by Ginger Scott
He looks down at the laptop tucked under my arm, so I hold it up and move toward the stairs.
“Actually, do you think your wife could maybe join us in Eleanor’s room? I have something I think you all might want to see. Something I made, with Morgan’s help.” I glance over his shoulder to the den where Morgan has been hovering.
“It’s done?” She’s picking at the end of her sweater, clearly eager to see the finished product.
“It is. Want to see the grand premier?” I lean my head toward the stairs as she smiles.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” she says, nodding to her dad to reassure him that he’s not getting in over his head. I really hope she’s right.
We gather at the top of the steps and the hallway is already a tight fit. It gets even more crowded when Mrs. Trombley comes out of her room to join us, and I worry Eleanor is going to think this is an intervention when we all convene on her at once. I suppose, in a way, it is.
“Let me set this up with her first, if that’s okay?” I say, stopping right outside Eleanor’s door.
Morgan nods and I leave her parents with her as I slip inside Eleanor’s room. She’s sitting up and watching something on her phone with her headphones on. It’s good to see her engaging with something, and there’s a touch of color to her face. She’s wrapped herself in my flannel shirt, which is flattering. She’s worn it for about five days straight, though, so it might be time for me to swap it out with something different.
To keep from startling her, I crouch down to catch her eyes. She still jumps a little, but pulls her headphones off and sets her phone to the side.
“Sorry, I was watching some home improvement competition. They’re turning storage containers into beach houses.” She’s more animated than she has been in days. This is promising.
“Sounds . . . sandy,” I reply, moving to sit next to her on her bed.
Her attention drifts to my laptop and she curls her legs in, hugging them to her body, already guarded. I open my mouth, ready with the talking points I practiced, but I suddenly realize I’m better off the cuff. I can’t be polished and rehearsed with this girl. I have to be honest and heartfelt. It’s all I’ve ever really been, and it’s taken me—us—far.
I pull in a deep breath that I sense makes her nervous.
“It’s nothing bad. I promise,” I say to set her at ease.
“O-kay,” she hums, shifting her gaze to me then back to the laptop. She lets go of one of her legs and loosens the grip on her knees. Baby steps.
“You know how you made me that music playlist, for my birthday?” I refuse to admit I’m starting to enjoy country music, but I’ve listened to those songs every day for the last month. I have most of them memorized, even the super sappy ones.
“Did you make me a . . . playlist?” She lifts a brow, clearly not sure where any of this is going.
“Right, no. Not exactly. But I did use one of your songs. Not the Bronco one, but that song that you were singing in the car the first time you went to Toby’s with me.”
Her mouth softens, almost a smile.
“Used it for what?” she asks.
I exhale, a little relieved that this is working. She’s taken the bait, so to speak.
“It’s sort of a multimedia project. And I got a little help, so I wondered if you would mind if—”
“If?” she interjects.
“If, maybe I invited your entire family into your bedroom to watch something with us?” I grin through gritted teeth to show her how guilty I feel. She also usually can’t resist me when I play up being pathetic.
“Are they right out there?” She laughs, but shuts her mouth when she gleans from the face I’m making that yes, in fact, they are.
“Guys?” My head sinks into my shoulders with guilt as Morgan unlatches the door and slowly exposes everyone gathered in the tight hallway space.
“Oh, my God, you guys are ridiculous!” Eleanor says. I’m just glad she finds this amusing. So far.
I sit on the floor with the laptop in front of me while her mom and sister nestle in next to her, and Mr. Trombley stands to the side, behind me. I feel as though this requires a set-up, at least, so I flip my computer open but not fully so I can block the screen. The first thing they will see is Addy’s face, and I don’t want them—Eleanor—shutting down before I even start.
“Elle, I know you’re thinking about calling your cheer coach and asking them to put Kacey in for the competition this weekend. And, don’t be mad at your sister, but she also told me you’re thinking about passing on Texas.”
