Letting Go of Gravity

by Meg Leder

  It splashes unpleasantly, a thick gloppy thunk, and I shake my head.

  “No thanks. I have plans.” I hope I don’t sound too eager to leave, because Carla is only being nice. But I am 100 percent willing to risk the 100-plus-degree weather if it means not spending another second feeling miserable and failing miserably on the wheel.

  Since Carla first showed me how to work the wheel two weeks ago, I’ve spent a few hours every shift trying to throw something worth keeping. Carla has been nothing but encouraging, going so far as to put up the closed sign during our lunch break so she can give me individual instruction.

  “You’re helping me practice my teaching skills for when I start classes up in the fall,” she insisted the first day.

  I suspect I’m helping her practice patience more, because, to put it bluntly, I’m really, really terrible at pottery. Anytime my hands get near the wheel, it’s like they’re drunk.

  They’re always in the wrong place.

  They’re always pushing too hard.

  Or not hard enough.

  Yesterday, I tried to get out of it. I had such a good morning with the Wild Meadows ladies that I didn’t want to ruin it with feeling bad about myself.

  “I don’t think pottery is for me,” I said.

  But Carla wouldn’t have it. “Can’t go over it, can’t go under it, gotta go through it,” she said cryptically.

  When I told Ruby about it at Graeter’s over ice cream sundaes last night, she suggested that maybe Charlie was right: that what I’m not good at is not being good at something. Immediately cringing as the words left her mouth, she then apologized for accidentally saying what she was thinking out loud and continued to do so for the next five minutes.

  But she never said she was sorry for being wrong.

  I say good-bye to Carla and head outside, groaning as soon as the wave of heat hits me.

  After five minutes of walking, everything around me is melting—the soles of my Converse, the blacktop, my mood. There’s no shade, no breeze, just shimmering heat rising from the street and several beads of sweat making their way down my back. When I check my weather app, it says the heat index is 107 degrees.

  I should have stayed at work.

  Ever since the bruise incident at Kings Island, Charlie and I are back to ignoring each other, and despite how much I try to forget it, I feel terrible anytime I think about Finn and the gift certificate.

  I’m flat on the inside—like I’ve been reduced to just two dimensions. The only bright parts of my life are getting to know Ruby better, and my time working at Carla’s. But if I’m not with my new friend or at the studio, I’m stretched on my bed, trying to sleep in the heat, wishing Mom would just turn on the air conditioner already.

  I’m sleeping close to twelve hours a day.

  A small part of me, something bright and small and brave, knows this much sleeping isn’t normal, but the rest of me doesn’t care.

  By the time I’m halfway home, I’m pretty sure I might be close to a literal sunstroke, but I push myself forward, intent, eyes practically squinted shut, not paying much attention to the world around me.

  And then someone calls out my name, and I almost trip on the sidewalk.

  I look up.

  Finn Casper’s in his red truck, driving slowly behind me. He pulls up next to me, leans over from the driver’s side.

  “Parker, hey.” His face is open, tentative, and I stop, wondering if it’s a mirage. “Can we talk?”

  Based on how badly I messed up our last conversation, I don’t think Finn and I are on the same friendship wavelength. “I should probably head home.”

  “Please,” he says, and it’s the note of pleading in his voice that gets to me.

  “Okay,” I say.

  He pulls the truck against the curb and leans over again, turning the ignition off. The truck shudders to a stop like it’s exhausted too.

  “I wanted to . . . you know . . .” He shrugs, like I should know what he means.

  “I don’t know.”

  “To say I’m sorry.”

  “For stalking me on my walk home like a creeper?”

  The corner of his mouth curls. “No.” But then he takes in a deep breath, his face getting more serious. “I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions that night at the Float. Ruby told me why you wanted to get out of there. I’m sorry for Johnny, too.”

  I shake my head. “That’s not your fault.”

  “He won’t bother you anymore, okay? And I wanted to thank you for the gift card. I put it to good use.”

