AmericasDarlings Read online

  I stood up and walked to the windows on the far side of the room and looked down on the Olympic Village. I could easily see the Central Plaza and the lanes radiating from it—the Wagon Wheel, it was called—and that bizarre statue in its center. I made out the Oostif and our quarters. If I craned my head and peered to the left, I could see the gymnastics venue. In the distance, its trademark spires reaching toward the sky, hunkered the squat shape of the main Olympic stadium.

  “Leah,” Coach Debbie said, coming to stand beside me, resting her hand lightly on the small of my back, “I think you and Benson will go all the way. I do.”

  I turned to her.

  “I think you’ll win the gold medal.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. Her almond-shaped eyes regarded me, the lids half closed. The corners of her lips curled upward in a slight smile. Her hand moved to my butt.

  My insides lurched.

  I liked Coach Debbie. I liked her a lot.

  She was ten years older than me, maybe more. I loved the graceful way she took me under her wing at times like this. She’d volunteered to walk with Benson and me to the broadcast center so we wouldn’t have to find it on our own. Or maybe—I bit my lip—I was being managed again. Coach Debbie was a relatively new addition to the team, having moved to Denver nine months earlier. I’d only practiced with her twice, several weeks ago, and she’d left me wanting more. Much more.

  I would have loved to couple with her again.

  I smiled back. “Thanks. But I don’t know about gold. Those Russians…”

  “Those Russians can’t do what you and Benson do! Not even close. They don’t drive everyone crazy just from watching.” She frowned, thinking. “They don’t become their routine, like you do. You’re good, Leah.”

  “Thanks,” I said again.

  “Just don’t break eye contact.”

  I sucked in my breath. “You saw that?”

  “I did. So did Bob. Automatic deduction.” One side of her mouth lifted in a wry smile. “Just don’t do it tomorrow.”

  “No. I won’t.”

  She pointed to the bag slung over my shoulder. “What’s that?”

  “Something for my nephew.”

  “Your sister had her baby? When?”

  “Last week! His name is Luke.” I slid the bag from my arm and pulled out knitting needles and a shapeless blue-and-green wad. “It’s a baby sweater. I mean, it will be, eventually. This is the back.”

  “Cute.” She patted the piece of knitting then measured it with her outstretched hand. Her hand was bigger. “Who taught you to knit?”

  “My mom. When I was just a kid.”

  Coach Debbie fingered the knitting then picked up the green ball of fuzzy yarn and held it in her palm. “My mother wasn’t exactly the knitting type. I never learned. I wouldn’t have the patience for it anyway.”

  I folded the tiny, soft square and tucked it back in the bag. “I do it to calm myself. To relax. Know what I mean?”

  She nodded. “That’s good. We all need something like that. I read books.”

  We stared out at the Olympic Village. There were more people on the pathways than there had been ten minutes ago.

  “Don’t worry about the interview,” Coach Debbie said after a minute.

  “I’m not.” It was almost true. Kind of.

  “We’ve given Ryan Markham a press release. He knows what he can and can’t get into. You’ll do fine.”

  Then it was time.

  Coach Debbie took my knitting bag. She gave us a thumbs-up. “Do me proud!”

  Benson and I followed the studio manager—according to his badge, his name was Ricardo Garcia Lopez—into the recording studio. Ricardo led us into a well-lit room and told us where to sit. He stood back and looked at us and then at the camera then he tugged my seat a smidgeon to the right. He asked Benson to take off his baseball cap. He asked me to unzip my windbreaker. Then he spritzed both of us with water.

  “Perfecto,” he said, nodding, “like you just performed sex.”

  I blinked tiny droplets from my eyelids.

  Ricardo laughed. “Sex! My abuelita—my grandmother—she would turn in her grave. Public sex in Mexico! Dios mio!” He pretended to fan himself and swoon.

  A bell chimed.

  Ricardo’s eyebrows shot up. “One minute! You are good?”

  Benson took my hand, nodded.

  I squirmed. Maybe I didn’t want to do this after all.

  Ricardo looked us over. “Ryan Markham, he has surprise for you. So you know.”

  A surprise? What surprise?

