Coach demonstrated how to hold it, and I tried to copy but it felt like the discus was going to slip out of my hand.
Coach said I have to trust it. Said I have to know that it will move with me.
Coach held it in his palm, then wound his torso, flipping his hand over so that the discus was on the underside, and when he brought his body back around he flipped his palm back up. He repeated this over and over again. Then told me to try, but this time try it with trust.
It all felt so strange, and it got stranger as soon as I brought it back, because it slipped out of my hand and almost dropped on Coach’s foot, but he moved just in time.
I was embarrassed and scared for Coach’s toes, but he was cool about it and just told me not to ruin his dancing career.
I tried again, and again, bringing it back and forth, following Coach’s lead. He told me to spread my legs a little more, to open my stance and drop my butt down some, to sit on the invisible stool. Eventually it started to feel better. Back and forth, swinging my arms, swinging the discus, winding it up.
Coach reminded me that the discus was all about technique. He said that even though it’s heavy, it’s not about strength, it’s about movement. He said to consider this the third part of our very unique dance routine, which would be the seventh rule.
7. Release.
Dear Diary,
It’s best to have these in one place.
STEPS TO A WHOOSH WHOOSH AHH (for optimal discus throwing):
1. Stand straight, bend knees just a little.
2. Spread arms like wings.
3. Wind body back and forth with hands straight and stiff, cutting the air.
4. Count to three.
5. On three, spin right leg 230 degrees around.
6. Then go straight into a 180-degree turn, completing the second whoosh.
7. Release.
Dear Diary,
Did you know that you don’t actually throw a discus? Right. What you do is push it. Yes, push it. And the funny thing about that is, Coach kept saying it should feel natural. But how?
I mean, the spinning feels natural. And Coach said if I’m spinning right, the discus will just move with me even though I’m barely holding it. But then . . . I’m supposed to push it off my first finger, instead of letting it fly off the back of my hand.
Coach demonstrated this. The first time he did it at half speed, and the discus didn’t go too far.
Then he did it again, this time full speed, and the discus still didn’t go that far. I mean, it didn’t go like a mile or nothing. But it went. It definitely went.
Again. This time the discus flew flatter and farther.
Then it was my turn. And, Diary, let’s just say it didn’t go so well.
Turns out, throwing a discus is like . . . it’s like nothing else. All I know is I was terrible at it. It was flying to the left and to the right, and when it was actually going straight, it was wobbly and clunky.
Coach said to do it again. To trust it. To trust me.
So, I did it again.
Again. I did it again, again.
Again. Again, after the second again, each time different than the last, my index finger rubbing raw from the steel. It was all feeling weird, which somehow felt not weird for me, if that makes sense.
Until everyone started trickling back onto the track from the long run. Lynn came in first, Coach Whit running alongside her. Then came Curron and Freddy, and Patty and Krystal and Deja and Ghost and Lu and everyone else.
Coach told them to stay off the track, shooing everybody over to the benches. Then he turned back toward me. Told me to remember it’s like dancing. A fluid movement. And that he could tell I was thinking about it too much.
I took a deep breath. Wound up again, holding another one of the cold plates in my hand.
Lu yelled out, Let’s go, Sunny! And gave me a few claps. I could hear all the teeth sucking from all the way over there, probably because everyone figured he was just sucking up to take Aaron’s spot as captain of the team. Either way, I appreciated it. I wound up again, back and forth, back and forth, bending my knees and settling into my stance, and after the fourth wind, I tore into my spin, once, then twice, and then I let the discus go. And it went. And it was perfectly flat, spinning like a record.
Headed right for the rest of the team.
Coach yelled for everyone to look out. They scattered, and, Diary, I’m so glad they did, because the discus smashed into the wooden bench, cracking it, knocking it over.
Curron barked my name.
Lynn stood beside him, looking at me with mean eyes.
It was just like the race. Just like when I pulled up. The looks on their faces of surprise and disappointment, like I had done something wrong. Like something was wrong with me. Like I didn’t belong at the only place . . . I belonged.
Dear Diary,
If anyone ever calls you Journal because you look like one and they want you to be one, or if your spiral backbone spins out again and you’ve come all loose and they mistake you for trash, or think you’re unusable, I hope I have the courage to do for you what Lu, Ghost, and Patty did for me.
Threaten their fingers until they call you by your name.
Dear Diary,
After the newbies got everybody off my back, and Coach gave his usual knock-it-offs and cut-it-outs, followed by his end-of-practice pep talk about how the best never rest, he hit me with a surprise.
I have practice tomorrow.
Coach said that even though tomorrow’s Friday, I need the extra day of practice to at least make sure I can get the discus out of my hand in a way that won’t put people in danger.
So yeah. That’s happening.
Dear Diary,
You know how I describe the face Darryl sometimes makes? The stone turning into more stone? Well, today his face was more of the melty face, and the stone, instead, seemed to fill up all the space between us. And I could tell that both of us had thoughts going boing boing in our brains
boing boing in my brain
like a jumping bean,
boing boing in his brain
like a jumping bean
our brains a moon bounce at a party we want to invite each other to.
