Ponquogue Commits Day is dedicated to all of the students who will be joining college teams come the fall. While Division I athletes–the ones receiving athletic scholarships–are the ones who actually sign letters of intent, those of us competing for Division II and III schools are welcome to the event, which primarily involves everyone loitering by the crumb cake table and making awkward conversation. Andreas will be playing soccer for Suffolk, and he shakes everyone’s hand like he’s singlehandedly won the World Cup. There’s a lovely table set up with a maroon cloth and a backdrop of our mighty Dolphin. On the table rests a silver fountain pen.
Grant Klein–the athletic director who called my dad in for a conference when, in ninth grade, my ripped palms started bleeding in paddleball and I told him it was the stigmata–lives for this day. “Let’s get signing, folks!” he says when the first local sportswriter walks into the library, a lost-looking man with a camera around his neck.
Each athlete takes a turn posing at the table, pen in hand. Handshakes. Parents with hands on the shoulders of their child. I can’t help it: I’m excited to be part of this. Like I’ve done something worth celebrating and photographing, something that should be remembered.
“Next up, Kathryn Savannah Gregory,” Klein says. “Kathryn is a gymnast committing to Owego State College.” He emphasizes the “nast” rather than the “gym.”
“It’s Kaitlyn,” I say to the reporter, who nods miserably.
“Stand right there, Mom and Dad,” says Klein.
We form a trio in front of the Dolphin, me in the center, and smile at the reporter. I have a practiced smile from years of Picture Days. Always I’d look at the camera and think, “You’re posing after just winning the Olympic all-around.” This would require, I imagine, a healthy mix of joy and dignity–not too much joy, or otherwise my cheeks would swallow my eyes.
Behind the reporter, the library door swings open. First enters Marcos, backpack on his shoulders. He grins. Is he laughing at me?
Hot on Marcos’s heels is a blonde hurricane. Arms and legs pumping toward the table, camera in hand. “Excuse me, Mr. Klein? We’re going to have to start over.”
“Look who showed up,” Dad says over my head.
“We can’t start over,” says Klein. “We’re on the last recruit.”
“Well, you have to,” Cassie says. “The Ponquogue Compass needs a cover photo.”
Klein gestures to me. “Get her before she turns into a pumpkin.”
When Cassie used to lift the camera and take a photo of me, she held the power to make me look stupid or meaningful, skilled or sloppy.
Today, there’s a division. Cassie, who stays behind the camera. Me, who will be leaving. It doesn’t matter if I’m squinting from the smile or looking the wrong direction, or that Dad’s parabola tie is way too prominent.
She clicks, and I smile wider.
Cassie argues with Klein as my parents and I leave the library. Marcos wanders nearby, pretending to take an interest in the Board of Trustees plaque. As soon as my parents move ahead, he puts his arm around me. He comes over to my house almost every weekend and my parents like him, but there’s only so much teasing from them that I’m willing to tolerate.
“You committed,” he says, kissing my cheek.
“Don’t tell anybody.”
“Looks like you’ll be the cover story for the Ponquogue Compass.”
“What more could you want from life?”
“Well, an autographed copy, for starters. I’m not supposed to tell you this, but Rena has big plans to publicly embarrass you very soon. Something about decorating your locker.”
“Should I be absent that day?”
“You’re a big-shot college athlete now. You can do whatever you want.”
What does this commitment mean for the boy with the coconut smell in his hair and me? I lean my head on his shoulder and inhale. That’s enough for right now.
“Excuse me, Ms. Gregory, shouldn’t you be in class?”
Thanks, Dad, I think immediately. No. Something’s off. The voice is too deep, too tall to be his. It’s one I haven’t heard in person for almost a year–
“Richard!” my mother says.
I beat her to him. “Holy shit!” I yell to the lobby of Ponquogue High School. My head collides with my brother’s chest, which vibrates against my temple as he laughs. I expected the smell of smoke and sunburn, but instead I inhale soap, the old skin scrubbed off him.
“Language, Savannah,” Mom says, but she’s laughing, too. Soon she hugs Richard and then he and Dad exchange a manly hug, the kind with hands slapped against backs. Richard offers a handshake to Marcos, who seems mildly intimidated but smiles regardless.
“How’s base? How long are you home for? I got into college and I finally passed my road test,” I say without waiting for his answer. It’s like I’m six years old again, jumping up and down in front of him so that he’ll pick me up for an airplane ride.
There are more than a few confused looks as students pass our reunion. Backpacks hustle away from our enthusiastic embraces. “Is Mr. Gregory actually hugging someone?” one scholar whispers. A kid knocks against me with a trumpet case as he asks his friend, “Is it, like, army recruiting day?” because although he’s not in uniform, my brother’s short dark hair and strict posture give it away. There are too many eyes on us, and somehow, I don’t mind.
Richard flicks my ponytail. “Mom told me you were signing your letter of intent today. Y’all and your surprises.”
“It’s been a little hectic. Since when did you acquire a Southern accent? Do you wear cowboy boots now, too?”
His hazel eyes crinkle. “You’ve got a month to break it down for me, kid. Maybe I’ll even take you to McDonald’s, get some breakfast sandwiches.”
“If you’re buying, I’m driving,” I say.
“God help us all,” Dad says.
The library door cracks open. I don’t need to look, but I do anyway. Two blue eyes watch us.
I PRETEND TO not see Cassie approach my locker, looking up at the last possible moment. “That’s really cool,” she greets me. “About Owego and stuff.”
“Thank you.” Too formal. We’ve spent the intervening months sharing classes without speaking. She’ll pass me a handout and her lips twitch like she’s about to speak, and then I look away and the moment passes. She should have been the first person I told about Owego. She should be trying to convince me to go somewhere brighter and brassier, rolling her eyes when I say something like, “I hear the snow is really scenic.”
“I miss hanging out with you.” Her eyes dart away from me.