by Amanda Grace
I blink, realizing how far ahead I’m looking. Christmas is almost three months away. Her birthday’s not even until April.
The outfit seemed to have transformed her the moment she put it on, because she’s been smiling and laughing and embracing everything we’ve done so far, even if we were both a little underdressed for ballet at the Pantages. I always feel like I’m going back in time when I set foot in there—like I should be wearing some fancy old ball gown, and that when I leave I’m going to climb into a carriage, not a car.
We walk down the hill, side by side, toward where my car sits on Broadway Street. I pop the trunk and pull out a Home Depot plastic bag. The paint cans we bought clang together as I slam the drunk shut.
“I can’t believe we’re going to do this,” I say. “It seems like such a random thing.”
Zoey grins, grabbing the bag out of my hands. “I had no idea spray paint was so cheap. I probably would’ve done this sooner.”
“I call the pink,” I say.
“What exactly are you going to paint?”
“I have no idea.”
“And yet you know it will be pink.”
We walk the blocks between the Pantages and the Garage in just a few minutes, and soon I’m standing at the open side of the space, staring inward.
“Wow,” I say, walking to the first wall, where an enormous,
rainbow-colored face stares back at me. It looks Tribal or Aztec or something, with a huge headpiece and piercing dark eyes. “I had no idea this stuff would be so beautiful.”
“Look at this one,” Zoey says, pointing to the next section of the garage where a huge lion’s head, mouth open wide in an eternal roar, has been painted.
We wander farther into the space, taking in the urban art. “These people have serious talent,” I say.
“It’s don’t think I want to cover any of this up,” she says, spinning in a small circle. “We could do something on those posts, though.”
I turn to see where she’s pointing. There are four square posts in the center of the garage, about eighteen inches across on each side. “Yeah, let’s do that. I don’t want to paint over something with my kindergarten-level art. And those posts look like they haven’t been painted in a while.”
We cross the garage and Zoey dumps out the cans, lining them up in a row between the two center posts. Pink, purple, red, green, blue, yellow, black, and a metallic gold.
She picks the black can and walks around the post, so that I can’t see her. The shhhhhhhhh sound of the can disrupts the silence.
“What are you going to do?” I ask, grabbing the pink can.
“Not telling you,” she says. “Paint on the other side of the next post and when we’re both done, we’ll reveal it.”
“I feel like you’ve watched one too many HGTV shows,” I say, rounding the pillar.
I stare at my pillar for a while, trying to decide what to create, before settling on an idea.
It takes us both twenty minutes of near silence, the only sounds the hissing paint or the rattling bead whenever we shake the cans. Every time I glance over at Zoey, she’s got her eyes narrowed in concentration.
“You look cute when you do that,” I say, snapping the lid back on my can.
“Do what?”
“Chew on your lip when you’re really concentrating.”
“Oh.” She smiles, her cheeks flushing. “Thanks.”
She sweeps her can back and forth a few more times, putting the finishing touches on her art. “Okay, so I think I’m done. You can’t laugh, though.”
“Hey, fine with me. But that goes both ways.”
“Deal. I want to see yours first.”
Zoey walks past me, rounding the pillar. She stops in front of my painting, her arms crossed, her eyes sweeping over my so-called art. “Wow. This is really pretty.”
I step up beside her, studying my creation. Two sunflowers, their stalks intertwined, reach up toward a pink sunshine. One yellow petal flutters to the ground.
“Thanks. I couldn’t get the leaves quite right,” I say, pointing to the funky little leaves on the stalks.
“It’s beautiful, though,” she says.
“I don’t hate it,” I say, grinning. “Now let’s see yours.”
I walk around the pillar, stopping when I catch a view of her piece.
The center is two hearts, overlapping, one red, one black. She copied the outline of the hearts over and over, the colors alternating, until paint covered the whole pillar.
“Wow,” I say. “It’s amazing.”
“You think?” she asks.
“Yes. It’s us, isn’t it?” I turn to meet her eyes.
She nods.
“I love it.”
“Thank you,” Zoey says, her voice serious as she runs her hands through her hair. “And not just for the compliments, but for all of today. For this.” She motions to her clothes. “And for lunch, and the ballet, and the painting.”
I grin. “I’ve had fun.”
“No one’s ever done anything this thoughtful for me before,” she says.
“Well, get used to it.”
“I’m trying. It just takes some adjustment.”
“I’m not going anywhere, so you’ve got time.”
The words are out of my mouth before I realize it, and Zoey’s expression shifts.
“We’re really doing this, aren’t we?” she asks.
“Doing what?” I say, playing dumb.
“Being together. It works. You know it does.”
I nod.
“So, I have to break up with Liam soon.”
I rake in a ragged breath. “I know. Just … just not yet.”
“Liv—”
“It’s only been a week,” I say. “It could still fall apar—”
“That’s not what you’re worried about,” Zoey says, bending down to gather up the spray paint. “You’re worried that he’s going to be mad at you.”
She’s right.
“I pretty much stole the only girl he’s ever been truly into,” I mumble.
