Practically Ever After

by Isabel Bandeira

  “Don’t be afraid to ask questions, either,” Cassie piped up, earning a smile from Coach. “We’ve been exactly where you are, too, so we get it, trust me. I almost threw up during my orientation.” At my elbow in her side, she grinned even wider and pointed to the gym entrance. “The trash can is over there, by the way, if you need it.”

  Coach shook her head. “I don’t know if I’m going to miss any of you,” she said, just like she always did during orientation to whichever senior piped in with a silly aside during her opening speech. Tradition died hard at Pine Central. “Okay, demo. The routine you’re about to watch got fourth place in States this year…”

  “We were robbed!” One of our junior girls yelled out, and I joined in on the sounds of agreement and mumbles about judges always giving North Jersey schools preference.

  “…and it’s a great example of the kind of routines you’ll see from our varsity squad here. Our JV squad had a similar routine this year, and, if you have limited time to devote to either squad, we also hold tryouts for our pep team, who cheer at some of our less attended sporting events and are still a good way to get involved.” Coach was failing miserably at sounding excited about the pep team, but I could imagine how hard it was to convince anyone that cheering for the bowling team and at random badminton games was exciting. Her words drifted off, then she turned to get the sound system ready. “Have fun,” she said, smiling our way before hitting the play button on our last time performing our routine.

  We moved into position seconds before our music filled the air. Cassie looked over at me with a wide grin and did the cheesiest double thumbs up before we broke into our choreography. This wasn’t competition, so, like when we did our routine at a home game, we let loose, jumping higher and moving through our routine with more bounce than our nerves usually allowed. I threw myself into an aerial and could hear the whoops of the rest of the squad as I stuck the landing, then added my own cheers as two of our guys crossed the floor in a matching series of back handsprings, each catching more air than the handspring before.

  Even though I was tall, Coach had pegged me for a flyer Junior year because of my flexibility and ability to hit mid-air poses. She told the bases that they had to suck it up and deal with my extra weight compared to the five-foot-zero girls, and with each practice, we really learned to trust each other. I stepped into my teammates’ hands and was up in the air, taking a second to find my balance before pulling my leg up into a scorpion. One, two, three seconds, and, as I dropped my leg, I was flying, the familiar rush of dropping through the air flooding through me just as I was caught and pushed back up again to a liberty position. It hit me hard that this was the last time I was going to do this and my heart got stuck in my throat just before my bases pushed up and I pulled my body into a twist as I dropped into their arms.

  It was just an extracurricular activity, something to look good on my applications and boost my social standing, but, at that moment, I didn’t want it to end. I choked on my words as the music paused and we started yelling out our Muskrat cheer. “We are P.C.!” got a few giggles from the eighth graders watching, breaking my mood. The first time I had to say that, I had dissolved into a laughing mess, taking the entire JV squad with me to the point where we couldn’t finish our cheer. I snorted as we yelled, “We are P.C.!” again, then jumped back into the complicated choreography. The music ended and we held our final formation for a few more breaths before my teammates dropped me back down to the ground.

  Even though we were out of breath and sweating, all of us were grinning. Cassie bumped me in the arm and said, “Admit it, you’re going to miss this.”

  I opened my mouth to say no, but, at Cassie’s skeptical smirk, I said, “Okay, fine, yes.”

  “Then, don’t give it up.”

  “It’s not that easy,” I said.

  She rolled her eyes. “Dating someone who keeps trying to make me debate whether or not the Enterprise could beat the Death Star isn’t easy, either, but I do it. Anyway,” she said, gesturing me to get off the mat, “time to inspire our future replacements.”

  “Right.” I reluctantly followed, pasting on the cheeriest cheer smile I could. “And tell Christian that his question makes no sense because they aren’t even in the same galaxy or time period. Star Wars is a ‘long time ago in a galaxy far, far away’ and Trek is in the future in our galaxy. They’d never meet.”

  “You are both a bunch of nerds.”

  “And you’re lucky to know us.” I widened my smile a little more and took my position for the easy routine Coach wanted us to demonstrate. “Come, join us. We’re going to rule the world in a few years, anyway. Nerds always do.”

  Chapter 40

  I flipped to the last page of my notebook, finished copying out my history notes for the third time, and, taking a last swig of my double-espresso iced coffee—heartburn be damned—triumphantly dropped my pen on my desk. “Done,” I muttered, slamming my history notebook shut. Other than a last-minute review of the flashcards on my phone that I planned to do in the hallway right before the final, I was ready for anything my teacher could throw at me.

  And I was officially done studying for finals, which gave me the rest of the week and the weekend to focus on finishing my engineering drawing and design project.

  I expected the usual rush of accomplishment from finishing a task—early, too—but, instead, a sense of emptiness filled me as I crossed “study for history final” off my planner to-do list. I…didn’t have anything to do. Cheer was over, I couldn’t stand hanging at the dance school while Aunt Drina freaked out over last minute recital details, Em and Feebs were at the Project Graduation planning meeting, and Alec was at the end-of-year party for the science team. I could have started working on my presentation for my design class, but I needed something to distract me for a few minutes.

