First Flight, Final Fall

by C. W. Farnsworth

  The taxi I flagged down at the airport stops outside the tiny Colonial I’ve lived in since sophomore year. I hand the driver some dollars that have sat in my wallet for the past eight weeks. I didn’t bother exchanging my unused euros for American dollars, and the sight of the foreign currency mixed in with the green bills causes a pang in my stomach I fight to ignore.

  I climb out of the back seat. The driver is already hoisting my bags out of the trunk of the sedan, and I thank him before heading up the brick walkway. I yank the heavy bags up the stairs. They thump against every step, and I curse myself for packing so much. Half of it I never even wore.

  The house is empty and dark when I walk inside. Preseason doesn’t start for another week, and all my housemates are still scattered across the country in their respective hometowns enjoying the last remnants of summer.

  There’s nothing I feel like doing more than collapsing in a heap on the floor, so I do the opposite. I drop my bags in the small entryway that runs between the kitchen and living room and head right back outside without venturing farther in the house. I’ve been wearing athletic clothes all day anyway.

  My sneaker-clad feet pound the pavement, expelling some of the emotion simmering with each slap against cement. I veer left, heading onto Lancaster’s ivy-covered campus. I run faster than I mean to, the burn of my calves and blur of brick buildings the only indications of my speed. Campus is deserted. There aren’t any tours or summer classes being held this late in the day, and those are the only events happening around here this time of year.

  It’s just me and the scampering squirrels.

  I run all the way past the pond to the athletic complex and sports fields, only stopping when I reach the edge of the soccer field I’ve spent my college career playing on. I vault over the hip-high chain-link fence onto the turf that comprises the rectangular space. It’s a familiar walk out to the center of the field, and I flop down once I reach the heart of the pitch.

  I ran for longer than I realized, because dusk has begun to fall, shading the sky in streaks of tangerine, magenta, fuchsia, and lilac. I stare upward for so long my eyes lose focus and the sunset twirls together like a swirl of sherbet.

  My grumbling stomach forces me vertical. Rather than hop over the fence again, I opt for the gate, walking along the path and around the bleachers to head back through campus.

  “Saylor!”

  I turn to see Kyle Andrews walking toward me from the sports complex. There’s one SUV in the parking lot, which must belong to him.

  “Hey, Kyle.” I pause in place.

  He flashes me a goofball grin. Kyle’s known for taking nothing seriously, but he’s got enough raw athletic talent to be considered my male equivalent on the men’s team. Minus the national championship. “How was Scholenberg?”

  “It was amazing,” I reply honestly.

  “Yeah, I bet. When did you get back?”

  “About an hour ago,” I reply. “How about you? Thought you guys start preseason next week, like us?”

  “Yeah, a few of us came back early to chill before the torture starts.” He gives me a sly smile. “Including Tim. Who hasn’t shut up about you, by the way.”

  “Aren’t you violating the bro code right now?” I reply.

  Kyle shrugs. “Who cares.”

  Our similarities extend off the field, I guess.

  “Why don’t you come over later?” Kyle offers.

  “Rain check?” I request. “I’m battling a serious case of jet lag.”

  “Yet you’re out running?”

  “It’s how you become a national champ, Andrews. Take notes.” He laughs. “What are you even doing here?” I inquire, glancing around the parking lot. “I know it can’t be to work out.”

  “I forgot my favorite shorts before leaving for break.” He holds up some gray mesh material in one hand with an impish smirk.

  “Of course.” I roll my eyes. “See you around. Tell Tim I’m flattered he has a crush on me.”

  “And let him know I broke bro code? Never.” Kyle winks. “See ya, Saylor.”

  He heads for the parking lot, and I start running again. My pace isn’t quite as frantic as it was before, but I’m still pushing myself. I’m in the best shape of my life right now thanks to Christina Weber and her militaristic methods.

  My knee hasn’t so much as twinged in weeks. When I departed Lancaster two months ago, that was all I hoped for. I’ve made soccer my top priority ever since I started playing, and anything that doesn’t advance those goals doesn’t matter. Can’t matter.

