheek, heavy and warm. They run to their doors and jump in, beating the full rush of the storm by seconds. It pelts the windshield with watery fists, roaring hollow in the dry absence of the car. The contrast feels familiar. They sit in silence until the rain eases.

“I don’t have anything for you,” she says finally. “I know you want me to be able to move on, but this time I lost—” He looks ready to interrupt, and she rushes to finish. “It's like going to space to fill a vacuum, Mulder. I have no memories to channel. There’s no one I can blame. Not with evidence.”

Mulder meets her eyes. “Something was taken from you, Scully,” he assures. “That is not your fault.”

She hadn't realized until now that she thought it was. She sucks in her breath, turns to the window to blink back tears.

He tells her, “You lose more time if you fight it.” He would know.

****

When the storm breaks and the sunrise is still hidden in clouds, they drive—“nowhere in particular,” Mulder says, but the closer they get to the coast, the fewer miles the signs say they have to go until Kennedy Space Center.

They stop for gas at a station with two pumps and no other cars, aside from one around the side of the building that she assumes belongs to the clerk, an older man reading the paper in a beach chair just outside the door. She gets out to stretch her legs, shielding her eyes to watch a pair of seagulls flock east. South for the winter, she thinks, and wonders if they know there’s a biological imperative they do not share.

Mulder has disappeared into the store. She finds it full of spinning display racks lined with keychains and magnets shaped like manatee license plates and Saturn V rockets. He’s at the counter, dropping a penny in the change bucket.

“Didn’t you pay at the pump?” she asks.

“I did,” he nods, and waves two water bottles in her direction. He palms a small paper bag into his jeans and doesn’t elaborate.

They pocket everything they have yet to tell one another and drive toward the shore.

#my fic #txf #msr #post-abduction #idk????

[thecherryblossomdream]

Love Again

When will I fall in love again? And look at the stars - and join that glittering dots thinking soul mates are true? Or listen to those love songs as if they’re written for me? When will that love exist in this world of heartbreaks and uncertainties?

I am thinking of you. How I wish you are searching for me. Praying every night, we’ll look each other’s ways.   Unknowingly, we’ll realize we’re the overlapping center of the Venn diagram

Where are you? I love to think you’re in crowded plaza thinking about falling in love too. Will it be your first? Or are you in love now? Anyways, I am waiting still believing that the universe would conspire for our ever after.

I am waiting for love, for you. I’ll wait for the days I’ll speak my mind. My depths and shallowness, Curiosities and clichés of that sorts.

I want to know love again. I’d like to see the moon gone sick of circling the earth And the latter would stop rotating on its invisible axis. Can we stop the circles and walk straight ahead meeting halfway?

I wanted to know what love is. For red roses and dark chocolates to matter more than gold and silver. For sunshine to blind me like your smile. Let us end each other’s black and white and start the slow motions in bright RGB.

Where are you? I want to feel love again. How destiny and fate were defined in the dictionary, I’m curious if it’s true. Do once-upon-a-times and happily-ever-afters exist? And just so you know, I’m sick of writing about heartbreaks, fairy tales and love.

S.C.B

#poetry #love

[genuivity]

Second Time’s the Charm | Oneshot by genuivity  | READ ON:  ao3

Fandom: Yuri!!! on Ice Pairing(s): Victor Nikiforov/Yuuri Katsuki (victuuri) Story Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Genres/Tags: high school au, school reunion au

(For #victuuriweek2017 - day 2: traveling, Yuuri prompt: long distance/reunion)

Victor and Yuuri—former partners in biology class, first friends, fellow figure skating club captains, and first loves—reconnect thanks to a high school reunion.

It was ten years after graduation, and their high school had coordinated a breakfast reunion. It was free and promised food, and Victor had a free morning, so he went.

And so did Yuuri. Yuuri Katsuki, his partner in biology class, his first friend, his fellow figure skating club captain, his first love.

He was a lot of things to Victor. But they had grown distant over the years, strangers now.

They made eye contact for a second, then quickly looked away, then glanced back when they thought the other wasn’t looking. Victor, in both curiosity and pettiness, wanted to catch up. See what he’d been up to without him. So, since Victor wasn’t the type to give much forethought, he approached him.

“Hello, Yuuri,” he said. Great start.

“Hi, Victor,” said Yuuri. His voice was deeper now, but still on the quiet side.

“How are you?”

“I’m good. How are you?”

“Good.”

Years ago, Victor had imagined their reunion. He pictured running into Yuuri’s arms, maybe on a beach somewhere, or at an airport, with declarations of love and promises to never leave. Not uncomfortable small talk at a cheap high school reunion over donuts and orange juice.

“You cut your hair,” Yuuri noted softly.

“Oh, yeah.” He ran a hand to push his silver bangs back. “I actually cut it a few years ago.”

Yuuri looked apologetic. “Y-You did? Sorry, I’m not good at keeping up with people.”

Victor nodded. That made two of them.

A faculty member saved them from their sad reunion, ushering them to the seats in front of a podium and stage. The school principal, now a man they didn’t recognize, tried to make a sentimental, thoughtful speech, the school band came in and played a discordant song, and they served stale muffins made days before in the school cafeteria, and all it really did was remind Victor how old he was.

