by Jesse Gordon
She waited until they reached Heath Street—at which point Chris took off up the walk, toward home—before she confronted Pat with, “Us?”
“Forget I said it—”
“Tell me.”
Pat slowed his gait. He dug his fingernail into the deck of his skateboard. “Well, I mean, with you out of gym and all…you have more free time, right?”
“I have…time.”
“Well, I thought maybe you and me…I was thinking we could do more things together. You know? Like…together.”
Monica stopped, faced Pat. There was something catching at the back of her throat; she could see it was the same for him. He was looking back at her, smiling, an intense passion behind his eyes, newly-erupted hormones desperately instructing him to do the things a fourteen-year-old boy had to do. She knew he’d been harboring a crush for at least the last two years, and that he’d been waiting patiently for the defining moment in which to spring The Question—and now that it had been sprung, she found herself less-than-prepared. It was scary, the thought of having a boyfriend, of being a girlfriend. She knew Pat would treat her right, knew that he would be a devoted crush, a memorable first time, a faithful lover…perhaps even a husband, if they stuck it out—but is this what I want? Is this how it’s to turn out? A steady, certain progression from best buddy to bed buddy to my baby’s daddy? Street corner acrobat and conspiracy theorist sticking it out here in little ol’ Sussex till death do we part?
Pat was waiting. Monica reached out and squeezed his hand, leaned over and kissed him quickly on the lips. Just to see. Without a word, he leaned forward so that their foreheads were touching. She could smell mint chewing gum on his breath, wind and sun in his hair, some sporty deodorant on his skin as wordlessly he asked her for another kiss, tilted his head—
—she pulled away. “Pat.”
“Sorry, Monica—”
“No, it’s not you. It’s…it’s just…” She fell silent. It’s just that if I accept you, then I accept my life as a commonplace citizen. I don’t know if I’m ready to do that—oh lord, listen to me. As if I’m freaking royalty. As if there’s the slightest chance I’ll ever have to blow off a date because of gym practice. “I need to think a few things over. I hope you understand.”
Pat cleared his throat, nodded, smiled. “Hey, no questions asked.”
Monica smiled, too, and started walking again. When they reached Deborah’s house she thanked Pat for walking her home. She stood in the yard and watched as he rode his skateboard down the street, out of sight.
She wondered how long it would take for her heart to stop hammering in her chest.
CHAPTER 11
Dear Diary,
This is supposed to be my first entry, but somehow it doesn’t feel like anything more than a rough draft of a rough draft. I’ve never been a writer. However, my counselor thinks it’s good for me to keep a journal. She’s convinced my parents that it’s an outlet, and everyone knows a misfit such as myself needs an outlet. For what, I don’t know. Everyone seems to think I’m holding something back because I’ve kept up with my training, or because I’m not cutifying myself like girls my age should. They think I’m unladylike. My mom keeps bringing around these flowery skirts and blouses—she thinks part of my problem is the pants and sweatshirts I’m always wearing. “You’re not running to and from practice anymore,” she always tells me. “You can dress nicely now.” Ugh.
It’s Halloween today. October has really flown by, considering the circumstances. Pat has made his intentions clear. I guess I’ve known all along that he’s had a crush on me, but now it’s really obvious. I feel so sorry for him. I get the feeling he’s never hit on any other girl because he’s been holding out for the day I say “yes.” In a way I’m flattered. Most boys are crude, making fun of my size or cracking the usual dirty sex jokes involving a gymnast’s flexibility in bed. Pat’s crude, too, but in another way. He’s never said anything derogatory towards me. He actually treats me very well. And yet it’s hard to think of him as more than a brother. I’m curious, I suppose, about going steady with a guy, but…I don’t know. I don’t know about anything right now. I can’t believe I wrote all this. It’s Halloween and I’m sitting here writing. This is stupid. This isn’t even a real diary, it’s a free program my dad found online. Paper’s too expensive. So much for posterity.
