Mrs. Applegate lets out a low whistle and bites her lip. “There are other gyms in the area that would be thrilled to have a student as young and talented as Shelly,” she says, staring at me.
Women like her always resort to the thinly veiled threat of pulling their daughter from the school and taking them elsewhere. What they don’t realize is that I know I’m the best in the area. My reputation as a gymnast and a coach are impeccable, and I produce winners in all levels. She won’t leave. She’ll just make my life hell unless I figure out a solution that works for everyone. Unlike some coaches, I make sure that solution centers around the student, no matter the cost.
“When does Shelly turn four?”
“July,” she answers, inching closer to the edge of her seat.
I smile. “I’m a July birthday too. How about this,” I say, my mind wrestling with the moral implications of compromising with this woman. Experience has taught me that if I give an inch now, she’ll try to take a mile later. “In July we can start private sessions, but only one per week in addition to her group lessons. If she seems to handle this workload, we can talk about increasing the sessions after three months. Deal?”
She purses her red lips, a little lipstick smudging under one corner. “Deal,” she says, reaching her hand across the desk and offering a limp shake. “I know she will thrive with a little more attention,” she says. “She’ll be in the fives before we know it!”
“I’m sure she will.” I stand and hope she takes the hint. “I’ll see you Thursday?”
She smiles and backs from the room. “Wouldn’t miss it!”
***
Settling back in my chair, I replay the conversation with Mrs. Applegate in my head. I should’ve insisted on waiting until Shelly was five. That was the right thing to do. But she’s not wrong about her daughter. The girl is a rare prodigy who will benefit from one-on-one lessons only if they’re done properly. If I refused her this wish, she might have taken her somewhere else for private instruction to supplement our group sessions, and another coach might not have been willing to tread lightly and pushed the girl too far. I only hope I can do my job and keep both mom happy and Shelly in love with the sport.
This is one of the reasons I’m hesitant to wish for a daughter of my own. Will I turn into a CGM, pushing my own daughter harder and harder, living vicariously through her like these desperate women?
Somewhere along the way, I realize, I’ve fallen out of love with gymnastics. It’s probably why I try so hard to keep that spark alive for the girls I teach. It might be why I didn’t make it to the big leagues—that and money, of course. But I wonder if everything would have sorted itself out if I’d loved the sport just a little more.
A knock on the door jolts me from my ruminations. Glancing at the clock, I see I have only ten minutes before the fives hit the mat. I take a sip of water and attempt to force these troublesome thoughts to the back of my mind where they belong. Lately, children have been on my mind more and more. Maybe it’s because I see them day in and day out—or perhaps it’s something else, something more primal. Either way, I don’t have time to ponder the question. Nine tween girls will soon descend upon me, and I need all my energy to make it through the class.
6
James
Age 18
April 1989
She’s so tiny—or “petite,” as she refers to herself. At first glance she looks like a freshman, not a senior about to go off into the world as an adult. This is because she not only is short and skinny but also hardly ever wears any makeup.
This little-girl facade is in direct opposition to her personality. Karen’s fiery, and even I was surprised at just how wild she was. We’d been dating almost three years before we actually “did it.” She insisted we wait for the perfect time, and to be honest, I worried it would never be the right time, as months turned into years. I would’ve been happy to do it between algebra and world history, but I knew Karen would never agree to it. Timing is more important to girls. All my guy friends say the same thing about their girlfriends, unless they’re dating one of the easy ones. Every lame teen movie confirms this truth: Boy meets girl. Girl and boy date. Boy is tortured into waiting until girl gives it up after prom. They live happily ever after, or at least go off to college happily enough. So I guess Karen and I are just a big cliché, because after junior prom we walked up that grand staircase to our room and we both knew it was the perfect time.
Luckily, we got the room to ourselves. I was supposed to share with my friend Craig, and Karen had planned on staying with her friend Beth. Conveniently, they ended up together that night too.
It wasn’t my first time, but Karen didn’t know that then and she never will. I intend to take that secret to the grave. No sense in hurting her by admitting the truth. While we were broken up for that week or two during sophomore year, I got a little drunk at a party and ended up hooking up with some girl from my science class. It never happened again, and I barely remember it. It barely even counts. Prom was my real first time. Maybe it wasn’t quite as intense as in the movies—we didn’t have any cheesy background music or a million candles—but it was way better than I even imagined. Part of me expected things to be a little awkward and slow. Boy, was I wrong. My friends always joke I’m lucky to date a gymnast. Karen didn’t disappoint. She’s very bendy.
Which is one of the many reasons it’s going to be so hard to break up with her. Not only is she flexible, but she’s one of the prettiest girls in school, and the sweetest. She’s smart and talented and driven. All the things I want in a girlfriend. But it can’t work. She’s going to Boston College. I’m heading to NYU in the Big Apple. Sure, it’s only a car ride away, but I don’t want to do long-distance, and Karen knows this. Unfortunately for me, Karen also thinks I’m going to BC. This has been our plan since ninth grade, but somewhere along the way it changed for me. I just forgot to tell her as much.
