Cass isn’t kidding. “Face it, Savs. I suck. I’ve failed Mr. Riley’s precious system. My academic output is unsatisfactory.”
“You’re the smartest person I know.” I stand up to stop her pacing. She sidesteps me. Anyone watching our dance from the window would be amused.
Since ninth grade, I’ve seen her face constrict with boredom and her shoulders slouch during class. I’ve always thought that the tethered look on her face, like Sisyphus’s as he pushed his rock, was a sign that school was too easy for her. That boredom was the reason she started writing her essays an hour before they were due, gulping down iced coffee and clacking away in the parking lot. She would use her driver’s seat as a workspace and stick Post-It notes to the dashboard carrying such wisdom as “diction on p. 18.” “Quick, Savs, give me a three-sentence overview of your feelings on Jake from The Sun Also Rises,” she’d say, voice and hands jittery from the caffeine, while I’d already finished my essay days ago. She thrives on the challenge.
“You always pull it together,” I say now.
“I don’t want to pull it together.” Did I say her face was cold earlier? Now it’s ice, a snowstorm in October. “I don’t believe in their rules and test scores and writing bullshit essays so our teachers can keep their jobs. Just because I can do chemistry doesn’t mean I want to because New York State says I should.”
She could go on all day like this, using me as the shoreline that her words beat against. It’s too cold today to stand out here for long and in the corner of my mind, I see Se?ora Gutierrez’s sharp gaze sweeping the room and saying, “?Dónde está Savannah Gregory?” Second missed day of Spanish in a row. I have to convince her to get back inside. “Hear me out, okay?”
When she looks at me this time, there’s a hint of thaw. I take a breath. “For right now,” I say, “we have to play the game on their terms. Then it’s all over in June and you’re done with this forever.”
“Remember that time Mr. Riley told me I wouldn’t get into art school?” So much for the thaw. “This place makes me ill.” She drops her eyes to the cracked cement, where patches of weeds struggle to break through. “You didn’t tell me your PSAT scores.”
You didn’t tell me you were failing classes. “They don’t matter.”
“So how’d you do on the actual test?” she persists. Now her eyes are on me full blast, daring me to tell her.
It’s my turn to stare down at the cracks, watching the ants make their final dash for food before winter. “Okay.”
“How okay?”
Leave it alone, Cass. None of this will make her feel better. These are the games that Mr. Riley wants to play.
Surprisingly, she softens before I reply. I’ve outlasted her. Not easy. “You know what, I don’t need to know. I do know that you bailed me out back there and that I owe you.”
I exhale. “I really can help if you want. I take pretty good notes.”
She rolls her eyes and slings her arm around me. “Just don’t bring up any notion that I should go along with Mr. Riley ever again, and we’re good.”
Yesterday, she comforted me. Today, I’m her anchor. At the end of the day, we’re thicker than humidity in July.
As kids we played together, schemed together, nursed bruised knees and silly crushes on boy bands. She was quiet unless she was with me. Together, chances were that we were screaming as we sprinted into the ocean and laughing as we splashed each other. We whispered together under the trees as the neighborhood kids ran around searching for us in Manhunt, never giving up our spot. I rode my bike to her house when Richard was first deployed, blinking tears out of my eyes. She met me at the curb and grabbed my hand. Although her hand was bony, cool, without calluses, it was just as strong as mine. Sometimes I think she hasn’t let go.
She keeps her arm around me now, reminding me that I’m her anchor, that she will run to me if she needs to be safe.
DAD EMERGES FROM the garage as I’m scrolling through apartment listings. I’d managed to avoid him last night by telling my mom I had a test to study for and locking myself in my room. No such luck today.
I type in a new search. Did you mean “Brooklyn” or “Burger King”? Whatever, Google, just get me out of this.
He sits across from me in the armchair. He’s dressed head-to-toe in cyclist Spandex–bright orange and blue–and I thank my lucky stars that he prefers riding the trails instead of the roads, keeping my classmates from having more fodder. “What’s this about you swimming around?”
That’s what I mean. He doesn’t miss anything. I fold my hands over the keyboard and look him in the eye. “I needed to absolve myself of my sins.”
His lips twitch. Classic Richard Gregory, Sr.–he wants to laugh; therefore, he won’t. “All of this free time is no good for you.”
“I’m plenty busy. I do homework.” He doesn’t look impressed. “And stuff.”
“Hanging out with Cassie does not constitute extracurricular activities. Have you thought about when you want to retake your road test?”
If I never go to the DMV again, it’ll be too soon. “I’m applying to NYU,” I tell him, “so no license necessary.”
Dad is momentarily speechless, which is no small feat. The wrestling is clear within him: I’ve misbehaved, yet for the first time since Regionals, I’ve offered up a goal for my future.
Then his brows furrow, he clips and unclips the bike helmet, and I know exactly what he’s going to say before he says it. “NYU doesn’t have a gymnastics team.”
I fight the urge to retort. After all, I did drive off in his car and blow out a tire. Humoring him is the way to go here. I choose to be neutral. “True.”
He holds up one finger. “Option one.”
So much for distracting him with my shiny new life plan. I will not roll my eyes. I will not give anything away.
“You’re grounded for the next week.”
I can already picture Cassie’s reaction: “You’re what?” She’ll have to venture for Slurpees on her own. Or she’ll call Juliana instead.
“What’s option two?” I ask.
“You go back to gymnastics Monday afternoon.”