VANESSA ACCOSTS THE four of us in the lobby. I’ve jammed my feet into my shoes, brace still on, no pants or sweatshirt. I’m ready to get the hell out of here.
“I want to talk to you girls,” she says.
The problem with Vanessa is that, up close, she’s not so intimidating. You can see that her eyeliner’s a bit smudged, that she still has holes pierced in her cartilage. Like we might have something in common.
“I’m not trying to undermine Matt or the work you girls have done.” A boy cartwheels against Vanessa in his enthusiasm to run into the gym. She doesn’t sway. “I want you to consider what your goals are and to find a way to commit to them for every moment you’re here. If I didn’t get the scholarship to Arkansas, I would have gone to community college. And probably nowhere after that. I couldn’t afford it.”
Emery’s eyes are downcast. What would have happened if New Hampshire hadn’t pulled through for her?
“Savannah.” Vanessa’s face reflects the concern she feels when one of us receives a score that she believes is too low: rare, but genuine. “I hope that you’re in the gym because you want to be here, not because you feel obligated.”
“Angela Cardena is coaching at Owego,” Erica announces. “Savannah already e-mailed the coach. He’s probably gonna be like, ‘Can you start here this spring?’”
“Excuse me?”
Erica’s face says, I’m shitting myself. But her eyes stay on Vanessa. “We saw it online.”
“Barry thinks Savannah’s the greatest thing he’s seen since Angela Cardena’s bar routine,” Nicola joins in, and I want to hug both of them for being young and foolish and believing in me without any doubts.
“The knee brace sealed the deal,” adds Emery, not to be outdone. Make that three.
We all hold our breath. Then Vanessa smiles. “Well, I’m glad to hear it.” I can’t tell if she’s patronizing us, but the smile seems real.
YOU KNOW IT’S going to be a beautiful Saturday night when your parents have more exciting social plans than you do. They left the house all gussied up for the faculty’s Casino Night. So far my biggest fashion move has been changing from sweatpants to pajama pants. I’ve checked my e-mail fifteen times. I’ve turned my phone’s ringer off, telling myself that I don’t need technology’s interruption, and then immediately turned it back up. Either way, it makes no noise.
Cassie texted me again after I’d finished practice. What are you doing later?
Want to come over? I’d replied.
After several minutes passed, she’d written back, Out with Juliana. Will let you know. Hours later, that hasn’t happened.
I know that I have homework to finish and limbs to ice. Even so, I feel a knot of irritation that, whatever Cass has planned, it doesn’t include me.
Marcos had offered up a stream of text commentary from his night at Pav’s. Guy tripped over a salsa bottle; ambulance called.
Andreas is here and trying to convince me to serve him beer. One drink and he’ll be dancing on the bar.
Uh-oh. Just got slammed with teachers from the faculty Casino Night. Coach Doroski is doing shots. This is awkward…
Hey, your dad’s here. Should I introduce myself? : )
Marcos’s texts soon petered out–too many drunken teachers to deal with, I’d wager–and now I click on the Internet browser. There will be no e-mails. I am sure of it.
But instead of clicking on the e-mail tab, my fingers do something they haven’t done in a long while. They navigate to YouTube and type, “Olympic gymnastics.”
I watch Shannon Miller stick her first vault in the all-around final of the 1992 Olympics. Next video and there she is winning the gold on beam in Atlanta, eighteen years old and the “woman” of the team. Twelve years later, Shawn Johnson takes the beam gold.
By three thirty, my parents have long since returned and closed the bedroom door, and even Cassie, if she were out, would be finding her way home by now. My eyes are wide open, working through footage of the 1998 American Cup.
They land. They always land.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
DID YOU TALK to him yet? I read Cassie’s text from Marcos’s bed, where I’m working on an essay for AP Lit while icing my knee. When I’d sat down on the bed and my knee had cracked, Marcos had vanished into the kitchen and returned with a plastic bag filled with ice cubes, just the way I like it. The fact that he automatically knew that without asking made my stomach flip, silly as it sounds.
