Coach clapped his hands. “Party’s over. And remember, practice starts at three tomorrow. None of this three-oh-two that’s been happening. Three p.m. Sharp.”
Sage turned to Kayla. “Did I really faint?”
“Your blood sugar must’ve dropped. It happens to my grandma sometimes.”
“Because that makes me feel better.”
“You know what I mean.” Kayla zipped her duffle. “And anyway, no one will remember tomorrow.”
The heat of her stiffening ankle kept Sage from responding. At least home was only ten minutes away, so she could avoid asking for ice. One hint of an injury and Dad would make her see every specialist in town. Worse—he might keep her from practice. She pulled on her sweats so no one would notice the swelling.
“Ready?” Mom appeared beside her. “Dad came straight from work, so we drove separately.”
Sage nodded, eyeing her father. Why was he still talking to the EMT?
“You need a ride, Kayla?” Mom asked.
“Thanks, Mrs. Z, but I’m good.” She nodded at an older woman on a cell phone. “Lyz’s grandma’s gonna drop me off.”
Sage bumped the pinky side of Kayla’s outstretched fist with her own, the goodbye action automatic for both of them, then followed Mom to the parking lot. Their silver Civic sat wedged between a Hummer and a minivan.
“I’m going to make you that chicken soup you love,” Mom said, starting the car. “I just need to swing by the store.”
Sage glanced at the dashboard. “It’s almost ten.”
“Honey, you fainted because you didn’t eat enough.” She inched the Civic backward. “God, why does anyone need a car the size of a boat?”
Sage’s head fell back against the seat. Now that they were talking about it, she was hungry. “Don’t you have a big meeting in the morning? I thought you wanted an early night?”
“What I want is to take care of my baby girl.”
“Oh, Mom.”
“I know, I know. But I don’t care if you’re seventeen. I wouldn’t care if you were seventy-one.” The car finally freed itself from the space, barely missing the Hummer’s mirror.
“If I were seventy-one,” said Sage, “that would make you…” She tapped her chin.
“Probably dead.”
“Mom!”
“I’m kidding. My grammy lived to one hundred. You’ve got a long time to get tired of me.”
Sage shook her head. “You’re so weird.”
“Seriously,” Mom said, “do you want the soup or not?”
Sage rotated her ankle. She still could, which meant the swelling wasn’t terrible. “Honestly?” She grinned. “Do you even have to ask?”
* * *
Dad sat at the kitchen table, thumb-typing on his iPhone. Mom kissed his cheek, then started pulling ingredients from the fridge and pantry. “I take it the district attorney filed that brief?” She ran the Keurig, filling the kitchen with the sweet scent of her favorite decaf coffee.
Dad sighed. “I was hoping he’d get an extension so I’d have longer for the response, but no such luck.” He looked up as Sage tried to sneak by him to the freezer. “There she is,” he said. “Southview’s hero.”
Sage rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t hold back a grin. She filled a glass with ice, then found a ginger ale in the fridge. Once she got to her room she’d use the cold glass on her foot.
“Where’s Ian?” she asked just as her younger brother emerged from the living room.
“Heard you beat Asheville!” he said. “Dad said you were epic, as usual.” He took a bite of his sandwich—peanut butter and jelly from the stain on his white tee—and grinned. “Wish I coulda been there.”
Sage smiled, silently thanking him for not mentioning the passing out. Dad had surely told him. “It was a pretty good night,” she said. Well, minus the fainting.
“I hate Asheville High.” Ian took another huge mouthful. “Can’t wait to pummel them Friday.”
Dad typed something else into his phone, not looking up. “How long you gonna wait to ice that foot, Sage?”
Mom stopped chopping carrots. “You hurt your foot?”
“How—” Sage started.
“I could tell by how you took your shoe off.” Dad looked up, eyebrows raised. “It’s stupid to waste time. Could cost you minutes.”
Sage grabbed an ice pack from the freezer. That was better than ice cubes anyway. “It’s just a tweak.”
“Well, sit down!” Mom shooed her to the table. “How did it happen? And what kind of EMT doesn’t notice a sprained ankle? Does that woman even have her license?”
