“What am I supposed to do now? Give the candle to my uncle or something? Everything is going to be thrown off.”
That was when Cassie had ceased twisting my hair. “Give me the phone.”
“Cass–”
She’d tickled me.
“What the hell?” I’d half-shouted, half-giggled, and she took her chance to grab the phone and enact her idea of vigilante justice.
“Beth, Savannah extends her sincerest apologies, okay? The gymnastics gods didn’t schedule this event to dick you over.” She’d listened. “Okay, you are legitimately full of it. Do you know Savannah’s start value on floor? Do you even know what that is? Well, let me tell you, it means she does flips for bonus points and can get a perfect score if she nails it.”
I’d wavered between knocking the phone out of her hand and listening to more of her loose interpretation of gymnastics rules.
“Do you know how hard she’s worked? Were you there the time she busted her lip on bars but finished her routine? Blood everywhere. Yeah, didn’t think so.
“Look, she’s going to the Olympics, okay? She’ll send you a card or something.”
“I’m not going to the Olympics.” It had been my first coherent thought, followed by, Well, that bridge is burned forever.
“I never liked her anyway,” Cassie had said, resuming her taming of my hair. Her fingers shook ever so slightly. “When I moved here, she told everyone that my mom was in a mental asylum.”
“We were seven,” I’d ventured. “I’d like to think that we’ve all evolved since then.”
“I don’t care who Beth thinks she is or how great her grades are. Nobody should guilt you like that.”
Sorry about that, I had texted Beth later, when we were on the road to Regionals and Cassie ran into the McDonald’s bathroom. I hope you have a great party! I’ll be there in spirit.
She never wrote back.
CANS POP OPEN and beer fizzes like the ocean receding. So many people here, but they don’t make the air any warmer. I take up post against the pillar, sitting on the sand and watching the fire play off the waves. They’re calm, low tide–nothing like what I plunged into on Senior Cut Day.
The moonlight glistens on the crests. Despite growing up here, reading the waves still challenges me. One could build and build and fizzle into a small swell. Another might look like it’ll fade out but there it is, towering above you until your only choice is to dive under as it crashes over your head.
“Savannah freakin’ Gregory? Is this a mirage or is this real life?”
Before I can react, a body collides with mine. The arms wrap me so tightly that I cough and drop my half-finished Thermos to the sand.
“Where have you been? Why haven’t you come to the gym? How the hell is your knee? How the hell is your life?”
“You did really well at Level Five States.” That’s the first response that comes to mind.
Emery Johnson, Level 10 Regional all-around champion, continues to squeeze me without letting up. Her dark hair is cut close to her chin and swoops across her forehead, her denim jacket smells of bonfire smoke, and her arms have lost none of their strength.
Outside of the gym, my teammates and I traveled in a herd. You could find us eating fro-yo together with leotards rolled down to our hips underneath our tank tops. We’d flip into Ally’s pool or gather around Jessica’s TV for an obligatory viewing of Stick It. Running into Emery here, on Ponquogue turf and out of context, throws me off.
“What are you doing here?” I choke out against her shoulder.
“My friend Amber’s dating that kid Mark.” She looks at me inquisitively. “Are you drunk?”
“Partially.” I reconsider. “Partially past partially might be more accurate.”
She examines me with narrowed green eyes. “You look great, but you haven’t answered my questions.”
Yeah. I look away, hoping she’ll think I was too drunk to hear that second part. “Things are things,” I say with a profundity that would make NYU admissions proud. “Trying to figure out the college…thing.”
She nods. “Ugh, I know.”
No, she doesn’t know. I’m looking up scholarships and overpriced apartments; she’s fielding e-mails and visits from college coaches. She’d never brag about it–if there’s one guarantee along with Emery being an outstanding athlete, it’s that she’s humble–but even so, I dust off the Thermos and take a quick sip, hoping it’ll quell the jealousy.
Cassie has backed away from the bonfire to stare at us.
“Hey, girl,” Emery says, stepping toward Cassie to hug her. All of my teammates at South Ocean Gymnastics knew Cass; she and her camera were a staple at my meets. “Let’s chuck her a leotard, see what she can do,” my coach, Matt, would joke.
“Hey.” Cassie offers a thin smile and keeps her arms pinned to her sides. The most touchy-feely person I know avoiding physical contact? Strange.
“When are you coming back?” Emery presses, turning to me. “Don’t give me this retirement bullshit. The team is in shambles without you.”
Right. Monica will still be using an entire can of hairspray before every meet, Ally will dangle from her knees on the high bar like a kid on the monkey bars, and Jess will be making pouty faces at herself in the mirror as she fixes her ponytail. “I highly doubt that,” I say.
Juliana appears next to Cassie and says something to her that I can’t catch. Is this going to be like the soccer game all over again, being stranded in favor of Juliana?
Emery sticks out her hand. “Hey, I’m Emery. Savannah’s friend from gymnastics.”
Juliana shakes her hand slowly, probably wondering why this acquaintance of mine is being so friendly. “Juliana.”
“You work at Pav’s, right?” Emery says. “That place is my kryptonite. I could eat my weight in burritos three times a day.”
To my surprise, Juliana smiles. “If you saw what went down in the kitchen, you might not feel that way.”