Letting Go of Gravity

by Meg Leder

  “I had a great-aunt named Lorna,” Dad offered over the paper.

  Mom looked confused. “But you said something about a deal with Charlie?”

  “Parker made a deal to help me with my chem homework tonight, right?” Charlie asked.

  “Yeah, of course, yes,” I said, wondering why he was bailing me out, wondering if he was stacking up more material to use against me.

  Mom didn’t seem entirely satisfied with the explanation, but lucky for me, she decided to drop it.

  As I watch him now, Charlie holds the hammock steady for Ruby while she considers the best approach to hopping on. He’s careful with her, making sure she has a steady net and then gingerly lifting himself on next to her.

  I realize they’re so much more coordinated than Em and me, who have more than once knocked each other off while trying to share the space. The last time, Em ended up with a bruised tailbone.

  They both stretch out, Charlie’s arms behind his head, a bare foot gently rocking them back and forth, Ruby with her curly hair hanging down from the side, her eyes studying the canopy of green above her. Lightning bugs are starting to wink around them.

  I’m just about ready to lift the screen and call out hello when Ruby turns to him.

  “So, did you make a decision on baseball next year?”

  I freeze, waiting for Charlie’s face to go sullen, his voice to go hostile, but instead, he says, “Lift your head for a second.”

  She does, and then he stretches his arm out, so Ruby can rest her head in the crook of his shoulder.

  “Yeah. I don’t think I’m going to go back on the team after all,” he says once she’s settled.

  Surprise rushes through me—at the fact that he answered her and at his answer. I angle myself to the side, clicking off my desk lamp so they can’t see my silhouette from below.

  Charlie loves baseball. And he’s a pretty sure shot for a baseball scholarship now that he’s healthy again. He’s obviously not thinking this out clearly.

  “And you feel good about it?” Ruby asks him.

  “Yeah, I actually do. I mean, Coach Franklin’s going to be disappointed. And I’m sure Dad’ll be pissed and Mom will be quietly worried and Parker will chalk this all up to some chemo side effect where I’m not thinking clearly, but yeah, it’s what I want to do.”

  I frown, immediately defensive that I’m so predictable. I turn my back to the wall, sliding down on the floor, and hug my knees to my chest.

  I shouldn’t be listening. But I don’t get up.

  “What are you going to do with all that free time?” Ruby asks.

  “I don’t know. But that’s the good thing. For the past year, everything has been planned down to the second—chemo, doctor appointments, checkups. Now the whole world is open in front of me, and it’s mine to fuck up however I want.”

  “Charlie,” Ruby starts, her voice worried.

  “I’m kidding. I just mean that it’s all up to me for the first time in ages.”

  For a second I feel envious of the blank slate in front of him.

  “And, of course, there’s this junior I have my eye on that I’m hoping to hang out with. . . . What’s her name again? Rudy?” he continues.

  “Hey! You’d better know my name,” Ruby says, then giggles, and then they’re quiet, and it takes me a few seconds to realize they’re probably making out.

  My face goes red. I’m being a total creeper. I start to straighten, when I hear Ruby say, “You know, you shouldn’t be so hard on your sister.”

  I wait for Charlie’s reply, but it doesn’t come, and then I hear Ruby giggle.

  “Charlie, stop kissing me, just for a second, okay?”

  “Okay, okay,” he says in mock exasperation.

  “What I was trying to tell you before I was so rudely interrupted is that I’ve always wanted a brother or sister. You’ve got a really good sister. You’re lucky.”

  It sounds like Charlie mutters something that sounds like “Hardly,” and then I hear him go, “Ow!”

  “I mean it. Your sister is the first real friend I’ve had in ages.”

  “Come on,” Charlie starts.

  “No, it’s true. People don’t always like me. My mom says it’s because I try too hard, that I’m too much. She says on a scale of one to ten, with ten being too much, I’m, like, a thirteen.” Ruby laughs, but it’s hollow. “Your sister is, like, the first person in forever who actually listens to me and wants to hang out with me.”