  Ryan Markham entered in a rush from a door I hadn’t noticed. A bathroom? He plunked himself down in his chair, which was set very precisely at an angle to our own, then messed with his shirt. He looked flushed. “Sorry,” he said, “ate something bad for lunch. Mexico!” He laughed. “Ouch.”

  Benson groaned in commiseration. Who wasn’t worried about bad water? You’d think that in this day and age we’d have our intestinal issues all worked out, wouldn’t you? But those pesky little waterborne bugs in warm climates are devilishly resistant to attempts to control them, like malaria had been a century ago. We’d been strictly warned to drink only bottled water.

  Ryan took a deep breath. “Almost ready. Just act natural—you’ll be fine. Ricardo will give us the five-second countdown then we’ll be live.”

  I took my hand from Benson’s and tried to rub the sweat off my palms. It made no difference. They were just as wet as before. I clasped them in my lap. I swallowed.

  This never got easier.

  Benson and I had done—how many interviews? Eight? Ten?—in the past few months and you’d think I would be used to it by now. I wasn’t. Every interview was as if it were my very first. I closed my eyes and counted to six. It was as far as I got.

  Ricardo clapped his hands.

  I opened my eyes.

  Ricardo began a backward count. When he got to “one” he gave us a thumbs-up.

  The cameras whirred.

  Ryan sat up even straighter, stared at the main camera and began to speak in his famous, well-modulated voice. “Welcome to the Olympic broadcasting center. I’m Ryan Markham with ONN and here with me today I have sexual gymnasts Leah Collins and Benson White. You may know them as America’s Darlings. Welcome!”

  “Thank you,” said Benson.

  “Nice to be here,” I said.

  Ryan smiled. “You’ve come a long way from the mountains of Colorado.”

  Benson cleared his throat. “We’re very excited to be at the Olympics.”

  My knee jumped. I put my hand on it. “Yeah. We are.”

  “America’s Darlings.” Ryan leaned forward. “Love the name! So tell me. Do you really have sex?”

  That was always the first thing they asked even if they knew the answer. It never failed.

  “Yes,” I said, “we do.”

  Benson nodded. “It’s all real.”

  “Incredible,” said Ryan. “It looks impossible! Some of those moves look like they could tear you apart.”

  I smiled. “Sometimes it feels that way.”

  Ryan shook his head. “May I ask you something personal? Are you and Benson a couple? Or do you only perform together?”

  They all asked that question too.

  “Leah and I are friends. Very close friends. We care about each other. But she isn’t my girlfriend.”

  “And he isn’t my boyfriend.”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” Ryan asked me, one eyebrow raised in his trademark look.

  I laughed. “Not right now. We’ve been too busy. I don’t have time for a relationship.”

  “That’s the truth!” said Benson.

  Ryan turned to him. “So if she were to have sex with someone else, you wouldn’t mind?”

  “Not at all. We have sex with other people all the time. It’s part of our training.”

  Ryan shuffled the papers on his lap. “Sex with other people. With lots of people.
It’s a good thing we have those smart anti-STD medicines, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” agreed Benson. Then he launched into the prepared spiel we all knew by heart. He spoke of SEXIX—the newest anti-STD medicine—that all of us were on. He spoke of the excellent sexual medical care provided by our team doctor, Doris Chung. He spoke about compulsory birth control measures for both male and female athletes, about sexual health outreach programs.

  He did an excellent job. It made me squirm.

  “Fascinating, simply fascinating,” said Ryan, shifting in his seat to look directly into the camera. He smirked. “But I know all the men out there have another question. As do I.” He chuckled. “Benson—this question is for you.”

  Benson leaned forward. He knew exactly what was coming.

  “We’re men,” said Ryan, “We like sex.”

  “So do women,” I said, interrupting.

  “Of course, of course! But we men—sometimes our private parts don’t cooperate. Sometimes things get…deflated, so to speak. Especially under pressure.” He leaned forward. “Benson, I sure would like to know how you sexual athletes avoid disaster!”

  He knew the answer. He had to. The whole world did.

