Letting Go of Gravity

by Meg Leder

  I sniff hard, my voice shaky. “I guess, yeah.”

  “Food it is.”

  He pulls away from the curb and into the lane of traffic, angling all the air vents toward me. But even then it’s warm, the breeze from outside blowing almost hot against my face. Finn turns the radio back up, though not as loud. As he drives us through Clifton and onto I-75 South, I wipe my face with my arm, and then flustered, he leans over me to pop open the glove compartment and grabs a handful of White Castle napkins, shoving them my way.

  “Thanks,” I mutter, blowing my nose.

  I’m still too mortified to look over at him, so instead, I lose myself in the rumbling of the muffler and the now-subdued background beat of the radio. There’s sun on my face, and I can’t even think too much about what is happening inside me right now, because if I do, I’m pretty sure something in me will break for good.

  • • •

  I wake to a nudge on my shoulder.

  We’re in a nearly empty gravelly parking lot, a blue neon sign saying THE ANCHOR GRILL flickering and spitting nervously overhead.

  “We’re here,” Finn says.

  I don’t know what I’m doing, so I nod. Before I can make my way out of the truck, though, Finn’s at the passenger side, extending a hand for me to hold as I hop down.

  His palm is calloused.

  For the first time since he’s picked me up, I take him in. He’s wearing old cargo shorts, a tattered heavy-metal T-shirt that says MEGADETH, his hair pulled off his face in a short ponytail. The black eye from the other day has morphed to a faint yellow-green.

  He catches me studying him and looks away, inclining his head toward the entrance. “This way.”

  When we enter the Anchor Grill, we’re greeted by the smell of grease and cigarette smoke. There’s a counter in front of a kitchen, a lonely piece of not-so-fresh-looking cherry pie sitting under a glass dome on the corner.

  Even though we’re in a landlocked state, the decor is distinctly nautical—a ship’s steering wheel on the wall, a sculpture of seashells behind some dusty glass.

  “Um, what is this place?” I whisper.

  “Covington’s finest.”

  A grizzled heavyset guy wearing a trucker hat is sitting at the counter, talking to the waitress. She looks about eighty-five years old, her skin falling in heavy folds from her arms. There are brown penciled-in arcs where her eyebrows should be.

  “Mabel,” Finn says, tipping his head at her. She grunts in return.

  I follow him into the next room, where the nautical theme continues. There’s a life-size, crusty-looking old wooden sailor statue in yellow and blue lurking near the door, and paintings of lighthouses along the walls. The room is edged with red vinyl booths, and in the middle sits a table with a vase of dusty plastic flowers, a tarnished disco ball floating sadly overhead.

  We’re the only ones in this part of the restaurant.

  Finn heads toward one of the booths, and I settle in across from him, avoiding the patch of split red vinyl that’s duct-taped together farther in.

  “So, do you come here a lot?”

  Finn nods toward a faded red curtain halfway up the wall, about the size of a television screen.

  “Just watch.”

  I squint. “What is it?”

  He digs through his pocket, dumping five quarters out, and points to the corner of the table where a mini jukebox sits.

  “Pick one,” he says, sliding a quarter across the Formica. I start flipping through the jukebox tracks, but all the names are blurring together and I don’t want to choose the wrong thing.

  “I don’t know what to pick,” I say, and hand the quarter back to him.

  He shrugs and clicks through the selections and drops the quarter in, pressing F17 and H2.

  “Watch,” he says, pointing at the curtain on the wall.

  I hear things clicking from behind it, and then, with a rickety noise, the red curtain jerks open, revealing a glass panel with the words STRIKE UP THE BAND underneath. Behind the panel is a miniature six-piece band, the figurines dressed in tuxes. But something must have happened to one of them, because inserted in the mix is a Barbie wearing a gold minidress, her hair messily ratted up. She’s strangely oversized compared to the rest of the band.

