When she turns to Juliana to ask what she’s missed in photography class, I’m left staring at that circle, decorative and just as useless as I feel.
A strong arm loops around my back and gives me a little squeeze. He noticed, too.
I expect him to pull away. I’m not used to being held by anyone besides Cassie, functioning as her anchor. Marcos stays put, however. His fingertips gently rub the place just below my ribs and send undulations of warmth rolling through my bloodstream.
Cassie’s eyes are ice-blue fire.
“When did this happen?” She pushes back her chair to circle around us like we’ve got something hidden on our persons.
Unfazed, Marcos keeps his arm in place. Hopefully he doesn’t feel me sweating from the way Juliana crosses her arms and glances between us. Of course she knows (heck, Richard Gregory, Sr., knows), but the way she’s scrutinizing me–well, it’s not exactly a look that says, Wow, so thrilled for you two!
Cassie realizes it the moment I do and whirls toward Juliana. “You didn’t tell me, either. What the heck, guys?”
“You’ve had a lot going on,” I say honestly. You haven’t told me everything, either.
She stands up tall enough to block the sunlight streaming in through the window. “This is major news!”
“It’s not like we’re engaged.”
Marcos snorts.
“What does Papa Gregory say to this union?” she persists.
Oh, just super awkward allusions to The Talk. Passively judgmental comments about Marcos’s math coursework. The usual.
Marcos saves me with a chuckle. “I haven’t officially met him yet, so that remains to be seen.”
There’s a yet, as in this boy plans to shake my father’s hand and tolerate stupid jokes and scrutiny of his academic performance?
He doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into.
Cassie’s on the same page as me. “Yeah, good luck with that one.” She cracks one knuckle on the table.
Juliana cringes at the sound. “Gross.”
Cassie ignores her, moving to the next knuckle.
We descend into silence to the soundtrack of Cassie’s knuckles and the soup simmering on the stove. The onion-y smell of the leeks combined with the incense makes Juliana exhale heavily as she picks at her short nails. Even I’m starting to get lightheaded. Cassie leans back in her chair, daring one of us to speak first.
Marcos takes the bait. “You have practice soon, right, Savannah?”
Unfortunately, it’s the wrong thing to say. For the second time today, Cassie’s eyes drill into me. “Let me get this straight. Gymnastics, this…” She waves her hand between Marcos and me. “You shredded your knee,” she continues in her I’m-two-weeks-older-and-infinitely-wiser voice. “I distinctly remember you saying that if you had to do more physical therapy, you would hang yourself with an Ace bandage.”
“God, Cassie,” Juliana exclaims.
My ears burn, but there’s nothing I can say. She’s right about all of the above.
Cassie pushes the napkin ring with too much force. “You seemed so much happier without gymnastics. Less stressed.”
Although my body creaks and groans like a rusted door, I don’t regret returning. Yet. I don’t know where Marcos and I are headed, but with his arm around me, I feel like I’m part of a team again for the first time in a long while.
“I’m teaching little kids at the gym.” Might as well put that one out there, too.
“Children. Demon spawn.” Cassie’s eyes widen comically.
Why is she taking issue with everything I’ve done? “I think it’ll be fun.”
“It’s all fun and games until one of them gives you the flu,” she says, and Juliana chuckles in agreement. “What about your Papa-Gregory-inflicted extracurricular activities?”
My return to the gym seems to have satisfied him. However, in case the Golden Leaf Classic goes as well as Regionals did, I’ll need a back-up plan. “I might join spring track. I ran pretty quickly in flag football the other day.”
“Wow,” says Marcos. “You’re really blazing the way.” “Like you would do better?” I elbow him and he laughs. “I’ll join for real if you do.”
Yes, this officially counts as the closest I’ve ever come to asking someone on a date.
“Whoa, whoa.” His dimples are on full display, but do I detect fear in his eyes?
“Ha! Are you kidding me?” Juliana enters the fray. “Marcos can’t walk up the tech wing stairs without sucking wind.”
