Redwood and Ponytail

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Redwood and Ponytail Page 8

by K. A. Holt


  What?

  TAM

  Practice today.

  But just before,

  Kate sneaks away.

  I do, too.

  And we sit in the shade

  surveying

  the field,

  the football players running around,

  an airplane leaving a mark

  across the sky.

  It makes me sigh,

  this quiet moment.

  She doesn’t need to talk.

  I don’t need to either.

  We can just sit.

  Side by side

  and be . . .

  together.

  Kate

  We’re too far away

  for anyone to see

  and I wish we could be

  like this

  all the time.

  Our own spot.

  Our own bubble.

  It’s so quiet,

  so calm,

  like we hit pause

  and this moment is just . . .

  our own.

  TAM

  Kate

  My sneaker.

  Her sneaker.

  Her falcon foot.

  My falcon foot.

  Side by side.

  My elbow.

  Her elbow.

  Her elbow.

  My elbow.

  Side by side.

  My hand.

  Her hand.

  Her hand.

  My hand.

  Side by side.

  Leaning back,

  Leaning back,

  I feel the breeze.

  The sun is warm.

  The sun is warm.

  I feel the breeze.

  Everything

  Everything

  is quiet,

  feels right,

  feels right.

  is quiet.

  Side by side.

  TAM

  There’s a light in her eyes,

  an ember

  shining bright;

  a tiny bit of heat

  I always see,

  always there,

  and when I look too long

  the ember

  spreads the heat,

  burns brighter

  like a campfire,

  a spark

  electric arc

  caught on a breeze.

  Her ember eyes

  take her burning light

  making my own light

  burn inside.

  Kate

  What if we were walking to class?

  What if my hand bumped hers?

  What if my pinkie brushed her pinkie?

  What if her pinkie caught mine?

  What if they linked together?

  What if they swung back and forth?

  What do you think would happen?

  Would anyone see and laugh?

  Would we both pretend it didn’t happen?

  Would my heart threaten to explode?

  Would the world end?

  TAM

  Her pinkie bumped my pinkie

  as we walked to class.

  Then it bumped again,

  a little sideswipe,

  a little grin.

  And then once more,

  a pinkie tap,

  a little Morse code,

  saying hello.

  Then a third time,

  a gentle crash;

  but this time

  my pinkie curled,

  it clasped,

  making a grab,

  making a catch,

  a trapeze artist

  mid-air grasp,

  and her pinkie clasped too,

  and they caught together,

  swinging,

  monkey tails

  in the zoo.

  Tangled-up pinkies

  curled up together,

  swinging,

  clinging,

  knowing exactly what to do.

  Kate

  What does holding hands even mean?

  Maybe your hand is cold.

  Maybe you’re lost.

  Maybe it’s a game.

  It could be anything.

  I hold Dad’s hand.

  (Well, not really anymore.

  He’s gone all the time.)

  I hold Mom’s hand.

  (Well, not really anymore.

  I’m too old.)

  I could hold anyone’s hand if I wanted to,

  but only if anyone’s hand was Tam’s hand

  because that’s the only one I want to.

  TAM

  Energy force

  invisible torch,

  heating up the skin on my arm.

  Her elbow buzzing close,

  whispering hello

  to my own elbow

  without touching,

  but somehow doing

  so much more.

  And Levi is talking,

  saying something about class

  but I can’t hear him,

  the buzzing is too loud

  elbow to elbow

  I can only look down,

  eyes fused

  melted to

  her arm

  looking soft in the light.

  And there’s a tilt in the world

  as the buzz of her arm

  connects with my arm

  and my face flashes hot

  and my eyes shoot up

  and I wonder if the whole lunchroom just heard

  the zippity zap pop

  of electricity

  that came from her.

  Kate

  Here’s the thing.

  I am not a baby elephant.

  I have never actually seen a baby elephant

  in real life.

  But I’ve watched videos.

  Tons and tons of videos.

  And a baby elephant does this thing

  where it runs around to explore.

  Then every few minutes

  it runs back to its mom

  and touches her trunk

  or snuggles her leg

  and then it runs off again

  like its mom has given it energy,

  like it can last a few more minutes

  in the big

  huge

  gigantic world

  because it just touched home

  for a second.

  Like I said,

  I am not a baby elephant.

  But when I see Tam in the halls,

  or in the lunchroom,

  and her eyes catch mine . . .

  I feel like,

  for the next few minutes,

  the big

  huge

  gigantic world

  is safe,

  it’s mine.

  TAM

  I see her over there:

  Kate’s friend,

  Becca.

  She points her yearbook camera at us.

  The shutter

  snaps

  snaps

  snaps

  like exclamation points

  hurled through the air.

  After a minute,

  the snaps stop.

  The camera drops.

  She watches us

  blink

  blink

  blink

  before she turns

  and walks away.

  Becca, with her perfect hair,

  Becca, usually so chatty,

  instead

  stays quiet,

  eyes drop to the floor

  as she rounds the corner

  and I wonder

  what

  what

  what

  is going on

  in that shiny head of hers.

  Alex

  Alyx

  Alexx

  What’s cookin’?

  Brownies, cakes, sweet treats!

  Oh my!

  Oh my!

  Who’s cookin’?

  Cheer squad!

  Bake sale?