  A light clicks onto the disco ball in the middle of the room. It starts a slow rotation, weird shimmers sparkling over the room, suddenly making everything kind of pretty, right as a warbly woman’s voice begins haunting the room. “Craaazzzy . . . crazy for being so lonely . . .”

  The dolls in the band begin to move in small robotic rhythms, playing along with the music, a hand strumming a guitar, another mechanically tapping a drum.

  Only the Barbie is still.

  “Whoa,” I say, near speechless.

  It’s one of the most magnificent things I’ve ever seen.

  I look across at Finn, who’s watching me watch it, his expression unreadable, wary almost.

  I can’t believe I’m sitting across from him.

  I can’t believe I walked away from my internship and am sitting here right now.

  I dig through my bag for my phone, see two missed calls from a 513 number and one message.

  “Um, just a second,” I say, clicking to my voice mail, then listen to the program assistant asking me if I’m still sick. I hit delete right as Mabel comes in and drops two sticky laminated menus on the table. She doesn’t say anything, just holds a pad of paper and a pen, looking sourly down at me holding my phone.

  “Sorry,” I say, dropping my phone back in my bag and reaching for a menu, but Finn shakes his head at me.

  “Two grilled cheeses with fries, two Cokes,” he says instead to Mabel.

  He gets a grunt in response, and she trudges out of the room.

  “Sorry,” I say to him, because evidently that’s all I can say right now, but Finn shakes his head.

  “Mabel hates everyone, cell phone or not.”

  “Ah, okay, cool,” I say.

  We sit there quietly.

  I clear my throat. “So, what have you been up to lately?” I ask.

  “Not much.”

  “Do you like working at the Float?”

  He looks the other way. “It’s okay.”

  “Cool.”

  The song ends and another clicks on, but this time I recognize the singer: Johnny Cash.

  I fold the corner of a napkin. “Where are you going to college?”

  Finn’s breath pushes out in a gentle sigh.

  “Did I do something wrong?” I ask, confused.

  “You don’t need to do that with me.”

  “Do what?”

  “That small-talk stuff.”

  “I was just trying to make conversation. . . .” My voice trails off, my face hot.

  Finn shifts awkwardly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.” He looks frustrated with himself.

  Mabel brings back our Cokes and two straws, and both of us are quiet, and I focus really hard on folding my napkin into an accordion, tiny pleats up and down.

  Finn drops a few more quarters in the table jukebox, clicks a few selections.

  So no small talk—only sitting here in silence?

  And just when it’s getting to the point where I don’t think I can stand the silence one second longer and he’s not helping the situation at all, I hear the words leave my mouth: “How’d you get the black eye?”

  He lets out a sharp exhale—one that almost sounds appreciative.

  I look him straight in the face, meet his gaze head-on. “You don’t want small talk, so there. I’m making big talk.”

  “Big talk,” he says, the corner of his mouth turning up. “Okay.”

  I try not to smile.

  “I box.”

  “Oh,” I say, and I see him register the surprise in my voice.

  “Yeah, I started in second grade. I kept getting in fights in school, so boxing was suggested as a good way for me to manage all my ‘anger issues,’ ” he
says.

  I nod, remembering that day on the playground in first grade when the principal pulled him away. “And the eye?”

  Finn smiles fully for the first time then—big and real—and I see the sliver of space between his two front teeth I remember from when he was a kid. “Got my ass kicked in the ring last week. Moved too slow.”

  Silence settles in. Finn digs in his pocket for more change before flipping through the selections again.

  I realize there’s something about being here, with him, right now, that loosens the knot in my chest. For the first time in a while, I’m at ease.

  It’s like first grade all over again—this person sitting next to me on the playground when I was at my loneliest, this person sitting next to me now.

  I look up. “My brother, Charlie—do you remember him?”

  Finn nods carefully. “A little.” He stops, recognition dawning on his face. “Wait. Charlie and Parker? Charlie Parker? Like the jazz guy?”

  “You know him?”

  “Just the name.”