“This thing’s a bit lame,” he whispered to Yuuri. And because that conversation was not at all how he wanted their reunion to go, he added, “Do you want to ditch and grab a coffee? My treat.”

Yuuri blinked, turned to him, and inhaled. “Ditch, huh? Victor, you haven’t changed a bit.”

They snuck out as the school choir prepared to serenade them. They got to the coffee shop, placed their orders, and reminisced.

***

It was the autumn of their freshman year, the second time in a week that Victor forgot his biology textbook, and just one of the many times that Mr. Feltsman would threaten to throw him out of his classroom.

“Just share with a neighbor,” their teacher mumbled, eyebrows furrowing as he began the lesson. Victor shot an apologetic look to the boy next to him, a chubby guy with black hair that stuck out at the ends and blue glasses that looked too big for him. The boy appraised him, looked to the front of the classroom and back to him, and pushed his textbook to the edge of his desk, closer to Victor. Victor smiled, grateful, and loudly scooted his desk next to him. It interrupted the class for just a second, but in that time Victor swore Mr. Feltsman aged another five years.

The boy took studious notes, Victor noticed. At least, he did for the first half hour of class. But Mr. Feltsman’s voice drawled over an already boring lesson, and their stomachs grumbled for lunch next period, so it was only a matter of time until it became impossible to focus. He watched as the notes devolved from full sentences to messy bullet points to doodles at the bottom of the page.

Amused, Victor turned to a blank page in his notebook (most of them were empty anyways) and drew a tic-tac-toe board. He added an X to the center square. When Mr. Feltsman turned to the chalkboard to draw asymmetrical Venn diagrams, he plopped the notebook in front of the other boy. He adjusted his glasses, blinked at the page a few times, and Victor saw his lips quirk upward in a small smile. He wrote in an O at the top right corner and returned to pretending to take notes.

They went back and forth, and Victor won that game. The boy pursed his lips and drew another grid.

Several tic-tac-toe games later, the score was three wins to Yuuri, two to Victor, and three draws. Victor wrote in long, looping letters underneath all the grids, What’s your name?

YUURI, the other wrote, handwriting in all caps. WHAT’S YOURS?

Victor. Thank you for letting me borrow your book. He didn’t really use it, but it’s the thought that counts.

YOU’RE WELCOME. THANKS FOR KEEPING ME AWAKE.

Victor chuckled. He lifted his pen to respond, then the bell rang, shrill and sharp.

“See you later, Victor.” Yuuri’s voice was quiet and nasally. He packed his bag quickly, and he was gone.

***

It was the winter of their sophomore year, and they were off-campus at a nearby skating rink.

Victor didn’t recognize him at first. His messy black hair was pushed back, and he wasn’t wearing his glasses. But Victor found his attention drawn to him; he had been at the rink longer than anyone. His jumps were sloppy, not enough speed or not enough height, but he took smooth and fluid steps to the rhythm of whatever pop song played on the loudspeakers.

Victor approached him after he flubbed a jump, but Yuuri remembered him first.

“Oh, Victor!” He said, surprised, trying to steady himself on his skates. He almost fell again, but Victor moved to catch him.

“You’re… Yuuri, right? From bio last year?” He helped him get back on his feet.

“Yeah, hi.” Victor had to strain to hear his soft voice over the music and other skaters, their skates gliding across the ice. They couldn’t stop in the middle of the rink, so Victor began skating slowly.

“I didn’t know you skate,” Victor said.

“I just started a few years ago,” he confessed, looking down at the ice.

“Oh,” Victor shifted to skate by his side, “you’re pretty good, for just starting.”

“T-thanks.” His steps faltered, and he brushed against Victor’s shoulder.

Victor’s voice was light. “If you want, I could give you tips.”

“Really?” Yuuri’s eyes widened. “Because that would be… You don’t have to, but that would be—”

“I want to. Think of it as thanks for letting me leech off of you in bio.”

Yuuri laughed and shook his head. He mumbled, “You don’t need to thank me.”

Victor considered then, tapping his lip with a finger. “How about as a winner’s prize, then, for all those tic-tac-toe games?”

“I’m surprised you remember that,” Yuuri said, bashful.

“Me too, actually.” He never remembered important things, like birthdays or anniversaries or what he needed to study for the biology final. But he did remember the little, unimportant things, like the games they played in Victor’s notebook or the blue glasses that looked too big for his face.

Yuuri searched his face for any sign that he was joking. Upon finding none, he shrugged and said, “Yeah, sure, okay.”

They practiced for two hours. Two hours of spinning, twirling, falling, almost hitting his head on the outer railing, and Victor’s good-natured yet unhelpful teaching (“The jump just didn’t feel right, Yuuri!”). During a water break, Yuuri said, more to himself, “There should be a figure skating club at school.”

Victor’s eyes brightened, and he gripped Yuuri by the shoulders. “We should make a figure skating club at school!”

***

It was the spring of their junior year, and Victor sat on the edge of his seat at their school’s spring dance concert, waiting and waiting and waiting for Yuuri’s part.