It isn’t like I set out to lie to her. No, I just haven’t found the right time to tell her that our dreams don’t mesh anymore. When we were sophomores, it was easy for me to imagine us both going to BC. Karen would study whatever it is she plans on studying and compete on the gymnastics team, and I would study prelaw. My dad graduated from BC a hundred years ago, so it seemed predetermined. But a lot of shit has happened in the last two years, and BC isn’t what I want anymore. Not that I know exactly what I’m looking for, but I need to get away from here and figure it out. On my own. Without my dad peeking over my shoulder, plotting out my life one advanced-placement class at a time. Without a girlfriend to worry about. Away from the ghost of my dead sister with her larger-than-life shoes to fill. At NYU, I can escape all this baggage. Start fresh.
I can’t start fresh with Karen there too.
Her hands are so small. Her nails are painted electric yellow and chipped in a couple places. She does them herself but always ends up picking off the paint after a week.
Other students gossip and jostle around us, someone throwing a fry so it lands near my foot. It’s a normal day. We come to Sarah’s Kitchen at least three times a week after school; it’s our routine. I wonder if I should’ve picked someplace else.
Karen picks at her Caesar salad, dipping each piece of lettuce into the little cup of dressing she had them place on the side. Sometimes I wish she’d just eat a sandwich or something. Once, I ordered two burgers, one for each of us. When she got here and saw it in front of her seat, she was too nice to send it back or let it go to waste, so she ended up eating it, looking like she was going to throw up the entire time. I’m not sure why I did it. I know she’s on a strict diet for gymnastics. But I just wanted her to be normal for once. She always adheres to these rules that I don’t understand. Making her eat the burger was like breaking the law.
I wish there were some easy way to break someone’s heart. Karen’s the only girl I’ve dated since eighth grade, so I don’t have much experience in such matters, but even a dummy like me knows this will hurt her. It hurts
me to do it.
“Karen, I have to tell you something,” I blurt out, my mouth still full of french fries.
She looks at me expectantly, lettuce suspended on the fork near her mouth. I’ve never noticed the orange flecks in her blue eyes, like little flames. “What? You sound so serious.” She rolls her eyes and nibbles at a crouton, breaking the spell.
I fiddle with the straws in our strawberry milkshake. We always get two, even though she hardly ever drinks hers. Her entire calorie allotment would be wasted on just one sip.
“I’m not going to BC anymore,” I say, without looking at her. I stare at the straws, rubbing them together between my fingers. Anything to distract myself from her heavy gaze. “I’m going to NYU instead.” I don’t tell her the entire truth, that I never really intended on going to Boston at all.
She doesn’t say anything, and I wonder if she’s heard me. “Karen . . . I said I’m not . . .”
“I heard you.” Her delicate jaw is set in a frown and she purses her pink lips together, but I can still see them begin to quiver.
I wait for her to continue, but she stays stonily silent. “I mean, I know it was our plan to go there together, but things have changed. You know how things are with my dad,” I stutter, eager to fill the void breaking between us. “I need to get away,” I say. Karen knows the tenuous relationship I have with my father. She’s always been so empathetic; I hope she understands. This isn’t about her. It’s about me.
“I don’t get it. You can’t just change your mind now,” she says. It’s hard to tell by her tone if she’s outraged or simply confused. Her eyes are starting to fill with tears and her voice trembles. “Didn’t you send in your acceptance in December? The tuition check is already paid!”
Back in December I proudly showed Karen my early-decision acceptance letter from Boston College. I failed to share that I’d also sent out a few regular deadline applications to other schools. She assumed I was going to BC, and I didn’t say otherwise. When I received my acceptance letter from NYU in March, I didn’t tell her. By the end of March, the checks and paperwork had been filled out and sent to New York and I’d declined the offer at BC. Karen didn’t realize I’d played the system a bit. She applied early acceptance, essentially binding herself to BC if she was accepted. I only applied early decision.
Silence. Her eyes are a shade darker than earlier, the orange flames raging. I should shut my mouth, since I’m only digging myself deeper and deeper into a hole full of all the lies and omissions of truth I’ve collected the past few months, but I can’t shut up. I keep digging.
“Right. I did, but my dad has friends on the admissions board who were able to pull some strings and get me out of my acceptance promise. My dad got his check back,” I lie. “Guess it pays to have friends in high places.”
The joke falls flat.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks, the hurt in her eyes almost too much to bear. “Why didn’t you tell me any of it? I only applied to BC; I could’ve applied to other places with you. NYU has a great gymnastics team,” she says.
“It’s too late to apply there for next semester. I already checked.” The fib slips out so easily it almost feels like it actually happened. “I should have told you, Karen. It was a last-minute decision.” The words keep falling out of my mouth. Maybe some of it’s partly true. It’s probably too late to apply for the fall term—since it’s almost May—but I didn’t actually check. Nothing about this plan was last-minute. I love Karen, but I don’t want her to come with me. Everything depends on my going alone.
Her shoulders fall as the last shred of hope is stolen from her. I watch as the true meaning of everything I’m saying hits her. She bites the inside of her cheek—something she does when she’s really angry or really sad. I’m unsure which direction she’s leaning. Even after a few years of dating, she’s still hard to read.