  “My dad is super obsessed with all kinds of music. When he found out Mom was pregnant with twins, he came up with this mega list of possible names, all featuring his favorite musicians: Ella and Fitzgerald, Peter and Gabriel, Laurie and Anderson, Frank and Zappa, Bob and Dylan, you get the picture.”

  “Zappa?”

  “Yeah, luckily Mom vetoed that one hard. But she really liked Charlie and Parker, so here we are.”

  “It’s better than Finnegan,” he says.

  “I don’t know. In grade school, this kid Felix in my class used to call me Parking Lot.”

  Finn snorts.

  “I hated that so much.”

  His face goes red. “Sorry.”

  “You didn’t call me that,” I point out, but he doesn’t say anything.

  After a few seconds, he clears his throat. “What were you saying earlier, about Charlie?”

  “We got in a huge fight this morning. And we had another one on Saturday night. It’s bad, you know?”

  Finn nods carefully.

  “Charlie has cancer. Had it, I mean. Twice. In fourth grade and again this year. He’s in remission now. And he’s going to be fine. I know things aren’t easy for him, so I try to give him the benefit of the doubt, but some of the stuff he said . . .”

  I stop, realizing that even though he’s my brother, maybe even because he’s my brother, Charlie has the ability to hurt me more than anyone else I know.

  “That must really suck,” Finn says.

  “It’s been hard for him.”

  “I meant for you, too.”

  I give him a small smile. “Ever since I was little, I wanted to be a doctor so I could fix Charlie, you know? I was supposed to start an internship at Children’s Hospital today. Friday actually. But I got sick on Friday, and when I tried to go in today, I just couldn’t do it.”

  I look back down at my hands. I’m too embarrassed to look at his face when I’m telling him this, so I begin shredding my napkin into small bits.

  “It’s been happening more and more lately. It’s like I psych myself out of doing what I want to do. My breathing gets all weird and I feel like I’m having a heart attack.” I stop, Charlie’s face flashing through my mind.

  “I clearly just need to get over myself. I don’t have anything to complain about. I’m healthy. I wanted this internship. I beat other people to get it. And I’m going to Harvard, and everything is good. It’s really good. . . .” My voice trails off. I’ve missed the first two days. What if I can’t go back? My heart speeds up, pumping blood faster and harder, like it needs to get as much life as it can to the very tips of me.

  I’ve run out of napkin to rip, leaving only a small pile of sad confetti on the table.

  “If the internship makes you feel like crap, don’t do it,” Finn says.

  I look up at him then, feeling my stomach tighten. “It’s not that easy.”

  “Do you need it for Harvard?”

  “Well, I’m sure it helped with my application.”

  “But you can be a doctor without it?”

  I nod.

  “Screw the internship, then. If it makes you feel bad, don’t do it.”

  My mind scrambles, panicking at the mere suggestion. “But I need the stipend—I need the money for the fall.”

  “There are tons of other summer jobs out there—my friend Carla’s looking for an assistant at her pottery studio right now, in fact. I’m sure she’d hire you.”

  I try to imagine telling Mom and Dad I’m quitting the internship, the groan of disappointment from Dad, the look of concern on Mom’s face.

  No, no, no.

  On cue, my eyelid twitches.

  “I can’t do that to my parents,” I say, shaking my head.

  “It’s okay to tell them you don’t want to do it.”

  “But I do want to do it. I want to do it because I want to be a doctor,” I reply. “It’s what I’ve always wanted to be, as long as I remember.”

  “Is it?”

  “What else would I be?”

  He looks at me. “Anything. Everything.”

  “Again, it’s not that easy,” I say. “Not at all. You don’t know. I’m going back to the internship tomorrow. I’ll figure something out—it’ll be fine.”

  “All right,” Finn says, holding up both hands in surrender. “Forget I said anything. It’s none of my business anyway.”

  Right then, Mabel comes back in with our grilled cheese sandwiches and fries. She takes in the pile of ripped napkin bits in front of me and gives me a dirty look, dropping our plates on the table.

  Finn immediately digs in.

  I tell myself it isn’t as easy as he says. He doesn’t know the half of it. But that’s not his fault.