Sage started to say something about how if everyone hadn’t been so focused on her nonexistent head injury… but she thought better of it. Mom had veered off into what Sage and Ian called Grizzly Bear mode, which often happened when she was overly tired. They’d learned long ago that provoking the Grizzly was good for no one.
Sage slid onto the seat next to Dad, propping her iced ankle on the bench that sat beneath the oil painting Mom had recently purchased in the River Arts District. It was titled Flowers in the Gully, but Sage thought it looked more like a rainbow hurricane. For two grand, she thought the subject should be more apparent. But then, she didn’t really get art.
“Here.” Ian handed her a throw pillow from the sofa.
“Thanks.” She propped it under her ankle. “I think it’s feeling better already.”
Dad’s smartphone pinged. “Ah, good,” he said. “Nhu-Mai said to come by tomorrow at lunchtime. She’ll squeeze you in.”
Sage groaned. “You called her? That’s the whole reason I didn’t want you to know.”
“Technically,” Dad said, “I texted her. And what’s the point of having a doctor as your best friend if you can’t call in some favors?”
“She’ll just tell me to ice it.”
“Then that’s what she’ll say. Sectionals are only two weeks away. That means bigger scouts. You want to make sure you’re in prime shape.”
Sage looked at Ian, but he nodded agreement. She sighed.
Dad opened the stat book laying on the table. “You did great out there tonight, Sage. Ten for ten serves. That incredible save to win the game—”
“If we’re being technical,” Sage said, “it didn’t actually win the game.”
Dad waved her objection away. “It kept you guys alive. Speaking of which, I gotta get the game tape. That dive’s definitely making your recruitment profile. And that spike in the second game?” He smiled. “Your plyometrics are really working. We’ve got to measure your jump again.” He made a note in the stat book.
Sage flexed her fingers, as if the motion could keep her excitement in check.
“The offer from App State is good,” Dad said, “but you keep playing like this, you’ll have your pick of schools. Penn State, even.”
“Those girls are giants, Dad. Super talented giants.” It was Sage’s unspoken but well-known dream to go to Penn State, one of the best women’s volleyball programs in the country.
“You’ve got talent,” Dad said. “And five feet eleven is hardly little.”
Ian licked a glob of peanut butter from his thumb. “You still like UNC?”
Sage shrugged. UNC hadn’t officially offered yet, but they’d hinted they would soon. “They’ve got a solid program. Much better than the smaller schools who have offered, but it’s not like all the superstars are gonna go there. I want to play, you know? Not sit on the bench.”
Dad smiled. “How many MVP awards do you need to convince you?” he asked. “You are one of those superstars.”
Sage adjusted her ice pack, eye-rolling away the praise. She’d never admit it out loud, not ever, but she loved the way Dad gushed about her skills. He worked almost every weekend and ate most meals while answering e-mails, but Dad never missed one of Sage’s games. Sage tapped Ian’s leg with her good foot. “What about you?” she asked. “You guys ready for Friday?”
He pursed his lips, in that
way he did when teetering between nervous and excited. “We’ll see, I guess.” Although six feet two inches, Ian was only a sophomore. And while he was too skinny for most football positions, he was what people called a natural athlete and had beaten out a kid in Sage’s class to earn the role of starting kicker.
“Coach pretty much tripled my drills this week,” he said.
“I’d hope so,” said Dad. “Asheville’s defense is probably the best in the state. You should have a lot of field goal attempts.”
Mom looked over from the stove. “Oh, that’s exciting for you,” she said.
“Not as good for the team, though.” Ian popped open the ginger ale Sage had left on the kitchen island. “Those assholes at the paper don’t think we have a chance.”
“Please, Ian,” Mom said. “Language.”
“Sorry. Ass hats.”
Sage snorted. Mom rolled her eyes.
“That new sports reporter doesn’t know a football from a pom-pom,” said Dad.
“It’s true they’re not a good match up for us.” Ian took a seat beside Sage’s propped foot. “But the game plan’s solid. I think it’ll be good.” He looked at Sage. “You’re gonna be there, right?”
