“Seriously? What kind of deal is this?”
My dad smirks, satisfied that he’s finally gotten a rise out of me. If his mug is ever to be immortalized, it’ll be with this look. “The kind that’s good for you.”
I think he misses gymnastics more than I do. He wasn’t a stage dad, the kind that reality TV cameras would love, but he enjoyed the behind-the-scenes work of tracking my competitors’ results.
“Kim Mansfield from Rochester got a nine point eight on floor!” I’d moan to my parents.
“Sample size of one.” Dad would immediately pull the laptop from me to see for himself. “Not reliable.”
“I’m sure she’s a very nice girl,” Mom would say mildly.
Using it as a threat, though–that’s crossing the line. Yes, technically I’ve been cleared by the orthopedist. Theoretically, I should be healthy and whole. Gymnastics isn’t good for me, though. My body has shown me that. “Option one.”
A flash of disappointment crosses my father’s face, waiting for me to change my mind, but I don’t.
CHAPTER SIX
ON SATURDAY NIGHT, I stand on tiptoes, looking out the window for Cassie, when my parents begin to argue.
“Richard said he’s going off the grid this weekend,” Mom says from the kitchen. “Again.”
“Guess that’s how they make real men,” Dad says. “Take away their cell phones.”
“That’s not–”
“Sounds like what I do with my ninth graders, in fact.”
Mom supports Richard’s enlistment in the Army. Dad’s never been fully okay with it. As I’ve learned since my gymnastics retirement, which means dinner at regular hours with my parents, he lets his displeasure be known in small, zinging remarks.
Mom approaches in the shadows of the foyer. The dish towel turns over and over in her hands. “Where are you going?”
That’s enough to make Dad join her in an instant. Now they’re inconveniently united against me, the streetlight outside catching Dad’s graying brown hair and stern eyes.
“Cassie wants to go to homecoming,” I say.
They trade glances instead of outright telling me no. I’ve spent a contrite week coming home promptly after school, fielding Cassie’s texts of Should I bake you a file into a cake? They’re considering, especially Mom. Sure, I cut school with Dad’s car. However, my social life hasn’t been exactly what one would call thriving. “Why don’t you invite your teammates over?” Mom used to ask. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that it hurt too much to text them and hear about how great their skills were progressing while my greatest achievement that day had been bending my leg to a ninety-degree angle.
Mercifully, Cassie’s headlights shimmer in front of the house. Before she can honk, my hand is on the doorknob. “Thank you,” I say before anyone can stop me.
There’s a hitch in her voice as my mother says, “You…you have fun tonight. Be safe.”
She’d cringe whenever I came home with a new injury, like it hurt her more than it hurt me. “You’ll get through it,” Dad would tell me, but I knew he meant it for both of us. It was manageable–almost a running joke–when Richard was around, but as soon as he enlisted, there was tension like a breath held in our house. Savannah needs a back brace (yeah, I was the coolest girl in ninth grade with that one). Richard’s phone goes silent without explanation. What’s next?
Mom’s greatest wish is be safe, because the alternative is too painful to consider.
CASSIE’S NOT ALONE. Juliana rides shotgun. Her wide brown eyes glance at me and then return to the windshield.
Cassie blows me an air kiss when I slip into the backseat. Juliana says in greeting, “Andreas won’t shut up about your flips.”
“Oh,” I say. “Sorry about that.”
That’s it. For the entire ride. I drown in the bass behind Cassie while Juliana, in my usual seat, monopolizes my best friend’s attention. I listen for an opening, for an opportunity to make a joke or ask a question, but I can’t catch a word over the music. From time to time Cassie glances at me in the rearview mirror, smiles, and returns to whatever Juliana’s talking about. So much for let’s celebrate Savannah’s freedom, as Cass had texted me an hour ago.
I cross my arms and stare out the window.
Ponquogue homecoming patronizes the football team by letting them play in the afternoon. Boys’ soccer, three-time state champions, plays under the lights on Saturday night and the town squeezes in. Add in the fact that our opponents tonight are the Galway Beach Purple Tigers, and it’s safe to say that at least half of my school is here for the pissing war.
“This better not go into overtime,” Juliana says as the brake lights ahead of us flash red, like she has power over how long the game will last. “I gotta work brunch in the morning.”
When we finally maneuver into a spot on the grass that’s an inch wider than the car, I crawl out of the door. Cass, meanwhile, nearly whacks the car next to us. “Oops,” she says, looking at Juliana, and they both start laughing. They make it down the embankment and into the actual parking lot faster than I do; I’ve got my eyes on the ground, making sure I don’t slip on an errant ice cream cone or stumble over that soda can or–
Slam into Marcos Castillo.
He reels back, staring at me in astonishment. Dark eyes framed by darker lashes, chiseled jaw that looks none the worse for the wear. I blink to clear the stars from my eyes. Yeah, that jaw is no joke.
“That was a hell of a hit,” he says.
“I think we just made out,” I blurt out.
His eyes widen, and then he laughs. “Then you and I have very different definitions of making out.”
Behind me, Cassie absolutely loses it. Hands on her knees, curls bouncing up and down on her shoulders, laughing so hard that it turns silent. For the first time in recorded history, Juliana grins in my general direction. Of course, it’s at my expense.