We’ve made it a week without Cassie bringing up Marcos, without Marcos leaping to anyone’s defense, and I’ve been able to focus my worrying on the meet tomorrow. I’d tricked myself into believing that the lull was permanent.
Just like my road tests, I don’t know why I expected a different outcome.
“How’s your knee holding up?” The door swings open and Marcos returns from the shower, mid-tugging a shirt over his head. I stare at his smooth tan chest until it’s covered again with the shirt. Damn.
He grins. Oh, he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Living large.” I roll up my jeans to show off my inflated knee. The three-inch scar, a dull pink, runs just off-center of the kneecap. “I’m going to get frostbite at this rate.”
“You’re dangerous,” Marcos says, and I almost spit out my water onto my laptop from laughing. “I’m serious!” he protests. “Have you looked at your calf muscles lately?”
“One looks like a shriveled eggplant compared to the other. Obviously you’re in this for my hot gymnast body.”
Worst. Joke. Ever. Heat floods my ears.
“Sure doesn’t hurt.” With that, he moves across the bed to sit next to me. I tense immediately, equal parts Take off your shirt again and I don’t know what I’m doing!
“I also like your laugh,” he says, and the nervous part of me lets out a tiny exhale. “Your ability to explain the difference between secant and cosecant is pretty nice, too. The way you talk really fast when you’re explaining a gymnastics skill, that’s something to appreciate. And the side comments you make when you think that nobody is paying attention.”
He slides closer, gently shutting my laptop and lowering it to the floor. “The way you stand up for what you feel is right, that’s pretty attractive.” His voice is low, husky, sending chills all over my skin.
“You left out my ability to fail my road test.” I watch the flex of his forearms as he shifts to face me. He smells fresh, cleanly scrubbed with just a hint of aftershave splashed on. His jaw is completely smooth, unobstructed, and I want to run my fingers down the bone.
“Can’t be good at everything. Wouldn’t be fair to the rest of us mere mortals.”
I roll my eyes–
And he’s kissing me, fast and sweet. He leans back onto the bed and I follow him, our heads hitting the pillow side by side. He pulls away for a moment, dark eyes searching mine. The way he looks at me makes me feel like I can dive into frigid waters, flip and land on my feet and do it all over again.
This time, I lean in first. My hand slides up the back of his neck, catching his curls. His lips smile against mine. When I slide my hand across his jaw, feeling the way it tenses and flexes, he lets out a soft sigh.
Then the kiss slows down. His thumbs glide over my abdomen, down my back, press lightly on my hips in small, gentle circles. This is not the farewell kiss outside of my house. It’s a curious kiss in a small blue bedroom with no one outside of the walls. It wonders what’s next.
He’s so close. So warm.
His fingers work their way under my shirt and brush against my back. A pause in the movement–is this okay?–and when I don’t resist, his palm sweeps over my stomach, just under my belly button. My abdominals clench reflexively and he chuckles softly. “Abs of steel,” he whispers into my ear, and I shiver. His hand glides up over my torso like a road through a mountain, curving around my back in long arches, and I freeze.
“You okay?” he says quietly.
I nod before I can psych myself
out. It’s not this moment that frightens me. It’s the thought of the ones that may follow.
His hand slips away. “I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable–”
I trap his hand with mine.
“I’m–” he begins.
“Stop apologizing.”
Our eyes lock.
“Okay,” he breathes after a moment. His hand, cautious now, moves to the front and I close my eyes.
I want to be able to tug off that shirt and pin him on his back, relishing the look of surprise on his face. That’s what Cassie would do in this situation. Take control, the way she does with everything, and make it her own.
But I’m the girl who hesitates, considers, takes days to write an essay. When his fingers slide, I blurt out, “What was it like when you found Cassie that morning?”
“Is that really what you’re thinking about right now?” he says, eyes half-closed, breath brushing my lips.