She swiped a swig of ginger ale. “Wouldn’t miss it. Coach is even cutting practice short to give us time to eat first.”
“Speaking of eating,” said Mom, “who wants soup?”
CHAPTER FOUR
LEN
LEN PULLED THE FRONT DOOR SHUT HARDER THAN SHE’D intended, rattling the loose pane in the side window.
“Lennon?” her mom called. “Is that you, hon?”
Len cringed. “Yeah.” She’d hoped to slip into her room unnoticed, but that door simply wouldn’t close without a jerk. Dad said it added to the old house’s character. Len thought it made them seem poor.
Her mom appeared around the corner, leaning next to the Abbey Road album poster thumbtacked into the beige wall. “Where’d you go?” she asked. “You missed Fauna’s call again.”
“Oh.” Len tried to look like she hadn’t planned to do precisely that. “She doing okay?”
Mom’s smile slipped. “The same. It’s just gonna take time, you know? For all of us.”
Len shrugged out of her sweatshirt. “What about Nonni? Did you visit today?”
“Also the same.” Mom wiped an eyelash from her cheek. “She recognized me for a few minutes, though, so that was nice.”
Len couldn’t imagine what it must feel like—your own mother not knowing who you were. It hurt Len that Nonni didn’t recognize her anymore, but it must be a thousand times worse for her mom.
“She asked for you,” Mom said.
Len’s eyes snapped up. “Nonni?”
Mom shook her head. “Fauna. She said you haven’t been emailing her like you used to.” Her eyes cut into Len, searching. “I think she really misses you.”
Len’s breath caught, the words digging like rusted scissors in her chest. She wondered if this was how Brutus felt, in that play they’d studied last year, when Caesar uttered those famous last words.
Mom reached for Len. “I know it’s been difficult.”
Len skirted around her, into the kitchen. “There was a big volleyball match at school.”
“Since when do you like volleyball?” Mom followed her. “Or sports at all for that matter?”
Len reached over the pile of pans she’d left drying on the counter and grabbed the shiny electric kettle. “Lots of people went,” she said. “It was a big rival game.” She nudged the faucet open with the top of her gloved hand and placed the kettle underneath. “I just… needed some time away.”
“I understand,” Mom said.
No, Len wanted to scream. Mom would never understand. No matter how much she missed her older sister, Len didn’t deserve to speak to Fauna. Not now. Not ever again.
“Did you go with Hazel?” Mom asked.
Len switched off the faucet. “Huh?”
“To the game. Was Hazel with you, or who’d you go with?”
“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, Hazel.” Len dug through the box of assorted teas—Energizing, Total Relaxation, Peace Love Tea—until she came to the one she was looking for: Soul Clarifying.
“She’s a sweet girl, that Hazel,” Mom said, plopping down at the three-person table shoved into the corner. Len nodded, like Hazel hadn’t slowly stopped talking to her in the past couple months. Like she hadn’t told people Len had gone all “abnormal” and that she only talked to her because their moms worked together at the food bank.
“Actually—” Len started.
“You’re lucky to have such a nice friend.” Mom said it with such relief, like at least there was one daughter she didn’t have to worry about. She rubbed her face. “Were you going to say something?”
Len stared at the cracked green tile by her boot, sun-faded from the small window above the sink. “No,” she said. “Nothing important.”
There was a shuffle down the hall, and then Dad burst in to the kitchen. “Oh, you’re back!” he told Len. “Wonderful! I was just thinking we needed to have a Loving Kindness Circle.”
Dread flooded Len, but Mom clapped her hands. “What a great idea! We haven’t had one in a few days, and I could really use the boost.”
Dad sniffed the air. “Is that Soul Clarifying tea? I’ll take a cup.” He squeezed by Len to grab a mug but accidentally clipped one of the pot handles on the counter, sending them all tumbling onto the linoleum.
“I’ll rewash them,” Len said, grabbing the sauce pan her dad was about to reshelf.
“They were only down for a sec—”
“We cook food in these, Dad.” Len picked up the remaining pots and placed them in the sink. Carefully, she pulled off her gloves and put them on the window ledge behind the faucet. She ran the water again, warming it.
