And nothing — nothing at all — can get in my way.
Even the fact that I happen to live in a tiny, rural town in upper North Carolina. Nobody here does much of anything beyond the humble grind of hard work and gentle play. People here are quiet and modest, content to live simple lives away from the bustle of cities like Raleigh and Charlotte.
I have to admit that I, too, love living here. I mean, sure, sometimes it does get pretty boring. But the lack of things to do has proved to be beneficial to my gymnastics training. There are so few distractions that I’ve been easily able to throw myself wholeheartedly into the sport. I do have friends, but most of them are planning on going off to college and then returning to live here for the rest of their lives. There’s nothing wrong with that at all, but it’s not the plan I foresee for myself.
Don’t get me wrong, it is nice to live somewhere so safe and comfortable. People here don’t even really lock their doors or anything — everyone knows everybody else and we all collectively look after each other. So I can totally understand why bigger-city people like my parents, who hail from Chapel Hill, decide to settle down here. It’s also why people who are born here in Toast, North Carolina, are likely to stick around here. This place is picturesque and quiet, the people kind and humble.
And yes, the town really is called Toast.
“Oh, sweetheart. I can’t get over how beautiful your speech was,” Mom coos, stroking my cinnamon-brown hair back out of my face and beaming at me. “Even nearly made your Daddy cry!”
“Hogwash,” Dad retorts good-naturedly. “I’ve never cried once in my whole life!”
All three of us laugh at the inside joke: my dad is actually a notorious crier. He’s the sentimentalist of the family, always poring over old photographs and tearing up over cute videos of baby animals. It’s especially funny, too, considering the fact that he’s a huge, muscular guy. A bodybuilder who happy-cries at the drop of a hat — that’s my dad. He’s the gentle giant and my mom is the energetic go-getter. Both of them have big personalities, and I am often just the quiet, soft-spoken daughter trailing after them.
Not that they see it that way at all. My parents are almost embarrassingly proud of me and my accomplishments, probably prouder than I am.
“Are you ready for dinner with the team tonight after your last performance?” Dad asks, nudging my shoulder excitedly. We’ve been looking forward to the annual celebratory get-together with all the girls from my gymnastics studio and our coaches for months. It’s one of the biggest events of our year, which isn’t saying much, really.
But tonight will be different. The stakes are much higher. It’s not just a low-key dinner with friends and colleagues tonight — it’s the first time I’ll be in the same room as athletic recruiters from all over, including Europe! As far as I know, nobody this fancy has ever even looked at Toast on a map, much less come into town, but we earned a lot of attention when some videos got a lot of hits online recently.
“More nervous than excited,” I answer, biting my lip. My parents, my ever-present cheerleaders, rush to reassure me.
“No, no! Don’t be nervous! You’ve got everything going for you, Livvy,” Mom says, leading me away from the crowds of hugging graduates and families.
“They’re gonna love you. I bet they’ll even have offers for you,” Dad comments, waggling his eyebrows. I giggle at how silly he looks.
“And if they don’t, well, there’s always next year!” my mom concedes.
The performance went off without a hitch, and while the last competition of the year is generally a light-hearted affair that none of us take too seriously, this one is different. We know we have special eyes upon us, and each of us wants to put on our best performance. Or at least, that’s how I feel.
When we finish our routine to thunderous applause, I run to my parents with a smile and they usher me on out. We have to go back home and get changed quick before the celebratory get-together.
When we get home to our little red brick house, I run to my room and head to my closet to pick out something nice to wear.
Living in such a small, empty town has always meant that fashion is at least a few years behind the rest of the world. In fact, when I was much younger, I was content to just wear whatever my mom could sew and knit for me. But of course, as I got older, I outgrew that. So now most of my clothes have been collected from various weekend trips to Greensboro for shopping.
Poring through my clothes, most of which are more suitable for a day at the gymnastics studio than a nice dinner, I finally decide on a knee-length emerald green dress, brown wedge heels, and a white knit cardigan. I look at myself in the mirror, sizing up my petite frame and fresh-faced look. I’m eighteen years old, but I often get confused for a younger girl because of my size and innocent appearance. People tend to treat me like I’m fragile, like I could shatter into teeny tiny pieces at any moment. I do look pretty delicate. But looks can be deceiving, and in my case that’s certainly true.