“I don’t know about those girls,” Cassie had said as we hung out in the backseat of my dad’s car on the way home from a meet, eating potato chips (the perfect post-competition snack, obviously). “I think you only like them because you’re under the influence of chalk.”
“We spend almost thirty hours a week together,” I’d said.
“You’re always trying to beat them. What kind of friendship is that?”
Yes, Monica was as tightly coiled as her dark curls, and Jess would cheat during strength and get us all in trouble. We understood each other, though; the same exhaustion burned in our muscles and we’d struggle to lift our arms as our coach Matt said, “Just one more bar routine.” (“Just one more” meant we had at least three more.)
Cass, however, did have a valid point. Relegated to the couch with a glass of water and a vial of painkillers, it hurt me too much to see the videos they posted and read their enthusiastic texts about new skills and future plans when I no longer had either. So when I offered evasive answers to their questions about my knee, they’d stopped asking. I’d let them drift until they were out of sight.
Somehow, with Cassie right beside me every day, she’d nearly slipped away. I can’t be that friend anymore. I have to be alert. It might be too late for my old teammates to forgive my absence from their lives. If there’s a shot to make amends, though, I’ll take it.
In the early morning rush at Ponquogue High School, with a volume level that has mercifully returned to high tide under a full moon, I check for a response. Story of my life lately.
Seeing you at the bonfire was quite possibly the highlight of my eighteen years of existence, Emery replies. She’s written back to me individually instead of to everyone.
By the end of first period, no one else has replied, confirming what I suspected to be true. I’m a terrible friend.
Another message from Emery. Sooooo you’re coming to practice today, right?!
For a moment, I actually consider it.
When I was younger, it was the safest place I had when Richard first deployed to Afghanistan. It was my own world that came with its own set of problems and challenges. It was one that I knew how to maneuver. I was certain if I practiced hard, the outcome would be what I wanted. Then, of course, I learned that the latter wasn’t true.
As the hallway thins out, I maintain the same slow pace. Is it just me, or are people avoiding eye contact? Either it’s because I’m the near-dead girl’s best friend, or my father is handing back a test today.
This is not the normal, safe senior year I’ve been banking on. To say the least.
Emery’s relentless. Gymnasts are focused, that’s for sure. So. Practice. Yes?
No. No.
I turn the corner for my locker and smash into Marcos’s chest. He stumbles into Jacki and her locker slams shut. “Ow, ow, ow! You just broke my hand!” she exclaims. Tears, immediately.
“I’m sorry.” Marcos takes her baby-pale hand in his and examines it. “Can you move your fingers?”
Get your hand out of his.
Where did that thought come from? I fling open my locker and it resounds with an unreasonably loud bang. Subtle. “Don’t you guys have class?”
“Study hall.” He flips her hand over, looking at the knuckles.
Jacki hiccups her way to calmness. “I’m gonna have to go to the nurse,” she says, voice cracking, but the tears have subsided. I bet her hand wasn’t even in her locker. I bet she’s scared of loud noises like children who fear thunder. I know the difference between just sound and real pain.
“Hey, Savannah.” Perhaps satisfied that Jacki’s injury will not require surgery or, I don’t know, a hand replacement, he approaches me. His fingers rest on the edge of the locker door, holding onto it hopefully. The same hands that plunged into freezing waters, pulled Cassie to the shore, kept her alive.
His dimples crease as he smiles at me like it’s the most natural greeting in the world. “I like your hair.”
That’s all it takes. I like your hair. The spiky pieces stand up with static cling from my run-in with his shirt.
I close my locker and put my hand on that coconut hair. Pull his cool lips to mine. He tastes like morning.
We both pull back and stare at each other, his dark eyes wide and maybe a little shocked. As I’m catching my breath and his lips begin to curl into a smile, I do the only thing I can think of:
Run.
“Got chemistry!” I call, immediately regretting the choice of words as I hear him laugh behind me.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I DILIGENTLY ANSWER the first questions posed in AP Chemistry so that I can spend the rest of class figuring out the turns my life has taken:
My best friend attempting suicide.
My former friends (well, most of them) not responding to my text messages.
Kissing my best friend’s other best friend’s ex-boyfriend. In public.
Would I have landed here if I’d landed on my feet at Regionals?
Over the summer, I’d sit by myself in the parking booth and watch the blurry asphalt haze straighten out as the day cooled off, the heat advisory expired. I’d watch the sun plunge toward the water, tucking itself behind the reeds on the bluffs, and if the wind blew just right, I’d hear Cassie laughing up in the snack bar. With sticky salt air on my skin and sand under my knee brace, I told myself that I was happy. Sometimes, like the wink of a green flash, I was.
Whether it’s a glitch or tenacity, Emery sends me the same text. So. Practice. Yes?
The pros of going to practice: Seeing my old friends in person instead of hiding behind a text. Seeing my coaches. Doing something that has nothing to do with how I failed Cassie.
The cons: the three-inch scar that runs down my knee.
Once the period concludes, I fake looking for an imaginary essay in my folder so that if, say, anyone wanted to ask me about the morning’s events, I’d look completely unapproachable. I text Cassie: Well, this morning sure took an interesting turn. How are you? Want me to visit later?