Monica shut off her notebook, set it beside her bed. She still had homework to finish, but it was hard to find the inspiration, and so she remained sitting with her back against the wall, her legs drawn up against her chest—as if she were huddling for warmth despite the billiards room’s liberal thermostat setting. It was like that last night in the old house, the old room, feeling like it was the eve of something incredible, except now it was teenage worries, the intricacies of friendship…how to deal with a boy whose crush threatened to seal her fate.
A knock at the doorway, the familiar smell of Sharon’s perfume. “Monica? Are you proper?”
“Yeah,” replied Monica.
Sharon stepped into the room. “Your father’s going to be late tonight. I took the liberty of picking up dinner. Chinese food. It’s on the table.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’d better not wait until Chris has had his way with the fried rice—”
“I’m finishing my homework.” Monica picked up her notebook, switching it on again.
Sharon sighed, turned and left; her voice wafted in from the other room. “Well, if you feel like coming out of your cave in a little while, I’d appreciate your taking Chris out for trick-or-treat—”
“Mom.”
“—you know how he’s had his heart set on chocolate since August. Twenty minutes should do it, up and down the street—it’ll spare everyone’s nerves not to have him whining about missed opportunity afterward. I’d go, but I have a stack of papers to grade, and laundry to do, and a million other things…”
Ugh, she’s rambling. “Fine. I’ll be out in a bit.”
Paper bags rustling; Chris saying something about a missing fork as he tore into his meal; the videobox being turned on—normally the background noise didn’t bother Monica, but now it was excruciating, a probably-isn’t-but-surely-might-be subtle hint that as the Big Sister of the family she was expected to graciously yield to the confectionery needs of her kid brother. After a few minutes’ spoiled concentration, she set down her notebook and went out into the main room, filched an egg roll from the tray. “All right, let’s get this over with so that I can finish my homework and possibly pass the ninth grade.”
“Monica,” said Sharon, “a little enthusiasm, please.”
“I said I’d take him.”
“Well, you don’t have to act like it’s the biggest chore in the world.”
“I’m not acting.”
Sharon disregarded her, instead nodding at Chris. “Are you ready to become a tiger?”
“You bet!” Chris shouted.
“Wipe your mouth, sweetie.”
Up in the bathroom, the transition from boy to animal was initiated, Sharon doing makeup, Monica doing wardrobe, and Chris rehearsing his growls.
“You’re not dressing up this year?” he asked as Sharon applied whiskers to his cheek.
Monica, working with needle and thread to attach Chris’ tail to his backside, said, “Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Because trick-or-treating is for little kids.”
Chris pondered this, allowing Sharon to continue applying makeup a moment longer before raising his hands and pushing her away. “Then I won’t wear a costume either.”
“Chris—” began Sharon, wrestling with him.
“I’m not a little kid!”
“Christopher Michael Sardinia!”
Monica dodged out of the way as Chris really started squirming. “Watch it! You’re going to get a needle in your ass!”
The battle between mother and son reached a crescendo. When it became evident her efforts would do nothing more
than make an even bigger mess of things, Sharon backed off, dropped her sponge onto the counter top, and glared at Monica. “Happy?”
“Don’t blame me,” said Monica, rising to her feet, severed tail in hand. “He’s the one who won’t stand still.”
Sharon folded her arms. “You’re his older sister, and, apparently, his latest idol since taking up chronic apathy.”
You say that like I’m a rebel or something, Monica thought. Like you want me to rebel. “Can we call a peace treaty?”
Sharon spread her hands, waited.
Squatting before Chris, Monica asked, “You’re not going to dress up?”
Chris shook his head.
“Then how will you get your candy?”
He looked thoughtful. “How are you going to get your candy?”
Monica straightened, folding her arms and tapping her sneakered foot against the floor. “You know I don’t eat candy.”
“But you’re not a gymnast anymore. You can eat whatever you want.”