She stands up and the paint cans clang together, more hollow-sounding than before. “Even without you in the picture, I knew I didn’t feel the right things for him. Breaking up with him is as much about me and him as it is about me and you.”
I grab the last can of paint and drop it into the bag. “I know. I just have to figure out how to do this without him freaking out, okay? Just give me a few more days. A week, tops. It needs to come from me.”
Zoey steps forward and wraps me in a hug. “Deal.”
Zoey
After my short shift at Burgerville, I hurry home, half jogging, half walking to cover the mile as quickly as possible. My mom has a job interview and had to leave Carolyn at home. My sister is too young to be home by herself for long, especially in our neighborhood.
I walk the same way Olivia drove me just a couple of weeks ago, but today the sky is a vibrant blue, broken up only by a few high, fluffy clouds. Soon I’m crossing our lawn, climbing the steps, and pushing through the open door.
Inside, Carolyn is sitting on the couch, her feet propped up on the battered coffee table. Her eyes light up as I enter the living room. I grin and swing my backpack off, digging out a crispy chicken sandwich—no mayo or lettuce, her favorite—and tossing it at her.
“Oh man, I am so starving,” she says. “Thanks.”
I nod. “How long has Mom been gone?”
“Half hour or so.”
I glance at the calendar, which has a date circled in red. My mom doesn’t get many interviews, and this one made her especially nervous because it’s for a supervisory position. She’s never been a boss before.
“No one called or knocked on the door?” I ask.
Carolyn shakes her head. “Nope,” she say
s, glancing up at the clock and then swallowing. “It’s only just down the road, you know. She should be home any time.”
“Yeah.” I glance around the house, at the old newspapers piled up, at the empty glasses perched on side tables, at the dust swirling in the air. “Maybe we should clean up or something. So that if it goes like the last one … ”
Carolyn takes another big bite. “Do we have to?” she says, around the food in her mouth.
“Yeah. Come on,” I say. As frustrated as I get with my mom’s inability to move us out of Hilltop, I know she’s really doing everything she can to give us a better life. “You know how down she gets when interviews don’t go well. Let’s just do something nice for once.”
“Fine,” Carolyn grumbles.
“I’ll put my stuff away.”
I head to the room I share with my sister and toss my backpack down onto my unmade bed. I change out of my Burgerville polo shirt and into an old, faded Seahawks T-shirt, then return to the living room. Carolyn is balling up her sandwich wrapper and heading to the kitchen to toss it.
I go to the old boom box on the side table and flick it on to KISS 106.1, and a Katy Perry song blares through the speakers. Then I head to the kitchen and start unloading the dishes. I hand Carolyn the basket of silverware and then grab some glasses. “How’s school?” I ask, putting things in the cupboard.
“It’s okay. I have to make a pyramid by Monday,” she says. “It’s our first big assignment of the year.”
“Out of what?” I ask, pushing the top rack of the dishwasher back in.
“Whatever I want.” She puts the silverware basket back in the dishwasher and grabs the plates I hand to her.
“Do you want help?”
“Yeah. Talia turned hers in early, and it’s really cool. She made it out of Jolly Ranchers.”
“In that case, we’re building the pyramid to end all pyramids. You will totally own this assignment.”
Carolyn laughs. “I’m in.”
“I’ll take out the garbage. But you get to vacuum.”
“Sounds like a deal.” Carolyn brushes past me and heads to the living room, dancing and humming along to the radio.
I grab the garbage and head out to the backyard, to where our big cans are, enjoying the warmth of the sunshine and feeling strangely happy, in control. It helps that it’s Friday, I guess.
I hear my mom’s car, the familiar rumbling of the broken exhaust. Rounding the side of the house, I watch as she pulls to a stop, my heart climbing into my throat. I want this to have gone well. She’s desperate for that one chance.
I shield my eyes from the sun as the car door flings open and my mom gets out. At first I can’t see her expression because she turns back to the car and grabs a couple of small grocery bags.
But when she stands up, turning toward the house, she catches sight of me. And she beams, a mega-watt smile that sends hope whooshing through my veins.
I walk toward her and she meets me near the front corner of the house, where she drops the bags and flings her arms around me.
“I got it! I got it I got it I got it.” She hugs me and jumps up and down. We end up kind of dancing and spinning in circles, right there in front of the house. I should be embarrassed, but I can’t muster humiliation when all I feel is hope. It’s like a set of wings has just unfurled and is about to take us far, far away from this dump.
“Really?” I say, even though I know she wouldn’t lie. “They offered it to you right there, on the spot?”
“Yes. Five dollars more an hour, plus a full forty hours a week. And benefits.”
“Oh Mom,” I say, blinking back the tears. “That’s great.”
“I want you to cut back on your hours at Burgerville,” she says, her words coming out in a rush. “And I want to get us an apartment in a better area. And we can get cable again, and—”
“One step at a time,” I say, laughing. “I’ll keep my hours the same for a little while and we can get caught up on bills. Maybe in a month or two I’ll cut back.”
