“Dude, wake up, let’s pass a little,” Paul, our third baseman, says to me. All the teams are supposed to do some warm-up exercises while the principal talks about our season at the podium in front of us. Lame.
I catch sight of Karen lying on a mat, stretching her strong legs. She’s really short, maybe five foot one—she barely comes up to my shoulder. Unlike the other girls who are chatting and flipping their hair, popping their hips at us boys warming up, Karen isn’t interested in us at all. She’s not really a cheerleader but a gymnast. In junior high she did a presentation on how important gymnastics was to her and how one day she’d be on the Olympic team. I’ve always thought it was pretty cool that she was so talented at something and so passionate. Our school doesn’t have a gymnastics team, so I guess she decided to make do with the closest thing.
She stands, still oblivious to me and everyone else. Other cheerleaders follow suit, ready to practice too. All eyes move toward them—all male eyes, anyway. We all shift our practice space so we can watch the girls, catch a glimpse up a skirt. Paul and I aren’t any better than the other goons angling in their direction. We watch them set themselves up into a grid formation, Karen in the center.
She claps her hands together and the other girls clap along, the start of the cheer. Karen is also in select chorus. I’m not stalking her or anything, I just know. She had a solo in the fall concert, so the whole school saw her perform, not just me. Her voice was high and clear but a little sad, like a country and western singer’s. It gave me the chills. The peppy chant she sings now sounds weird coming from her lips.
The other girls keep cheering as Karen moves to the center of the circle. It’s time for them to toss her up in the air. She barely weighs anything, so I guess she’s the natural choice to be top of the pyramid or thrown around. Her lips stop moving as she steps into the outstretched hands of her teammates, who count to one . . . two . . .
I’m not sure what comes over me. I’m usually pretty accurate in my passing, even if I am easily distracted. I’m used to thinking about a million different things while playing, and it’s never gotten in the way. But I know the moment I release the ball this time that it’s way off. It’s nowhere near Paul’s glove, not even in the right direction.
“What the hell?” Karen yells, grabbing at her bare arm. My errant baseball hit her just as she was dropping into the arms of her teammates. Somehow they still manage to catch her, but a few panic when they hear her whelp in pain and drop her to the mats a little more forcefully than intended. Now she stands at the front of the squad, gripping her arm and staring directly at me. Her cheeks are flushed pink from exertion and anger. Not breaking eye contact with me, she picks up my rogue baseball from next to her sneaker.
“I’m so, so sorry,” I sputter, stepping from my spot just behind Paul. “I lost control . . .” Paul snorts as I say this last part. I’m sure he’s just happy he wasn’t the one who threw the ball.
Karen tilts her head defiantly and without saying a word swings her arm, letting the ball loose in my direction. Before I can even comprehend what’s happening—never mind duck—it smacks me straight in the face. The crowd, silent until this moment, breaks into excited murmurs. Nothing like a little drama at the pep rally to grease the wheels of the gossip mills.
A few other cheerleaders rush from behind Karen to kneel by my side—the baseball groupies, the same silly girls who always show up at practice and clap at our poor playing. They shoot Karen dirty looks from under heavily mascaraed lashes. From my good eye I can see the initial look of horror on Karen’s face give way to a grin. Then she’s giggling.
“Oh my god, I really didn’t mean to hit you in the face. I was aiming for your arm or something,” she murmurs, but she’s still smirking. For some reason, this makes me start laughing right along with her. The other girls frown and step back. A few whisper beneath their breath to each other before finding their places on the mats, still giving Karen the evil eye.
“Wow, you should be on the softball team or something,” I say. I touch my eye with the tips of my fingers and wince. It’s going to be quite the shiner tomorrow.
She steps closer. “Yeah, maybe I’m on the wrong team. We don’t get to throw anything on the pep squad.” She shrugs, biting her lip.
“Well, they get to throw you around. I’d take that over throwing a stupid baseball any day.”
Her lips curl in a shy smile, one of the million different smiles I’ve watched her give. She looks down at her hands, then back up at me. Her gaze makes me weak and I’m glad I’m still sitting.
“Can I get you a bag of peas or something?” she asks, leaning a little closer to inspect my eye. She smells like baby powder and something sweet, maybe vanilla.
This is the moment I’ve been waiting for since junior high. I’ve always been too chicken to ask her out. Not this time.
“How about we get some ice cream after this crap is over?” I suggest. “I don’t really like frozen vegetables.” I grin, hoping it sounded less cheesy than it did in my head. My hair falls into my good eye and I push it back with my palm.
“The peas were for your eye,” she says, and rolls her eyes. But I can sense she’s contemplating my offer. She bites her lip again and clenches her fists. I’m happy to see she’s as nervous as I am.
Finally, after what feels like ten years, she smiles her most radiant smile. “Ice cream sounds good,” she answers quietly, glancing back at her teammates. A few of the girls are lingering just close enough to overhear our conversation.
I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until I let it out in one big whoosh.
“Cool.” I nod, trying my hardest to act it, even though I’m ready to explode. I want to jump up and down. I want to yell it out to the whole school. Super cool. Best-day-of-my-life cool.