Marcos holds up his hands. “I had bronchitis!”
Cassie’s watching us, an unreadable expression on her face. She no longer seems annoyed or indignant. She’s not happy, though; I know that much. When Marcos finally concedes that, all right, he might be a little out of shape, she says, “Clearly I can’t end up in the hospital again because who knows what you’ll do next.”
It should be a joke, the way she told me that lying never got me anywhere before. All the same, the words hit me with a sense of responsibility. You should have been there.
“Once you’re back at school, everything will be normal again,” I say. It’s a hollow platitude, much like staring up at the posters at the gym that say “Everyone’s a shining star!” as you fall during your tenth beam routine. I know as soon as I say it that Cass won’t be convinced.
Sure enough, she looks up at me with the I’m-Two-Weeks-Older smile, except it’s more wistful than usual. “Right, Savs.”
THING IS, SAVANNAH, your life’s like a hallway.
Cassie is wrong. Some doors are shut firmly against me.
“Let’s go, Savannah.” Matt claps twice. “You’ve done drills for an hour. It’s time to put it into the pit.”
No. “My hamstring’s a little tight,” I offer. Everything aches today. My knees, my wrists, my back. The euphoria of flipping upside down comes with more than gravity: reality.
Matt stalks away, shaking his head with frustration. The two of us that remain from the original five aren’t exactly putting on a model performance for our younger team members. Emery’s not up to par either. She starts from a deep lunge at the end of the runway, jogs, picks up to sprint–and sprints clear past the springboard. “I’m sorry,” she says each time, hands pressed to her forehead. Matt sighs deeply.
What’s the point?
Emery will go for the vault eventually. If she doesn’t, Matt will tell her to go home, and she’ll get angry and go full-force at the table, like proving Matt wrong is paramount. Which, for the moment, I suppose, it is. So what if she never goes for the vault? What does it matter?
Emery can do anything she wants without trying. Or, in the case of vault, with a little bit of effort. She doesn’t have irrational fears of landing in a foam pit, like I suddenly do. She can show up at the gym and be stunning, and not think about knees and friends giving out. Must be nice.
“How’s that hamstring, Savannah?” Behind Matt, Emery runs down the runway and past the springboard. He doesn’t look. “Let’s make a deal,” he says before I reply. “A full into the pit. No rush on the double. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say.
“I’m not hearing much confidence in that answer.”
“Okay,” I say, louder.
Matt studies me. I pretend to adjust the Beast so that I don’t have to look at him, but if anyone’s accustomed to reading me throughout the years, it’s my coach. “Are you all right?”
Emery saves me from replying by slamming into the table. She groans and staggers onto the springboard. The little kids gasp. “Do you need ice?” Tiana calls.
“Either you go next time or you go home,” Matt says without turning around. If anything’s guaranteed to piss him off, it’s making a stupid mental error in front of the little kids.
Emery’s eyes meet mine. She looks about as good as I feel, which is total crap. “I’m sorry–”
“You’re too good for this, Emery. How many times have I told you? Let your mind work for you.”
“It’s not–”
“Stop. The more excuses you make, the more you’re overthinking. One.”
“I’m not–”
“Two.”
Matt doesn’t need “three.” Emery goes. She sprints with long, purposeful strides and as soon as she hurdles, I know it’s going to be a good vault. Her feet hit the springboard and her back arches as her hands touch the table. She pushes off, flips and twists once with her body straight, lands with an extra step. I should be happy for her, but it was all inevitable. Matt will shake his head when I don’t go for the full tonight into the pit. But for now he won’t push me as much as he pushes Emery, because neither of us knows what will happen after I lift into the air and twist. That’s the part I’m not sure I want to know.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
MY PHONE BUZZES. Picking you up in five minutes, Cassie writes. Be ready.
