I don’t want to talk about Cassie because I don’t know what to say. Unfortunately, I’ve been fielding that question every day. That is, when I’m not shuffling through synonyms for “fine” as I answer endless questions about how school is, how my classes are going, how I feel about dinner.
Part of me can’t really blame my parents; in the actively-doing-gymnastics days, I wouldn’t shut up about the details of practice and my emotions toward every skill in all of my routines. (On the tough days, there were plenty of emotions to go around.) After I quit, I didn’t have much to say about other topics, no matter how hard they tried.
“How about you?” Dad continues. “Everything okay?”
“Yep.”
After seeing that he won’t get much more out of me, he switches tacks.
“How was the gym last night?” Dad asks while we wait for the light on Quail Creek. He and Mom were both in the kitchen when I walked in last night in all my chalky glory. I hadn’t given them a real answer then– “It was fine,” I’d mumbled through a peanut butter-and-banana sandwich–but I also didn’t miss the look they’d exchanged. The one that said, Told you so.
There’s a good chance that when he parks at school, I won’t be able to stand. Simple motions like turning my head or lifting my hand to block the sun make everything ache. I have never felt a soreness so encompassing. “I’m not applying to Owego, thanks.”
“Why not?” Dad taps the steering wheel in time to the staccato clicking of the signal. “A gymnastics team, an honors program, all the snow you could ever hope for.”
“The part where you emailed the coach and told him about me? Not cool, Dad. Really not cool.”
“It’s called recruiting.” Dad smoothly cuts off a white Jaguar. “Every NCAA team does it. Sometimes, they just need a little nudge.”
“He won’t stop emailing me.” To be fair, the Owego Coach emailed me twice. Last night, it was an enthusiastic “GREAT TO MEET YOU” followed by asking which major interested me. I responded with the single word “Kinesiology.” (All of those injuries should be good for something, right?) His second email contained links to the kinesiology department, exercise science, sports science, fitness development, research published by faculty members, and study abroad programs available for these programs. Doesn’t the guy have a team to coach? “Who’s even heard of Owego, anyway?”
“It’ll be an excellent option for you. Three of their top beam workers graduate this year. You could be a replacement.”
Are we ignoring the fact that I haven’t done real gymnastics in months? “I’m moving to the city with Cassie. Final answer.”
The car turns so sharply into the school parking lot that my head knocks against the window. “Do whatever you want.” The tone of voice for math class delinquents. “Give up gymnastics. Stop trying for your license. Get drunk at beach parties with Cassie.” He sees my face. “You think I don’t have students trying to get on my good side by telling on you?”
“It was only one party!”
“Don’t pretend like you didn’t fail your math placement test last June on purpose.”
Move over, Owego Coach. My father’s the one stalking my life.
“Mr. McMahon said he couldn’t believe that a girl as bright as you could do so poorly. ‘It’s a shame. She’ll have to take precalc instead of AP,’ he said.”
“I was upset about my knee. I couldn’t focus.”
“You didn’t want to be in my AP class. You didn’t want me as your teacher.”
Can you blame me?
“What kind of girl are you?”
“You think I don’t hear about you?” I shoot back. “Do you know how many dirty looks I get after you give a test? Do you know how many people won’t talk to me because of you?”
That hits a mark. Dad pulls into a parking spot. My fingers wrap around the door handle, waiting for him to unlock it. Finally he says, “You know, I was going to let you start driving to school.”
Great. The I was going to speech. Soon to be followed with unfortunately, your behavior has shown that…
“Unfortunately, your behavior has shown that you’re not mature enough.” The driver’s-side door opens. “Enjoy your day.”
I LEAN AGAINST the Dashing the Dolphin statue and call Cassie three times, feeling desperate when she doesn’t answer. She’s been out of school for four days and that’s four days too long. I have to vent to somebody about my father’s ridiculousness. I have to know what she thinks about me returning to the gym and agreeing to compete again. I’m actually looking forward to the teasing when she finds out that I kissed Marcos. Hopefully it’ll make her laugh.
She’s in therapy, she’s sleeping, she’s watching silly reality shows. I recite the litany of possibilities, make them into a mantra as I enter the building and pass the display case, where Cassie’s photographs hang periodically. Today they’re dedicated to a freshman art exhibit on Ponquogue Pride.
Service sucks, Cass texts during AP Lit. Food is worse. Therapy’s not so bad. How’s school without me?
Marcos. Gymnastics. Mr. Raia turns toward me, so I keep it quick. Eventful, I write back. Papa Gregory’s on the warpath.
When isn’t he? Cass replies with a smiley face. I’ll be out of here in a couple of days. I’ll spice up that stupid place.
A couple of days feels like a lifetime.
When the bell rings at the start of sixth period, I shoot Marcos a text: On a mission. Might be late. If there’s a trail of bread crumbs I’ve missed that led to Cassie driving down to the bridge early that morning, then Juliana knows the way.
If she doesn’t bite off my head first.
“What?” she says when I call her name by the library entrance, then whirls around to see me. Her face is tight, nostrils flared, firing on all cylinders. “Oh. Hi.”
Don’t step away. Don’t back down. My dad’s pissed about my feelings toward Owego, Emery’s been too removed from the loop of my life, and my mom means well, but I don’t want to add to her burden of worry. If anyone understands, it’s Juliana. “Do you have a second?”
She checks her phone. “I gotta see if the doctor calls back about the twins, but okay.” Younger brothers, I think.