May 1986
I still can’t believe it. I know I’ll remember for the rest of my life where I was at the exact second it happened—in my room doing my trigonometry homework for Mr. O’Connor’s advanced math class. I was on the third question in the problem set, waiting for my mom to get off the phone so I could call Karen and see if she’d done the assignment yet. As I picked up the phone, my mother screamed. Not a scream for my dad to let the dog outside or a scream for me to come out of my room for dinner. No, this scream sounded like the end of the world.
Maybe it was.
Today is May 17. Just a few days ago we were talking about our summer plans, all the things we wanted to do as a family before June headed off to Tulane University in the fall. June kept going back and forth between wanting to be an artist and wanting to be a doctor. The rest of us just nodded along with her, certain she would be good at whatever she chose, because that was who she was. Good at everything. But none of that is going to happen now. Mom’s scream turned the world upside down. In this new universe, June won’t be a doctor or an artist. She won’t even graduate high school. In this world, we’ll never be a family all together again.
June wasn’t driving home from a party. She wasn’t drunk or stoned, like people will assume. My parents insist she’s never touched beer or pot, but I suspect she’s dabbled like any normal teenager. No more, no less. It was a Tuesday night in May and the skies were clear. She was driving home from her job at the Gap, where she’s worked three nights a week for the past year. But on that night, some guy ran a red light and June didn’t see him. He broadsided her driver’s side with his truck. Her Corolla didn’t stand a chance. The police told us she died instantly and didn’t feel any pain. I think they said it to comfort us, because they had no way of knowing this.
I wonder if she was scared. If she saw the truck coming out of the corner of her eye, too late. If she was dying for even two seconds before she was gone, and what she was thinking in that time.
What are we supposed to do now? June was always the leader of the family, the one to unite us. She was my big sister, my dad’s little girl, my mom’s best friend. I hope she didn’t feel even a portion of
the pain we all feel now.
That scream. It haunts me. I’ll remember that moment forever.
I think of it now as I stand at the front of the crowded church during the funeral mass. My mom is holding up my dad, who’s handling June’s death worst of all. He thinks we don’t notice when he puts the cereal in the fridge and his bowl into the cupboard before staring at the counter, unsure where to put the milk in his hand. When I lay on my bed, I can see him standing in the hallway in front of June’s room, one hand on the doorknob, not certain whether to close it or leave it open and ready for her to come home to. Because that’s what he does. He waits. Like maybe she’ll waltz up the stairs and breeze into her room, smile at him before asking him to shut the door before he goes. He’s here, but not really. I walk past him sometimes and he doesn’t even glance my way.
Then there’s Mom. She glides around from room to room (but never June’s—she doesn’t go near her room), constantly cleaning and plumping pillows. As if a sparkling house might erase the disaster that is the rest of our life. We’re like a bunch of ghosts hovering in the same space. June was our life force, and now we’re all just empty shells of who we once were.
Mom’s been strong. Stronger then she feels, I’m sure. I’m ever changeable. Some mornings I wake up and all I can do is count the days until I escape this house. Escape to college, to my own life, where the emptiness of June’s room won’t crush me every time I sit at our three-person dinner table. But other days, I know I must fill the gap. My parents lost one child; they don't deserve to lose two.
Karen’s here at the church. She kissed my dad on the cheek and hugged my mom before holding me, ignoring my tears. For being so small, she’s strong, strong enough to prop me up and help me keep it together. Some girls would’ve made this about them, but not Karen. She’s here for me, no matter what her own feelings might be. She kissed me on the cheek and wiped away a tear that had fallen before joining the choir. I wish she could sit beside me, but I’m glad she’s up there singing for June. I hear her sing along to the radio in my Jeep every day, but it’s not the same. Belting out Pam Tillis tunes while holding her pretend microphone can’t compare to the sadness and tenderness I hear in her voice today.
She’s singing “Ave Maria.” It’s one of those songs you’ve heard before without ever really listening to the words. Everything inside me that I thought had died with June comes alive with every note. I squeeze my mom’s hand, and she grips back a little tighter. I push my shoulder against hers, letting her lean a little of her weight on me. She shudders, letting out a breath that she’s been holding since Tuesday. Up on the altar Karen sings like an angel, like a bird sent from heaven to give me strength. June would want me to stay strong for Mom and Dad, and I’ve only ever wanted to make her proud. I catch Karen’s eye and she smiles, holding the note a little longer. Closing my eyes, I vow to make June proud and to make Karen proud. She’s my little songbird, my Wren.
5
Wren
Age 26
May 1998
My favorite group to teach is the level-ones. I have eight littles in my class, ranging from three and half years old to seven. It seems like each year they get a little younger than the last. Shelly, the youngest, is a prodigy for sure. At first I was afraid this would cause jealously among the ranks—you’d be amazed at how early in life envy raises its ugly head—but the older girls have taken to Shelly like she’s their special little sister and are in awe of her raw talent. While most of the ones are still working on their forward and backward tucked rolls and cartwheels, my little Shelly is mastering the candlestick, a move requiring her to rest on the back of her shoulders with her legs together and feet pointed toward the ceiling. She’s also moved on to coupe walks and will be ready to do this on the balance beam in no time.