Eleanor’s mom gasps behind me, but before she can turn this moment into something it’s not, both Morgan and I hold up our hands.
“Give him a minute, Mom,” Morgan says.
My gaze slides back to Eleanor, and she’s holding her thumbnail tightly between her teeth, fear spiraling behind her eyes.
“Before you change up your entire path . . .” I’m careful not to use the word derail. If I learned one thing from my mom’s months of therapy sessions, it’s that people do not like to be accused of derailing anything. It’s the one word my mom would hold on to after every appointment, and repeat it like it was a weapon. I honestly believe that word is the reason she quit going to that doctor.
“Take a look at these memories you built, you all built, with Addy. And if you erase those things that you do, that she was such a huge part of, you might end up erasing a part of her.” My dad’s book flashes through my mind as I say this. All I thought I was missing was the guy who left early and came home late from work. But I missed so much more. I wish I had an ounce of the shared experiences Eleanor has with her little sister.
“Okay,” I say, steeling myself before flipping my screen back for everyone to see. I turn the volume up and click play, then hold my breath for two minutes and forty-seven seconds.
The room is silent for the first part, which is mostly a slideshow of Addy in their lives. When it gets to her and Eleanor playing together, learning cheer routines and high-fiving at Badger games, I can literally feel the air move and lightness fill the room. Mr. Trombley chuckles as the video shows his youngest daughter attempting a cartwheel, but his hand grips at his heart when the next scene is his middle daughter physically holding his youngest through an entire flip just to prove to her that she can do it.
There are slow dances together, Addy standing on top of Eleanor’s feet, and then there’s a scene where both Morgan and Eleanor hide in a box to surprise their parents because Addy told them to. Her voice can be heard between the lyrics of Eleanor’s favorite song, and it’s as if Addy is singing along with it, her cadence made for song. It’s her essence, simply the way her words come out. She breathes life and music, and from a quick survey of the people around me, she makes it impossible not to smile.
God, I wish I’d known her better.
The video fades to a single photo at the end, from this year. It’s Addy sitting on Eleanor’s knee while she poses with both arms up, ready to cheer, and she’s wearing her sister’s away uniform while Eleanor is in her home blues. It’s about three sizes too big on Addy, and if she stood, it would probably slip right off. But this is the moment Eleanor was telling me about. It’s the last sliver of hope to keep her from making rash decisions in her time of grief that will only fill her with regret later.
“She loved to watch you cheer,” Eleanor’s mom says, sniffling with emotion behind me.
I close my computer and turn to face them all, my eyes catching Morgan’s first. She nods through teary eyes and gives me a thumbs-up that she keeps close to her chest. I hope she’s right and this did the job it was meant to do. Their parents thank me for putting something so special together, and I hand over the laptop when Mr. Trombley asks if he can play it again so he can pause on a few of the pictures.
It’s Eleanor I’m the most interested in, though. Her chin rests on her knee, bouncing as she gnaws at her thumb, eyes transfixed on the empty space between me and her. I wave my hand, s
licing through the air, and she doesn’t react. My shoulders deflate, but I try again, waving longer this time. Her eyes shift to mine eventually, and they are full of fear.
“I don’t know if I can do any of this without her,” she says, her voice bleeding with ache and sorrow, barely audible but enough that it stops everyone in the room.
Her parents pause the video and set my computer down so they can tend to their daughter, and Morgan slides an arm around Eleanor in an attempt to move her rigid body into an embrace. Eleanor shakes her head, slow at first but her movements grow more fitful and unnerved with every beat of her heart.
“I can’t do any of it without her,” she repeats.
“You won’t be,” I say. That’s really the message of all of this. None of them have to go on without her. They carry her inside.
Tears rush to fill her eyes, spilling over to her cheeks until they drip from her jaw.
“Honey,” her mom says, wiping them away with her palm.
“She’s not here,” Eleanor says, her eyes still locked on mine, lips quivering.
