Lessons in Falling

by Diana Gallagher

  We both pull back and stare at each other, his dark eyes wide and maybe a little shocked. As I’m catching my breath and his lips begin to curl into a smile, I do the only thing I can think of:

  Run.

  “Got chemistry!” I call, immediately regretting the choice of words as I hear him laugh behind me.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I DILIGENTLY ANSWER the first questions posed in AP Chemistry so that I can spend the rest of class figuring out the turns my life has taken:

  My best friend attempting suicide.

  My former friends (well, most of them) not responding to my text messages.

  Kissing my best friend’s other best friend’s ex-boyfriend. In public.

  Would I have landed here if I’d landed on my feet at Regionals?

  Over the summer, I’d sit by myself in the parking booth and watch the blurry asphalt haze straighten out as the day cooled off, the heat advisory expired. I’d watch the sun plunge toward the water, tucking itself behind the reeds on the bluffs, and if the wind blew just right, I’d hear Cassie laughing up in the snack bar. With sticky salt air on my skin and sand under my knee brace, I told myself that I was happy. Sometimes, like the wink of a green flash, I was.

  Whether it’s a glitch or tenacity, Emery sends me the same text. So. Practice. Yes?

  The pros of going to practice: Seeing my old friends in person instead of hiding behind a text. Seeing my coaches. Doing something that has nothing to do with how I failed Cassie.

  The cons: the three-inch scar that runs down my knee.

  Once the period concludes, I fake looking for an imaginary essay in my folder so that if, say, anyone wanted to ask me about the morning’s events, I’d look completely unapproachable. I text Cassie: Well, this morning sure took an interesting turn. How are you? Want me to visit later?

  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.

  Her green eyes meet mine
. “Not one smile. Who wants to be on a team like that?”

  I appreciate the effort to make me feel better, to ignore the fact that Emery won the meet that I was wheeled out of on a stretcher. Besides, what are my expectations for today? It will be a victory lap, without the victory, on my journey to bigger and better things. Closure, perhaps.

  We leave the highway and drive down the pine tree-lined road. This was the point where I’d sit up straighter in the passenger seat, willing my parents to drive faster–come on, we’re almost there! Emery turns right into the industrial park that advertises foreign car repairs, international shipping, and, at the very end, gymnastics.

  It’s a tan warehouse with slender windows and a steel door. Above the door is the white-and-blue sign: South Ocean Gymnastics, Training Champions of All Ages. Small children exit the gym, holding their mothers’ hands and hopping up and down like they’re still on the trampoline. “Remember how we were like those kids?” Emery kills the engine. The car plunges into silence. “I can’t believe my mom never chucked me out the window.”

  Now that we’re at the door, every urge that said do it now says go back. I fight against telling Emery that I’ll just kick around in the lobby while she works out.

  Here goes nothing. Literally.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  IF ONLY NOISE were enough to make me invisible. Children run everywhere in the lobby–pulling on sweatshirts, wrangling with the snack machine, playing tag as their parents chase them. It’s pandemonium. It makes me never want to have kids.

  I follow Emery’s short brown ponytail and bubbly pink scar on her shoulder past the glass viewing windows and into the gym. My feet sink into the blue mats, corresponding nicely with the feeling in my stomach.

  When I started gymnastics ten years ago, I couldn’t believe how huge and complicated it all looked: rows of balance beams to the left, three sets of uneven bars to the right, foam pits and two trampolines, a fuzzy blue runway leading to the vault, the wide blue floor exercise in the corner, and mats everywhere. Mats of all colors and sizes and shapes, including one that’s shaped like a donut, which I think is for the sole purpose of rolling kids around. Pervading every piece of equipment are the smells of chalk, mat vinyl, and a scent that I can only describe as feet.

  Banners hang from the walls. In the summer, when our only source of cool air is from giant industrial fans, they flap in the breeze. There’s “3rd Place Level 7 Team, Long Island Classic,” “2nd Place Level 5 Team, Finger Lakes Invitational,” and the like. Just above the floor exercise is the banner that our coach Vanessa is most proud of: “1st Place Level 9 Team, New York State Championships.” She always looks up at it when she talks to us during a team meeting. That one’s from five years ago. We haven’t come close since then.

  Standing next to the vault table is my coach, Matt, engaged in intense conversation with a man I don’t recognize. Matt looks exactly the same: spiked dark hair, dark eyes, black T-shirt filled out with muscles that are ready to catch us when we fall, which for me was frequently. I have a rush of what I can only call first-day-of-school jitters; what if he’s pissed that I’ve shown up out of the blue? And who’s this other guy?

  When Matt sees me, his jaw drops. “The prodigal returns!” he calls, and the man next to him turns.

  “New coach?” I whisper to Emery. What else has changed since I’ve been gone?

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know who that is.”

  As we approach, I eye the man’s red and blue jacket. The State University of New York, College at–

  “–Owego,” Matt says as the coach shakes Emery’s hand. While Matt’s clearly surprised to see me, his tone remains professional and controlled. “One of the top programs in Division III, placing second at Nationals this year. Six All-Americans and five second-team All-Americans.”

  I hadn’t dallied with looking at Division III schools. No athletic scholarships. No primetime prestige with thousands of fans cheering them on. Small potatoes. It’d been go big or go home in my college search.