  I almost trip over my bags when I open the front door. I didn’t turn on any lights earlier, and the house is dark now. I feel along the wall for the light switch and then head upstairs, leaving the heavier bag by the door. The slanting stairs creak as I drag my smaller luggage to the second floor.

  Cressida and Anne’s rooms are to the right, and mine is the first one on the left, with Emma’s located across the hall. I push open the wooden door, half-covered with peeling paint, surveying my room. The air has the stagnant, stale quality of that which has been sitting for a while, so I drop my suitcase and head to the solitary window, throwing the sash up to aerate.

  Fresh air circulates, picking up a cross-breeze from the hallway. I’d normally describe my room as “organized chaos,” but that’s a stretch right now. I packed for Scholenberg in a hurry, and there’s evidence of it scattered everywhere, like a tornado passed through recently.

  Rather than deal with any of it, I grab a clean towel from my closet and head down the hall to take a shower. I stand under the pulsing spray for longer than usual, letting the concentrated water massage my muscles. Long showers weren’t common while sharing a bathroom with six other girls.

  I get dressed in a pair of sweats and a tank top, not bothering to do more than yank a brush through my blonde hair. Stray droplets follow me as I pad downstairs to forage through the kitchen.

  Food options are limited. Very limited. No one has lived here since I departed for Scholenberg, but I finally find a packet of ramen and a bag of chips. Dinner of champions, right here. I make my meager meal and then raid the liquor cabinet. I drench a few ice cubes with a generous splash of gin and settle on the couch. The alcohol burns a harsh trail down my esophagus and settles in my stomach as I stare at the black screen of the television.

  The buzzing of my phone distracts me from the fascinating task of studying a blank screen.

  “Hey,” I answer, balancing the bowl of ramen on my knee as I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder.

  “You answered! It’s a miracle!” Hallie exclaims.

  “Do you know what a miracle is? I answer all the time.”

  “I’ve talked to you once in the past week.”

  “Fine. Half the time,” I reply.

  “You’re back at Lancaster?” Hallie asks.

  “Mm-hmm,” I respond, taking a sip of soup.

  “Did you unpack?” She sounds like a mom, and for once it doesn’t bother me. She cares, and maybe that’s something I should learn to cherish, not make fun of.

  But I keep that thought to myself as I snort and answer, “Of course not.”

  “Headed out to party instead?” she teases.

  I glance down at my sad meal and damp tank top. “Hardly anyone is back yet, Hallie.” I don’t mention the fact that I was, in fact, invited to one.

  “You could always come back home for a few days,” she suggests. “I haven’t seen you in months!”

  “I’ll be back for the wedding,” I answer. “I’ve got an intense training schedule right now. It’s best I stay here and use Lancaster’s facility.”

  Hallie sighs, and I know what she’s thinking. All Saylor cares about is soccer. “All right. Well, I’ll let you go. I’m sure you must be tired. It’s the middle of the night in Germany, right?”

  “Right,” I confirm.

  “Are you all right?” Hallie asks. “You sound weird.”

  “I’m fine. Just… tired.
Like you said.”

  “Okay. Bye, sis,” Hallie says, and the phone clicks.

  “Bye,” I whisper.

  And then I sink deeper into the cushions and resume staring at the living room until I feel myself start to drift toward unconsciousness.

  Cressida, Anne, and Emma all return to Lancaster on Saturday. Cressida arrives first, and I haul my butt off the couch to greet her, abandoning the mystery I was reading. That’s all I’ve done for the past six days: work out and lie on the couch.

  Well, that and get wasted with the boys’ soccer team last night.

  “Saylor!” she squeals, wrapping me up in a hug.

  “Cress!” I squeeze her back.

  She pulls back to study my face. “I swear, you get prettier every year. It’s so unfair.”

  “Says the pageant queen,” I reply, rolling my eyes. Cressida is from the South, like me. Unlike me, she participated in some of its more archaic traditions. She claims it was at her mother and grandmother’s insistence, but Cressida is both strong-willed and loves the spotlight, so I suspect it wasn’t completely involuntary.