  “It wasn’t charity,” I say. “You saved me, Finn. Twice. Once from a skunk, once from a hospital parking lot. I’m really grateful for that,” I say, having a hard time looking at him as I say it.

  We’re both quiet for a second, until he clears his throat. “You want to see something cool?”

  I look up. Maybe it’s the meltiness of the heat, but it’s like I’m looking at six-year-old Finn that first day on the playground again, his gray eyes serious, asking if I wanted to hear something cool.

  I nod.

  In response, he leans over and pushes open the passenger door, and I climb in.

  • • •

  In the heat, even with the windows down all the way, the inside of Finn’s truck smells earthy, a mix of sweat and paint and guy. There’s a pile of newspapers between us, and the one on top has individual words and entire phrases circled in black ballpoint pen.

  Finn’s tapping a thumb nervously against the steering wheel, but when he catches me studying him, he stops.

  “So, pretty hot today, yeah?” he asks.

  “No way,” I scoff.

  “What?”

  “Finn Casper’s making small talk? It’s a miracle.”

  His face goes red. “I deserve that.”

  I shift my gaze to the floor—an old spray paint can rolls around by my feet—and then to the cup holder near the gearshift. It’s filled with pennies and a small, dirt-covered pink plastic ballerina—the kind you get on cupcakes from grocery stores. I pick up the ballerina and start scraping dirt off her tutu.

  “Do you like working at the pottery studio?”

  “That’s better,” I say, and he rolls his eyes with a grin. “I do like working there. Carla’s really great.”

  “Yeah, she’s not so bad,” he says.

  “Some of the customers are a handful, but it keeps everything interesting. And there’s this one older lady, Alice, who has Alzheimer’s, and some days, even though she doesn’t talk, she really gets into the painting. Alice is most responsive when I play certain types of music, so I’ve been experimenting. She really likes Billie Holiday and Vivaldi. Soft rock, not so much.”

  “I don’t blame her. Have you told your parents about it yet?”

  I shake my head, trying to ignore how my heart is speeding up, and fiddle with the ballerina. She’s just about free of dirt, but I keep working my fingernail in the groove of her tutu, digging in hard, taking a break only to point left toward my street. “My mom would worry so much if she knew I quit the internship. And my dad? No.”

  “Parker, the internship wasn’t making you happy.”

  “But—” I start, my eyelid twitching.

  “I know. ‘It’s not that easy,’ ” he says, echoing my earlier words. “But I bet it sucks, not telling them. It seems really hard and lonely to hold on to all of that by yourself.”

  I don’t respond, keeping the eye that’s twitching angled away from Finn. I try not to think too much of how similar his words are to Em’s and Ruby’s.

  I close my hand hard around the ballerina, feeling her tutu impress into my hand, not letting her go.

  Thirty-Five

  WE’VE BEEN DRIVING ON quiet roads, passing through shady patches of woods and by sleepy-looking farms for at least twenty minutes. Finally, Finn pulls the truck over to the side of the road.

  “Here? I really hope you’re not taking me to some survivalist cult compound,” I say, only ha
lf joking, as I get out.

  “Trust me,” he says, grabbing an old canvas rucksack from the back of the truck. I can hear the clatter of spray paint cans as he motions me to follow him.

  We start making our way through a tangle of ragweed and Queen Anne’s lace, which eventually eases into woods. Maybe it’s the shade from the enormous trees tunneling over us—the only sunlight coming through in small dappled spots—but it immediately feels cooler.

  I stop at the top of a terrifyingly steep hill as Finn starts to make his way down, using trees for balance. He turns around to check on me.

  “I don’t know if I’m up for this,” I call out. “I don’t want to break my leg. I read some terrible story last year about a guy who fell down a hill—”

  Without saying another word, Finn scrambles back up and holds out a hand.

  I suck in my breath, but then I take it. He wraps his fingers around mine as we start down the hill. Finn leads, offering me his arm for support as I take small angled steps behind him.