Yuuri had talked about it for weeks, even skipping out on figure skating club meetings for extra practice. Now that he was an upperclassman, he got a leading part in the choreography. Victor pried, relentlessly curious, requesting him to perform just a snippet.

And every time he asked, Yuuri would blush and say, “If you want to see it, then go to the dance concert.”

So he did. The theater was dark, the seats were squeaky, and the music was too loud, but still Victor searched for his friend with bated breath.

Soon enough, the theater filled with the sound of a guitar, and the spotlight shifted focus to Yuuri.

There was no time to wait and take it in. An upbeat piece of guitar and strings moved Yuuri through the stage. Dancing with quick grace and elegance, he made ballet look effortless, music of movement. Over the years, he had lost weight from ice skating and dancing, and it showed, especially now. He wore a red, long-sleeved leotard decorated with silver and black accents, and black tights that complemented his figure. His slicked-back hair and dramatic eye makeup caught the stage lights, and Victor couldn’t look away. He sat with a hand over his mouth throughout the entire performance, eyes wide as Yuuri executed swift, dynamic jumping steps and sequences.

When Yuuri ended, panting heavily as he held the final pose, he received a hearty applause, though Victor was certain he cheered the loudest.

***

It was the summer before their senior year, and they were sitting on the floor of Victor’s room, spilling secrets over a bottle of champagne he had stolen from his father’s liquor cabinet.

They met to celebrate the transition from juniors to seniors. They were both curious to drink, but Yuuri’s nerves made him look over his shoulder after every sip, despite the fact that Victor’s door was locked and his parents weren’t home anyway. At first, they chatted about inconsequential things. More private matters came as they worked their way down the bottle.

Maybe it was the champagne, or the spark of night, or just the flat intimacy. Something compelled Victor to divulge something he’d been holding in for months.

“I like you, Yuuri. A lot,” he began after a moment of stillness, “and this is probably a really bad way of confessing it, but… It’s how I feel.” He finished with a shrug, keeping his eyes down and swirling the champagne around the glass. His voice sounded much calmer than he felt, his heart a drum in his chest. It wasn’t often that Victor found himself at a loss for words, but talking about his feelings was a particular weak spot for him.

Yuuri was quiet. He hadn’t run off, or pushed him away, so Victor took that as a good sign. His voice was a murmur, caught in his throat when he said, “Since when?”

Trying to keep himself composed, he spoke gently. “Remember after the spring dance concert? You told me you were terrified that I would make fun of you for doing ballet, and I hugged you?” Victor remembered it vividly. Yuuri was exhausted, sweaty and panting, and he was so tired he practically fell into Victor’s arms when he hugged him. Victor wound his arms tighter, and they swayed together for a while.

“Silly. As if I would make fun of you for something like that,” Victor said, playful, trying to lighten the atmosphere. He pushed against Yuuri’s shoulder.

“Yeah, well, I know now.” Yuuri pushed him back, unreadable. As it became quiet again, Yuuri drew his knees up to his chest and exhaled. “Freshman year.”

“What?”

“I’ve liked you since freshman year.”

Victor turned to look at him fully, almost dropping his champagne flute. He could hear nothing over the sound of his heartbeat, louder and wilder than before. “Really?!”

Yuuri nodded. A blush spread across his face. His eyes were downturned, half-lidded. His lips were pink and shiny from the champagne. His glasses, still blue but a bit more fitting these days, caught a reflection of the moonlight. Victor watched as Yuuri gulped, licked his lips, and looked up at him, slow, shy. He was beyond gorgeous, Victor thought, and he was suddenly struck by the urge to—

“Yuuri, can I kiss you?” A whisper. The words came out before he could stop them.

Yuuri blinked, once, twice, and his mouth fell open. After a moment, he nodded, certain.

Eager and yearning, Victor leaned into him at once and missed, brushing against the side of his lips, bumping noses, and almost poking his own eye out with Yuuri’s glasses. He breathed a laugh and apologized. They pulled back, and Yuuri took off his glasses and tilted his head to the side, almost comically. Victor tilted his head the opposite way and brought a hand up to trace Yuuri’s lips with his thumb.

“Second time’s the charm,” Victor said. He kissed him.

Their eyes fell closed at the press of their lips. Yuuri was tense at first, unresponsive, until Victor cradled his cheek. He relaxed and parted his lips slightly at that, and their breath carried the sweet, slightly acidic taste of champagne. Yuuri made a noise against his lips, and one of his hands found its way to back of Victor’s neck. He gripped a bit too hard, and Victor accidently bit Yuuri’s lip, and they pulled away with soft smiles and easy laughs.

They were each other’s first kiss, and they took it slow, tentative, experimenting and making mistakes. It was awkward, graceless, and they both wouldn’t trade it for the world.

***

It was ten minutes after getting their coffees, and they were finishing up their drinks, wistful smiles on their lips.

“Those were the days,” Yuuri said, looking out a window.

“They were,” Victor agreed. What happened? Ah, right, college happened; Yuuri left to study in Detroit, and Victor had a scholarship for figure skating to claim on the other side of the world. At least the breakup wasn’t too ugly, just a simple drifting apart, not ending in bitterness or hatred, but not full of definite closure, either.