I’ve spent the last week running to her house after school. We’d go up to her bedroom and sit on her bed, surrounded by the blanket from Peru, the carved wooden statues from Switzerland, and the creepy stuffed animal rat that her father brought back from Australia. She’d ask me stories about school and tell me about her doctors and nurses. While it’s all surface-level–“the doctor was convinced for, like, a full day that I was fishing and I was too out of it to correct him”–I’m glad she’s speaking about it. She doesn’t ask about gymnastics or Marcos, and I don’t bring them up.
With all the zeal she saves for end-of-the-year essay-writing binges, Cass has convinced her team of medical professionals that she’s ready to return to school, the place she hates most. The place that I’m pretty sure was a huge contributor to her stress.
I’m going to wow them, she’d texted me after Juliana, Marcos, and I had left her house, rumbling away in Marcos’s car. I don’t want to be left out of anything else.
Has enough time passed? Is she really ready for this? There’s no opportunity to ask, to express my concerns, because not a minute later, I hear the music approaching.
It feels right to sit beside Cassie on the deep-blue fabric seats, pushing aside the various trinkets she’s collected over the years. The car chimes until she tugs on her seatbelt, the other hand tuning the radio. “Cass, I can do it,” I always say, and she replies as usual, “I got this.”
The radio’s too loud, a cup of iced coffee rattles in the center console, and the only indication that anything’s at all amiss is the slim stretch of eyeliner she applied to each of her eyes. She never wears makeup to school. She says the place isn’t worthy of it.
I wonder where the note is now; if Marcos took it and flung it into the water, or if he’s still carrying it with him. “You’re okay to go back?”
She swings out into the road after the briefest pause at the stop sign. “Okay as I’ll ever be.”
Not exactly reassuring. “I have the chemistry and precalc notes,” I tell her. “We can go over them together.”
She kicks up the volume with her pinkie finger. A guy with a super-strong Long Island accent shouts to us about “Anthony’s Pizza, Great to Meet Ya!” over the radio. “Oh, good. Let’s invite Mr. Riley.”
I roll my eyes, although I have to say that this Cassie–turning up the radio, loading up the sarcasm– feels a lot more familiar than the Cassie at her kitchen table, looking at all of us like we’d conspired to betray her. “How’s therapy going?”
She flips to the next station, then the next, then the next. “Can we talk about something else? I’m sick of talking about myself. It’s all I’ve been doing.” She half-smiles. “Turns out I’m a little fucked up. Who would have thought? So, you and Marcos. Has your dad looked up his GPA yet?”
No, she’s not shaking me off. I’m tired of filtering in bits and pieces from Juliana and Marcos. “What did the doctors say?”
A long, slow exhale. Like if she does it for long enough, she won’t have to answer. “Which one? I guess this is what it’s like if you commit a crime. You talk to different people all day long, telling them the same stories.”
Stories about what? Her fingers tremble slightly as she reaches for the iced coffee, and if I wait long enough, she might tell me something real. Something she’s been avoiding.
“Everyone’s been…really nice. Not judgy.” She hits a song she likes and switches away again. I’ve distracted her. “I had to promise not to try to self-medicate again. Or not to not medicate. That was part of the problem.”
That was the part Juliana had known. “They called the guidance office and my teachers are going to hold my tests for now. Praise Jesus.”
My sneaker nudges the stress ball rolling around on the floor. Instantly, my ankle cracks.
Cassie winces. The sound’s always grossed her out although she’s the one who cracks every single knuckle, ten in a row. “How the hell did you go from zero to sixty in one practice? What’s this noise about competing again?” She’s switched the subject too quickly for me to wrangle it back. “I think this is too much for you.”
It’s the first time she’s asked me about myself since the afternoon Marcos, Juliana, and I went to her house. The questions make me grip the passenger-side door handle because I know that no matter what I say, I’m going to have to defend it. “Like El Pueblo?” I say sarcastically.
“How was that, by the way? See any drug deals?”
“Is that what you say to Juliana?”
She leans on the brakes so suddenly that it’s a wonder we both don’t end up with whiplash. A truck swerves from behind us, honking, and the car rocks from its speed. “Cass!”