  When we get to the bottom, I see rusty train tracks leading into a tunnel, forest growth sprouting up between all the rails. Finn lets go, walking ahead only to stop at the mouth of the tunnel, pulling a flashlight out of his bag.

  “Come on.”

  I follow him in, then stop, speechless, as I take in the tunnel walls.

  What’s around me is worth risking the scariest cult compound in the world, worth suffering a hundred broken bones.

  Between the beam of Finn’s light and the drowsy sunlight coming in from the other end of the tunnel, every inch of the tunnel is exploding with bursts of color, fireworks in apple reds and sky blues, bright oranges and deep violets, neon yellows and piercing pinks. It’s luminous and alive, life where you’d least expect it.

  “Finn,” I breathe, unable to say more.

  It’s a secret cathedral, the moment of the big bang, the electric of dreams.

  I venture in farther, tracing my fingers along the cool stone wall. Amid the dim, I see color around me, above me. The deeper I go, the more it all comes to life, swirling and blooming, blue vines creeping up the walls, small bursts of silver stars on the ceiling, moons shattering into pieces, white clouds morphing into storm clouds.

  Woven between it all, messages from Finn:

  FLOATING FALLING.

  CAN YOU HEAR ME?

  YOUR WIFE LOVES YOU SO VERY MUCH.

  THEY’RE THE SAME STARS.

  “Oh my God, your messages. They’re all about Major Tom, aren’t they?” I ask, looking back at him.

  “Just in case he’s listening,” Finn says.

  I do a double take. “You know that’s not real.”

  “Yeah, I know it’s not real.” He laughs.

  The art stops two thirds of the way through, after turquoise and emerald waves, purple bubbles rising from them, octopus tentacles creeping around the edges.

  “I’m not done yet,” Finn says from behind me.

  I turn back to him, shaking my head in disbelief. “Finn, I don’t. I can’t.” I stop. “I don’t have the right words. It’s phenomenal, Finn.”

  He smiles, and I can tell he’s more than a little bit embarrassed, but there’s pride there too. He opens his bag and grabs a can. “Want to try?”

  “I couldn’t.”

  He tosses the can toward me, and I barely catch it in time.

  “Come on.” He motions toward an empty patch.

  “I don’t want to mess up what you did.”

  “You won’t mess it up. Plus, that’s the good thing about walls. I can just paint over what you did if I hate it.”

  “Hey!”

  “Kidding. Here, let me show you.” He hands me a surgical face mask from his bag, pulls one over his mouth too, then shakes the can for a good long while.

  And then, holding it out six inches from the wall, he starts creating streaks of sea green, shaking the can in between every few strokes, building up layers of stripes, like a mint bumblebee. He points at my can.

  “Your turn.” His voice is muffled.

  I take off the lid and face the nozzle toward the wall, then start shaking the can, the rattle strangely satisfying. And then I press the nozzle, and a scattered spritz of sky blue comes out.

  “Shake it more,” Finn says. “Then press harder.”

  I do, and this time a solid line of blue paint comes out, so I fill in the blank spaces between Finn’s green stripes, and the color is running behind Charlie on a summer day, the ice cream truck singing in the distance. It’s lying on my back in the grass, watching clouds with Em.

  It surprises me, the joy I feel in making this mark on the world.

  And then a big drip of blue paint goes rogue, streaming down over one of Finn’s streaks.

  “Argh, I’m sorry,” I say, dropping my arm to my side.

  Finn shakes his head, then digs through his bag, finding a new can. After a vigorous shake, he creates similarly sized drips of indigo paint, layering them until they start trailing down over his green and my blue.

  I laugh, then add some more sky-blue drips, until between the both of us, we’ve created something that looks like a striped jellyfish. We stand back, studying it. For the first time in weeks, months even, I feel myself tilting toward possibility, that moment at the top of the roller coaster.

  This time I’m not scared.

  “Why?” I ask, turning to him, lowering my mask.

  His brow furrows and he lowers his. “Why what?”

  “Why did you start? Why here? Why the bridges? Why do you keep it secret? Why aren’t you in art school? Why aren’t you sharing this with everyone?”