I know what she means, but I also know that in some ways, she’s wrong. Swallowing hard, I dig deep for the right thing to say, something that will give her faith. She needs something to believe in, a way to talk to Addy. That will give her strength.
“Addy is. She always will be.”
In six words, I manage to break down the last of the dam as tears pour out of Eleanor, along with all the pain she has been too afraid to walk through on her own. I get to my knees and wrap my arms around her, bringing her to the floor where she falls into my body and sobs in my lap. Morgan moves next to her and rubs her back while her parents look on. Every single one of us is crying. We mourn the young spirit who’s missing but left behind so much good.
But after an hour of tears and sharing stories and laughter, and even long minutes with no words at all as those thoughts and feelings sink in, I believe Addy gets her way.
She is. And she always will be.
Twenty-Three
“For the record, I don’t think any of this is a good idea.”
I’m not wrong. Jake knew that at some point today Eleanor would need a spark. I kinda thought maybe a poster with her name on it, or T-shirts we all could wear. Jake had other ideas.
I’ve already lost the bet, so what he has planned is one hundred percent straight from the heart, if you can call a six-foot-three bare-assed naked guy sprinting across a cheer mat heartfelt.
Jake swears you can.
“Dude, these sweatpants are really riding up my crotch.” He squats as he stands along the balcony railing next to me and I move over a few feet because . . . gross.
“I don’t know why you took off your boxers,” I mutter, shaking my head.
“Are you kidding me? I’m going to need to be quick. And speaking of quick, after I do this, you have to come pick me up because once I start running I’m not stopping until I get to the park bathrooms on Apricot and Third.”
I gawk at my friend. He’s really put a lot of thought into something incredibly dumb. If he put half this much effort into geometry, I wouldn’t have to tutor him. If I didn’t think this scheme would at least distract Eleanor from the pull of sadness, I would have forbidden it. I think it will make her laugh, though. The good kind of laugh. The kind we all miss hearing.
“Promise me you’ll pick me up,” he says.
“Promise me you’ll put pants on before you sit in my Bronco.”
He grimaces as if my request is weird.
“Fine, yeah. I’ll pick you up.” I’m not rushing out behind him, though. No way in hell do I want anyone thinking I’m a part of . . . that.
Our conversation gets cut off by the announcement calling Oak Forest High to the mats. The lights dim, but I can tell, even in the darkness, which one is Eleanor as everyone on the squad spreads out to their positions. I’m nervous for her. Not for the tumbling and stuff. She could do that in her sleep. It’s the other stuff, the things inside that are still very much trying to take her down. Her support system is behind her, though. All of us. Her parents, grandparents and sister are all sitting at the side of the stage. My mom took today off from her second job to be here. I left Mom and Grandpa in the chairs by the floor. I want to be able to film everything on my phone so Eleanor can relive it when she’s ready, and the view up here is perfect.
When the lights go out completely, I steady my phone between my hands and begin to record. The spotlights come on as the familiar—and by this point fairly obnoxious—music kicks in.
The first few passes of tumbling look good and from what I can tell, nobody’s out of place. Bodies shift and move like clockwork, girls being tossed and caught in sync with sound effects. Seeing this routine go down in a place like this makes it all seem so much more intense. Maybe it’s acoustics, or maybe it’s the fact that inside, you can tell exactly how high those girls are being thrown.
I recognize sections and brace myself when Eleanor’s first solo tumble is coming up. I take a deep breath, imagining myself in sync with her, and hold my breath as she backs herself into the far corner of the mat, nodding when she’s ready. Her feet thunder toward the open middle, and she dives with her hands forward, punching the mat with enough force to spring her body around completely, feet over her head, head over feet, until she stops hard in the very center as if a magnet drew her feet to the perfect spot.