  I focus on my grilled cheese, take a bite, the orange-yellow cheese oozing out. I’m pretty sure I’m going to break out tomorrow, but I don’t care. It tastes good.

  “What’s with all the messages you’re leaving around town?” I finally ask.

  “I just like street art, I guess. I like how it can surprise you.”

  “Oh,” I say. “That’s cool.”

  We’re both quiet then, but weirdly enough, this time it’s not awkward.

  And as I watch the band of dolls move, I realize I don’t want to leave.

  Mabel comes in and drops a check on the table without asking us if we want more.

  “Oh, crap, my wallet,” I say, but Finn’s hand darts out, grabbing the bill before I can.

  “It’s on me.”

  “But I wanted to treat you, for picking me up,” I say.

  “I got it,” he says more insistently.

  “At least let me pay you back later?”

  His face goes red and he shakes his head, and I realize I just did something wrong even though I’m not sure what it was.

  “Well, thanks. For everything,” I say.

  “You’re welcome,” he says, relaxing.

  He nods, returns to eating his French fries. I study his sharp chin, the way blond hair is escaping from his short ponytail, how his wrists are thin but his arms look strong.

  Anything.

  Everything.

  Inside me, something moves. Something made of feathers and thin bones, something made of sky.

  Just recognizing it immediately makes it disappear.

  But I can still feel the traces of it lingering, everything in my body reaching to get it back.

  Eighteen

  RIGHT BEFORE I DECIDED I wanted to be a doctor, I told my dad I wished Charlie was dead.

  Of course, I didn’t mean it, not really.

  It was back when Grandma and Grandpa Rose were staying with us, but for some reason I no longer remember, that night they couldn’t watch me. So Dad picked me up after school.

  From the get-go, things weren’t going so great.

  Dad had just moved from his freelance writing gig to a full-time copywriting job, and from what I could discern, he hated it. �
�Another soul-killing day,” he mumbled when I asked him how he was doing.

  Meanwhile, my stomach was growling so much it hurt. I had skipped lunch because I hated the soggy fish sticks that were on the day’s menu. Mom always packed my lunch on fish stick days, but Grandma Rose didn’t know that.

  Em split her banana and her oatmeal raisin cookie with me, and Matty let me eat some of his Doritos, but by the time Dad picked me up, I was convinced I was starving to death. I didn’t want to be brave and good. I wanted to go through the McDonald’s drive-through. Dad said we didn’t have time if we wanted to beat rush-hour traffic.

  But then we merged onto I-71, only to see an endless line of red brake lights in front of us. Dad cursed loudly, turning up the radio to get the traffic report.

  By the time we passed the mangled cars and the sirens on the side of the highway, forty-five barely-inching-forward minutes had passed.

  “I don’t feel good,” I said from the backseat as we got closer. I kicked his seat.

  He didn’t reply, turning right on Reading Road instead of going the way that took us by the mural on Calhoun.

  “Wait!” I said. “You have to go that way! I want to see the painting on the wall!”

  “This way works too,” Dad said.

  “But it’s not the right way!” I kicked the back of the seat, my red gym shoes making a solid hit.

  He didn’t respond.

  I watched boring buildings pass by and kicked the back of his seat again.

  “I don’t feel good.”

  Again, no response.

  My red shoes took on a life of their own, kicking the seat, like they weren’t even attached to me.

  “I’m hungry,” I said, louder this time, as he pulled into the parking garage, jerking the car to a stop. “Can we get something to eat?”

  “Visiting hours are almost over,” Dad said, getting out of the car and holding the door open for me. I climbed out of the backseat and started following him to the entrance. “We can get food on the way home.”

  “I don’t want to wait that long. I’m hungry now,” I said, my gym shoes kicking at a parking barrier, scuffing the rubber edges, and I almost tripped. I steadied myself and ran to catch up with him. “Dad, please,” I said, tugging at the edge of his jacket.

  “I said later, okay? We only have a half hour to see your brother.”