  Bake sale! />
  Bake sale!!!

  But wait . . .

  But wait . . .

  But wait . . .

  Is that . . .

  A helper?

  Oooh.

  Sweet intrigue . . .

  Surprise!

  Extra treat?

  TAM

  Kate

  You want me to bake today?

  Oh, come on, silly,

  it’s not that hard.

  You mix eggs and sugar and flour

  and ta da

  you have a cake

  or cookies

  or whatever you want.

  You are not familiar

  with the destruction

  of Birthday Cake’ 17.

  You have not heard of the

  Infamous Exploding Ham Incident

  of ’15,

  have you?

  We could find marshmallows

  and butter

  and Rice Krispies

  and make a bunch of treats.

  Those don’t explode

  unless you count

  the snap crackle and pop

  in your mouth

  when the goo

  hits your tongue.

  I’m telling you,

  me in a kitchen

  is a recipe

  for disaster,

  my friend.

  Come on, silly,

  help me out.

  The big bake sale needs us.

  Plus, it’ll be fun.

  Fun?

  Sure.

  There’s nothing more fun

  than a house burning down!

  Kate

  I’m bringing Tam home

  to help

  with the bake sale,

  my fingers type out

  on my phone

  until

  they do a thing on their own,

  tapping the backspace

  erasing

  the words.

  Mom probably won’t be there;

  it’s wine club night.

  So does it even matter

  anyway

  if I say

  who’s coming home with me

  from school?

  When Becca comes over

  I never tell Mom,

  so why would I tell her

  with Tam?

  I slide my phone back in my bag.

  I wave my pinkie at Tam.

  My stomach does a little leap,

  like I’m being sneaky

  or bad.

  (But that’s crazy, right?

  Why would Mom have a problem with this?

  We’re baking for the squad.)

  TAM

  A museum

  of The Perfect Life

  with plenty of

  Perfectly New Furniture and

  Perfectly Clean Bedrooms.

  A house where you

  take off your shoes,

  leave them neatly by the door,

  where there’s a living room

  no one goes in

  and a dining room

  just for show.

  Your house is like a magazine,

  I say,

  kicking off my shoes.

  Nah.

  She straightens our shoes,

  lines them up,

  soldiers at the door.

  You should see upstairs.

  The remodel just started.

  There are holes in the wall!

  Like yours.

  Like mine?

  Her face turns pink,

  she looks at the floor,

  I mean, like in your room.

  The hole you punched.

  Uh.

  I guess it’s not really like that at

  all.

  I watch her for a second,

  shifting from foot to foot,

  turning pinker and pinker,

  then I laugh,

  I guess your remodel guys

  really want to win at volleyball, too.

  She smiles,

  back to her regular self.

  Something like that.

  Come on.

  Let’s conquer the kitchen.

  Oh, girl,

  be careful what you wish for.

  TAM

  Oh!

  Shazam!

  Look what’s not here!

  Two eggs?

  Nope?

  Looks like they’ve disappeared.

  Looks like we’re gonna have to

  pop by the store

  and grab

  some already-made stuff.

  Looks like you’ve been saved

  from my exploding history

  from my giant puffs

  of stinky smoke

  that tell the whole neighborhood

  oh hey look

  Tam is once again

  attempting to cook.

  Kate

  I can’t help but laugh at Tam,

  so dramatic,

  so not wanting to cook.

  Ten feet tall in the kitchen,

  able to reach any cabinet

  in a single bound,

  but missing the fact

  that

  the eggs

  are right in front of her

  on the counter

  because I’d already pulled them out.

  TAM

  A poof.

  A cloud.

  A laugh.

  She looks up from the bowl,

  her eyebrows

  powdered,

  a revolutionary wig of

  momentary confusion.

  She sputters,

  flour puffs from her lips.

  I laugh again.

  Not all at ONCE, Tam!

  She laughs,

  throws a pinch of flour,

  flicks it

  at my own brows.

  Half-cups at a time, dummy!

  Who are you calling dummy?

  I throw a pinch of flour back,

  and then

  more poofs

  more clouds

  more laughs

  more poofs

  more clouds

  more laughs.

  A thought hits me

  just like a poof of flour

  exploding in my mind:

  How is it that Kate makes me like

  all the things I never have before?

  Bracelets,

  cooking,

  and—

  Girls!

  Enough!

  Uh-oh.

  Kate’s mom.

  Lips in a line,

  cardboard box in her arms,

  wine bottles peeking

  at us.

  Flour dust

  catches in the air

  in the light

  like

  it has frozen

  with us.

  TAM

  I hear them

  in the other room,

  hushed whispers

  that are somehow

  also loud.

  Something about

  You didn’t think to ask?

  and

  Is this really the best friend

  for you?

  TAM

  I want to explain.

  My mom and I . . .

  we have food fights all the time.

  It’s messy and gross

  and dumb and funny

  and I just thought everyone . . .

  But I can’t find the words, exactly,

  and Kate’s mom stares at me

  like she’s mad at me

  for things I don’t even know about,

  and maybe she has

  some kind of special kitchen

  that gets ruined if it’s messy.

  I don’t know

  though,

  that would be a dumb

  design.

  If I could just find the words

  maybe Kate wouldn’t be in trouble.

  Maybe I could save her.

 

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