  My heart breaks for her, and I hold my breath, waiting for Charlie’s response.

  “Meeting you is the best thing that’s happened to me in ages, Ruby Collie. If other people can’t see how amazing you are, it is one hundred percent their fucking loss. And I’m sorry to say that includes your mom.”

  I let my breath out. Charlie might actually be worthy of my bighearted friend.

  It’s weird seeing—or more accurately, eavesdropping on—this side of him, a side I haven’t seen since Matty’s surprise pool party last summer, when I discovered the broken blood vessels on Charlie’s back.

  I forgot how protective he can be on behalf of the people he cares about, how when he’s on your side, there’s nothing he won’t do for you.

  “That’s the problem with family,” Charlie continues, and my eyelid twitches. I hug my knees harder to my chest. “They think they’re doing what’s best and they end up destroying everything around them in the process. Take Parker, for instance.”

  “Charlie,” Ruby says, her voice gentle, but he keeps talking.

  “Do you know how hard it is to have her for a sister? It’s like watching someone willingly subject themselves to torture over and over again, like when they put slivers of wood under your fingernails or something. . . .”

  My eyes start burning, and I stand up, leaving before I hear anything more of the words my brother keeps deep in his heart.

  Forty-Three

  THE NEXT DAY AT pottery, I’m doing everything I can to forget what I overheard last night.

  I focus instead on explaining our new project.

  “I thought we could paint vases and sell them to raise money for Alice,” I say.

  Four blank faces greet me.

  “Turns out, her niece, Lily, lives in Texas. But she’s a single mom and tight on cash.”

  “Oh dear,” Lorna says with a dismayed sigh.

  “But we can help her. Carla and I thought we could paint vases and mugs to sell at the Hyde Park Art Fair to help get money for plane tickets for her and her son, Jack. It’s a lot to do in the next week and a half, but I know we can do it. I talked with Carla. She’s already got a booth for her own stuff, and she said she could share it and that she’d donate the materials to our cause. What do you guys think?”

  “That’s very noble,” Miss Peggy says, and I’m relieved she’s talking to us again.

  “Not bad,” Harriet admits, and I’m grateful she’s on board too.

  I look over to Lorna and Henry, sitting to my left, and I try not to gasp.

  The two of them are holding hands, arms resting on the table.

  “We have something to say first,” Lorna says. She’s decked out in blues today—an indigo shirt, sky-blue pants, a periwinkle scarf, a blue crescent moon brooch. Henry has a complementary blueberry-hued pocket square.

  “Well!” Miss Peggy’s thin-plucked eyebrows rise higher on her face than I thought possible.

  Lorna flinches, but Henry holds her hand harder. “Lorna and I are seeing each other,” he announces.

  “Huh,” Harriet says. “Didn’t see that one coming.”

  “Peggy, I hope you can be happy for me, for us,” Lorna says, putting her hand on Miss Peggy’s shoulder.

  Miss Peggy pushes Lorna’s hand away, and Lorna looks crushed.

  I force myself to smile. “I’m excited for you both,” I say to Henry, wondering if that’s appropriate, but by the way he beams at me, I don’t think it really matters what I say.

  “Let’s ge
t this party started already!” Harriet yells. She shoves a paintbrush in Lorna’s direction.

  “Are we doing round-robin painting?” Henry asks.

  “If you guys want,” I say.

  “I’ll paint my own, thank you very much,” Miss Peggy says, getting up and actually moving to the next table.

  Harriet rolls her eyes, and Lorna looks like she’s going to cry, but Henry belts out, “Fine by me!”

  I try not to smile.

  Despite my best efforts, as Miss Peggy sulks and the rest of us paint, I find myself going back to what I overheard last night, Charlie’s words still stinging.

  I sigh and put down my paintbrush.

  “You okay?” Lorna asks.

  I nod. “Yeah. I just need to stretch for a little bit.”