But here they were, reunited, somehow. Victor looked at Yuuri. His black hair was longer but still stuck out at the ends, and his glasses fit snugly on the bridge of his nose but were still blue. He watched the sunlight brighten his brown eyes, and the words came out before he could stop them.

“Maybe we could try again?”

Yuuri smiled and said, “Second time’s the charm, right?”

#victuuriweek #my fic #yuri on ice #victuuri #fic: second time's the charm

[vincentbuckles]

Weekend reading: Can we take back control from Brexit?

[A quick update on Brexit thoughts for those who want to reasonably discuss it. For those who don’t, please feel free to skip to the links.]

Imagine having anticipated something for 30 years, finally getting the freedom to do it, and then making a car crash out of it.

But enough about my life as a mid-life singleton. I’m thinking here of the Eurosceptic wing of the Conservative party.

You know – those 40-odd guys who can’t muster up enough votes to unseat the UK’s most ineffectual leader since Hugh Laurie’s Prince Regent in Blackadder the Third, and yet who’ve somehow managed to send 63 million of us towards an apparently imminent impoverished future.

You might think the World Class farce we’ve endured over the past 30 months would see me smiling.

After all a second referendum is looking ever more likely, if still not odds-on.

But unfortunately, I continue to read and hear abundant evidence that most of the Leave voting contingent still doesn’t get it.

And that means despite the demographic challenges of that faction (i.e. its original margin of victory is literally dying) it’s quite possible Leave could win again.

Especially if the Remain side sticks to the previous policy of dull facts over bus-splattering bullshit fabrications.

No wonder Leave voters seem almost as angry as Remainers:

I’ve seen a parade of #Brexit leaders on news programmes today. Their position boils down to this: We are absolutely sure voters knew exactly what they voted for and, as soon as we manage to agree among ourselves what that was, we will inform voters what it was they voted for.

— Alex Andreou (@sturdyAlex) December 6, 2018

A second referendum is a horrible solution to a stupid problem, with plenty of downsides.

However from my perspective it has the minor virtue of being less terrible than all the other alternatives.

Whose Brexit is it, anyway

Can we not stop this death march? Absolutely no one seems happy with the direction of travel.

Not even the Leave voters, that’s the most galling – if unsurprising – thing.

Blogger Ermine came close to capturing this contradiction at the heart of the Leave vote with a graphic this week. Leavers are represented here by the two Mickey Mouse ears on top of the smug metropolitan elite mug:

What @ermine’s Venn diagram is missing though is the set of people who voted either Leave or Remain to make us poorer.

Perhaps that’s because it doesn’t exist – despite even the Government admitting that’s what we face.

True, a tiny set of Brexiteers have belatedly conceded that a No Deal Brexit will hit us in the national nads.

That, they now say, is a price worth paying for sovereignty / blue passports / the right to negotiate trade deals with Madagascar and Kazakhstan.

But all the leading Leave-supporting players continue to lie to the electorate.

Theresa May herself rounded off her Deal Debate Dodge by harking back to the supposed ability of Brexit to reduce the inequalities and insecurities she spoke of in the aftermath of the vote – despite almost every single analysis of Brexit showing a net negative impact, economically-speaking.1

If you want sovereignty or fewer immigrants from Brexit, fair enough. Own that. Don’t claim the tooth fairy too.

But sadly, the very few Leavers I come across in real-life are still saying things like “The EU needs us more than we need them.”

The same EU that has run rings around us in negotiations.

The EU that has stuck firmly together, despite all forecasts to the contrary, and strangely believes more in its vision of togetherness than in the fantasies of Brexiteers.

The EU that takes 44% of our exports, while we take 8%2 of theirs.

The roughly 450 million of them versus the 63 million of us.

The UK vs the EU is a negotiating position that only looks attractive to Tories of a certain class raised to see greatness in the self-destruction of The Charge Of The Light Brigade.

“C’est magnifique, mais ce n’est pas la guerre; c’est de la folie”.3

Barry Barricades

What I missed when I created Barry Blimp – the archetypal Home Counties Leave voter of not inconsiderable means and more than a few years – was his zealotry.

Because I now see a big chunk of the Leave cohort want Brexit no matter what.

In fact I rather think some would enjoy it if we had ferries piled up outside Dover and food rationing at Tesco.

Obviously I feel vindicated when I think back to the insults hurled at me when I ventured my opinion on my own blog that many Leave voters didn’t know what they’d started, or that this would drag on for years.

But that’s about as satisfying as telling the person in the seat next to you that yes, you were right that the 747’s engine sounded a bit funny as the Captain shouts “Brace, brace!” over the tannoy.

There seems no good solution to this mess now. Revolutions have started over less.

(That may sound melodramatic if you don’t know your history. I suggest you Google the origins of the French Revolution, the English Civil War, or the American War of Independence before you jab your finger in my chest.)

To be clear I’m not predicting revolution – let alone hoping for it, from any perspective – but there’s got to be a non-zero chance.

Currently we are just living through a nationalist coup, and that’s bad enough.

The irony is for many on the right, Jeremy Corbyn is a revolutionary Marxist.

