“You’re gonna blow everyone away with your portfolio.” It’s true that I’ve not yet seen the results of said portfolio, although I’ve stood on numerous beach rocks over the summer and gazed deeply at the waves while her shutter snapped. Come on, Cass. Look at me.
With a sigh, she draws herself up and meets my eyes for the first time. The look is steel blue, committed.
Have we reached a turning point out here in the courtyard? Will Cassie stand up, dust off her dress, and tell Mr. Riley to screw off via a perfect rest-of-the-year GPA?
“It’s just like my dad.” She’s off the stone and pacing now. The skirt trails after her, a yellow wave. “He thinks I’m going to become some freakin’ greeting card photographer. He keeps talking about ‘viable career paths.’”
I’m not going to lie–up to this point, I’d kind of assumed the same. I can’t count the amount of Slurpee-fueled sunrises she’s roused me into seeing with her. “Tell him what you want to do,” I say instead. “He’s a logical guy. Throw some facts his way.”
She throws her hands up. “What if I want to make art and see where that takes me? What if I don’t ever want to be in school again?”
Yeah, that won’t fly with Mr. Hopeswell.
There’s a shot that her mother, who sculpts in the basement and leaves half-finished projects around the house, will understand. Then again, Mrs. Hopeswell also started a small pharmaceutical company that was bought out by a major corporation before Cassie was born–so maybe not.
“Exactly,” she says to the expression on my face. “Every night, I get the same thing. You’d think someone who experiments for a living would get it. I swear to God that if it were fourteen ninety-one, he’d be insisting that the world was flat.”
I have to bite the inside of my mouth to keep from smiling.
Cass isn’t kidding. “Face it, Savs. I suck. I’ve failed Mr. Riley’s precious system. My academic output is unsatisfactory.”
“You’re the smartest person I know.” I stand up to stop her pacing. She sidesteps me. Anyone watching our dance from the window would be amused.
Since ninth grade, I’ve seen her face constrict with boredom and her shoulders slouch during class. I’ve always thought that the tethered look on her face, like Sisyphus’s as he pushed his rock, was a sign that school was too easy for her. That boredom was the reason she started writing her essays an hour before they were due, gulping down iced coffee and clacking away in the parking lot. She would use her driver’s seat as a workspace and stick Post-It notes to the dashboard carrying such wisdom as “diction on p. 18.” “Quick, Savs, give me a three-sentence overview of your feelings on Jake from The Sun Also Rises,” she’d say, voice and hands jittery from the caffeine, while I’d already finished my essay days ago. She thrives on the challenge.
“You always pull it together,” I say now.
“I don’t want to pull it together.” Did I say her face was cold earlier? Now it’s ice, a snowstorm in October. “I don’t believe in their rules and test scores and writing bullshit essays so our teachers can keep their jobs. Just because I can do chemistry doesn’t mean I want to because New York State says I should.”
She could go on all day like this, using me as the shoreline that her words beat against. It’s too cold today to stand out here for long and in the corner of my mind, I see Señora Gutierrez’s sharp gaze sweeping the room and saying, “¿Dónde está Savannah Gregory?” Second missed day of Spanish in a row. I have to convince her to get back inside. “Hear me out, okay?”
When she looks at me this time, there’s a hint of thaw. I take a breath. “For right now,” I say, “we have to play the game on their terms. Then it’s all over in June and you’re done with this forever.”
“Remember that time Mr. Riley told me I wouldn’t get into art school?” So much for the thaw. “This place makes me ill.” She drops her eyes to the cracked cement, where patches of weeds struggle to break through. “You didn’t tell me your PSAT scores.”
You didn’t tell me you were failing classes. “They don’t matter.”
“So how’d you do on the actual test?” she persists. Now her eyes are on me full blast, daring me to tell her.
It’s my turn to stare down at the cracks, watching the ants make their final dash for food before winter. “Okay.”
“How okay?”
Leave it alone, Cass. None of this will make her feel better. These are the games that Mr. Riley wants to play.
Surprisingly, she softens before I reply. I’ve outlasted her. Not easy. “You know what, I don’t need to know. I do know that you bailed me out back there and that I owe you.”