  I stand, rolling my shoulders back. Harriet says something that makes Henry burst out in a loud laugh, and Lorna giggles, looking hopefully over toward Miss Peggy to see if she’s joining in. But Miss Peggy just glowers, and Lorna lets out an unhappy sigh.

  I fiddle with my paintbrush, and much to my surprise, I realize my heart is hurting a little on Miss Peggy’s behalf.

  I walk over toward her, sitting in the chair next to her.

  “I don’t need any help,” she says, her tone clipped.

  “I know. I’m not offering any.”

  She clicks her tongue against her teeth and shakes her head. “Impertinent.”

  Okay, let’s try this again. “That’s very beautiful,” I say to her, pointing toward her vase.

  It’s a total lie.

  She’s currently painting angry-looking red, purple, and brown flowers all over the edges, with smears of orange around the bottom. In fact, I’d be hard-pressed to figure out a way to make it more visually unappealing. It looks like something Mustard threw up.

  “I did take art classes in college, you know.”

  “It really shows,” I say.

  I’m lying through my teeth, but it works, because I see her shoulders soften just a half inch or so.

  “Miss Peggy, I was hoping you could help me with something,” I say.

  She keeps painting. “I’m listening.”

  “I need a co-chair for the fund-raiser. I could really use someone who can make sure we have all the right supplies the weekend of the show.”

  “I’m very busy, as you know,” she says, dipping her brush into a heinous-looking army green. As she dabs it lightly on the vase, to my surprise it somehow helps, bringing all the terrible colors together.

  “Okay, maybe I can ask Harriet instead.”

  “No, no! I’ll do it,” Miss Peggy says. “I’ll fit it in somehow.”

  “Good. I really appreciate it,” I say.

  She nods primly, then stands and smooths her slacks before rejoining the main table. When she gets settled, she taps Lorna on the shoulder. “Pass me that when you’re done. It could use some of this green,” she says, pointing to the vase Lorna is holding.

  “Of course!” Lorna sends me a grateful look.

  The rest of the afternoon goes by smoothly, everyone diligently painting and mostly getting along. We have a lot to finish in the next week and a half to make enough for the tickets, and I wonder if I’ve gotten myself in over my head. But as I watch the ladies and Henry paint, I remind myself that even if Charlie can’t stand to be around me, I’m doing something good here.

  I try to pretend that’s enough.

  Forty-Four

  WALKING SLOWLY DOWN THE hallway, my Converse dangling from my hands, I hear the ten o’clock news playing in my parents’ bedroom, but I make it downstairs without tipping anyone off, my whole body exhaling in relief.

  Tonight, after dinner, I finally got a text from Finn:

  Made it to the Fight to the Death finals—want to see me box? Around 10:45. The fair space at Huron Park.

  My whole body warmed in response.

  So now I’m sitting on the living room floor, lacing up my high-tops, ready to sneak out past curfew to go to an amateur boxing competition.

  I don’t even know who I am anymore. But I don’t care.

  I tell myself this is no big deal. I’m just supporting a friend. I didn’t want to bother Mom and Dad, and I’ll be back before they even notice. Everything’s good.

  “Where are you going?”

  I yelp in surprise, then cover my mouth, glaring at Charlie leaning against the doorframe.

  “Out.”

  “Where?”

  “Nowhere. Please just go back upstairs.”

  Charlie cocks his eyebrow. “I don’t think nowhere is a real place.”

  I shake my head. “That was a Dad joke and you know it.”

  “Huh. Maybe he knows where you’re going.” He moves toward the stairs.

  “Charlie!” I hiss between clenched teeth.

  He smiles, and I realize he’s enjoying this.

  I relent. “I’m going to see Finn box in some contest.”

  His face tightens at the mention of Finn’s name. “Now?”

  “He made it to the finals,” I say.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “No. You aren’t.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll just stay home and talk to Mom and Dad about pottery. How about that?”

  “God. Are you going to hold this over me forever?”

  He shrugs, and frustration courses through me. “Why do you even want to hang out? Isn’t being around me pretty much torture?”