  Ponquogue sends a few intrepid graduates to Owego each year. As far as I know, the school, nestled between farms and more farms upstate, is a magnet for blizzards, ice, and general misery. The city that never sleeps, it isn’t, unless you count the frat parties.

  “This is Savannah Gregory.” Matt turns to me with an obvious question in his eyes–where have you been and why are you back? “She’s a senior and a Level 10.”

  Was a Level 10. “Savannah, fantastic to meet you!” Coach pumps my hand. I underestimated his strength. And enthusiasm. “Jeff Barry, head coach at Owego State. Are you interested in intercollegiate gymnastics?”

  “Sure.” What else am I supposed to say?

  Coach laughs very hard at this. “Great, great! Your father said the same thing.”

  “My father?”

  “Yep! He emailed me.”

  “My…father…”

  “Said you’d blown out your knee but that you planned to make a full comeback.”

  I’m still stuck on my father. Making threats to have me return is one thing; attempting to manage my future is another. Was I staring at my phone, waiting to hear from Cassie, while Dad glanced furtively over his shoulder and typed out an email to this man? What was he thinking?

  Oh, and what full comeback?

  Coach completely misunderstands the expression on my face. “Injuries are no fun, that’s for sure. Just have to keep a positive attitude, right?”

  I’m holding my knee brace. I could swing and hit him with a satisfying clatter of hard plastic on bald head. Instead, I give a sort of sickly smile.

  “He said that you’re an honors student at Pon… Pon…”

  “Ponquogue.”

  “Ponbog, right.”

  “Ponquogue.” This man. My God.

  “Exactly. Must be great growing up right on the ocean, huh?”

  As soon as he blinks, I escape to a corner of the floor.

  The younger girls sit in neat rows with legs straight, toes together and pointed. A couple of them wave at me with big grins, but it’s clear that Vanessa has commanded them to be silent or else.

  She scared the crap out of me when I joined the team, even though she’s four-eleven and always has a perky ponytail. Nothing’s ever good enough for her. Your legs are never straight enough, your toes not pointed sufficiently, and God forbid she catches you cheating on your push-ups. If by any chance you do perform to her standards, you earn a nod.

  I stretch with the remnants of South Ocean’s upper level team, which consists of Emery and the twins, Nicola and Erica, who are thirteen and still wear I Heart Gymnastics T-shirts. Bless them. I used to own one of those.

  “You guys were, like, fetuses when I last saw you,” I say.

  Emery gives me a sassy look that clearly says, That’s what happens when you disappear.

  “Is Coach Barry here to watch you, too?” asks Erica, sitting on her knees and placing her palms on the floor to stretch her wrists.

  “Seriously? With this beast?” I pull the brace over my right foot. In a matter of moments, the brace twists sideways with my foot stuck between two straps, neither one an exit. I could use some directional arrows.

  “I think it makes you look cool,” says Nicola, copying Erica’s wrist stretch. “Like a warrior or something.”

  “I’d want you on my team,” Erica adds.

  Trust the twins to make anything seem positive. So young, so eager. Wait until they enter high school.

  By the time I’ve wrestled the Beast into what appears to be its rightful position on my leg, the team has begun basic tumbling across the floor. I hide behind Emery, except I am now even more vulnerable to Coach Barry’s gaze. The man doesn’t miss a movement.

  “Great extension on that handstand,” he says to Emery. “Wow, look at that shoulder flexibility!” he calls to Tiana across the floor. Tiana’s only six and she looks at him blankly. Vanessa nods in her stead, taking the compliment. “Excellent heel
drive–both of you!” he says to Erica and Nicola, who look alike even in their gymnastics.

  As the team splits into two corners of the floor for more advanced tumbling, I step to the side. Not that it bothers me that the Level 4s and 5s, none older than ten, are running across the floor and flipping with ease. Or that Nicola, who’s learning a double full–one flip, two twists–keeps landing awkwardly, her ankles and knees bending at uncomfortable angles. Yet she walks away from each attempt ready to try another.

  I want to put my hand over my knee to protect it somehow. Instead, I practice leaps on the side of the floor, staying out of everyone’s way.

  But not out of everyone’s notice. “Great range of motion.” Coach Barry walks over. “What are your jump combinations? I bet you’re killer on beam, too.”

  I’m saved by Emery’s tumbling pass. She lifts into the air, pulls her knees to her stomach, flips twice, lands with a satisfying thud. Then she walks back to the corner, face expressionless. I know that look. She’s focused, contemplating her next turn and how to improve.

  “She’s working double layouts onto a pit landing,” Matt says to Coach. “Full-ins, too.”

  Coach nods vigorously; he likes this news. As I’m about to sneak toward my water bottle, he turns to me. “Are you an all-arounder?”

  “Yep.” Although I hate vault. Well, sometimes. However, I don’t hate vault as much as I hate uneven bars. You’d think that a knee injury would have forced me to improve on bars. Instead, my decision to quit might have been a little bit influenced by the fact that my gymnastics would have come down to two round, wooden, unforgiving bars with lots of chalk. I’ve always enjoyed balance beam, probably because when I began the sport, everyone else hated it: suede-covered wood four feet off the floor, four inches wide. It was the uncool thing to like beam, so of course I did. And floor was always my favorite until April.

  “How’s the comeback going?” Coach inquires.

  Matt looks up when he hears this question.

  “It’s, ah, all right.” Real convincing, Savs, Cassie would say. “Good days, bad days. You know.”