“I’m still a gymnast. I just don’t have anywhere to practice.” Monica set the tiger’s tail on the counter top. “I’ll be out front. Let me know if and when you’re ready.” She left the bathroom.
That’ll earn me another session with the counselor, she thought, descending the staircase and breezing out the front door. She waited in the yard, patient, impatient, wishing for something, for nothing.
It was a good ten minutes before Chris, his costume fully assembled, presented himself to her on the front step. His tiger’s tail hung limply on the doormat.
“Mom says for me to apologize,” he said.
Monica wiped away a few lingering tears. “That’s okay.”
“Will you still take me trick-or-treating?”
“Sure.”
Chris beamed, growled accordingly.
Sharon caught them as they left the yard. “See you in a bit!” she called, waving, putting on a smile, as if everything were hunky-dory.
Monica started down the street, Chris bounding along ahead, his sweet tooth leading him on. There were other kids as well, ghouls, ghosts, goblins, superheroes, and devils—all wandering about the neighborhood with a taste for sugary morsels. The bounty wasn’t all that impressive, though. A good majority of the neighbors didn’t even have their front lights on, and those who did were stingy with the treats—evidence of tightened budgets, higher chocolate prices, wilted demeanors to match the cracked sidewalks and potholed streets. Up against the horizon, the old water tower, bruised and battered, stood like a dead sentry in the burgundy dregs of sunset.
“You look rather thoughtful,” said Esther, a twenty-something housewife who’d come to stand beside Monica as she watched her son, dressed as a cowboy, run up the neighbor’s walk.
“Just thinking about things,” said Monica, an image of Pat briefly surfacing.
Esther nodded. “Aren’t we all. Your mom and I bumped into each other a few days ago. She tells me you’re back in public school.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s good. I hope it’s going well for you.”
“Oh, I have friends there,” Monica said, and shrugged. “It’s okay, I guess.”
“But it’s still school.” Esther chuckled. “I’m sure you’d rather be anywhere else Monday to Friday, eight to three. Back at your gym, perhaps.”
Monica smiled, wished Chris would hurry up so she could move on down the street. “It’s not that bad. Really. I have a makeshift training room at home.”
“But it’s not the same as being on a team, is it?”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Ugh. Isn’t it just typical these days?” Esther wrung her hands. “Everything’s so topsy-turvy—all we can do is putter around in our respective niches! Work and home, school and home. Shit, my husband has little Keith all riled up over making the Pee Wee football team, but I’m like, ‘Where’s the money going to come from, hon?’ We’ve got six credit accounts, and four of them are maxed out. Plus, he wants me to be the one to run Keith back and forth between practice and all that. I told him, ‘Look, darling, I can cook and clean all day, or I can play Soccer Mom, but not both.’”
Monica listened as Esther went on and on, the proverbial small-town housewife, stringy hair, slightly starved look, never enough money.
A premonition? Monica wondered, and was immensely relieved when Chris finally returned, attached himself to her side and announced he was set for the night. He picked through his sack of goodies as she said goodbye to Esther and led him back in the direction of home. She was considering what to do with herself for the rest of the evening when she looked up—and stopped in her tracks.
There was a marked vehicle parked in front of Deborah’s house.
Chris, caught off-guard, bumped into her face-first. He tried unceremoniously to wipe a smidgen of his facial makeup from her sweatshirt. “Why’d you stop, Monica?”
“I don’t know,” she responded, a dozen different possibilities running through her head as she willed herself into motion once again, up the street, up the front walk, into the house.
She found them in the dining room, Deborah, her parents, and two trick-or-treaters dressed as military officers. They were gathered around the table and conversing intently. When they spotted her in the doorway, the military men fixed her with a pair of appraising stares.
“Monica, dear,” Sharon said, smiling broadly. “Come, sit with us—there’s news from the NPAA.”
Monica took a seat at the table; she held her breath as Deborah, excusing herself, hustled Chris upstairs for his nightly shower.
Sharon introduced the newcomers: “This is Mr. Dunckel and Mr. Godin. Gentlemen, my daughter, Monica.”