She stares at me, ignoring the truck. There’s hurt in her eyes. How did the conversation escalate so quickly? Why can’t I just let her laugh about Mr. Riley and leave it be? “You’re a tiny girl out of your comfort zone, Savs. Is it wrong that I’m looking out for you?”
“What do you think is going to happen?” Back off, leave her be, she’s too fragile for this. No, I need to know. “Marcos told me that you walked out of Nelson’s party during the fight.”
“Hell, yeah, I did,” she says without hesitation. “This Galway Beach–Ponquogue turf skirmish, it’s nothing like what I saw on the news at the hospital.” She pauses, gathering her words. “A migrant worker from El Salvador was waiting at the Montauk train station, and a bunch of teenagers stabbed him to death. Guys our age. That guy who sits outside of 7-Eleven every day–he was our age once. This is how it starts.”
It’s true. Someone in our school wrote on the lockers. Being an anonymous racist idiot is one thing, though, and crossing the line to physically hurting someone–that’s another.
“Well, it’s not going to stop me from hanging out with Marcos.”
I don’t have to look at her to know she’s just rolled her eyes at me.
“What, do you think I need someone to hold my hand?” I say.
“Look, Savs, I support whatever you want to do. You and Marcos? Totally cool. Gymnastics? Go ahead. Hell, maybe you should take your road test again.”
“Okay, Dad.”
She smiles. “Never thought you looked to me as a father figure, but okay. I just want you to go into this with your eyes open. That’s all.”
Was that how she’d walked under the bridge, eyes open and fully aware?
I push away the thought.
OUR ENTRANCE INTO school elicits more whispers than the red carpet. Fingers freeze mid-text and conversations halt.
Cassie pauses, looking a little seasick. All of the bravado she had in the car while doling out life advice is gone. “They’re judging me. They think I’m crazy.”
I grab her arm, the way she always does to me. It does the trick; she looks at me with nervous eyes. “You’re not crazy. You’re going through a tough time, and you’re getting help.”
I can tell she’s itching to crack her knuckles, except I’m holding her one hand away from the other. “I’m here for you, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”
Her eyes survey the lay of the land. The new
photographs pinned up in the glass display case; the thicket of sophomores who look at her nervously; Jacki, who peeks her head around the bank of lockers and squeals, “Oh, my God, Cassie! It’s so great to see you! So, so great!”
“Okay,” she says, barely loud enough for me to hear her.
I give what I hope is a reassuring squeeze before releasing her hand. “You got this.”
We didn’t see eye to eye in the car. Right now, though, in front of everyone, we do what we do best: we stick by each other’s sides.
The first person to greet us isn’t Juliana or Marcos. There’s a quick twitch of limbs, a hop from the left foot to the right, and then Andreas Alvarez plants himself in front of us.
“I’m offended,” he says immediately. “I heard there was a shindig at your house last week and what, no invite? C’mon, Cass, show this guy a little love.”
Cass offers him a small smile.
“All right, all right, I’ll take it!” He turns to me. “I hear you’re tutoring Marcos, eh? Wanna hook a brother up?” He pokes me with an elbow.
“With Marcos? I’ll put in a good word for you.”
“Burnt by the Gregory!” He draws back as if he’s in pain, still laughing. “Unbelievable, man. Absolutely unfreaking-believable. You’re gonna eat those words.”
“I’m terrified.”
Cassie’s smile has extended to something more real.
A wave of girls moves by, and Andreas points both index fingers, backpack bouncing against him. “Hey, Melanie, Janine, Alondra.” He nods to each girl, smile widening at the prettier ones. “Steph, how you doing today? How’s the basketball team shaping up?”
Despite the fact that he’s clearly a man on a mission, he keeps pace with us on our way to Cassie’s locker.
“Tough playoffs, huh?” I say, since apparently we’re friends now.
Andreas nods, and his whole body moves with him, a rapid twitch. “Those punks up island.” He rolls his eyes up to the holy heavens. “Coach made the fatal error of putting Tommy Brown back in the lineup.”
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