And as we pulled into the driveway, Darryl sent me his version of an invitation.
He said he was going out with Mr. Nico’s sister tonight. Ms. Linda.
That’s a good thing. Finally. And finally Darryl also said—and this is the invitation part—that he was sorry about last night. And I knew what he meant.
Dear Diary,
Darryl’s gone out, and right now I’m sitting on the floor in my room. I’ve been sitting here for a while now. I know I already asked you this, but I just have to ask again. Do you know what it feels like to feel like a murderer? I do. Do you know what it’s like for something to be wrong with you. To be born incorrect. To be born a hurricane. I do. I’ve been thinking about my mother all day. Since Gramps gave me the picture in his office. Since I stuffed it in my sock, it scratching me with every discus throw. I forgot to take it out and give it to Darryl when we got home. Forgot until I peeled my socks off and discovered it stuck to my sweaty ankle. Now I’m looking at it. And thinking about her more. I’ve also been thinking about choking, about not being able to breathe, and about Mr. Rufus. About everything. But mostly her. Thinking about her dancing, and who she was and who I am and who we could’ve been together. Wondering how things would’ve been different if she was here. Would I have ever been a runner? Would I have ever been a dancer? Would I be me? Maybe a different me. A me with more mother. That’s for sure.
I should stop here, I think. I should.
Dear Diary,
I’m still awake. Second night in a row that I can’t sleep. There are no sounds. Nothing is settling. I need to move. And maybe . . .
I don’t know.
Dear Mom,
I have never ever said, Mom. Not out loud. I’ve never called anyone that. I’ve never even ca
lled you that and you are my mom. You were. You would’ve been. And you would’ve called me son. Sun. Sunny. Or maybe Buddy, or Peanut, or Waffle like Patty calls her little sister. And you would’ve smelled like pancakes. And we would’ve had a secret handshake and a secret language and a secret dance routine that we performed at Darryl’s birthday parties because if you were here, Darryl would have birthday parties. If you were here, I would have birthday parties. You would probably be planning one right now. For Saturday. My birthday. And you would know that I would want you to throw me a surprise party.
Because you would know me.
You would know that I’ve never spoken on the phone to anyone my age. That I don’t have anyone my age’s phone numbers. That I’ve had teammates but never friends, until the Defenders, and even they don’t know my birthday is Saturday. And on Saturday nights we would do something fun like eat pizza or watch movies or make up dance routines, and I would probably have to tell you that your dancing wasn’t great, but that I could make it better, and help you get your booms and ticks right, and you would thank me. Not many people thank me for much, but you would thank me for that. And for helping you clean up the house. And for helping you do other things that I can’t think of right now, but you would thank me, and I would thank you and then we would hug and you would smell like pancakes and we’d make pancakes and I would tell you how many pancakes Aurelia has had me eat over the years, which I think is over a thousand, and I’d have to lay back in the chair in the living room until my stomach stopped dancing to the fried batter batter, fried batter batter batter. But the chair wouldn’t be there because it would be in your office, so I would probably have to lay down on the floor, or beg Aurelia to take me to your office so you could fix me like everybody says mothers can, and I’d kick back and complain about my ROI, and how a stomachache isn’t a good one, but that you wouldn’t have quit, you wouldn’t have given up on eating pancakes, or learning how to measure batter better. If only you hadn’t given up on me.
On us.
I’m sorry. I don’t mean that. I know you didn’t. Did you?
I hope you didn’t. Of course not. Why would you give up on the plan? You wouldn’t do that. You and Darryl had been planning everything since y’all were kids. Step by step to the finish line. But you pulled up early too. Plans change. Maybe I was the wrench in the plan. Have you ever heard that? Wrench in the plan. I can’t be a wrench. Not hard enough. Not steel. And can’t fit around nothing to loosen it up.
What else do I need you to know?
Aurelia is my best friend, which is cool because she was also your best friend. And best friends trust each other. And usually best friends have a lot in common, so sometimes when I’m with her, when we’re in the car, I look over and pretend she’s you. I pretend she’s you turning the radio up, and bopping around in her seat. I pretend she’s you playing silly name games like Big Money Sunny, and stuff like that. But I know she’s not. But I still pretend. Maybe you would have a bunch of stars tattooed on you. Maybe you’d have weird-color hair and be the coolest therapist ever. And you would sit me down, and tell me to tell you what’s wrong.
And I would say.
Dear Darryl,
Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. DAD DAD DAD DAD!
D A D! DADADADADADADADADADAD! dad.
You looked cool in your tan suit.
I hope you’re having a good date with Ms. Linda. I hope she makes you smile a little. I think you deserve it.
Dear Darryl,
I wish. Stuff.
I wish stuff like a good job from you. And if you don’t want to talk much, maybe just a hug. Maybe a kiss on the forehead like how I kissed my discus. But I’m not as cold or as hard. And neither are you.
I wish you knew that.
I wish you knew I know that.
And I wish I knew why you made me call you Darryl. And not Dad.
And I wish we weren’t like statues with no arms.
I wish we weren’t like puzzles.
