Coach chuckles and pats my shoulder. “I sure do.” I’m not sure if I’m supposed to feel inspired or patronized.
Matt grins at me like we’re all in on the same friendly joke, but his eyes say, What the hell is this all about, Savannah?
An excellent question. I haven’t stepped foot in the gym since April, and here I am, bothering to lie to this guy instead of telling him the truth.
From what I can see, Emery has a terrific practice. She swings beautiful pirouettes on bars and lands her first vault on her feet. She is all elegance–sharply pointed toes and legs glued together, perfect posture that makes her regal. After that, Matt engages Coach in a long discussion of the merits of forward-entry versus back-entry vaults, I think so that Coach doesn’t notice that Emery isn’t doing any other attempts. I spend my practice on trampoline, gradually bouncing higher and higher until I’m brave enough to flip.
I launch into the air, tucking my knees to my chest, close my eyes, and roll over myself like a tiny moon in orbit. Again and again.
It feels good to be upside down. Amazingly good, if I’m being honest. Up here, everything that’s tethered to gravity–Cassie in the hospital, Marcos with that smile–feels far below. It’s something I can conquer later. No quick burst of joy can extinguish the fear, however. If I lose focus, if I stop listening to the creaks of the brace, something can happen.
Coach pumps Matt and Emery’s hands in farewell. He uses the word “great” at least twice per sentence. I’m staring at the banners when he says, “Keep in touch, Savannah. I want to hear about your progress. It was great meeting you!”
The entire right side of my body moves with the force of his handshake. With a wave and several more “great”s, he’s gone.
“Jesus Christ,” I say.
“I liked him.” Emery pulls her bag onto her shoulder. “He was kind of endearing, like a weird uncle you only see at Thanksgiving.”
Radio and lights off. The electrical hum goes silent. The only soundtrack to my first night back at the gym is the squishing of the mats under our sneakers.
Under the amber emergency lights that bathe the nearly empty parking lot, we wait for Matt to lock up. “I know they’re not Division I,” he’s saying to Emery, “but if you want an in-state tuition option, you can’t beat them.”
Lucky Emery, courting her college suitors. Turning down the paupers at her leisure.
“Savannah.”
I knew this moment was coming.
Matt folds his arms across his chest. “What gives? Not a peep from you, and now you’re here and ready to go?”
Here, yes. Ready to go–up for debate.
I choose honesty. “I missed this,” I admit. “Although I’ll probably need to be pushed around in a wheelchair tomorrow.”
“You know,” Matt says as he pulls out his keys, “Barry has a reputation for taking the broken and restoring them to full glory.”
Is this the part where the Rocky theme starts playing?
“He likes comeback stories. He’s big on gymnasts who have gone through injuries.” Matt pauses. “Also, your dad told him your GPA.”
He would.
“Can I borrow a few points?” Emery grins.
Matt’s still looking at me. “What are your plans?”
“I’m applying to schools in the city.” I ignore the lump that manifests itself in my stomach. I’m supposed to be letting go, not feeling something as stupid as longing.
“So glamorous,” Emery says. “I’ll be visiting.”
My coach is undeterred. “What happened to Ocean State?”
“Don’t let that assistant coach with no sense of humor scare you off,” Emery adds quickly. Kind of adorable for her to act like I’m still in this thing, when the last e-mail exchange I had with Ocean State was telling them the doctor’s diagnosis. The rest, as Hamlet would say, was silence.
“Too bad, you know,” Matt continues casually. “If you were considering it, I’d say that the Golden Leaf Classic would be an excellent goal. December 10. I know, right, it seems a little sudden.”
“There’s no–”
He holds up his hands, and I shut my mouth. I’m the delinquent who left the sport without a goodbye; the least I can do is hear out my coach, although I’m 99 percent certain that he’s out of his mind. “One event. Your choice. Of course, only if you were really serious about it.”
I imagine a girl standing on the beam in our gym’s silver-and-blue competition leotard. Arms over her head with her chin lifted, exuding confidence. But she’s not me. She’s Emery. She’s one of the twins, smiling at the judges and in love with the sport.
