I dash off the briefest, politest text I can muster. It’s funny: for years, I cared more about him than anyone or anything—where he was, how he was doing, what he was up to. But now I don’t even care to know what his life looks like.

Thanks! Hope everything’s going well.

I’ve got more important things to do.

At nine, I meet Hallie in her suite. She invited me to sit with her as she gets ready, and when she opens the door, she looks visibly more relaxed than she did just ninety minutes earlier.

“I sent my parents out for breakfast,” she explains, welcoming me inside. “They get even more nervous than I do on days like this. Stressful vibes.”

“Mine were like that, too,” I say. “Actually, they still are.”

“Maybe they could all learn to meditate,” she suggests. “Sit with me while I do my hair and makeup?”

We head into the bathroom, where I flip down the toilet seat and sit, and she plugs in a hair straightener. When it’s hot, she irons each section of hair until it’s perfectly smooth, then brushes it all into a high, tight ponytail and blasts the crown of her head with extra-strength hair spray. I never wore much makeup when I was her age—not even to competitions—but this generation of gymnasts grew up watching beauty tutorials on YouTube and spending their allowances on Urban Decay Naked palettes and Kylie Jenner lip kits. They’re so much savvier and sophisticated than I ever was; during competitions, they look like Hollywood starlets on the red carpet.

“I’m going to skip foundation because it’ll just sweat off,” she explains, digging through her makeup bag.

“Not that you need it anyway,” I point out.

She shrugs. “But I’ll do concealer, highlighter, and a little blush and bronzer.”

She expertly applies those, then moves on to eye shadow primer, three different shades of sparkly eye shadow, black eyeliner, and several swipes of mascara. I feel like I could learn a thing or two from her.

“Good?” she asks, seeking approval.

“Let’s just say that if you ever get bored of gymnastics, you could have a backup career as a makeup artist,” I say.

“So, I have two leotard options for today, and I wanted to get your opinion,” she says.

She opens the closet door and pulls out two hangers.

“I didn’t hang them—that’s nuts—but my mom spent, like, a half hour steaming them so they wouldn’t wrinkle,” she explains. “Like I said, she’s stressed.”