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The echoing of children's giddy laughter and the creaking of trampolines sounded as Ginger and I neared a wide, metal door that said "GYMNASIUM" printed in thick, red font. A small window with decorative black lines showed the inside of the tumbling park.
With an excited smile, that I internally scoffed at, Ginger opened the door with push. Trampolines, both squares and narrow strips, lined the brightly painted walls. Some had pits filled with foam squares in front of them, which I noticed several people flipping into.
"Isn't this incredible?" Ginger said, a little too enthusiastically. Her blue eyes darted around the room, almost as if they were searching for a particular thing.
"If you like this sort of thing," I replied dully.
I was neither impressively athletic nor completely uncoordinated. I was awkwardly caught in the middle: between the great and the bad.
Besides binge watching trampoline "experts", my only other form of tumbling was an advanced gymnastics class I'd taken when I was a preteen. I'd only learned the basic tumbling skills and combinations, as well as a routine or two. But that wouldn't help me today.
"Since when did you ever want to go to a trampoline park?" I asked suspiciously, recollecting Ginger's previous statement about "how I knew she'd always wanted to go to one." Other than a few briefly discussed conversations, Ginger focus had been on convincing me to buy tickets to Newsies. Which I was still undecided about. But ever since the last catastrophe with Ben Cook this morning, I felt less like going then ever before.
We approached one of the vacant tramps, Ginger speed-walking towards it. Now, Ginger was athletic.
During high school, she'd taken competitive gymnastics, an extreme cheerleading class, and was on the cross-country team. Her small frame was nearly perfect for those sports; thus, she succeeded.
In fact, the wall in her closet (in her parents house) was filled with gold, silver, and bronze medals from her past competitions. However, that had all happened years ago, so she wasn't nearly as stupendous as once was.
"What are you going to do first?" I asked her as she climbed nimbly onto the tramp.
"A quick warm up," she stated nonchalantly. "A full layout."
I gawked at Ginger as she stepped onto the trampoline and began to jump. After about six, she twisted herself in the air, landing breathlessly into the foam pit. I clapped as she swam her way out, tossing cubes that abstructured her way.
When she was out, Ginger gestured towards the equipment. I gazed doubtfully at it, knowing that things couldn't only go down from here.
"Is it possible to break a hip going into the pit?" I asked comically, though, secretly, I was half-serious.
Ginger laughed softly, shaking her head. She propped her hands onto her hips, her eyebrow raised. "No, foam cannot break anything except your fall."
Stepping onto the trampoline, I craned my neck to look at Ginger.
"What do I do?"
"What can you do?"
"I haven't been on a trampoline since I was seventeen! The last thing I did was a double-front into the pit."
"How was it?"
"Horrible," I said, remembering the harsh criticism I'd received from my coach.
"Well," Ginger said presently, "why not just jump in?"
"And look like an idiot? I have more dignity than that," I said with a chuckle, amused at my pathetic wit.
"Then do a front tuck or something," suggested Ginger, her tone suddenly growing impatient.
"Alright," I said doubtfully, beginning to jump on the apparatus.
After about a dozen jumps, and Ginger's blatantly annoyed "Hurry up(s)!", I finally drove into the pit, rotating in the air. It wasn't a pleasant experience, because afterward I felt a bit dizzy and slightly nauseous---which surprised me.
But as the night proceeded, my mind and body became more familiar with the skill and the motions.
However, I noticed something peculiar about Ginger. Ever time she'd step onto the tramp or get out of the foam pit, she'd "casually" glance to the left, where the open floor was.
I supposed, at first, that she was just looking around and taking it all in, but after further inspection, I noticed a group of males that would occassionally step onto the floor and perform some impressive tricks.
However, we were too high above them to recognize who they were.
As Ginger and I took our turns, I felt more adventurous---more eager to try newer skills. The previously felt apprehension, about attempting a double front tuck, seemed so slowly disappate the more times I went.
Ginger had, of course, already sucsessfully completed a double front, back, and full---earning the attention of several impressed bystanders.
If I wasn't roommates with Ginger, I would've sworn on my life that she had visited the trampoline park periodically throughout the week. But, being constantly around and practically knowing where she was at all times, I knew that she hadn't---but her performance could've fooled anyone.
With a breath of sudden confidence, as Ginger climbed gingerly out of the pit, I stood up and said,
"I think I'm going to do it."
"Do what?" Ginger asked with a quizical brow.
"A double front."
"Are you sure?" she asked with unexpected doubt.
"Um, yeah. I thought you said the foam pit wouldn't hurt."
After a moment of silence, Ginger looked excitedly at me and said, "Do it."
Never before would I make such a terrible, horrible, stupid desicion.
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