I don’t try to deny his ploy. “That’s so soon.”
Matt shrugs. “Come every day. I’ll let you in on Sundays during birthday parties if you want.”
This is absurd. A wide-open invitation to break myself afresh.
I came here tonight to…I don’t know. Say “how’s it going?” Say goodbye. Get out of the house. Stop thinking about Cassie for a little while. Gather myself before committing to a Middle-earth immersion with Marcos. Whatever. I didn’t sign on for this.
For the first time since my road test, jitters of excitement launch down my arms and legs. This is the kind of adrenaline that I used to thrive on. At the same time, the now-familiar sickness rolls in my stomach. No, no–
The rip in my knee. The waiting room. Every afternoon on the padded bench at South Shore Physical Therapy, watching my bone-thin right leg struggle to lift a five-pound ankle weight. I’d sworn to myself that I would never find myself in physical therapy again. Not if I could help it.
“If you want to compete in college, now’s the time to get going,” Matt says.
“Ocean State’s dead and gone,” I mutter. My empty inbox is a testament to that.
“Ocean State wanted you as a specialist,” he reminds me. “At a school like Owego, you could be doing all-around.”
True; I had sent Coach Englehardt video updates of my skills on all four events. “We’re going to have a hole in the floor lineup next season,” he’d replied, “and I think you’re the perfect candidate to fill it.”
“Not bars,” I say automatically.
Matt’s getting to me. I didn’t do much tonight–just the basics–yet everything I did felt controlled, well-executed, and capable of being kicked up a notch if I can get used to the feeling of that bulky brace knocking around.
“Are you in?” he says.
I wonder if he asked Monica, Jess, and Ally the same question. If one by one, they all said no.
I see that girl again on beam. The large knee brace forces her legs apart but she’s still standing, waiting.
“Okay,” I say. Immediately Emery’s arms are around me and she’s shouting into the night, Matt’s grinning like he might actually tear up a little, and I’m torn between abject terror and a tiny voice, that Cassie voice, telling me to just go out there and do it.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“ARE YOU OKAY?” Dad asks at seven in the morning.
“Yes, why?”
“I didn’t realize you owned clothing besides sweatshirts.”
“It’s too warm,” I say. Incorrect. I’m freezing. My fitted purple top and dark blue jeans leave me defenseless against the wind, and my straightened hair blinds me on the journey to the car. At least I’m not wearing make-up. That would be a blatant signal: Savannah is actually trying today!
It has nothing to do with a potential tutoring session at lunch. Nope.
“How is Cassie?” Dad asks.
I wish I knew. “Hanging in there,” I say.
I don’t want to talk about Cassie because I don’t know what to say. Unfortunately, I’ve been fielding that question every day. That is, when I’m not shuffling through synonyms for “fine” as I answer endless questions about how school is, how my classes are going, how I feel about dinner.
Part of me can’t really blame my parents; in the actively-doing-gymnastics days, I wouldn’t shut up
about the details of practice and my emotions toward every skill in all of my routines. (On the tough days, there were plenty of emotions to go around.) After I quit, I didn’t have much to say about other topics, no matter how hard they tried.
“How about you?” Dad continues. “Everything okay?”
“Yep.”
After seeing that he won’t get much more out of me, he switches tacks.
“How was the gym last night?” Dad asks while we wait for the light on Quail Creek. He and Mom were both in the kitchen when I walked in last night in all my chalky glory. I hadn’t given them a real answer then– “It was fine,” I’d mumbled through a peanut butter-and-banana sandwich–but I also didn’t miss the look they’d exchanged. The one that said, Told you so.
There’s a good chance that when he parks at school, I won’t be able to stand. Simple motions like turning my head or lifting my hand to block the sun make everything ache. I have never felt a soreness so encompassing. “I’m not applying to Owego, thanks.”
“Why not?” Dad taps the steering wheel in time to the staccato clicking of the signal. “A gymnastics team, an honors program, all the snow you could ever hope for.”