“Excellent!” I call out to Raven, who has settled into a lovely bridge. She’s one of my shy students, eager for praise but often too meek to seek out my attention. She beams under my stare. “Belly button up, relax your shoulders, and breathe,” I say, before turning my attention to Shelly.
“Nice. Tuck your hips up higher,” I whisper, gently touching my fingertips to the small of her back and feeling her lift away from the pressure like someone twice her age. She’s about ready to learn a back walkover. Tomorrow, perhaps.
“To the mats!” I exclaim, and eight little bodies release from their various stages of bridge position and fall to the mats. A few giggle at the sound they make, a thwacking in unison that echoes in the ring.
I lead them in a few cooldown exercises and the smallest of the group wiggle and dance, their endless energy rubbing off onto the others, who glance around to see if any upper-levels are nearby. When they see the coast is clear, they dance right along, forgetting they are “serious” gymnasts and enjoying the moment. Sometimes I wish it could always be like this. Soon a few of them will move up the ranks, leave behind this element of pure joy I see before me now, as they gear up for competitions and worry about rankings and team placement. But for now, my level-ones dance and laugh, and I laugh along with them.
“Good job today, girls,” I say, excusing them from the floor. They break off into pairs of twos and threes. Some go straight to their moms, eagerly watching from the bleachers, while the rest go toward the locker room.
Shelly’s mom waves a hand and catches my eye. Although there’s still almost two years before Shelly can compete, Mrs. Applegate is already on my radar as a potential CGM (crazy gym mom). Each year I get a handful of mothers who will do literally anything to ensure that their daughter is head of the class. Anything. I’ve become accustomed to managing their high expectations—both of me and of their offspring. A few are former gymnasts themselves, but mostly they’re mothers living vicariously through their daughters. Some of the girls handle the pressure well, even thrive underneath the intensity. Others crumble and quit before we ever truly know how far they could’ve reached. These are the ones that break my heart. A few are potential superstars who couldn’t handle the burden of such high expectations.
“Ms. Martin,” Shelly’s mom calls out, her voice high and brittle. “Can I have a word?”
They always ask for a word even though I know it will end up being many, many words. A woman like Mrs. Applegate won’t be kept to a quick chat.
“Sure, follow me to my office,” I say, forcing a smile. “Shelly okay?” Shelly may be a prodigy, but she’s also barely older than a toddler.
Mrs. Applegate nods. “Raven’s mom is keeping an eye on her for me. I brought snacks,” she says. “Baby carrots, of course.” Of course. God forbid these girls be allowed an ounce of baby fat.
I take a seat at my desk and stretch my toes toward the floor. The level-one class was my fourth straight class, and I’ve been on my feet all day. I even did a little demonstration on the bars earlier and my fingers ache, reminding my why gymnastics is a young person’s sport.
“What can I do for you?” I ask, hoping I can get her in and out of my office quickly so I can have a few minutes of peace and quiet before my level-five class. A few of the girls in that group are at that special age where they require a little extra attention. Last week a few ganged up on Trish, who was having some trouble with her round-off back handspring series. Since this level is already competitive and the girls are judged directly against each other, it’s where I start seeing cliques and some mean-girl culture come into play. It’s mostly the older girls, the ones who’ve hit double digits; the seven- and eight-year-olds are still too innocent.
Mrs. Applegate leans forward, her ample bosom almost leaning on my desk. When we first met, she informed me she’d been a cheerleader in high school but had always wanted to be a gymnast. I get a lot of moms with the same story. “I was thinking Shelly might need some one-on-one instruction this summer,” she starts, her eyes lighting up. I can’t help but think she looks a bit manic.
“Usually we only offer private classes for students over five years old,” I say, reminding her o
f a policy I have clearly stated many times before. “At that age, the girls can benefit from the more intense private lesson structure, but until then I try to keep it fun and not too intrusive on their joints,” I say. “They are still growing so rapidly at Shelly’s age, I don’t want her to get injured.”
She nods, but she’s not satisfied. “I understand,” she says, picking up a piece of paper from my desk and setting it back down. A nerve in my eye tics. “But you must agree, Shelly is special.” She pauses, waiting for me to agree. I stay silent, and she lets out a long breath. “Listen, I get the rules, but Shelly is more talented than anyone else in level one. Honestly, she will be ready to move up in no time, and with some extra sessions, she could be up two levels by the fall. I don’t think it’s fair she gets held back by her peers who just aren’t up to par with her,” she says, any trace of a smile gone.
I close my eyes and touch my thumb and forefinger to the bridge of my nose. A migraine is brewing, I can feel it. “I agree, Shelly has immense talent and a love for the sport. I’m afraid if we push her too hard before she’s ready—both physically and mentally—we might squander that talent. I’ve seen it happen too many times before. She’s happy in class and progressing steadily. She will move up the levels quickly, even without the added pressure of more training.”
Sometime, Somewhere Page 2