  He frowns. “What are you talking about?”

  I remind myself tonight is about Finn, not Charlie, and I shake my head, relenting. “Never mind. But I’m driving.”

  “What time do we need to be there?”

  I look at my phone. “In about forty minutes.”

  “And where is it again?”

  “On the West Side, at Huron Park.”

  He gives me a skeptical look, and I sigh, tossing him Mom’s keys so quickly, he almost drops them.

  “If you get us stopped for a speeding ticket, I’m going to kill you,” I warn as I open the door to the garage and head outside, the sound of my brother’s footsteps behind me.

  Forty-Five

  GROWING UP, I’D SEEN posters stapled to telephone poles around town advertising “Fight to the Death” contests. They were in bright neon colors—always at intersections right when you pulled off the highway, the aggressive capital letters and exclamation points demanding your attention.

  I didn’t know what the contests entailed, but I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to fight so much they died.

  And even after I eventually read an article about the amateur boxing contests in the newspaper, if you had asked me if I’d ever be watching one unfold in front of me, I would have laughed you out of the room.

  But I’m currently pushing through a crush of sweaty cheering people who are watching two large guys dance and duck and grunt as they attempt to knock each other out.

  I’d never admit it out loud, but I’m secretly relieved Charlie came. There’s no way I would have found this place on my own. And, of course, when we arrived, the first person I saw in the crowd was Johnny Casper. He didn’t see me because I shoved Charlie so hard in the opposite direction, he actually stumbled.

  He turned around and scowled at me. “Sorry,” I muttered.

  But right now, even if Johnny were standing two feet away from me, I don’t know if I could see him. Charlie’s trying to get us closer, but there are people everywhere, and I feel that familiar panic of being short in a crowd of people—stuck in a mess of torsos and shoulders. I’m just getting to the point where I think I’m going to scream when Charlie moves to the side and I realize we made it to the edge of the ring, right as one of the guys currently boxing falls to the ground, his weight slamming to the floor in front of me.

  Charlie nods appreciatively. “Badass.”

  “I don’t know why people like this.”

  “ ’Cause it’s sweet,” Charlie says, his eyes lighting up as the guy o
n the floor stumbles up and begins boxing again, only to get knocked out again—this time for good. He points to the scoreboard. “Finn’s up next.”

  I look around at the rest of the crowd. It’s mostly men, but I see an occasional woman here and there. Most everyone has plastic cups of beer, and the floor is littered with cigarette butts.

  People start cheering when a super-tanned woman in a bright-orange bikini comes out and makes a slow circle around the inner ring, holding a sign that reads ROUND 1 so that everyone can see it.

  The announcer calls out, “And now our level-two finalists, up first . . . Finn Casper!”

  At first I’m relieved he’s up, because as soon as he’s done, I can leave. But then I see him—shirtless, skull tattoo dark against his pale skin, his hair knotted up in a bun—lifting the elastic ropes at the edge of the ring. Someone hands him headgear, and my stomach knots as he straps it on. Even from the other side of the ring, I can make out his lingering bruises, his sinewy abdomen, his breakable bones.

  I want to jump right up there and pull him out of the ring, take him away from here, never let him come back.

  My eyelid twitches.

  Charlie puts his hand on my shoulder. “It’ll be okay,” he says. “He wouldn’t have gotten this far if he didn’t know what he was doing.”

  Finn waits in the corner, putting in a mouth guard, then sliding on his gloves. My eyes dart around the ring, and I see Johnny on the other side. He’s chewing something, his focus on the guy next to him, who’s stealthily counting out some money, which Johnny slips into his back pocket.

  Everything around me suddenly seems louder than it was just a second ago, but I can’t make out any of it—it’s just a rush of noise.

  I can’t tell if the tenor of the crowd is changing or it’s just in my head.

  “And his opponent, Joe Castanelli!”

  A guy with a shaved head climbs into the ring. They’re the same height, but Finn’s opponent looks like a bulldog, thick arms and thicker torso.

  I hug myself harder.