It’s when I’ve almost reached the exit that I make the grave error that a gymnast who has almost completed her routine does: I relax. I think I’ve got this without having finished. My mind returns to Emery’s texts, how my no from this morning has softened into an I don’t know.
“If I suggest a Lord of the Rings viewing party, would that be moving too quickly?”
Marcos is trying not to laugh; I can sense it. I bet he knows that I’ve found a way not to bump into him since this morning. With Cassie around, noise and light and spur-of-the-moment is the norm; without her, it feels like sensory overload.
“I think ‘quickly’ is the wrong word.” My eyes move directly to his lips, cool and soft and far too kissable. So much for avoidance. “We’re talking twelve-to-sixteen hours of footage here.”
“Definitely too much too soon,” he agrees. “We might need to ease into it with just Fellowship. What are you doing this afternoon?”
Despite spending 90 percent of the day on the lam from him, sitting together watching Aragorn and company kick ass sounds like an excellent retreat from my own mind. The idea of sitting with him for hours, alone, makes my heart speed up and my palms sweat. If I should be spending time with anyone, though, it’s Cassie.
I sneak a glance at my phone to see that she’s responded. Talking about your feelings all day is exhausting–who knew? I’m going to watch some bad TV and nap.
I reread each word, searching for subtext. Is she okay? Is she hiding anything?
“Or not?” Marcos’s smile has slipped. He shifts his weight from foot to foot.
I don’t know what Cassie would do if the situation was reversed. I don’t know if I should go with Marcos or push Cass harder, not accept her no. I need to go somewhere where I know all the rules, the right things to do.
Up until last spring, I’d never had to weigh these options. There was one place I went each day after school, without fail.
It comes out all at once. “Tomorrow?” I say. “I have practice.”
COLLECTING EVERYTHING I need still feels automatic. Red leotard. Leather handgrips in blue bag, with chalk floating off the bag in small wisps. Finally, the beast with cross straps and hinges that creak as I pick it up: black knee brace, never worn.
As it dangles from my hand, I consider returning it to the closet and hiding myself in there, too.
My hair has just made it into a ponytail with an excessive amount of bobby pins when my phone rings. “Let’s do this, chica!” Emery yells in my ear.
It’s time to trade one bold move for another. If only the thought didn’t make the brace tremble in my hand. Gymnastics isn’t the sort of sport that you can do when the mood strikes you. You need the strength, flexibility, and spatial awareness from regular practice. If not, you’ll get hurt. Or you can be like me and go to every practice and still get hurt.
“I can’t believe you’re back.” Emery gives me a one-armed hug as she blazes away from the curb. “This is better than Christmas. This college shit is giving me an ulcer.”
Yeah, I know all about that.
Dear Savannah, I was highly impressed by your performance at the New York State Championships. I look forward to seeing you compete at Regionals! I ran around the house squealing when that email arrived.
“Praise Jesus I finally convinced you, because not having a goddamn team is the worst.” Emery merges onto Sunrise Highway.
“Wait, what?”
“You know how everyone went MIA after your surgery?”
I’m the only one who has your back, Cassie told me.
“I think I was the one who went MIA.” It’s a relief to say it out loud, to admit my own responsibility.
“Hey,” Emery says, “you were recovering from ACL reconstruction. I’m sure that sucked, and you were probably loopy half of the time from all of the pain meds, right? Without you, though–it’s all turned to shit.”
“What happened?”
“They’re all gone.” Emery expertly switches lanes. “Jess has this boyfriend that she’s obsessed with. Matt told her that if she kept showing up late and leaving early, she was off the team. So she quit. Idiot. Have you seen the pictures she posts of him? He better have a great personality, that’s all I’m saying.”
My brain’s spinning. They’re all gone.
“Monica broke her ankle and decided to do diving, and Ally switched to Flip Factory even though it’s like an hour away and so overrated. Oh, man, I love this song!”
“G-Man? Seriously?”
“Don’t tell.” Emery winks at me. Then she starts moving her head in time to the beat and rapping along with G-Man.
So that’s why nobody responded to my text message white flag. All of this time, I assumed they were doing great things that I could no longer be a part of. They’re done with South Ocean.
It occurs to me fleetingly that they should be able to answer anyway, that we should be able to catch up on each other’s lives despite the fact that our leotards are stuffed away in the depths of our dressers, except they’re doing exactly what I did: shutting the drawer. Instead of our pack of five, gathering on the podium to hold up our team trophy, it’s down to Emery and me. I can’t help but wonder if the reason she wants me back is because she wants someone to train with, not because she’s missed me, Savannah, the collector of various injuries.
“C’mon!” she yells, turning up the volume.
All right, then.
I join, although the only rhymes I can make out are “what,” “butt,” and “we be swingin’ yo-yo’s ’round dem mofos.” Somehow G-Man calms my nerves, which is about the only positive thing I can say for such lyrical mastery. By the end of the song, I’m relaxed enough to pop the question. “How’s recruiting going?”
She shakes her head. “I reached my all-time low last week. Ocean State’s head coach came to visit, and the guy didn’t smile the entire practice. I landed on my face every vault. Every. Single. One.”
Buccaneers Gymnastics. The sweatshirt crammed into the recesses of my closet that I should have been wearing on my official college visit.
I shouldn’t have asked.