“You’re breaking up with me.” It’s not a question.
I can’t bring myself to meet her eyes, so steely and determined across the table. I expected her to yell. To cry. I didn’t expect this reaction. She studies me, and I blush under her scrutiny. I wither under her gaze as she sees me for who I am. A coward.
I manage a nod. “I’m sorry,” I mutter. I feel exposed, unable to keep up the lies anymore. “I want us both to be able to experience everything at college. A fresh start.” I dare to lift my eyes and see only contempt. “I’d like to stay friends,” I offer, though I can’t imagine she’d want the same.
Karen laughs, another unexpected response. “Sure. Let’s hang out real soon,” she mocks, shaking her head. “Thanks for telling me. I’m sure it was hard,” she says.
Here’s the Karen I know, the empathetic and kind girl I’ve loved for so long. “It was,” I say, choking up. “This is so hard.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, and my blood runs cold. “I bet. But it’s better you told me now than waited until the fall. How surprised I would’ve been to find out you hightailed it to New York after dropping me at my dorm,” she says, still smiling without showing her teeth.
Chastised, I keep my mouth shut. She has every right to think I’m an asshole. There’s no part of this that I handled well. But I’m doing the right thing now and coming clean. Seriously, no one stays together after high school anymore. It doesn’t work. Isn’t it better to end it now, before we get more attached and hurt each other worse? I hope that after a little time she’ll see this was the mature and rational decision. It’s not fair to either of us if we stay together because of our shared history. We deserve a little freedom to find ourselves, allow ourselves to change and move on. Someday she’ll see.
Karen waits for me to say something, and I let her down, again. She sighs, accepting my silence as resignation. “All right then. See you around,” she says, standing. For a moment her hand lingers on the table, and I yearn to reach out and touch it, one last time. But I’m frozen in place and she pulls away, clenching her hand into a fist at her side. She turns to open her mouth but closes it, as though she’s thought better of whatever it was she was about to say. Instead, she shakes her head and walks away, out the door, and never looks back.
May 1989
“Every decision we’ve made until this point has helped put us on the path we currently travel. It’s more than the classes we chose, the grades we earned—it’s the friendships we created, the bonds we built. Our destiny is forged from these relationships.” The index cards vibrate in my trembling hands as I address the throng in front of me.
The crowd stares back at me, waiting. I take a deep breath and plunge ahead. “So, fellow students, favorite teachers, parents and friends, I want you to reflect on our time together and prepare for the future we’ve created alongside one another. As this part of our life comes to a close, the next leg of our journey is set to start.
“During the next four years, I want for us to be true to ourselves. I want for us to discover who we are by continuing on this path that’s begun here, together. So here’s to the future, and here’s to becoming the person we’re destined to be.”
My speech finished, I place the cards in a stack back onto the podium. One flutters to the stage as the wind grabs it in a downward spiral. The audience is loud, clapping and cheering, some standing. My fellow students, all dressed in black caps and gowns, are smiling and clapping along. A couple of football players elbow one another, and one calls out, “Yeah, Jamie!” even though I barely know him and no one’s ever called me Jamie before. It’s like now that we’re all graduating, we’ve suddenly become best friends. People that have never said one word to each other in four years of school are congratulating each other, signing yearbooks. High school was the great divider and graduation the great binder. We’re all eighteen and getting the hell out of here. Why not be nice to the nerd you’re never going to see again?
Squinting against the bright May sun, I catch a glimpse of my dad sliding back into his seat. Mom whispers something into his ear, and he starts
clapping with the rest of the crowd. I can’t wait to hear what he has to say about the speech he didn’t listen to. I’m sure he’ll still have an opinion. He always does.
The principal strides across the stage and places one hand on my shoulder before shaking my hand with his other. I wave and bow my head to the crowd as he begins to introduce the valedictorian. As I walk back to my seat in the front row, people congratulate me and I nod in thanks, eager to get out of the spotlight.
Through the haze of voices, hers is crystal clear. “Nice job, James,” Karen says. It’s barely more than a whisper but enough to drown out all the noise.
I stop in my tracks, afraid I’ll trip over my own two feet. Since we broke up, she’s barely looked in my direction. She’s gone out of her way to avoid talking to me, which has been tough, considering I’m class president and she’s secretary. The vice president has been our acting intermediary these last few weeks, much to her outspoken annoyance.
“Thanks,” I say, and reach for her outstretched hand. Our fingertips touch, and for a flash of a second I wish it were all different. Wish I hadn’t broken up with her. Wish I hadn’t lied, hadn’t changed all our plans and hurt her so badly.
The graduation ceremony wraps up just like any other. For a brief moment, still acutely aware of Karen, I question whether I’ve made the right decision.
Dinner with my family only solidifies my determination to leave.
Dad still isn’t happy about NYU. This doesn’t come as any surprise, considering he’s never very happy about anything I do. He’s a lawyer, so he loves to argue about everything. Apparently he’s passed along some of his contentious genes to me, since I’m always quick with a counterattack, eager to dispute his points with points of my own.
Sometime, Somewhere Page 3