Politics has abandoned the center ground. As a result, lots of people are going to be very unhappy, however this turns out.

Our politicians need to get a grip, fast.

From Monevator

Money is power – Monevator

From the archive-ator: The characteristics of an entrepreneur – Monevator

News

Note: Some links are Google search results – in PC/desktop view you can click to read the piece without being a paid subscriber. Try privacy/incognito mode to avoid cookies. Consider subscribing if you read them a lot!4

UK economy slows as car sales fall – BBC

Property market at weakest since 2012 as Brexit takes toll, says RICS – Guardian

ECB ends €2.5tn eurozone QE stimulus programme – BBC

Luxury goods inflation running at nearly 6%, says Coutts – Guardian

Richest parts of London generate 30x cash of poorest parts of UK – ThisIsMoney

Scotland freezes threshold for higher-rate income tax – Guardian

Crowdcube investors threaten legal action after Emoov goes bust – ThisIsMoney

      Check out the collapse in the price of solar powered energy – Vox

Products and services

Are real or fake Christmas trees better for the planet? – Guardian

Small energy providers keep going bust. Is switching too risky? – ThisIsMoney

Investors flock to venture capital funds [Search result] – FT

Britain to force broadband providers to tell customers their best deals – Reuters

Ratesetter will pay you £100 [and me a cash bonus] if you invest £1,000 for a year – Ratesetter

Examining the risks and rewards of securities lending for funds – Morningstar

Investec’s new notice savings account allows 20% withdrawals – ThisIsMoney

Questioning the $1million retirement maths special

$1 million isn’t enough – Fat Tailed and Happy

The hardest problem in finance – The Irrelevant Investor

$1 million? Meh. [US but relevant] – The Belle Curve

Comment and opinion

Stellar take on the savings-versus-investment-returns debate – Get Rich Slowly

Situational spending – Seth Godin

Index-investing critic takes aim, fires, misses – Bloomberg

Rational versus reasonable – Morgan Housel

Financial planning – Indeedably

Three investing maths mistakes to drive you nuts – The IT Investor

The current danger for stocks: Fear itself – Morningstar

Why you need a money mentor – The Cut

The reason many billionaires aren’t satisfied with their wealth – The Atlantic

The wonderful Portfolio Charts has had a makeover – Portfolio Charts

How to measure a company’s growth rate – UK Value Investor

The best investing white papers of 2018 [For nerds/pros] – Savvy Investor

Crypto corner (December 2017 nostalgic edition)

Four days trapped at sea with crypto’s nouveau riche – Breaker Mag

Yes Bitcoin was a bubble. And it popped… – Bloomberg

…but is it time for believers to buy back into Ethereum? – AVC

Prices are down more than the ‘fundamentals’ [My quotes] – Chris Burniske

Brexit

The EU rebuffs Theresa May on Brexit — six takeaways [Search result] – FT

Lord Heseltine nails it on Brexit [Video] – via Facebook

“This was the second failed attempt to unseat May in three weeks, for a bunch of guys who’d be picked last for paintball and are led by rejected Paddington villain Jacob Rees-Mogg.” – Guardian

EU leaders scrap plans to help Theresa May pass deal after disastrous meeting in Brussels – Independent

Sir Ivan Rogers on Brexit [Full speech] – University of Liverpool

How Ireland outwitted Britain on Brexit – Bloomberg

Don’t know why people see a nasty, racist fringe to the Leave vote… – via Twitter

Kindle book bargains

The Barcelona Way: How to Create a High-performance Culture by Damian Hughes – £1.09 on Kindle

The 100-Year Life: Living and Working in an Age of Longevity by Lynda Gratton and Andrew Scott – £2.99 on Kindle

James Acaster’s Classic Scrapes by James Acaster – £0.99 on Kindle

Off our beat

Habits are the compound interest of self-improvement – Farnham Street

Population mountains [Striking 3D maps of global populations] – The Pudding

KFC debuts fried chicken-scented fire logs ahead of Christmas – Fox News

We need academic conferences about robots, love, and sex – Slate

And finally…

“For half a century the competition to produce the fastest stock price-printing machine was almost as frantic as the pursuit of the stocks and the shares. Indeed for many, the two were inseparable.” – Selwyn Parker, The Great Crash: How the Stock Market Crash of 1929 Plunged the World into Depression

Like these links? Subscribe to get them every Friday!

Yes, a couple of things might be made better for a tiny subset of the population. But as we’ve discussed before, almost every serious economist believes those benefits would be grossly outweighed by the economic negatives. They’d be far better addressed directly via redistribution or government investment.

Or 18%, in a certain light.

“It’s magnificent, but it’s not war; it’s madness” – General Pierre Bosquet.

Note some articles can only be accessed through the search results if you’re using PC/desktop view (from mobile/tablet view they bring up the firewall/subscription page). To circumvent, switch your mobile browser to use the desktop view. On Chrome for Android: press the menu button followed by “Request Desktop Site”.

Weekend reading: Can we take back control from Brexit? published first on https://justinbetreviews.weebly.com/

[theconservativebrief]

I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Americans are pretty stressed out lately. In part, it is the political situation; in part, it is our times. Late last month, the American Psychological Association released their annual Stress in America survey, breaking down the reasons we are pulling out our hair, strand by strand.