I exhale. “I really can help if you want. I take pretty good notes.”
She rolls her eyes and slings her arm around me. “Just don’t bring up any notion that I should go along with Mr. Riley ever again, and we’re good.”
Yesterday, she comforted me. Today, I’m her anchor. At the end of the day, we’re thicker than humidity in July.
As kids we played together, schemed together, nursed bruised knees and silly crushes on boy bands. She was quiet unless she was with me. Together, chances were that we were screaming as we sprinted into the ocean and laughing as we splashed each other. We whispered together under the trees as the neighborhood kids ran around searching for us in Manhunt, never giving up our spot. I rode my bike to her house when Richard was first deployed, blinking tears out of my eyes. She met me at the curb and grabbed my hand. Although her hand was bony, cool, without calluses, it was just as strong as mine. Sometimes I think she hasn’t let go.
She keeps her arm around me now, reminding me that I’m her anchor, that she will run to me if she needs to be safe.
DAD EMERGES FROM the garage as I’m scrolling through apartment listings. I’d managed to avoid him last night by telling my mom I had a test to study for and locking myself in my room. No such luck today.
I type in a new search. Did you mean “Brooklyn” or “Burger King”? Whatever, Google, just get me out of this.
He sits across from me in the armchair. He’s dressed head-to-toe in cyclist Spandex–bright orange and blue–and I thank my lucky stars that he prefers riding the trails instead of the roads, keeping my classmates from having more fodder. “What’s this about you swimming around?”
That’s what I mean. He doesn’t miss anything. I fold my hands over the keyboard and look him in the eye. “I needed to absolve myself of my sins.”
His lips twitch. Classic Richard Gregory, Sr.–he wants to laugh; therefore, he won’t. “All of this free time is no good for you.”
“I’m plenty busy. I do homework.” He doesn’t look impressed. “And stuff.”
“Hanging out with Cassie does not constitute extracurricular activities. Have you thought about when you want to retake your road test?”
If I never go to the DMV again, it’ll be too soon. “I’m applying to NYU,” I tell him, “so no license necessary.”
Dad is momentarily speechless, which is no small feat. The wrestling is clear within him: I’ve misbehaved, yet for the first time since Regionals, I’ve offered up a goal for my future.
Then his brows furrow, he clips and unclips the bike helmet, and I know exactly what he’s going to say before he says it. “NYU doesn’t have a gymnastics team.”
I fight the urge to retort. After all, I did drive off in his car and blow out a tire. Humoring him is the way to go here. I choose to be neutral. “True.”
He holds up one finger. “Option one.”
So much for distracting him with my shiny new life plan. I will not roll my eyes. I will not give anything away.
“You’re grounded for the next week.”
I can already picture Cassie’s reaction: “You’re what?” She’ll have to venture for Slurpees on her own. Or she’ll call Juliana instead.
“What’s option two?” I ask.
“You go back to gymnastics Monday afternoon.”
“Seriously? What ki
nd of deal is this?”
My dad smirks, satisfied that he’s finally gotten a rise out of me. If his mug is ever to be immortalized, it’ll be with this look. “The kind that’s good for you.”
I think he misses gymnastics more than I do. He wasn’t a stage dad, the kind that reality TV cameras would love, but he enjoyed the behind-the-scenes work of tracking my competitors’ results.
“Kim Mansfield from Rochester got a nine point eight on floor!” I’d moan to my parents.
“Sample size of one.” Dad would immediately pull the laptop from me to see for himself. “Not reliable.”
“I’m sure she’s a very nice girl,” Mom would say mildly.
Using it as a threat, though–that’s crossing the line. Yes, technically I’ve been cleared by the orthopedist. Theoretically, I should be healthy and whole. Gymnastics isn’t good for me, though. My body has shown me that. “Option one.”
A flash of disappointment crosses my father’s face, waiting for me to change my mind, but I don’t.
CHAPTER SIX
ON SATURDAY NIGHT, I stand on tiptoes, looking out the window for Cassie, when my parents begin to argue.