Each of the men shook Monica’s hand in turn. Both sported spotless uniforms and even buzz-cuts.
Dunckel jumped to the heart of the matter: “Ms. Sardinia, in light of recent events involving the girls’ Patriot team losing four of its best athletes, the NPAA has decided to revamp its entire elite program in time for the forthcoming Olympic year. This entails many changes, one of which is the appointment of Darren Hades as head coach of the girls’ gymnastics team.”
Monica’s eyes widened. With the exception of the Alabama Massacre, she’d been avoiding the news, and so hadn’t kept up with NPAA affairs—but she did know who Darren Hades was. Most gymnasts were gymnasts because of his lore, his performance on Heroes’ Day, 2084, where he’d become the sixth person in Olympic history to earn flawless scores on parallel bars and floor.
“Mr. Hades has decided,” said Godin, “that the new girls’ program will best be served by a small, highly-specialized team of six young women fast-tracked for Heroes’ Day. As such, it is our duty and honor to inform you that you’ve been hand-picked to serve as team captain.”
Godin’s words rang out loud and clear, and Monica’s brain processed their meaning—still, she couldn’t believe what she was hearing, couldn’t believe that her parents hadn’t somehow hired the men sitting across from her to sneak over while she was out with Chris—a twisted Halloween prank. She cleared her throat, glanced at Sharon, who was absolutely beaming, about to burst.
“There’s paperwork involved,” Dunckel continued, “and you’ll be required to live and work aboard Olympus Station for a one-year term. Living arrangements and boarding fees will be taken care of, should you accept, and your time with us counts as your obligatory military service.”
Silence was inevitable. Monica looked from Dunckel to Godin to Sharon to Mike, found herself completely stopped up, unable to smile or nod or give the slightest acknowledgment. Hope and reason were duking it out, trying to help her decide between cruel Halloween gag and genuine, storybook-style windfall.
“You’ll have to forgive her,” said Sharon. “She’s spent the last two months reintegrating as a commoner. It’s been stressful for us all, to say the least, what with the move and all—but she never lost her competitive spirit. She’s even kept up with her training. She’s been waitin
g for this day, and now it’s come!”
Godin produced an information packet, with forms to be looked over, signed, and submitted no later than five o’clock the following day.
“We’ll need some time to discuss this,” Mike said, grasping Monica’s hand. “But rest assured, you’ll have your answer by tomorrow.”
Monica nodded, a surge of excitement at last cracking the bewilderment. She’d been dreaming of becoming a Patriot since first enrolling at KG—but she hadn’t expected the reality to be so anticlimactic, to have what she wanted most after half a lifetime of steady rejection, after two solid months of trying to wean herself from every naive hope she’d ever had. No way, she thought to herself. No way…no way this is real. And yet there it was: papers on the table, an offer waiting to be accepted.
No freaking way.
Mike and Sharon shook hands with the recruiters, made some last-minute smalltalk before showing them out. Then, for a good while, the Sardinias merely stood on the front step hugging each other, laughing, whooping—completely mad.
CHAPTER 12
“Pat.”
The video messenger window came to life as Pat oriented his web cam, framed himself somewhat sideways. “Yeah?”
“It’s me, Monica.”
“I can see that,” Pat yawned, rubbing his eyes, scratching his head (it looked like he’d been gaming all evening). “What’s on your mind?”
So many things! “I’ve been up all night with my parents. The paperwork’s not finished, and I’m not even sure if I’m supposed to be telling this to anyone, but I just have to get it off my chest because I feel like I’m going to explode—”
“You’re babbling, toots.”
“I know!” Monica laughed, swallowed. “Oh, Pat—I’ve turned Patriot. I’m going to Olympus!”
Pat gawked, caught somewhere between distrust and genuine curiosity. “I thought you weren’t competing anymore.”
“I’m not. A couple of NPAA officers literally came to my door and asked if I wanted to join the Patriot team.”