“It popped in accidentally.”
“Interesting,” he says, moving in to kiss me again.
“What was it like?” I say.
“Cold.” His lips hover just a moment from mine. “It kept running through my mind as I pulled her out of the water. It was damn cold.”
Pale skin with the edges turned blue and purple.
And I had no idea.
“She survived.” Marcos rests his forehead against mine. “That’s what matters.”
The Cassie I thought I knew walked out of her car and under the bridge. The one who returned spoke just like her, laughed like her, made the same rash decisions as her. But she had gone somewhere none of us had been.
“Warmer thoughts,” he says, and cups my chin.
I close my eyes and see water.
The longer he kisses me, the sooner I don’t see anything at all.
WE FALL ASLEEP in his bed, and I wake up to “Stairway to Heaven” playing. I fumble for my phone, forgetting that I’m not at home, and hit him on the nose.
“Thanks,” he mutters, opening his eyes and grinning at me. His eyes are sleepy, his curls stick up every which way, and I ignore my phone to lean forward and kiss him again.
“You make for a great alarm clock, minus the hitting thing,” he mumbles, drawing me close to him and nuzzling my shoulder.
“Stairway to Heaven” starts up again. Marcos wears a look of concern usually reserved for challenging math problems and crumbs from Victor’s snacks. “Do you need to get home?”
“I don’t think so.” I finally unearth the phone from under one of Marcos’s sweatshirts.
Cassie.
Something must be wrong for her to call me twice in a row.
“Everything okay?” I answer. Marcos’s arms wrap around my waist and my head falls back onto the pillow. I could definitely get used to this.
“Did you talk to him yet?” she says.
“I’m great, thanks, and you?” I try to duck away from Marcos so that he can’t hear, but in this tiny space, that’s damn near impossible. Juliana can probably hear from next door.
“You’re avoiding the issue,” she says firmly. Fleetingly, I think of getting up and running into another room, or pretending I have poor service and hanging up.
Marcos’s arms go slack.
“Everything’s fine,” I say.
“It’s not going to stay fine and you know it,” she says. “I thought we agreed.”
By now Marcos has pulled away completely, sitting up against the wall. His eyes are a storm.
“I gotta go.” I hang up and toss the phone away with a shaky hand.
“Let me guess,” Marcos says flatly. His relaxed sleepiness has completely shifted to rigidness, guardedness, and my palms sweat. “Cassie wants you to break things off with me. You agreed, if I heard correctly.”
I lick my lips, still swollen from all of the kissing. “Yeah,” I whisper.
“Let me ask you this.” He leans forward, taking my sweaty hands in his. “What do you want?”
My head swims. Everyone thinks they know what’s best for me. Cassie, Marcos, Vanessa, my father–
Who’s right?
“I want to be with you,” I say, and a small smile parts his lips. “But I don’t like the fighting. You really scared me the other day with Andreas.”
He runs one hand through his curls and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. It was stupid, and I’m grateful as all hell that I didn’t wind up suspended.”
This is good. We can work with this.
“I told you, I can’t just watch the people I care about get hurt,” he says, sounding pained. “Even if they’ve done something stupid to bring it upon themselves. So no, I can’t promise that it won’t happen again.”
My heart sinks. “I don’t think I can deal with that.”
“You can’t deal with it, or Cassie says you can’t?” he challenges. “How do both of you feel about all the racist shit that’s being said and done around here?”
“It’s terrible,” I say. “We both agree on that.”
“Which one of you is willing to stand up and say something about it?”
“Me,” I say automatically.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Exactly. While Cassie’s the one who runs at the first sight of any trouble that she hasn’t caused.”
Anger flares in my chest. He tricked me into that answer. “That’s not true! She’s been going through a tough time.”
“Don’t we all?” He takes another long breath and exhales slowly, like he’s my dad and I’m getting on his nerves. Which only makes me angrier. “If you and Cassie met today, would you be friends?”