“Richard said he’s going off the grid this weekend,” Mom says from the kitchen. “Again.”
“Guess that’s how they make real men,” Dad says. “Take away their cell phones.”
“That’s not–”
“Sounds like what I do with my ninth graders, in fact.”
Mom supports Richard’s enlistment in the Army. Dad’s never been fully okay with it. As I’ve learned since my gymnastics retirement, which means dinner at regular hours with my parents, he lets his displeasure be known in small, zinging remarks.
Mom approaches in the shadows of the foyer. The dish towel turns over and over in her hands. “Where are you going?”
That’s enough to make Dad join her in an instant. Now they’re inconveniently united against me, the streetlight outside catching Dad’s graying brown hair and stern eyes.
“Cassie wants to go to homecoming,” I say.
They trade glances instead of outright telling me no. I’ve spent a contrite week coming home promptly after school, fielding Cassie’s texts of Should I bake you a file into a cake? They’re considering, especially Mom. Sure, I cut school with Dad’s car. However, my social life hasn’t been exactly what one would call thriving. “Why don’t you invite your teammates over?” Mom used to ask. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that it hurt too much to text them and hear about how great their skills were progressing while my greatest achievement that day had been bending my leg to a ninety-degree angle.
Mercifully, Cassie’s headlights shimmer in front of the house. Before she can honk, my hand is on the doorknob. “Thank you,” I say before anyone can stop me.
There’s a hitch in her voice as my mother says, “You…you have fun tonight. Be safe.”
She’d cringe whenever I came home with a new injury, like it hurt her more than it hurt me. “You’ll get through it,” Dad would tell me, but I knew he meant it for both of us. It was manageable–almost a running joke–when Richard was around, but as soon as he enlisted, there was tension like a breath held in our house. Savannah needs a back brace (yeah, I was the coolest girl in ninth grade with that one). Richard’s phone goes silent without explanation. What’s next?
Mom’s greatest wish is be safe, because the alternative is too painful to consider.
CASSIE’S NOT ALONE. Juliana rides shotgun. Her wide brown eyes glance at me and then return to the windshield.
Cassie blows me an air kiss when I slip into the backseat. Juliana says in greeting, “Andreas won’t shut up about your flips.”
“Oh,” I say. “Sorry about that.”
That’s it. For the entire ride. I drown in the bass behind Cassie while Juliana, in my usual seat, monopolizes my best friend’s attention. I listen for an opening, for an opportunity to make a joke or ask a question, but I can’t catch a word over the music. From time to time Cassie glances at me in the rearview mirror, smiles, and returns to whatever Juliana’s talking about. So much for let’s celebrate Savannah’s freedom, as Cass had texted me an hour ago.
I cross my arms and stare out the window.
Ponquogue homecoming patronizes the football team by letting them play in the afternoon. Boys’ soccer, three-time state champions, plays under the lights on Saturday night and the town squeezes in. Add in the fact that our opponents tonight are the Galway Beach Purple Tigers, and it’s safe to say that at least half of my school is here for the pissing war.
“This better not go into overtime,” Juliana says as the brake lights ahead of us flash red, like she has power over how long the game will last. “I gotta work brunch in the morning.”
When we finally maneuver into a spot on the grass that’s an inch wider than the car, I crawl out of the door. Cass, meanwhile, nearly whacks the car next to us. “Oops,” she says, looking at Juliana, and they both start laughing. They make it down the embankment and into the actual parking lot faster than I do; I’ve got my eyes on the ground, making sure I don’t slip on an errant ice cream cone or stumble over that soda can or–
Slam into Marcos Castillo.
He reels back, staring at me in astonishment. Dark eyes framed by darker lashes, chiseled jaw that looks none the worse for the wear. I blink to clear the stars from my eyes. Yeah, that jaw is no joke.
“That was a hell of a hit,” he says.
“I think we just made out,” I blurt out.
His eyes widen, and then he laughs. “Then you and I have very different definitions of making out.”