  Benson grinned. “It’s all in the training. Mind over matter. We’re taught from a young age to have exquisite control over our bodies and that includes the penis.” He looked at me. “And the vagina, of course.”

  “And the orgasmic response,” I added.

  “And being able to perform on demand.”

  “And being able to stop on a dime if necessary.”

  “And to do it all over again in half an hour. Or in three minutes.”

  I nodded. “We take a special vitamin to keep our libido up.”

  “It allows for multiple orgasms,” said Benson, “for men.”

  “Yes. I know about Vitamin S,” said Ryan. “Too bad it’s still so expensive the general population can’t afford it.”

  I bet he can afford it, I thought.

  “The government provides it free to athletes. But the price is coming down,” said Benson, nodding.

  I leaned forward. “Vitamin S is the reason it took so long for us to be accepted into the Olympics. They had to make sure we weren’t doping.”

  Ryan’s head turned from one of us to the other. “Yes, yes, of course. But even with Vitamin S, you still have to make love in front of judges. In front of cameras. That’s a boatload of pressure! Wow.”

  Benson laughed.

  “The rest of us could learn something from you! Like if there’s a black market for Vitamin S. Ha!” Ryan shuffled the papers on his lap. “On to the next question. What can you tell me about the history of your sport?”

  It was my turn to give a speech. “It all started with rhythmic gymnastics. The Russians especially. They sparked a revolution. They were tall and slim and graceful. They took ballet lessons. Most of all, they worked the audience.”

  “Ah. Like you do.”

  “Yes. We’re trained to work the audience. Those early rhythmic gymnasts brought something new to the games. Sexuality.”

  “Sexuality? But they didn’t have sex in their routines!”

  “No. But those girls were amazing. People responded to their sexual resonance.”

  Benson jumped in. “Sexual resonance. Exactly. That’s what sexual gymnastics is all about.”

  “It’s what we work so hard to create.”

  “It’s a special kind of sexuality that invites the viewer in.”

  “As opposed to pornography,” I went on, “which titillates some people but horrifies an equal number.”

  Ryan looked thoughtful. “Sexual resonance. I assume that leads to VOs?”

  “It has everything to do with VOs.”

  “Vicarious orgasms,” said Benson helpfully, “in case your viewers don’t know.”

  Ryan looked flustered. “Yes, yes. We know. Thank you.”

  “And here we are,” I said, spreading my arms.

  “At your first Olympic Games!” said Ryan, “It’s a landmark indeed. History in the making. Congratulations to all of you. What do you think? Are the Russians still dominant?”

  I frowned. “They’re good.”

  “But we’re better,” said Benson.

  “You’re America’s Darlings,” said Ryan. “America has faith in you.” Then Ryan looked directly into the camera. His face changed. “For those of you who have just joined us, we are speaking of sex—sex in the Olympics. As you know, this has sparked controversy.”

  Bullshit! I thought, frowning. There’s no controversy! It’s all made up! Benson says everyone is laughing at those protesters!

  They are…right?

  “ONN has a special treat for you, our viewers,” Ryan went on. “We’ve invited Marion Lewis of the Anti-Pornography League to join us in the studio.” He smiled broadly. “We’re going to hear both sides of the story!”

  What?

  Both sides of the story? There aren’t two sides! What the hell?

  My pulse throbbed at my temples.

  The door behind Ryan Markham opened. Benson and I turned as one, gaping.

  And there she was.

  The protester from that morning and from the night before, the woman who’d yelled such horrible things at me. Marion Lewis from the Anti-Pornography League. Joining our interview. She stalked right by me and Benson, ignoring us, and sat down in a chair to the left of Ryan Markham. They shook hands.

  “Welcome to the show,” said Ryan, “this is going to get interesting.”

  “I’m just doing my part to keep the Olympics clean,” Marion said loudly, shooting a dark look toward Benson and me. “We’re working very hard to keep smut out of future games.”

  “Tell us, what exactly do you have against sexual gymnastics?”

  “Them,” she said, pointing at us with a long finger tipped with a manicured red nail. “They’re what I’m protesting.”

  I shrank back in my seat. My palms felt suddenly, horribly, clammy.

  “Her! Leah Collins! She’s the worst of all!”