“Suit yourself,” he said. “But let’s do the circle before you start.”
Len squeezed a capful of Dawn into the water, letting some drizzle through her fingers. “You guys go ahead. I’ll clean up in here.”
“Lennon.” Her dad’s bubbly voice flattened. “Your sister needs our support. And so does Diane.” He turned off the water. “This can wait. Come on.”
Len cringed, but dried her clean hands. Grabbing her gloves, she followed her parents through the living-room-turned-Dad’s-artist-studio and into the small room at the back of the house. Most families would call it a sunroom, but to Len’s parents it was the meditation room.
“Careful,” Dad said as Len’s elbow brushed a canvas of blue and green face-like blobs. “That one’s not dry.”
Mom tugged on one of the windows until it unstuck, letting in the quivers of the front porch wind chimes.
“Right, then.” Dad sat cross-legged on the braided rug his grandmother had made and twisted his hair into a bun. Len and her mom sat across from him.
“We’ve talked about this,” he said, as Len placed her gloved palm in his. “Gloves disrupt the energy flow.”
“But—”
“Len…” her mom said softly. “Please. For Fauna.” Len ignored the burning in her gut and yanked off her beloved knit gloves. She took her parents’ outstretched hands.
Dad shifted on the floor, grounding himself. “Let’s take a moment to settle in,” he said, using his Reiki class voice. “Close our eyes and take a couple deep breaths: in through the nose”—he demonstrated—“and out through the mouth.” Len’s parents exhaled long and smooth, but Len’s breath snagged in her throat. “Feel the floor beneath you,” her dad continued. “The slant of the wooden boards. The tight fibers of the rug.”
I shouldn’t be doing this, Len thought. It’s not safe.
“Notice the sounds,” her dad said, as traffic noises battled the wind chimes. “If any thoughts arise, just notice and let them go. Let them float away like leaves on a river.”
Len’s face scrunched with determination. Leaves falling, floating.
“Imagine a white light,” Dad said.
“A healing light emanating from your heart.”
Her mom exhaled a deep sigh. But the harder Len focused, the more her imagined light changed—Blue. Red. Blue again.
“On your next inhale, bring Fauna into focus.”
Len’s eyes shot open. Her parents looked so peaceful, their expressions smooth and full of purpose. Why couldn’t she do this?
“As you hold Fauna in your mind’s eye,” Dad said, “imagine the white light from your heart surrounding her, protecting her.” He squeezed Len’s hand. “Send loving energy to her as your inner voice says, ‘May you feel peace. May you feel peace.’”
A tear rolled down Mom’s face, and Len slammed her eyes shut. Get it together, she demanded. It’s the least you can do.
“Now, let the image of Fauna dissolve,” Dad said, “and bring to mind Diane. You can envision a picture of her or imagine her doing something that makes her happy.” Len visualized Fauna’s pretty wife, standing in the kitchen of their adorable Atlanta townhouse, rolling dough for the pecan pie her grandmother taught her to make. The pie she’d promised to teach Len to make the next time she came to visit.
“May you feel peace,” Dad murmured. Len zeroed in on the image with all her strength. May you feel peace, Diane. May you feel—
The image blurred with memory—Diane, tearful but stoic, holding Fauna while Fauna cried in a way Len had never seen before, like the spark that kept her alive was giving out.
Len pulled her hands free, gasping, and staggered to her feet.
“Lennon?” Mom’s eyes had opened. She reached for Len.
“No!” Len backpedaled, bumping into a wicker loveseat. “I think, um, I might be sick.”
Dad’s eyes floated open. “It’s okay, Lennon. It’s normal for meditations to stir strong emotions.”
Normal, Len thought wildly. None of this is normal. She tugged on her gloves, vaguely aware of her parents’ whispers to each other.
“What can we do?”
“She needs some space, that’s all.”
“I’m okay. I—” What? What could she say to explain this? “I think I ate something bad.” Len dashed to her room and crawled into bed, wriggling down until the comforter cocooned her, her breathing moist in the small space.
The Edge of Anything Page 2