“Absolutely,” I say.
“You’re a hundred percent positive?” He stares hard into my eyes, searching for a breaking point.
Cassie writing her last-minute essays while saving time for going on exploratory drives, talking with strangers, plunging into a new life in New York City without a plan. Okay, they’re not the activities I’ve generally prioritized, but so what?
Taking the phone from me to tell off Beth, facing down Marcos outside of the library and warning him–a little over the top, sure, but she does those things because she cares.
“What about you and Andreas?” I counter.
“I’d probably want to punt him,” he says, and that releases the tension in my chest for a tiny second. “Look, I don’t agree with everything he does, but I would do anything for him. That’s why I can’t make you a promise. There are very few people I can say that for. Him, my brother, my parents, Juliana.” He pauses. “You. Absolutely.”
My heart swoops at his words, the anger temporarily muted.
“That’s what kills me,” he says. “I’ve only known you for a short time, and I already know I’d do whatever it took to get you out of a bad situation. Cassie would save her own ass before she saved yours. I guarantee it.”
All of the warmth freezes. “Why are you so quick to judge her?”
He starts ticking off points on his fingers. I might actually kill him. “Nelson’s party–she ditched Juliana without so much as a goodbye. You falling in the water. That asshole at the bonfire.”
“All of those things turned out fine,” I say.
“You were vulnerable,” he says like he hasn’t heard a goddamn thing I’ve just said, “and she’s taking advantage of that. It’s the truth. Don’t get mad at me for that.”
Too late.
I’m sick of everyone else’s version of what my truth is. Maybe the real truth lies somewhere in the middle of what everyone thinks is best for me, but I want to be the one who claims it.
“You know what the problem is? This conversation.” I shove my laptop into my backpack.
Marcos spreads his arms in the doorway so that I have to stop. “Can we talk about this?”
It’d be easy to wrap my arms around him. Let myself fall into the smell of coconut and the feel of his back muscles flexing and relaxing and the safety that his arms bring.
My phone rings again. His eyes harden.
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This time she’s texted me. Can you come over? I need you. She’s never said it so blatantly since the suicide attempt. She’d rather try to laugh, cheeks pale, than talk about what haunts her.
Pick me up on Main Street in five, I write back. Marcos tries to read what I’m typing, but I slip my phone away and step around him. “If you’ll excuse me,” I say, “my best friend needs me. Surely you can understand that.”
“You’re not walking back,” he says behind me.
“Savannah, slow down. I’ll drive you,” he says when I’m in the kitchen.
“When is your meet tomorrow?” he says when I’m on the steps.
“Is this what you want?” he calls after me, voice straining like it hurts him to ask the question.
My retreating back is the answer.
Except when I walk, I keep hoping that Marcos will follow me. My face stays ahead, but my eyes dart to inspect every car that passes. That damn dog that never shuts up barks incessantly behind me, and I wonder if I’ll hear Marcos’s footsteps soon, his hand on my wrist. His voice steady this time, not aching. I walk until the music fades and the grass becomes trimmed and orderly, the sidewalks filled in. I walk until I think I ought to feel better, but I don’t.
CHAPTER THIRTY
TRUE TO HER word, Cassie scoops me up at the intersection of Pine Needle and Main Street. When she sees me, she slides over to the passenger seat.
I don’t need Marcos. I don’t need those afternoons of drawing triangles and jumping up and down on the wooden floor, kissing until my heartbeat drowns out the dogs barking and the music playing. I have my shaky attempt at a comeback. I have my best friend. I do.
I get behind the wheel and adjust the mirror the way I did the night we drove to the party at the beach, a night that had held so much promise but ended with angry words around the bonfire.
She doesn’t give me a destination. In fact, she doesn’t say anything. So I go.
Cassie stretches her long legs and closes her eyes with a heavy sigh as I turn onto a road off Main Street. “Thank you,” she says. “It’s been a tough day.”
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