“Forty-five percent of the survey respondents said they ‘lay awake at night due to stress,’” wrote Vox’s Brian Resnick. “Sixty-two percent said the current political climate is a significant stressor in their lives. And 56 percent agreed ‘this is the lowest point in the nation’s history they could remember.’” Other widespread sources of mass stress were work, money, health, and personal debt.

The ever-growing wellness industry is one response to this mounting pressure. (Are you worried about wage stagnation? Try celery juice!) But Applebee’s, middle-market icon of American cuisine, has a different prescription for the country: Get it tipsy and order the mozzarella sticks. “Americans are stressed,” Applebee’s president John Cywinski told CNN, suggesting that when your product is comfort food, stress translates very nicely into sales.

He is not wrong. For the second year in a row, just over a third of American adults reported eating “too much” or “unhealthy” food because of stress, according to the APA survey. “When stressed,” Cywinski said, people “tend to go to comfort food … and we’re pretty darn good at comfort food.” (They’ve also seen an increase of booze sales.)

The question is: Does it work? And if it does, what are we — miserable, but aspiring toward health — supposed to do about it? A. Janet Tomiyama, an associate professor of psychology and director of the Dieting, Stress, and Health Lab at UCLA, has been trying to figure that out.

I spoke to Tomiyama about what we know, what we don’t, and why ice cream might be a salve for our political anxieties. Our conversation has been edited for length and clarity.

Let’s start at the very beginning: What is stress eating? Is it different than “emotional eating” or “comfort eating”?

I can tell you that the researchers are also arguing about this, and so your confusion is not unusual. It seems as if emotional eating is a broader thing. So emotional eating can be in response to stress, but it can also be in response to anger or sadness — some researchers even characterize boredom as an emotion. If there’s a Venn diagram, then “emotional eating” is the biggest circle and then within it is what I call stress eating or comfort eating. That’s when you’re eating specifically in response to stress, and not any of these other emotions.

So maybe the real question is: How do you define stress?

You’ve waded into another huge theoretical argument: What is stress? Some people define it as a stressful event happening, so you lose your job. That equals stress. But there’s another view — and I would say this view is a little bit more well-established — that it’s a negative experience you feel like you can’t handle.

So it’s a very psychological thing: It’s not, “My tire went flat.” It’s, “Okay, my tire went flat, and this is really upsetting to me.” If you’re a billionaire and you have 10 cars, a tire going flat doesn’t matter to you — you have a chauffeur who will fix it. That’s why it’s really important to focus on how you subjectively feel. And if you feel stressed, then we trust you — we say you’re stressed.

Does it work? Ignoring other potential downsides, if I eat a pint of ice cream because I’m stressed, will I feel better?

So I first came to this after I read a series of really interesting studies in rodents, actually. And those studies show that when you give rats access to comfort food — in their case usually Crisco mixed with sugar — and you stress them out, what you see is that over time, that comfort food actually dampens their stress hormones, it dampens down their brain’s responsivity to stress, it dampens down the signaling between the brain and the rest of the body, so they don’t secrete as many stress hormones.

I was thinking, okay, well, is this the case in humans, too? Because currently, we really demonize this behavior of stress eating. We shake our fingers and we say, “Don’t do that, it’s not good for you.”

But in my mind, if it’s serving this really important function of actually dampening down our physiological stress level, it warrants a closer look. And we find across several studies, that yeah, it seems to be effective. Not just psychologically, but also biologically — people who do a lot of comfort eating tend to show a reduced level of stress hormones and stress.

So if/when I eat the ice cream, what’s happening?

When you do anything that’s rewarding to you — meaning that the reward parts of your brain sort of light up — those parts of the brain can sort of dampen down the parts of your brain that are freaking out with negative emotion. And that’s why comfort foods tend to be foods that are high in sugar and fat. They’re really rewarding; they really do light up the reward centers of our brains.

There’s also some work showing that when you do comfort eating, it builds up fat in your belly region and that fat pad sends a signal to your brain to decrease the amount of stress hormones that you’re producing, and the specific signal hasn’t been worked out yet. So that’s another pathway.

And then there’s conditioning. If throughout your whole life, you’ve paired stress relief with comfort foods over and over again, then soon enough, your body is going to automatically respond to eating these comfort foods with relaxation.

A lot of us have grown up, we had a bad day at school, our moms baked us cookies, right? If all those things happened at the same time, over and over and over again, pretty soon you don’t even need mom or her hug. You get comfort from just the cookies.

So it kind of sounds like you’re saying maybe eating isn’t the best way to destress, but it is soothing.

Yeah. If you see something in multiple species, to me — to scientists in general — that means that that is an important behavior. And, in addition to rodents, we also see comfort eating working in some non-human primate species as well. So my main take home from this is self-compassion: You’re not doing the comfort eating because you’re some sort of weak-willed human being; you’re biologically driven to do this.

And layered on top of that is your whole life, pushing you toward comfort eating. And so it’s — how do I want to say this? The people who don’t comfort eat, those are the weirdos.

