Carol

by Sophie Rosenblum Read author interview March 15, 2008
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I was always putting my foot in my mouth. It was years of gymnastics. We trained long. I brought two leotards to practice. One peeled off by my third round on rings. I was a hard ass. My teammates bounced quarters off it.

If it was tails, I picked lunch. We ate at the diner. Sometimes we got a booth. “So luxurious,” Carol said. I thought it was trash. I picked apart the vinyl to prove it, showed her my holes. She was not impressed. On the bus we were split. I went back to basics to get her attention. Did pikes on the trampoline for days. Stood on my head for a week. My hair never came down. We won gold. They took us to Tampa. The people there were gold. We tumbled in the sun. Our feet and palms blistered. We stayed in the hotel. I bunked with Carol. Pulled myself up at 3:00 AM. Straddled her like the beam. “I love you,” I said.

About the Author:

Sophie Rosenblum is currently finishing her MFA at the University of Houston. In addition to being short-listed for the 2008 Kathy Fish Fellowship, her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Outside World and Gulf Coast. She is also a frequent contributor to the Houston Press.