I don’t let my breath out until I hear the crowd cheer, but within a beat I’m holding it again. Pass after pass goes by without a single error that I can see. They’re getting close to the part when Eleanor finishes with the splits, so I focus on the view through my phone, taking special care not to miss any of the big tricks, and to make sure I don’t jiggle the focus.
“Damn!” Jake muses next to me just as Eleanor holds her body weight up in a position that would give both of us nightmares.
The end of the music is approaching. It’s sad that I actually know this compilation by heart. There’s one trick left, the one with Eleanor’s twist. All eyes follow her, and I count to myself while her teammates pump their arms, priming them to send her soaring up to the rafters. On three, she goes up, and her body makes its full rotation. As she comes down, though, her leg slips loose right before she’s caught, sending her along with two of her teammates tumbling to the ground.
“Shit,” Jake says, and I stop recording because I don’t think she’s going to want to see this part, or hear our friend’s commentary.
“She’s okay, right? Is she okay?” I ask Jake as if he can see something I can’t. I’m bouncing on my toes, wavering and unsure whether I should rush down there or wait this out. The music has stopped and all of the lights are back on. Her coach is crouching next to her, stretching and flexing her leg while the training team climbs up on the mat. Her team is huddled around her, all of them kneeling while she grabs at her ankle. She’s definitely crying.
“I should go,” I say, but Jake holds his arm across my chest before I turn, stopping me. He motions to the floor.
Eleanor is attempting to get to her feet. Her coach on one side, Gemma on the other, she steadies herself as they brace her under her elbows. Eleanor keeps shaking her head, and I can’t tell if those are winces of determination or excruciating pain. Finally, after a full minute of testing her weight on her ankle with the help of her team, she sets out to try it on her own. Everyone backs away to give her room, and she hobbles to the far corner then tumbles her way to the center. It’s obvious that she isn’t one-hundred percent. Her right foot never fully lands on the mat, but what’s even more impressive is the way she holds it a half-inch from the ground to make it look like her landing is clean. The strength of that left leg and foot is epic.
Hopping toward the front of the mat, Eleanor leans forward to say something to the judges.
“Come on, guys. Give her a break. Come on.” I’m not sure what request she’s making, but I silently demand them to grant it, no matter how unreasonable or unfair or
against whatever rules her ask might be.
After a few minutes of the judges conversing through whispers, the woman who seems to be the lead nods toward the coach. Eleanor puts her hands together and bends forward to say thanks before hobbling back to the middle of the mat. Someone near the floor whistles, and I swear it’s my grandfather. The crowd begins to clap in rhythm, so I bring my phone back up to my chest and steady it to record. I begin right before Eleanor’s team regroups, all of them back in their places to pick up where they were right before things went wrong.
“Are you getting this?”
“Yes. Shh,” I hush Jake.
Just like the time I lifted her to the sky in the middle of our street, I count down for her final moment.
Three, two . . . one.
Her body sails through the air, as tight as the first time, the rotation just as crisp. This time, as she lands, every arm is intact, every hold solid, and with one final swing, Eleanor’s team sends her back up in the air for her to flip with one knee out and the other tucked against her chest.
With sheer will and precision, and with Gemma’s hands gripping her leg like hell, Eleanor balances above her team and holds the position for a full three seconds before tucking and landing safely in her team’s cradled arms.
The gym erupts in celebration. There’s no way we’re placing first, not with the mistake. But it doesn’t matter. That one bobble is not what anyone is going to remember about today, especially not Eleanor. She’s going to remember facing adversity, and then overcoming it like mad.
I record all the way through the team’s exit from the mat, wanting to be sure I capture every whistle and the standing ovation that follow the Badgers’ exit. When we hear the team roar with their own cheer behind the stage, Jake and I head down to join them.
Morgan is waiting off to the side, Eleanor’s things bundled in a bag at her feet. I step up beside her to wait while Eleanor hugs her parents and grandparents and celebrates with her friends. She and her mom cry as they embrace, and I know they feel Addy’s presence. That finish—that was her doing. I’m sure of it.