  Cressida gives me a regal wave that ends with only her middle finger still raised. I laugh and then flop back down on the cushions that have started to mold to the shape of my body.

  “I like what you’ve done with the place,” Cressida comments, glancing around the messy living room.

  “Yeah, I’ll clean it up,” I assure her.

  “Sad I missed the party,” she says, kicking a stray beer can the boys left behind. “Looked like a rager.”

  “Looked like?”

  “I enjoyed ‘Wannabe’ the most,” she replies, smirking.

  “Fuck. I’m going to kill Kyle.”

  “Was he the lucky guy last night?” She winks.

  I make an unintelligible sound, and Emma’s arrival saves me from actually having to answer. I didn’t hook up with any of the more-than-willing soccer guys last night. I drank myself into a haze that apparently resulted in a Spice Girls concert.

  Emma arrives next, bouncing into the room and leaping atop the back of the couch. Except she misjudges the distance and ends up half-smothering me.

  “Emma!” I protest as her elbow digs into my left thigh.

  “Miss me?” She grins, rolling back onto the cushions she was actually aiming for. “I thought you were some badass soccer player who couldn’t feel pain. The way you talked about Scholenberg, I thought you’d come back wrapped in a wall of muscle or something.”

  “I’ve always been a badass soccer player,” I respond.

  Emma’s attention shifts to the living room. “Damn, I knew I should have come back last night. You had a party without me?”

  I shrug. “Just a few of the soccer guys.”

  Emma perks back up. “Speaking of which, I told them we’d meet them at Peak’s Point in twenty minutes. Put on something other than… that.” She wrinkles her nose at the sweatpants I’ve barely taken off. “Anne’s meeting us there.”

  I haul myself off the couch. “Not wasting any time, huh?”

  “It’s senior fucking year, Saylor. I don’t care how hungover you are.”

  “I’m not hungover,” I protest, even though I totally am.

  “Uh-huh,” Emma replies, giving Cressida a hug and then bouncing upstairs. I trail after her and into my bedroom, yanking off the baggy t-shirt I paired with sweatpants this morning.

  I put on a bikini and then pull the same t-shirt back on. I’m too lazy to find something else. I twist my hair up in a messy bun, grab my sunglasses, and meet Emma in the hallway. She’s wearing an emerald sarong and eyes my t-shirt critically.

  “Don’t start,” I warn.

  “What about that cute cotton dres—”

  “It’s dirty,” I reply, which is true. I still haven’t unpacked any of my suitcases from Germany.

  Emma sighs.

  I follow her downstairs, where Cressida is already waiting, always the first one ready. She’s changed into a tank top that sapphire bikini straps peek out from and a pair of athletic shorts. Emma sighs again when she sees Cressida’s outfit, and Cress and I share a grin.

  It’s a short trip to Peak’s Point, which is a small enclave filled with brackish water. Its sandy beach is littered with enough stone to keep snobbish tourists away, which makes it an optimal location for Lancaster students to gather and engage in various forms of debauchery. The road is lined with cars since there’s no actual parking lot.

  I climb out of the back seat of Emma’s car and squint at the water before slipping on my sunglasses. We traipse along the thin trail that cuts through the greenery lining the road and then hit the rocky shore that slowly turns into more sand than pebbles. It’s not just the soccer teams here. I spot a few football players and plop down next to Sarah Hawley, who I know is on the field hockey team.

  “Hey, Sarah.” I lean back on my hands.

  “Hey, Saylor,” she replies. “Good summer?”

  Emma snorts as she settles on my other side. “Great summer. This lucky bitch was at Scholenberg.”

  “Should I know what that is?” Sarah replies, looking confused.

  “It’s a soccer camp in Germany. They play at the Kluvberg field,” Emma explains.

  “Wait, isn’t Kluvberg the team Adler Beck plays for?” Sarah asks.

  I tense as soon as she says his name. It’s an involuntary reaction, one I don’t think anyone catches.

  “Yup,” Emma replies. “Saylor met him.”

