THEY MIGHT HAVE changed their numbers. That’s my first excuse.
The second excuse is the one I fear–that they’re pissed and have rendered me irrelevant after those early weeks of well-wishes and Come to the gym soon!
Cassie has been in the hospital for three days, which means I’ve had three nights of sleeping for three hours apiece and plenty more hours spent staring up at the shadows playing across my ceiling. I’ve reimagined every conversation. The afternoon we spent in her kitchen after I’d called her that morning, the way she’d shifted from defeated to no big deal, everything’s fine so convincingly. Her arm around me as we stood facing the ocean, her eyes glittering as we talked about New York City. The way Mr. Riley shut her down.
The constantly replaying loop of memories yields one conclusion: I should have known. I shouldn’t have accepted her evasive answers. Instead of letting the phone roll out of my hand, I could have talked her out of it, or talked to her for so long that she fell asleep and stayed in bed that morning instead of driving to the bridge.
Not only am I a shit driver and gymnast, but I’m a shit friend, too.
I stop at Emery’s number. She was the one I felt closest to, the one who laughed the loudest at my jokes and rolled her eyes when Jess preened in the mirror. I click her name first, and before I can talk myself out of it, I add Ally, Monica, and Jess to the group message.
Hey, strangers, I miss you! I’m sorry I disappeared.
Weak, but honest. It’s the best I’ve got right now. The reality–I’m sorry I was too jealous and wallowing to feel happy for you, or to even talk to you–seems a little heavy for an icebreaker message.
“I don’t know about those girls,” Cassie had said as we hung out in the backseat of my dad’s car on the way home from a meet, eating potato chips (the perfect post-competition snack, obviously). “I think you only like them because you’re under the influence of chalk.”
“We spend almost thirty hours a week together,” I’d said.
“You’re always trying to beat them. What kind of friendship is that?”
Yes, Monica was as tightly coiled as her dark curls, and Jess would cheat during strength and get us all in trouble. We understood each other, though; the same exhaustion burned in our muscles and we’d struggle to lift our arms as our coach Matt said, “Just one more bar routine.” (“Just one more” meant we had at least three more.)
Cass, however, did have a valid point. Relegated to the couch with a glass of water and a vial of painkillers, it hurt me too much to see the videos they posted and read their enthusiastic texts about new skills and future plans when I no longer had either. So when I offered evasive answers to their questions about my knee, they’d stopped asking. I’d let them drift until they were out of sight.
Somehow, with Cassie right beside me every day, she’d nearly slipped away. I can’t be that friend anymore. I have to be alert. It might be too late for my old teammates to forgive my absence from their lives. If there’s a shot to make amends, though, I’ll take it.
In the early morning rush at Ponquogue High School, with a volume level that has mercifully returned to high tide under a full moon, I check for a response. Story of my life lately.
Seeing you at the bonfire was quite possibly the highlight of my eighteen years of existence, Emery replies. She’s written back to me individually instead of to everyone.
By the end of first period, no one else has replied, confirming what I suspected to be true. I’m a terrible friend.
Another message from Emery. Sooooo you’re coming to practice today, right?!
For a moment, I actually consider it.
When I was younger, it was the safest place I had when Richard first deployed to Afghanistan. It was my own world that came with its own set of problems and challenges. It was one that I knew how to maneuver. I was certain if I practiced hard, the outcome would be what I wanted. Then, of course, I learned that the latter wasn’t true.
As the hallway thins out, I maintain the same slow pace. Is it just me, or are people avoiding eye contact? Either it’s because I’m the near-dead girl’s best friend, or my father is handing back a test today.
This is not the normal, safe senior year I’ve been banking on. To say the least.
Emery’s relentless. Gymnasts are focused, that’s for sure. So. Practice. Yes?
I turn the corner for my locker and smash into Marcos’s chest. He stumbles into Jacki and her locker slams shut. “Ow, ow, ow! You just broke my hand!” she exclaims. Tears, immediately.
“I’m sorry.” Marcos takes her baby-pale hand in his and examines it. “Can you move your fingers?”
Get your hand out of his.
Where did that thought come from? I fling open my locker and it resounds with an unreasonably loud bang. Subtle. “Don’t you guys have class?”
“Study hall.” He flips her hand over, looking at the knuckles.
Jacki hiccups her way to calmness. “I’m gonna have to go to the nurse,” she says, voice cracking, but the tears have subsided. I bet her hand wasn’t even in her locker. I bet she’s scared of loud noises like children who fear thunder. I know the difference between just sound and real pain.
“Hey, Savannah.” Perhaps satisfied that Jacki’s injury will not require surgery or, I don’t know, a hand replacement, he approaches me. His fingers rest on the edge of the locker door, holding onto it hopefully. The same hands that plunged into freezing waters, pulled Cassie to the shore, kept her alive.
His dimples crease as he smiles at me like it’s the most natural greeting in the world. “I like your hair.”
That’s all it takes. I like your hair. The spiky pieces stand up with static cling from my run-in with his shirt.
I close my locker and put my hand on that coconut hair. Pull his cool lips to mine. He tastes like morning.
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.