  Benson put his hand on my knee. He squeezed it. “Steady, babe,” he said under his breath. “You know she’s nuts. Everyone does. Even Markham.”

  “Leah?” said Ryan Markham, feigning surprise. “But Leah’s such a sweetheart! How is she the worst? Please, do explain.”

  The traitor.

  “She prostitutes herself on stage!”

  “I do not,” I said weakly, my voice barely louder than a breath. I rubbed my palms on my pant legs.

  “Whores in the Olympics!” bellowed Marion, “What is there to explain? We won’t abide whores in the Olympics!”

  “We’re not whores,” I squeaked.

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Benson. He looked at me, concerned, and took my hand.

  I tried to blink away the black spots in my eyes.

  I thought Marion was about to explode from her seat, she was leaning so far forward. “You are whores! You accept money, is that not correct?”

  Benson cleared his throat. “Endorsements. Just like any other sport.”

  “Payment! For sex acts! That’s prostitution!”

  Ryan Markham leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, a smug look on his face.

  I was about to throw up.

  “So you admit it!” shrieked Marion, “You do sexual acts—in public—for pay. Is that not true? Answer me!”

  Benson stood.

  He trembled with barely controlled fury. He glared at Ryan Markham. “You interviewed Leah recently. You know you have to be careful with her! How could you do this? We’re leaving.” The main camera swiveled around to focus on him. “C’mon, Leah. Let’s get out of here.”

  I stood up, swaying. Benson put his arm around me, helped me to take a step. I swallowed. The camera followed us.

  “Now, now,” said Ryan, “can’t we discuss this?”

  “You tricked us!” hissed Benson. “Look what you’ve done to Leah! You might have ruined
our chance to get a medal! I hope you’re happy. I hope you got your damn ratings.”

  He pulled me in tighter and steered me away from the cameras.

  I buried my face in his shoulder.

  “The public needs both sides of a story,” Ryan said, “and this is a good story!”

  “Asshole,” whispered Benson.

  I’d been so excited to see Ryan Markham again. I’d hoped to spend time with him even! I’d thought he liked me. Now I was mortified. How could I have read him so wrong? Was I that clueless? I hoped Mom and Constance hadn’t seen the interview, but I knew better. Mom was already installed in her hotel room outside the Olympic Village, resting up for the next few days. She’d have watched the broadcast—there was no way she hadn’t. And Constance had told me only last night that she didn’t intend to miss a moment of her little sister’s road to fame and fortune.

  Of course they’d seen every wretched moment of it.

  Benson and I made our way back into the green room, where I promptly burst into tears. Coach Debbie rushed to me and threw her arms around us. My chest heaved. My nose began to run. I couldn’t get enough air. But even in this state I saw the irony—I could control my orgasms but I couldn’t control my emotions. How’s that for screwed up?

  I barely noticed the horrified stares of the rowing team.

  “We’re outta here,” one of them said, “forget our interview with that jerk.”

  “We’re great fans of yours,” piped up the rower standing near the door.

  “Don’t let it get to you,” another one said, patting me on the shoulder, “and good luck tomorrow. We’re coming to your event. We got tickets a long time ago. We’ll cheer you on!”

  “Thanks,” said Benson.

  “I saw it all on the monitor,” said Coach Debbie.

  I nodded miserably.

  She handed me my shoulder bag. “Horrible. We’ll boycott him for the rest of the games.” She drew us into the circle of her arms. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know he would do that. It was wrong, so wrong, to blindside you like he did.”

  “Asshole,” Benson said again.

  Coach Debbie took a deep breath. “Let’s leave.”

  Coach Debbie and Benson walked with me the entire way across the Olympic Village. We were a unit. We walked arm in arm, the three of us, with me in the center of their protective bubble, drawing comfort from them. We avoided the curious glances of the other athletes on the pathways—swimmers and runners and weightlifters and horse riders, chess players and soccer players and badminton players. Did they recognize me? Did they wonder at my teary face? Americans and Germans and Chinese and Koreans—and, always, everywhere, Mexicans. Could they tell we were sexual gymnasts? Did we look different from anyone else? Were we different from anyone else?