  I opened up Photogram and started scrolling through the pictures, laughing at a video of Em trying to shoot with Phoebe’s bow and bulk liking all of my cousin’s baby spam without reading any of her captions. All her captions were ninety percent “Six months, I can’t believe how big she’s gotten” or “Smartest baby in the world!” anyway. Right after liking a photo of a pouting Alec holding up a joke medal for “worst science jokes” at his party, I scrolled down and my heart dropped like lead in water. Leia smiled up at me from my screen, arms stretched wide and hugging her three sisters as they smushed together for a selfie at her oldest sister’s college graduation. She almost never posted on Photogram and never posted selfies, but there she was, practically glowing and looking like she was on the verge of breaking into laughter. I’d seen that expression a million times before and it never grew old.

  Item number one hundred that I’d forgotten to put on my to-do list: unfollow Leia on all social media platforms.

  Em’s voice popped into my head, defending her own reasons for not unfollowing her ex-boyfriend this past fall after they broke up and, before I could start making excuses like that to myself, I opened up Leia’s page. My finger hovered over the blue unfollow button and I shut my eyes as I hit it. The practical part of me wanted to snark at myself for being so dramatic about a social media account, but it couldn’t push away the overwhelming feeling that I was slamming a door on the past.

  So many things were coming to an end at the same time—cheer, dance, school, time with my friends, Leia, that I could barely catch my breath. I should have been excited. There were so many new, interesting things and places and people ahead of me, but at that moment, I was drowning in loss. My fingers instinctively went over to my design project, tracing every familiar curve in the prototype. Even this was going to end, a chance to have fun making beautiful things in favor of, well, calculations on oil flow and turbine design.

  A part of me wondered if everyone went through this growing up moment, putting away the fun, childish things of the past in favor of success in the future. I shook my head, trying to shake away the weird reverie that had come over me—I just needed to reme
mber what I was working towards—goals always made everything easier.

  I reached for my notebook and wrote “Pros” across the top, not bothering to divide the page in two. I didn’t need any cons at the moment. The list of pros flowed out of me out of sheer habit, everything from a secure salary and job marketability to world travel. But, all of it felt hollow.

  Especially without Leia, that evil little voice came back at me, and I pushed it away again. “Relationships started after college have a higher chance of surviving,” I added to my list, bolding and underlining the words. “I won’t be the same person when I’m thirty that I am today, and people grow apart,” I added with a flourish. All the same arguments I’d written before, all still statistically true, no matter how much I still hurt.

  I opened up a search engine and typed in “highest paying majors,” the familiar list popping up on screen. The list of highest earning careers changed positions a bit every time I’d searched, starting freshman year, but they were still basically the same ones. Steady, reliable, exactly what I needed if I wanted to succeed in the world. This time, Anesthesiologist was at the top, but, after a minute, I pushed that thought away—too many years of school and too much time spent in scrubs. Hospitals didn’t bother me, exactly, but I didn’t want to spend every waking hour in one. Plus, I liked making things and I didn’t see that happening a lot in a job like that.

  Engineering had always been the most practical, perfect fit for me. All my teachers said so, and I liked my physics and engineering classes at school. And even though it wasn’t the most dynamic or sustainable industry, the world’s over-reliance on petroleum would keep me employed and travelling probably up until I retired.

  I put down my pen and stared at the list. Everything on it made sense, but the certainty and security behind them still didn’t fade away the feeling that my world was turning into ghosts. Something that would soon be just memory and then not even that, just a past-me captured in things, like Em’s favorite antiques.

  A text from Phoebe popped up on my screen, punctuated with sparkle hearts, “We were arguing over the best way to hand out tickets, and *someone* actually said, ‘WWGD-What would Grace do?’ You’re apparently now Em’s compass for common sense stuff ” followed by another emoticon filled text from Em, “Whatever Phoebe is texting you right now is a lie. But if you have any ideas on how to give out ride tickets without total chaos, I’ll take them.”

  I opened up a new message window and group-texted them. “There’s so many ways to do this. I’ll make a list. Stop by after.”

  “Grace-lists to the rescue!” Em texted back, and I could picture her turning and sticking her tongue out at Phoebe in the middle of their meeting. “Thanks.”

  I took another deep breath and tore my original list off my notepad, slipping it into my planner’s “future plans” section. After I moved past this malaise, it would all make sense again.

  I sunk deeper into the soft leather of the armchair, legs slung over the arm of the chair and my planner propped on my knees. The clicks from Mom tapping away on her laptop were my background music as I wrote out list after list of ideas for Em and Phoebe. The room felt so cozy, the late afternoon light and the challenge of solving someone else’s problems helping to push away the worries I had left behind in my bedroom.

  “Grace, what do you think of an empanada food truck?” My mom asked, sliding her reading glasses down her nose as she turned to look at me.