  “Parker,” he says, his voice reluctant.

  “Please. I want to understand.”

  He’s quiet for a second, shifts awkwardly, kicks the edge of the track. “When my dad went to jail for dealing meth, Johnny and I were put into foster care. That’s how I met Carla and her husband, Noel. She was my foster mom.”

  I nod carefully, not wanting him to stop.

  “When I was little, I was pissed. All the time. And after we moved in with her, it got worse. It was like all this fury was building inside me waiting to explode; it made me want to rip off my skin. But then Carla signed me up for boxing. That helped. It was the first time someone saw that anger in me and didn’t think it was bad—just that it hadn’t found the best way to express itself yet.

  “Johnny was never happy at her place. But, for a while, I was.”

  He sucks in his breath, clenches his hands and releases them slowly.

  “One day, Carla told us Dad was out of jail. He had secured a job at an old competitor’s—Tom’s Auto Body—and he had the house back and was getting it ready for us to move home. Carla said he was coming to see us the next day, and he’d keep coming to see us until we could move back in with him. Johnny was pumped. I knew I should be. But inside?”

  Finn shakes his head, his expression dark.

  “That night, after everyone went to bed, I found every piece of pottery Carla had in the house and smashed it on the driveway.”

  The cracks in Carla’s first crooked bowl, the one she glued back together—it all makes sense now.

  “Noel found me first, and he started yelling, and then Johnny and Carla came downstairs. And the look on Carla’s face?”

  Finn can’t meet my eyes then.

  “Johnny couldn’t stop laughing, and Noel was calling me ungrateful, but for the first time in a long time, I was totally empty inside, and it was a relief.”

  He blinks hard.

  “The next morning I could tell Carla had been crying, but she told me she wasn’t mad, just disappointed. She said I wasn’t being very creative with all my anger. She handed me a paintbrush, opened up a few cans of paint, and told me to go to town on the back patio. So I did. For the next six months, after every one of my dad’s visits, I’d go out on the back porch and paint every bad word I could think of. I drew bloody daggers and guns and monsters. I wrote mean things. I painte
d that seven-by-seven rectangle every single day until I felt empty. Carla never censored me. She’d only look at what I was doing, nod, and go back in the house.

  “When we moved home for a trial basis, Carla sent me with a whole box of paintbrushes and notebooks and paint. And after my dad got custody again, she kept dropping stuff off. My dad wasn’t crazy about her stopping by, so she never stayed for long, but Carla was the one who got me started. It all grew from there. Now it’s like a habit, and not just when I’m mad. I like it.” He shrugs.

  “Carla’s really great at encouraging people to try things,” I say, thinking of her gentle nudging with me not to give up on the pottery wheel.

  “Yeah, she is.” Finn nods solemnly.

  “And all this?” I point to the walls. “You’re really talented, Finn. You should think about art school. UC has a good program—I bet Carla could help with that, too.”

  He lets out a dry laugh. “You sound just like her.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “Parker, I’m not the college type.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “I didn’t even graduate from high school. I dropped out last year.”

  “Oh,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean you couldn’t still—”

  “With what money?”

  “Scholarships and loans,” I start.

  He shakes his head. “My dad, Johnny, and I are saving to buy back the old auto body shop so we can have a family business again. Dad hates working at Tom’s, and it’s been the plan for forever, ever since he got out of jail. It’s what we all want. So please, let it go.”

  Staying here, with Johnny? But Finn’s shoulders are braced, and I bite back what I want to say next.

  He grabs a new can of paint, tosses it at me. “Want to make another go of it?”

  I nod, shaking the can, appreciating the way the color paints over all the uncertainty inside me, around me, in front of us, between us.

  Thirty-Six

  WHEN I GET TO Carla’s the next day, there’s a weird undercurrent in the room. I don’t see Alice, but Miss Peggy and Lorna are whispering and sneaking glances at Harriet.

  “Hi, Carla,” I call down the steps, which earns me a “G’morning, Parker” shout in return.