Speaking of weirdos, why doesn’t everyone have the same response? Everyone (presumably) feels stress, but some people eat, and others totally lose their appetites.

We don’t know the why. The best numbers we have currently are that 40 percent of people increase their eating when they’re stressed, 40 percent decrease their eating, and 20 percent stay the same. That’s really old data, so we’re actually this fall launching a new nationally representative study to see if that’s even true. I just think the percent of people who eat more when they’re stressed is higher than 40 percent.

But anyway, those are the numbers we have right now. Men tend to stress eat less than women, so that’s something we know. But that’s about as much as we know for who does it and why, and that’s really an important next step.

I’m trying to figure out what to do with this. Like, even if stress eating works, we still probably shouldn’t do it all that often. But it’s tempting, because it works!

So we’ve amassed a little bit of evidence showing that comfort eating actually comforts, but a lot of people say, “Okay that’s great, but we don’t want people eating Snickers bars every time they’re stressed, so what do we do here?”

So what I’ve been trying to do very, very recently is to see if we can get healthy foods to also be comforting. In the rat studies, it’s Crisco mixed with sugar, or some have used Oreo cookies. They’ve only tested unhealthy foods, and I think that on a cultural level, we assume comfort eating has to be ice cream or brownies — really unhealthy stuff. Nobody’s even tried to see if we could also be comforted by a strawberry.

I literally have a note here that says “nobody stress eats strawberries, do they?”

Yeah, nobody does. Well, I shouldn’t say nobody, we have some survey data showing that some people do, which makes me roll my eyes because who are these people?

But there are reasons to believe that strawberries might work as comfort food. There’s some research showing that any sweet taste can dampen stress. There’s other research about, this is about emotional eating, where they had subjects either eat chocolate or potato chips or fruit, and actually it was the fruit group who reported the highest positive emotion afterward.

But, you know, I’m a skeptical scientist. Part of me is like, I don’t know, guys … I don’t know we’ll ever get there with strawberries. So in a study that we’re running right now, we’re trying to do a mind hack to get people to be really calmed and soothed by strawberries, or whatever fruit. We’re literally doing Pavlovian classical conditioning: We’re having people do a relaxation exercise and eat fruit at the same time, and we have them do that over and over and over and over again, with the hope that eventually, just the strawberry alone will automatically elicit this relaxation response. And so that way, even if fruit doesn’t naturally comfort you, maybe we could use this mind hack to get you to feel really soothed from strawberries.

Is there more stress eating than there used to be?

We do know that stress is on the rise in America. We also know that of all the different stressors that there are out there — exam stress, jumping-out-of-a-plane stress — it’s stressors that are uncontrollable that pack the biggest punch.

The political situation feels really big and really uncontrollable, we know that that kind of stress is really potent, and we know that that’s the kind of stress that most increases the stress hormone cortisol, and cortisol is what makes you reach for these comfort foods. So I see a direct path between stress increasing and stress eating increasing.

Does that have public health implications? If people are increasingly stressed, and at least 40 percent of those people are stress eating, it seems like a problem.

Well, we know that no matter what you actually weigh — it doesn’t matter if you’re skinny or heavy — if you have a bad diet, that’s really bad for you. Many studies have shown that diet is really the number one driver of all these chronic diseases people are experiencing today, so diabetes, heart disease, it plays a big role in cancer as well.

We know stress alone is bad. And we know that diet is bad, too. And we know when you combine these two, it’s even worse. That’s why I’m really trying to engage in this mind hack of flipping stress eating to be fruits instead of brownies. If you could get this mind hack working, then every time you’re stressed, not only are you eating one more serving of fruit, which in itself is linked to decreases in mortality, but you’re also not eating what you would have eaten, so you’re not eating the ice cream. It would be a double benefit.

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Original Source -> Does stress eating actually make you less stressed?

via The Conservative Brief

#IFTTT #The Conservative Brief

[wanderaerrrr]

The King Series by Tawdra Kandle

New girl. She doesn’t belong here. Doesn’t fit in here. Not one of us.

I’m one of those readers who cannot simply put a book down when she starts to read it. Especially when it’s well-written. So, imagine having read a good story that has four parts. Yeah, books are my own brand of heroin.

So, there goes the my reason for (successfully) trying to read this book series in a week. The story has a good start and a very meh ending.

It’s about a (self-centered) girl who can read minds since birth. Her family moves into a (magical) town because of her dad’s work and then she transfers into a new school where she meets a girl classmate who has an instant animosity towards her and a guy who instantly falls for her. Very unoriginal, I know. But a good writer knows how to turn a cliche into something they can call their own. They innovate.

As I’ve said earlier, this would have been a good story if the author had just stopped writing after the third book. Seriously, if you were to read this, do NOT read the last book. I’m saving you from tons of disappointment.

Well, let’s start with book one - Fearless.