“The part where you e-mailed the coach and told him about me? Not cool, Dad. Really not cool.”
“It’s called recruiting.” Dad smoothly cuts off a white Jaguar. “Every NCAA team does it. Sometimes, they just need a little nudge.”
“He won’t stop emailing me.” To be fair, the Owego Coach emailed me twice. Last night, it was an enthusiastic “GREAT TO MEET YOU” followed by asking which major interested me. I responded with the single word “Kinesiology.” (All of those injuries should be good for something, right?) His second email contained links to the kinesiology department, exercise science, sports science, fitness development, research published by faculty members, and study abroad programs available for these programs. Doesn’t the guy have a team to coach? “Who’s even heard of Owego, anyway?”
“It’ll be an excellent option for you. Three of their top beam workers graduate this year. You could be a replacement.”
Are we ignoring the fact that I haven’t done real gymnastics in months? “I’m moving to the city with Cassie. Final answer.”
The car turns so sharply into the school parking lot that my head knocks against the window. “Do whatever you want.” The tone of voice for math class delinquents. “Give up gymnastics. Stop trying for your license. Get drunk at beach parties with Cassie.” He sees my face. “You think I don’t have students trying to get on my good side by telling on you?”
“It was only one party!”
“Don’t pretend like you didn’t fail your math placement test last June on purpose.”
Move over, Owego Coach. My father’s the one stalking my life.
“Mr. McMahon said he couldn’t believe that a girl as bright as you could do so poorly. ‘It’s a shame. She’ll have to take precalc instead of AP,’ he said.”
“I was upset about my knee. I couldn’t focus.”
“You didn’t want to be in my AP class. You didn’t want me as your teacher.”
Can you blame me?
“What kind of girl are you?”
“You think I don’t hear about you?” I shoot back. “Do you know how many dirty looks I get after you give a test? Do you know how many people won’t talk to me because of you?”
That hits a mark. Dad pulls into a parking spot. My fingers wrap around the door handle, waiting for him to unlock it. Finally he says, “You know, I was going to let you start driving to school.”
Great. The I was going to speech. Soon to be followed with unfortunately, your behavior has shown that…
“Unfortunately, your behavior has shown that you’re not mature enough.” The driver’s-side door opens. “Enjoy your day.”
I LEAN AGAINST the Dashing the Dolphin statue and call Cassie three times, feeling desperate when she doesn’t answer. She’s been out of school for four days and that’s four days too long. I have to vent to somebody about my father’s ridiculousness. I have to know what she thinks about me returning to the gym and agreeing to compete again. I’m actually looking forward to the teasing when she finds out that I kissed Marcos. Hopefully it’ll make her laugh.
She’s in therapy, she’s sleeping, she’s watching silly reality shows. I recite the litany of possibilities, make them into a mantra as I enter the building and pass the display case, where Cassie’s photographs hang periodically. Today they’re dedicated to a freshman art exhibit on Ponquogue Pride.
Service sucks, Cass texts during AP Lit. Food is worse. Therapy’s not so bad. How’s school without me?
Marcos. Gymnastics. Mr. Raia turns toward me, so I keep it quick. Eventful, I write back. Papa Gregory’s on the warpath.
When isn’t he? Cass replies with a smiley face. I’ll be out of here in a couple of days. I’ll spice up that stupid place.
A couple of days feels like a lifetime.
When the bell rings at the start of sixth period, I shoot Marcos a text: On a mission. Might be late. If there’s a trail of bread crumbs I’ve missed that led to Cassie driving down to the bridge early that morning, then Juliana knows the way.
If she doesn’t bite off my head first.
“What?” she says when I call her name by the library entrance, then whirls around to see me. Her face is tight, nostrils flared, firing on all cylinders. “Oh. Hi.”
Don’t step away. Don’t back down. My dad’s pissed about my feelings toward Owego, Emery’s been too removed from the loop of my life, and my mom means well, but I don’t want to add to her burden of worry. If anyone understands, it’s Juliana. “Do you have a second?”