8
Friday
Dear Diary,
I have some news. Last night, after not being able to sleep, I got up and did something I’ve never done. Ever. I crept across the hall to Darryl’s room. He wasn’t home yet. I didn’t just go in there for no reason. I went to put the picture Gramps gave me on his nightstand. That’s all.
I pushed the door slowly open, slipped in, and closed it behind me.
I had never been in there. Not that I can remember. I only remember being in my own room. In my own space, my own crib, my own bed. My whole life. But now I was in his room. It was much cleaner than I thought, from what I could tell, minus the towers of stacked boxes of finished puzzles along the wall. In the dark, I crept to the bed. Slid onto the side where the covers were already pulled back. Climbed in. Yanked the covers up to my chin. I laid on the left side. The side I figured he laid on.
I have to tell you something, and it’s going to sound weird. But by now . . . you know.
I sniffed his pillow. Buried my nose in it and sniffed and sniffed. It smelled like nothing. Tried to know him. Tried to feel what it must be like to be him. To be here in this room, one-half of a whole plan, broken. One half of a person. Maybe. And then—and I don’t know why I did this—I slid over. Slid over to what I guessed was her side. It was cold and the sheets were so flat, so stretched that they seemed hard. Like maybe bodies on cotton makes it softer or something. It was like resting my body on a thin sheet of ice, it shattering underneath my weight into water. I pulled the pillow from behind my head and while lying flat on my back, hugged it.
I sniffed it. I imagined
it smelled like
something
something maybe
her. It smelled like
her. Maybe her,
I imagined.
And I started to cry. And sniff. And cry. And sniff. And bury my cry. And cry. And squeeze. And squeeze. And sniff. And cry. And squeeze. And squeeze. And then not bury my cry. And cry. And try. As hard as I could to swallow my howl. Squeezing the pillow. Tighter and tighter until I felt something on my skin. Something soft, like feathers. But not feathers. Too big to be feathers. Too . . . I don’t know. I didn’t know what it was, so I reached over and yanked the lamp chain, the room instantly warming with light. Then freezing once I realized what was happening. What was tickling me.
Not feathers.
Not feathers at all.
Ribbons.
First-place ribbons.
Years’ worth of them.
I sat straight up in the bed and snatched the pillowcase off the pillow. The ends of it badly stitched together were bursting, ribbons pushing through like guts. My squeezing had caused the seams to come loose. I started yanking the ribbons out, years and years and years of them. First place, first place, first place, long ones, short ones, first place, first place. And the whole time I’m still crying and now it’s louder because I wasn’t trying to swallow it anymore. And I’m pulling them out, and crying, and pulling and crying and suddenly Darryl opened the door. I didn’t hear him come in the house, or walk up the steps or anything. He just appeared, just stood there in the doorway, staring at me covered in ribbons as if I had jumped in a pile of leaves.
First-place leaves.
He didn’t say nothing. He didn’t ask me what I was doing in his room. In his bed. He didn’t ask me why I had destroyed the pillow. He didn’t say a word. He just stood there. It was only when he came in that I even looked up long enough to see all the other pictures. The ones from their marriage, them kissing, them laughing, them in college, in high school, in middle school. Them, everywhere.
He was shaking as he slowly walked to the other side of the room, his eyes never leaving me. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, crawled into the midst of the mess I’d made, and hugged the rest of my tears out.
He said he was sorry again, but this time for everything
for what happened to your mother
for making yo
u run
for running
for shutting down
in a voice that sounded like a sound I don’t think I’ve ever heard. He said it over and over again, his arms wrapped around me, my eyes on the nightstand. We were two S’s. SS, lying side by side. Ships, finally docked in the night.
Dear Diary,
You ever heard people say, things don’t change overnight? Well, guess what?
They don’t.
But at first I thought that they had. This morning I woke up in my father’s bed, took a shower, got dressed, and went downstairs, and there Darryl was, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
He said he called Aurelia and told her to take the day off. And that he took the day off. And a few minutes later I kind of wanted to take the day off, and put the night back on, because me and Darryl were sitting in the kitchen . . . just . . . sitting.
Ummmmmm. Yeah.
Diary, I bet you thought we’d be as perfect as pancakes, but we were actually more like health bars. Made of weird stuff, just there to cut the hunger.
He said good morning. Then sipped coffee.
I said good morning.
He asked if I slept well.
I told him I did. Asked him the same.
He said yes. Then sipped more coffee.
I asked if he maybe wanted pancakes.
He said sure. So I made pancakes. For six. And it was the first time I felt like stuffing pancakes in my mouth not to eat, but just to take the place of the cat that had my tongue. We ate in awkward. And suddenly, maybe on like bite number sixty or something, he pushed his coffee cup across the table to me. He never did that before. Never offered me coffee. So I figured I should take a sip. Diary, did you know coffee tastes like WHY IS ANYONE DRINKING THIS STUFF?! Did you know that? Because that’s what it tastes like. And when I took a sip, I couldn’t even swallow it, it tasted so trash. But I couldn’t just spit into the air either, so . . . I just let it dribble back in Darryl’s cup.
Sunny Page 6