"Tell me everything," he said quietly. "From the beginning. Don't leave anything out. Take your time."
She told him.
She told him about the three girls on the steps, and the iced coffee with the green straw, and very common. She told him about the video on Madison Cross's story with four hundred and eleven views. She told him about Jake Martinez in chemistry, and the open spot on the squad, and Hailey Chen's torn ACL. She told him about Coach Williams eating a salad on the bleachers, and bring your own water, and don't drink anything anybody hands you. She told him about Britney Walsh and the different kind of program for a different kind of girl. She told him about watching Madison wobble on top of every stunt, ten times, ten girls, and catching her alone on the eleventh, and holding her there. She told him about the clear plastic water bottle on the judges' table. She told him about Madison standing up, after the stunt, pink in the face, and walking down the side of the mat with the bottle in her hand, while Alana was at the far end mapping her pass. She told him about bending down by the bleachers with her back turned. She told him about the third panel, and the wet, and the pop. She told him about lying on the mat and looking up and seeing Madison standing eight feet away with the bottle in her hand, empty, and the concern on her face, and then, for one second, the other thing underneath. I guess Pacific Coast Elite doesn't practice on wet floors.
She told him that she had not said anything. That she had stood up and walked out. That she had not cried.
He listened to all of it without interrupting. When she was finished, he was quiet for a long time.
"Dad?" she said. "Are you there?"
"I'm here."
"Are you mad at me?"
He closed his eyes.
"No, baby," he said. "No. I'm not mad at you. I'm the furthest thing in the world from mad at you." He opened his eyes again and looked at the wall of the motel room, at a framed print of a sailboat that someone had hung slightly crooked. "You did exactly right. You hear me? Exactly right. You saw it. You didn't react. You didn't accuse anybody in front of a room full of people who'd already picked a side. You got yourself out of there with your head up. That's not easy. Grown men can't do that. I've seen grown men with twenty years in the teams who couldn't do that."
He heard her breathing on the other end of the line, ragged, trying to hold it together.
"But it's not fair," she said. "It's not fair, Dad. I was good. I was really good. I was better than anybody in that gym. Coach Williams knew it. I could see it on her face. And now I can't tumble for a month and the spot's going to go to somebody else and Madison's going to win. She's just going to win. Because her dad built the gym and her mom's on the school board and nobody saw it but me."
"Lani," said her father. "Listen to me."
She went quiet.
"She hasn't won anything," said Malcolm Johnson. "Not yet. She's made one move. That's all. She made one move, and she made it in a hurry, and she made it because you scared her. You understand that? You held her up alone after she tried to drop you. In front of her coach. In front of her whole squad. Nobody's ever done that to her before. She panicked. People who panic make mistakes. And people who make mistakes in a hurry leave tracks." He paused. "Now. I need you to do some things for me. Will you do them?"
"Yes, sir."
He did not smile at the sir, though he wanted to. She only called him sir when she was very frightened or very determined, and he could not tell which this was. Probably both.
"Tomorrow morning, you go back to school," he said. "Like nothing happened. You hear me? Like nothing happened. Crutches if you need them. Brace. Head up. You go to every class. You sit where you sat. You talk to who you talked to. You do not, under any circumstances, confront that girl. Not about the water. Not about the video. Not about anything. If she comes at you, and she will, you stay calm. You don't raise your voice. You don't lose your temper. You don't give her anything she can use."
"Okay."
"Second. You document everything. Everything. Every look, every word, every video, every post, every comment. Screenshot it. Write it down. Time and date and who was there. Keep it in a note on your phone and email a copy to me every night before you go to sleep. Don't tell anybody you're doing it."
"Okay."
"Third. That boy. Martinez. Is he solid?"
Alana hesitated. "I think so. I don't know. He used to go out with her. He said it's complicated. But he warned me. About the video. He didn't have to."