She checks her phone. “I gotta see if the doctor calls back about the twins, but okay.” Younger brothers, I think.
No time for bullshit. This won’t be easy, especially if she knows more than I do. “Did you have any clue that Cassie was thinking about killing herself?”
It comes out wrong–too harsh, almost accusing– and Juliana straightens up immediately. “You think I knew and did nothing?”
“Between the two of us, we could have figured it out.”
“I told her that taking herself off the pills was a crap idea.” The second she says it, she looks around to see if anyone’s overheard. “You’re not supposed to play around with those.”
I blink once. Twice. Did I hear her correctly? “What pills?”
“Antidepressants. I saw her staring at them when we were on break over the summer,” Juliana says. “She wanted to flush them down the toilet.”
It feels like I’ve just slammed my ribs against the beam. I didn’t know about any of this. The depression. The medication.
“I told her that shit was too expensive to waste and that she had better take it the way the doctor said to.”
Tough love. That’s what Juliana is to Cassie. I can see that for the first time. The girl made of steel who won’t be moved by Cassie’s whims.
I’m supposed to be the one she knows the best, the one that she spends silences and loud moments with and everything in between. How the hell didn’t I know this? Why did she feel like she couldn’t tell me?
“She talked about her parents.” Juliana looks down briefly, the hint of a crack. Then she’s staring back at me, daring me to ask more. “She felt pressured. Like she didn’t belong here.”
I knew that, yet I’d chalked it up to extreme senioritis, to conversations with her parents that would cease once she graduated and moved to the city.
“You should have told me,” I say. “I could have convinced her.”
Anger sparks in my chest. If I’d known the whole story, I could have stepped in sooner. When did Cassie begin to parse off her secrets?
Juliana tugs her hair back in a ponytail, quick and irritated. When she looks at me, though, it’s with confusion. “I thought you already knew.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WHEN I FIND Marcos at the end of the day,
I say to him, “Math or Middle-earth?”
His eyebrows scrunch up like this is a true debate. God, I could kiss him right now if I wasn’t stuck on being the worst best friend known to mankind. “I want Middle-earth,” he concedes, “although I know I should do math.”
“Great. We’re going to your house.” He hustles to catch up with me. “Just make sure I’m back by four so I can get to the gym.”
Judging by the growl of the engine, Marcos’s car hails from the 1980s. I sink into the gray passenger seat, which feels like it may drop to the pavement at any time. The vehicle, however, is impeccably clean, besides empty boxes of cereal stacked in the backseat. It smells like it’s been vacuumed so many times that the vacuum gave up and burned the fabric.
I’m still processing what Juliana said. I’ve spent enough time alone in my room trying to work through the riddles leading up to Cassie’s suicide attempt. Marcos, the one who pulled her from the water, might have some insight of his own.
As we idle at the school’s stoplight, I sense it before I see it–a window rolling down in the car next to us.
“Looks like we have spectators,” Marcos says dryly, his finger tapping out an erratic rhythm against the wheel.
I turn to see Tommy Brown’s freckled face a foot away from our window. His mouth moves but the bass from his car thumps too loudly for me to make out anything. In the passenger seat, Max Pfeiffer leans over for a closer look. The sunlight gleams against their sunglasses.
This is breaking news, I guess. Savannah Gregory riding in cars with boys.
I offer them a thumbs-up and Max disappears from view, but Tommy’s sunglasses stay focused on me until the light turns green.
“Assholes,” Marcos mutters under his breath. “Sorry about that. Tommy and Andreas had some words.”
“Andreas seems to have a lot of words with people, huh?”
He offers a half smile, one dimple creasing. “That’s a good way of putting it. They were pretty much neck and neck for first string. Andreas beat him out before the Galway game and Tommy hasn’t let him hear the end of it.” Then he glances at me, his smile relaxing. “Sorry, that’s right; you think soccer is boring.”
Lessons in Falling Page 11
