Making the Grade. Cate Shearwater

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       CHAPTER

       One

      Ellie stood on the beach and stared out across the creek. The pale winter sun was just rising over the water and everything was still, except the gentle bob of the boats and a solitary seagull looping in the air. It reminded her of a gymnast turning circles on the bar.

      She shivered with excitement and cold. The day she’d been dreaming of for so long was finally here! She’d woken up early, far too excited to sleep. So she’d slipped out of bed, taking care not to wake her little sister Lucy, pulled on her flip-flops and stolen down to the beach in her pyjamas and duffle coat. She didn’t want to waste a second of this day.

      The water sparkled under the sun and Ellie gave a little sigh. She knew she was going to miss this place like mad. But she was going to the Academy! She had won a place at the London Gymnastics Academy, the best gym in the whole country, where famous gymnasts like Sian Edwards and Emma Bannerdown and even the great Lizzie Trengilly, Ellie’s aunt, had trained.

      Just thinking about it made Ellie want to somersault with joy. She grinned as she looked around. There was no better place for somersaults than the beach.

      So Ellie kicked off her flip-flops, shrugged out of her duffle coat and prepared to launch herself into a tumble sequence across the cold, damp sand. She started with a simple round-off flick, then sprang into a neat aerial – like a cartwheel with no hands. The chill wind caught in her hair as she moved, and she could almost imagine she was leaping across the ice-cold water.

      ‘I should have guessed you’d be head over heels with excitement this morning!’

      Ellie landed with a jolt and spun round at the sound of the familiar voice. Her gym coach, Fran, was standing outside the little boathouse watching her with a smile playing across her lips.

      ‘Fran!’ Ellie cried. ‘What are you doing here?’

      ‘Your dad said this is where I’d find you,’ Fran laughed. ‘And I couldn’t let you go without saying goodbye, could I?’

      ‘Thank you,’ Ellie said, still breathless. ‘For coming to see me off. And . . . for everything. I couldn’t have done it without you.’

      Fran sat down on a rock and Ellie perched next to her. Fran hardly looked old enough to be a coach. With her small, compact gymnast’s body, rosy face and long, dark hair, she could have been mistaken for Ellie’s older sister. She had been coaching Ellie since Ellie was a little girl of five. She’d been the one who first picked her for the Beginner’s squad, seeing some spark of talent in her all those years ago. Since then she’d witnessed Ellie’s triumphs – and her failures; seen her battling competition nerves, injuries and setbacks; seen the way she pushed herself harder, determined to be the best.

      And it had been Fran who’d suggested the move to the Academy. She’d always said she didn’t want to push Ellie too fast, that a careful and steady approach was best. But last month she’d told Ellie that if she wanted to go all the way – to British Championships, Worlds, maybe even the Olympics – she would need to move to a bigger club. And of course that’s what Ellie wanted! It was all she had ever dreamed of since was a little girl.

      Fran had asked her old friend Emma Bannerdown, former World Champion and now director of the London Gymnastics Academy, to give Ellie a trial. To Ellie’s astonishment, Emma had agreed. And, to her even greater amazement, she’d offered Ellie a scholarship to train at the Academy.

      All this had happened in the last few dizzying weeks, and Ellie could still barely believe it was true.

      ‘You know you’ll be behind the other girls there,’ said Fran. ‘It could be tough trying to catch up.’

      Ellie nodded, feeling butterflies dance in her stomach.

      ‘Maybe I was wrong to hold you back.’ Fran looked more serious now. ‘I don’t know. But, whatever happens, there’s something I want you to remember.’

      ‘What’s that?’ Ellie looked up at her coach eagerly.

      ‘Well, there are three kinds of gymnasts,’ said Fran. ‘There are power gymnasts – all muscles and strength. There are technical gymnasts, capable of executing moves with an incredible degree of difficulty. And then there are the artistic gymnasts.’ She smiled. ‘Artistic gymnasts perform with their heart. Think of Nadia Comăneci, Sian Edwards – your Aunt Lizzie. When each of those gymnasts steps on to the floor, she tells a story. They are breathtaking to watch, not just because of the skill they exhibit, but because they turn gym from a sport into an art.’

      Ellie thought of the footage she’d watched of her aunt, springing across the blue floor at World Championships. She really looked as if she was dancing over the creek, her arms moving like the swaying of the trees.

      ‘I think you have the soul of an artistic gymnast, Ellie,’ Fran said with a smile. ‘Remember that. You have strength too – from all the rowing and sailing you do. And wonderful poise – although you need to improve your balance on the beam . . .’

      Ellie nodded. She knew the beam was her weakest piece of apparatus.

      ‘But most of all you have heart.’

      Ellie felt as if her heart might actually burst. Fran expected a lot of her gymnasts, so compliments from her really meant something.

      ‘So it doesn’t matter that you’re behind the other girls at the Academy,’ Fran was going on. ‘Stay true to who you are and who knows how far you can go.’

      ‘But how do I do that?’ asked Ellie.

      ‘Hang on to all this,’ said Fran, gesturing around her at the little sandy beach, the boathouse, the wooden pontoon stretching out into the lapping waves. ‘The creek is part of you. Don’t let it go.’