Behind me, Cassie absolutely loses it. Hands on her knees, curls bouncing up and down on her shoulders, laughing so hard that it turns silent. For the first time in recorded history, Juliana grins in my general direction. Of course, it’s at my expense.
Could my ears burn any hotter? Forget failure to use proper judgment; failure to interact with peers like a normal human is more like it. Staying at home and arguing with my dad about gymnastics would be better than this.
I turn toward my original target, the soccer field, ignoring Cassie’s silent laugh that turns to cackling. “You’re hazardous to my health,” I tell Marcos sternly. “I’m forwarding you my next hospital bill.”
“Me?” He jogs to keep up with me. I focus on the lights illuminating the field, blazing white against the dark sky. “I think you broke my nose.”
I feign an examination. His dark hair curls over his forehead, still mussed from our collision. I fight the urge to reach out and smooth them, the way Cassie would do to me. His nose, I might add, is as strong as his jaw. It would make for a fine profile on a coin. “Your septum might be a little deviated, but you should recover.”
Behind us, Cassie and Juliana whisper heatedly. Just like in the car, I’ve missed something between them.
Marcos holds my gaze, a small smile toying at his lips. Smartass and teasing.
I stare right back. One beat. Two. His smile widens. It makes me jittery, like I’m waiting for the judges to signal me.
Focus, Savannah. I turn away, find the lights again, and walk as fast as I can on legs that suddenly feel like liquid. “We’ve got a goddamn game to watch.”
THE BLEACHERS THUNDER with hundreds of feet stomping the metal. “Ponquogue! Ponquogue! What what what!” rises from the far side of the stands as I slide into the first available sliver of metal bleacher. I’m not sure what this battle cry is intended to inspire, but everyone around us whoops and cheers.
Marcos’s shoulder presses against mine, rocks again when Cassie and then Juliana slide in. Sit next to me! I want to call out to Cassie. I wait to catch her eye, but instead I’m met with curls as she faces Juliana.
It’s fine. I’m not a child. I can handle myself solo.
Hot dogs and high-fives pass from hand to hand. Maroon-and-white sweatshirts are everywhere, between them a few ambitious boys with faces painted half white and half red. Across t
he turf in the visitors’ stands, the purple and black Galway Beach fans boo all of Ponquogue’s cheers.
During my brother’s freshman year, the team earned the moniker “Tiny but Mighty” from an intrepid sports writer. (“Tiny but mighty!” Josh Wolfson crowed at every pasta party hosted at our house, in case there was the chance that someone in the neighborhood hadn’t heard him the first time. This was usually met by an inappropriate response that had my mother whisking me out of the kitchen.) They defeated a perennial powerhouse from Syracuse to clinch the state title, the first in school history, and thus tradition was solidified under the Gatorade shower. Small school, tremendous upsets.
“Monday’s cool?”
I blink. “Huh?”
“Tutoring.” Marcos turns to me, his breath brushing against my ear.
I’m saved from responding when the bleachers buckle as everyone around us rises in a roar of noise. Ponquogue’s finest take the field, their maroon-and-white uniforms not yet grass-stained.
My heart thumps with the same excitement I’d had when I’d stood for the national anthem before a meet. Same for when I’d stand up before the start of Richard’s games. Soon after, Cass and I would play under the bleachers when we grew bored of watching the boys endlessly run up and down the field.
Andreas bounds out to the center of the field for the coin toss. Marcos sticks his fingers in his mouth and lets out a sharp whistle, his elbow knocking into me.
“Yeah, Andreas!” I shout. Never mind that I’ve rarely talked to him outside of FrisbeeGate.
“You got this, Dre!” Marcos adds. “Let’s go!”
Andreas waves to the crowd with a cheeky grin, pausing momentarily to hike absurd orange socks over his shin guards.
Ponquogue wins the toss. “Yeah!” I shout again. Cassie leans all the way past Marcos to stare at me. “You okay, Savs?” she says. “Take it easy.”
Weirdly enough, I do feel okay. The stresses of my failures, the fact that fall is normally the time I’d be gearing up for competing–those facts feel minuscule under these blazing lights, under the possibility of witnessing something exciting.
Lessons in Falling Page 4