And just like that, the long, black tunnel has a light at the end, a shining beacon, and I feel a little less lost.
Mom glances over at me, her face melting into what I can only describe as a tender smile. “Oh, Zoey. You’ve grown up so much lately.”
I smile, hugging her again. “Let’s just go inside and tell Carolyn the good news, okay?”
I pick up my mom’s dropped bags and follow her into the house, to where Carolyn is just plugging in the vacuum. She glances between us and I nod, and then she’s dropping the cord and practically leaping at Mom, hugging her.
It must take a full twenty minutes before we’re done hugging and laughing, and we collapse onto the couch in a heap.
It’s the most surreal moment—the autumn sun slanting through the window, the three of us basking in the glow of the good news.
And, in this moment, I think I might actually be okay.
Olivia
My back tuck is off the moment I leave the ground. I know it. I tuck my head and pull my knees up tight, but I don’t have the right momentum and I’m going to hit the floor at the wrong angle.
I land on my toes and my body keeps spinning, and then I tumble onto my back, roll over, and land on my stomach. “Ooof,” I say, resting my forehead on the floor. I close my eyes, bracing for the wave of pain and the yelling. Always, the yelling.
“Olivia! What do you call that, exactly?”
I lift my head off the floor and glance over at Coach Vicks.
Right on time.
I rake in a breath, glad, at least, that I didn’t get the wind knocked out of me for the second time today. “Failing spectacularly?” I ask, climbing to my knees and rocking back to sit on my heels. I look down and dust off my leotard.
“That wasn’t even close,” she says, striding over to where I’m sitting. “You’ve looked like crap lately. You used to be on top, and now … ”
Her voice trails off. She doesn’t have to finish the sentence; I can do it myself.
To avoid meeting her gaze, I look down at my hands, dusting off what remains of the chalk I used earlier for the bars.
“I don’t … ” I breathe deeply. “I don’t know.”
“You look weak,” Coach snaps. “And uncoordinated.”
“I feel weak and uncoordinated,” I snap back. I don’t need her pointing out the obvious. Every day is torture. Every day I push harder and harder, sweat more and more, and I just get worse.
“Maybe you should be putting in more time,” she says. “You need to really commit if you expect to improve at this level. You’re only doing two hours a day. It’s no wonder—”
“Maybe I should be putting in less time,” I reply, cutting her off before I can stop myself. “It’s a Saturday and I’m here again, trying to figure out what’s not working.”
And yet, as the words leave my mouth, a huge weight lifts and something clarifies. I know what’s not working.
I don’t love this anymore.
The triumph of mastering a new skill no longer outweighs the pain and the work and the blood, sweat, and tears.
The awards no longer satisfy me. The triumph I do feel, when I finally get something down, fades faster and faster each time. All I ever want is more, more, more, and it’s created a hunger that will never be sated.
I’m killing myself in pursuit of a dream that no longer makes sense.
I look up at my coach, and her expression changes from annoyance to surprise. “It’s just an off day,” she says, backtracking.
“All I’ve had lately are off days.” I stand. “And I don’t think I want to do this anymore.”
“You’re still one of the best on the team,” she points out. “We need you.”
“I used to be the best. You said it yourself,” I say. “But the fire is gone. I don’t
want this anymore. You’ve got plenty of new blood to take my place. Focus on them instead.”
Coach Vicks presses her lips into a thin line and stares into my eyes, as if searching for the truth. The truth I’ve hardly recognized but that I know, to my very core, is right.
“This isn’t who I am anymore,” I say, pointing to the beam and the floor and the bars and the vault. “Gymnastics is about perfection. And I don’t have the desire to find it.”
And it’s not just with gymnastics.
It’s everything. I don’t want to be perfect anymore, I want to be me. I want to be happy. I want the weight lifted and the stress gone, and I want to do things I actually enjoy.
Coach heaves a big sigh, crossing her arms. “You’re sure about this?”
“Absolutely,” I say. “It’s probably the first thing I’ve done right in a long time.”
“Okay,” she says, staring up at the ceiling as if she can’t stand to look at me. Can’t stand to see whatever talent I have being wasted.
But what would be a waste is spending one more day doing this.
One more day trying to become a person I’m never going to be.
“But if you change your mind … ”
“I won’t,” I reply. And I know it’s true. Because as I walk away—as I leave the floor and the bars and the beam and the vault behind me and the gym door slams shut—all I feel is freedom. Freedom from the pressure and the unrelenting burden I’d put on myself to be better than everyone else, better than the old me.
I stop outside the doors, fishing into my backpack for my purple pill box.
I’m done with this. I’m done freaking out over every little thing, I’m done pushing myself to be perfect at all costs. I toss the box into the garbage and then walk to my car, climb inside, and head straight to Burgerville as if guided by a homing beacon.
It’s Zoey who should know this first.
I pull into the lot a few minutes later, and lock my car before heading into the restaurant.
Zoey’s at the register helping an elderly man who’s having trouble hearing her. She repeats “$5.82” at least three times before he understands, and then waits patiently as he counts out the eighty-two cents.