  “What?” Sarah gasps.

  “We were both at a kids’ soccer camp. Not nearly as exciting as Emma is making it sound,” I respond quickly.

  “Wow. I’m still jealous. He’s gorgeous.”

  “Right?” Emma replies, warming to the topic. “I have that photo of him on the…”

  “I’m going in,” I interrupt, standing and pulling my t-shirt over my head. I had no intention of swimming until right now, but suddenly it seems like a fantastic idea.

  “Okay,” Emma responds, giving me a weird look.

  I stroll toward the water, ignoring the glances my mostly naked body is gathering from the guys. Water laps against my toes. They’re still painted the same shade of obnoxious pink I was studying in the coffee shop when Beck appeared behind me. Barely painted, now. The nail polish has chipped, with only a few remnants of color remaining.

  I wade out farther. The water laps at my knees. Then my waist. Just below my breasts. I stare straight ahead. The curves of the cove are invisible from this angle, and all I can see is the ocean stretching ahead until it melds into the distant horizon.

  Sarah’s innocent question reverberates around my skull. Isn’t Kluvberg the team Adler Beck plays for? I’m going to have to get used to it. He’s not suddenly going to fade into obscurity. I’ll hear his name. Watch him play. See him on magazine covers. If he starts dating someone, I’ll see coverage of it everywhere. If he gets engaged. Married. Has kids one day. His entire life will play out in the media, and I’ll have to witness it.

  I just hope I won’t care by then.

  “Saylor! Saylor!” I turn in the water. Kyle is standing at the edge, waving his arms. I splash back closer to shore.

  “What?” I call.

  “I need you on my team for beach volleyball,” he yells back.

  “Fine.” I trudge the rest of the way through the water, fighting the current the whole way.

  Some of the other soccer players have already set up a line of rocks I surmise is supposed to be the “net.”

  “Tempting some sharks?” Kyle asks me when I reach shore.

  “Statistically, it’s more likely I’d get struck by lightning,” I utter dryly.

  “Saylor Scott: not just beauty, but brains too,” Kyle announces, like he’s a television commentator.

  I scoff as I step into the setter’s position.

  “Ball,” I bark at the redhead holding the white sphere. I’ve never seen him before and there are only sports teams here, so he must be a f
reshman. He startles, then tosses it to me.

  I spike the ball across the rocks. Since there’s no visible net, I have to guesstimate on the height, but the ball arcs a good six feet before landing in the sand between two football players, who immediately start arguing about who should have been responsible for returning it to this side of the rocks. I whistle to get their attention, and one returns the ball to me. I send it sailing to the other side again, except this time one of them is quick enough to return it. I lunge forward to spike it back but am distracted when a hand brushes against my left butt cheek.

  I whirl around, forgetting about the ball. “Did you just touch my ass?” I snap at the same redhead who passed me the ball a few minutes ago.

  He pales. “It was an accident.”

  “An accident? Did your hand detach from your brain? Why don’t you grab your own dick while you’re at it?”

  “Saylor, come on.” Kyle suddenly appears at my side. “Let’s grab a drink.”

  He basically hauls me over to the assortment of coolers spread out by boulders and hands me a can of beer.

  “You probably don’t need this, but it’s all we brought. Fuck. You good, Scott?” he asks, studying me curiously. And a little warily.

  I crack the can open, making a face at the taste as I gulp down the hoppy beverage. I’ve never liked beer, but apparently my time in Germany turned me into an even larger snob when it comes to brewed alcohol. “I’m fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” I challenge.

  “Maybe because you got wasted last night and just terrorized one of my freshmen,” Kyle replies. “You’ve probably traumatized him for life.”

  “Good,” I mutter darkly. “Maybe he’ll learn to keep his hands to himself.”

  “Didn’t you spank Ryan last night during ‘Spice Up Your Life’?” His tone clearly says hypocrite.

  “Don’t ask me. I was wasted, remember?”

  He sighs. “Your knee is fine, right? You’ll kick ass this season.” Kyle, like everyone else, assumes nothing could bother me unless it’s related to soccer.