  I tilted my head confusedly. “For my graduation party?”

  “No, for Trixie’s wedding.” Mom waved her own notepad in the air as she spoke, “They said they didn’t want a sit-down and I know how trendy food trucks are with you kids, so I thought maybe they could get a few food trucks to cater. I’m not sure about the quality of those things, but at least the trucks would be a talking point. And everyone loves empanadas.”

  Her idea sounded right up Phoebe’s sister’s alley. Between that and talking the art gallery in Millbrook into allowing them to hold their reception there, Mom had totally captured Trixie’s laid-back style. “Trix would love that. She also really likes the pita truck and the dumpling truck, in case you need a few others.”

  “There’s a dumpling food truck?” She asked, skepticism lacing her voice. To be honest, I’d thought the same thing when I heard about it.

  “Yup. Everyone says it’s amazing. The chef trained at Nobu.”

  Mom’s eyes widened in appreciation. “Nice. I’ll add them to the list.” She turned back to her laptop with a pleased hum. A few clicks and she turned to look at me again. “Can you help me with something Friday?”

  I flipped from the notes pages to the actual calendar part of my planner. “You mean before or after helping with the Noelle’s Song table at the farmer’s market?”

  “Actually, during. Since Trixie loves vintage so much, Ana Martins and I are going hunting at the farmers market for some vintage things to use at the shower and wedding.” Mom flipped through one of her binders to show me the sketch of her hot chocolate bar, complete with pictures of different styles of vintage coffee and tea cups pasted in the top corner. “We thought we could put you and Phoebe to work finding some vintage tablecloths for the shower if you have a break or two from the table.”

  I pictured rows of tables with different tablecloths fluttering in the wind, like something out of a magazine. “That sounds really cool.”

  “I can’t take credit. It was Phoebe’s idea. And I thought since you’re already going to be there, you can help. You have a good eye for these things.”

  “Sure.” I watched her return to her work. She was in her element, deftly adding numbers to an excel spreadsheet and sketching out seating in her sketchbook for a silent minute before saying, “You know, Mom, you really should look into turning this into a business. Everyone asks you to help plan their parties, you might as well get paid for it.”

  Mom turned towards me, her brows drawing together in reproach. “I’m not going to charge your friend’s sister. I volunteered to help her plan this and I certainly will not suddenly start sending her bills.”

  “I don’t mean starting with Trixie, just maybe think about making yourself an official party planner. You’re really good at it.” I remembered back to all my birthday parties and all of the family parties she’d planned. Every single one of them had been perfect and unique, better than any of the professionally planned parties I’d ever attended. And she made it all look so effortless, even though I knew how much organization and planning she had put into every one of them.

  Mom’s expression softened and she let out a small laugh. “I don’t know. This is just a fun hobby for me. I haven’t had a paying job in years, I wouldn’t even know where to start. Plus, things change so much with your dad’s job that I can’t start something with all that uncertainty.”

  I knew a lame excuse when I heard one. “Dad’s been in the same company for twenty years and they haven’t moved him anywhere in that whole time. I think things are stable enough for you to try doing something for yourself. When you’re good at something, you shouldn’t just waste it.”

  “What should Mom try to do?” Dad’s voice preceded him into the room. He paused in the doorway for a second, smiling at both of us before heading towards his own desk.

  “Start her own party planning business,” I said, grinning back at him. “She’s amazing at it.”

  “I agree with Grace one hundred percent. You’re amazing at everything you try, Inez.” He dropped his laptop case on his desk and turned to face us again.

  Mom twisted her lips up and crossed her arms in mock skepticism. “I don’t hear either of you talking about how it’s a high-risk business that’s subject to market conditions or whatever other things you usually say. Or how I’d probably be better off looking for a corporate planner job with greater potential for advancement.” Her imitation of Dad was spot on and I cringed a little bit when I realized I sometimes sort of sounded like that, too.

  Dad laughe
d good-naturedly at the imitation. “Okay, that’s fair. But I’m starting to learn that sometimes there’s more to a job than if it makes business sense.”

  “Did Aunt Drina kidnap and brainwash you?” I asked, slowly closing my planner and scrunching my nose at him to let him know I was joking.

  “Funny, Grace,” Dad said, dryly. “And, no, she still has an awful business model, even if it makes her happy.”

  “You’re in a really good mood today.” Mom pointed out. She was right—Dad usually took a half hour to wind down from whatever work drama had preceded his drive home, but this time, he was practically bouncing in place.

  He looked from her to me, clapped his hands together dramatically, and said, “They offered me a chance to head up European operations for the company. They’ve been very impressed with all the extra work I’ve put in these past few months to get the Taiwan project back on track and I ended up at the top of the short list for the position.”

  “Oh.” Mom’s voice was subdued. I watched as she forced her lips into a smile that didn’t touch her eyes. “That’s wonderful, David.” It was almost like she’d just shut down, the excitement from earlier extinguished like someone had blown it out.