The story starts with the line above. Tasmyn’s family moves in to King town and the story is basically just a fast version of Bella and Edward’s story (yeah, I’m a Twilight fan and I’m proud of it!), except in this story, Tasmyn is sort of like Edward in the sense that she is the magical creature and nothing more than that. Instead of hungry vampires, Nell Massler, a witch, is our villain in the story. Her mother was taken to a mental institution because she is believed to be a lunatic and her father is an absent parent. There goes the explanation for Nell’s attachment to her ‘Chemistry’ teacher, Ms. Lacuna, who took an interest with our female protagonist, Tasmyn. And that is basically why Nell hated Tasmyn and why she wants to be more powerful to the point of murderous in the story. I will not go on about the love story between Tasmyn and Michael because it is not really that important plus it’s a very mundane love story to begin with. So, what’s good with this book is the tension between Tasmyn and Nell and also, Nell’s character development. She went from evil, to evil-er, and to evil-est. Go read the book, and take note of Nell’s character she is one that you should look out for in this series. Just ignore all the parts with Tasmyn’s love life, it’s meh.

Okay, off to the second book - Breathless.

Michael goes to college. Tasmyn meets Rafe and there goes your love triangle (very New Moon). In this book, we will see some developments with Tasmyn’s character. From someone who loathes her power, she becomes someone who is eager to develop her power. You will see her get greedier and greedier to the point where she lies to everyone to get it. She takes a ‘review’ classes with Ms. Lacuna to develop her powers. Of course, it ends badly and she was almost killed by a reverend who believes she’s possessed by the devil. The good point of this book: Tasmyn is not a goody two shoes as you would assume she is after you read the first book. The bad point of this book: their love story. I just cringe because of its cliche-ness. But it is still a good read, just ignore the love story parts.

Off to the third book - Restless (which should have been the last book, seriously)

Michael and Tasmyn breaks up and then Tasmyn moves on to Rafe. Their relationship is purely physical for Tasmyn’s part and of course, Rafe is madly in love with her. Nell will return to this book, and you’ll love her. Promise. Anyway, you will encounter here how Tasmyn becomes stupider and more power hungry. She still had sessions with Marica (Ms. Lacuna), who wants to kidnap her to make her her child. Apparently, Marica heard a prophecy that she will meet her child in this town. Now, Tasmyn is not her biological child, she cannot have children anymore, but Tasmyn is like her prophecied child because Tasmyn is very powerful just like her. So, Nell, in this story, is the one who tells Tasmyn to stop being stupid and gullible but of course, Tasmyn would not believe her until she was almost kidnapped and brought to Romania. Let’s look at Tasmyn’s development. She breaks up with Michael because she feels like she needs some space and because she cannot stand a long distance relationship. She did not even let Michael have a say in this break up. Next, she leads Rafe on because she doesn’t have Michael anymore, and she does not like being alone. That and because she’s becoming more power hungry, she keeps on lying to her parents and friends, so she has no one except for Rafe. Yeah, she is using him to suit her need. Lastly, she had been thrown cautions after cautions and she did not listen to them because she thinks that Marica wants the best for her. Very good, Tasmyn. I obviously do not like Tasmyn’s character, so why did I finish this book? It’s Nell. I don’t want to spoil anymore than I already have. You have to read it to find out why Nell is someone to love in this series. In the end of this third book, you will have more questions about the story and you will hope that the final book will give you light for these questions. Uh-uh. This is where you have to stop and just let the questions be questions unanswered. It’s better.

Okay. Now to explain my hatred (yes, hatred) for the last book of this series - Endless.

Tasmyn is in college and is back with Michael, yey (not)! The author suddenly decides that there should be an organization that takes in people with superpowers to train them and to use them as assets for rich people. They are not exploited (said the book). They are trained and they are well-compensated (said the book)! But that’s not the only meh thing in this LAST book, there will also be an anti-organization, who is the one who exploits superhumans! After three books in the series why is there no mention whatsoever or cameo for either these two organizations? Maybe because they don’t know the town of King? Well, no. They are actually familiar with King and its inhabitants. It was mentioned in this book. Well then, why were they absent in the previous books? Ask the author! Then suddenly, we meet the (absent, literally) father of Nell who tells us why he did what he did. Is this what we call saving his face? Maybe. We will also suddenly meet Nell’s mother who is just mentioned in the story. Yeah, she’s a passing thing. The author just decided to include her in the story for what? I don’t know. Maybe she thought it will make this book important. And then, there’s Nell. Don’t even bother looking for answers for your Nell questions from the third book. You’ll find nothing in this book. This is actually a nothing book. It will give you nothing. It has underdeveloped plot. It would have worked it she incorporated these ideas in the previous stories. This should have been where the story comes full circle but no. The author made an unfinished circle with the the first three books and made another unfinished circle with this book. If we were to make it a Venn diagram, the only things similar to the first three books and this book are the characters. Storywise, this is a very different book. It started a new story with no ending. This book is rushed. It seems like the author signed a contract for a four-part series, forgot to make an outline, made the fourth book just to comply to the contract and forgot that since this is a series  the characters should be the same and the stories should be continued not fragmented.

So there goes my r(ant)eview of this book series. Just go read the first three books and forget that the fourth one exists. I wish I knew that.

Oh well, off to find a better series. I have to find a series that will erase this series from my memory. #

#kingseries #fearless #breathless #restless #endless #rant #badreview #dontread #bookreview