The Gymnastics Floor

Bianca had practiced her routine so many times she could do it with her eyes closed. She had actually tried that once, in her backyard, and only bumped into the fence a little bit.

For three whole months, she had practiced in the gym after school. Cartwheel, cartwheel, spin, big jump, land with both feet, arms up, smile. She had practiced it in the morning before breakfast. She had practiced it at night before bed — just the arm movements, because Mom said no cartwheels in the hallway after what happened to the lamp.

Coach Darla said Bianca was ready. Mom said Bianca was ready. Her best friend Keiko said Bianca was ready and also said she would be sitting in the third row wearing a giant foam finger, even though foam fingers were for baseball and not gymnastics.

Bianca felt ready too.

Until she walked into the arena.

The first thing she noticed was the noise. Not loud noise — just a hum, like the whole building was whispering about something she didn't know yet. Parents filled the bleachers. Judges sat at a long table with clipboards and serious faces. Other gymnasts stretched and bounced in sparkly leotards. The lights were big and white and everywhere, like someone had turned on a hundred suns.

And then Bianca saw the floor.

Not her floor. Her floor at practice was in a cozy gym that smelled like rubber mats and fruit snacks. Her floor had a crack in the corner shaped like a lightning bolt and a squeaky spot near the middle that always made her giggle.

This floor was enormous.

It stretched out flat and wide under those blazing lights, and it looked like it went on forever. It was the same size as a regulation gymnastics floor — Coach Darla had told her that, had even measured it once to prove it — but Bianca's eyes did not believe Coach Darla right now. Bianca's eyes said this floor was the size of an ocean.

"It's huge," Bianca whispered.

Mom squeezed her shoulder. "It's the same size as the one at practice, sweetheart."

"It grew," Bianca said.

She sat on a bench with the other gymnasts from her gym and watched the first group perform. A girl with a red bow did a beautiful round-off. A boy in a blue leotard did a jump so high Bianca thought he might float away. Everyone looked calm. Everyone looked like they belonged on that enormous, impossible floor.

Bianca looked down at her hands. They were shaking. Not a lot — just a little tremble, like they were cold even though the arena was warm.

She closed her eyes and tried to picture her routine the way she always did. Cartwheel, cartwheel, spin, big jump, land with both feet, arms up, smile. But in her mind, the floor kept stretching wider and wider, and she kept getting smaller and smaller, until she was just a tiny dot standing in the middle of all that empty space.

"Bianca?" Coach Darla knelt in front of her. "You're in the next group. How are we feeling?"

"The floor is too big," Bianca said.

Coach Darla didn't laugh. She didn't say "no it isn't" or "don't be silly." She just nodded slowly, like Bianca had said something very important.

"You know what?" Coach Darla said. "It looked big to me too, the first time I competed."

"It did?"

"Massive. Like a desert. I thought I'd need a map just to find my way to the corner."

Bianca almost smiled. Almost.

"What did you do?" she asked.

Coach Darla tilted her head. "Well, I didn't try to fill the whole floor at once. I just went to my starting spot. And I told myself: I only have to be right here. Just this one spot. And then when the music started, I went to the next spot. And then the next. That's all a routine is, Bianca. One spot at a time."

The announcer's voice crackled through the speakers. "Next group, please take the floor for warm-up."

Bianca's stomach did a somersault — and not the kind she'd been practicing.

She stood up on legs that felt like jelly. She walked with her group toward the floor. Her sparkly purple leotard — the one she'd picked out with Mom, the one that made her feel like a superhero — suddenly felt like just regular clothes. The other gymnasts jogged onto the floor to warm up, but Bianca stopped right at the edge.

Up close, the floor was even bigger.

She put one foot on it. Then the other.

And something happened. The floor felt the same under her feet. It had that same springy bounce. It pushed back against her toes the way her practice floor did, like it was saying, "Hi. I know you."

She took a few steps to her starting corner. She did one practice cartwheel. Her hands hit the floor and the floor was right there, exactly where it was supposed to be. She did a second cartwheel. Same thing. The floor hadn't moved. The floor was keeping its promises.

Warm-up ended. The gymnasts cleared the floor, and one by one, they were called to perform.

Then: "Number fourteen, Bianca Reyes."

Bianca walked to her starting position, the back left corner. She stood with her feet together and her arms by her sides. She could hear the hum of the arena. She could feel those hundred suns. Somewhere in the third row, Keiko was waving a foam finger. Somewhere in the stands, Mom was holding her breath.

The floor stretched out in front of her, vast and wide and impossibly big.

But Bianca looked down at her feet.

"I only have to be right here," she thought. "Just this one spot."

Her music started — a bright, bouncy song with tambourines and clapping. Bianca took a breath, lifted her arms, and pushed off into her first cartwheel.

The world spun. Her hands hit the floor, her legs swept over, and she landed on her feet. She was in a new spot now. Just this spot. She launched into the second cartwheel — whoosh — and the floor caught her again. Then the spin, and she felt her ponytail whip around, and for half a second she saw the audience blur past like a painting smeared with color.

Then it was time for the big jump.

This was the part she'd practiced most. The part that had taken weeks to get right. She bent her knees, swung her arms, and pushed off the floor with everything she had.

She flew.

Not really — she knew that. But it felt like flying. The air held her up for one perfect, sparkling second, and the arena wasn't too big anymore because she was filling it. She was filling every corner of it with this one jump.

She came down — both feet, solid, boom — and she didn't wobble. Not even a little.

Arms up. Smile.

The smile came on its own. She didn't even have to try. It just burst out of her like sunshine through a window, because she had done it. Every spot, one at a time, all the way to the end.

The arena erupted. Well, maybe it didn't erupt — there was polite clapping and a few cheers — but to Bianca, it was the loudest sound in the world. She could hear Keiko screaming, "THAT'S MY BEST FRIEND!" and she could see Mom standing up with both hands over her mouth and tears on her cheeks, which was very embarrassing but also very nice.

Bianca walked off the floor on wobbly, happy legs.

Coach Darla was waiting. She held up her hand for a high five, and Bianca slapped it so hard her palm stung.

"How was the floor?" Coach Darla asked, grinning.

Bianca looked back at it — that big, bright, enormous floor, still glowing under all those lights.

"It was the perfect size," she said.

And next time, she knew, it would feel even smaller. Not because the floor would shrink, but because she would be bigger. Not taller, not older — just bigger. The kind of bigger you become when you do something that scares you and you do it anyway.