“Thank you.” Too formal. We’ve spent the intervening months sharing classes without speaking. She’ll pass me a handout and her lips twitch like she’s about to speak, and then I look away and the moment passes. She should have been the first person I told about Owego. She should be trying to convince me to go somewhere brighter and brassier, rolling her eyes when I say something like, “I hear the snow is really scenic.”
“I miss hanging out with you.” Her eyes dart away from me.
So do I. We can’t go back, though. “We’ve changed.”
“What?” She looks at me, startled, like she didn’t expect me to counter her.
“Last year, you would have been right up there with me in the woods, even thought it was scary and probably a stupid thing to do.”
She’s shaking her head–disagreeing with me, chastising herself, I don’t know. “I replay that day all of the time. I just…I don’t know. I failed. I’m sorry.”
I believe her. Yet it’s not enough to make me step forward, say, “It’s okay,” and let her embrace me.
There are the nightmares. I wake up some nights convinced I’m back in the woods with those leering faces so close to mine that I can see Blue Eyes’s nose hairs, red as the hair on his head, and the freckles on the Boulder’s face. I yell except there’s a hand on my mouth that keeps my lips from opening. I kick but everything moves so slowly, as if through water, and I wake up thrashing in my bed.
Where did they plan to take me? What were they going to do with me? To me? In the dreams, I never get out of the Boulder’s grip. Reality might have ended up the same way.
Why did I go into the woods that day? Was it adrenaline from the meet, or something more? Did something change within me the moment I decided to do a floor routine, or has this change been building since the moment I failed my road test and drove to South Cross? Was it the right decision? On those nights, I just feel empty.
Cassie interrupts my thoughts. “You’ve changed too, you know.” Her voice is wistful. “You stopped telling me everything.”
“I didn’t mean to,” I say. “Once I stopped, it was harder to start again.” Gymnastics, Marcos, all the little moments–I’d started keeping them to myself when Cassie was in the hospital, not wanting to overwhelm her. Somehow, it became habit.
“Yeah,” she says with a short, humorless laugh. “I guess I get that, too. I wish I could control what it’s like in my head, but I can’t. Sometimes, everything’s great. Other times, I wish Marcos never found me under the bridge. I know that’s terrible, but it’s true, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
It still hurts me to hear her say that she’s struggling. I want to say, “I’ll help you through this.” I can’t, though. I don’t know the right words, and even if I did, she might not want to hear them.
The thing between us that had seemed unbreakable is no longer the same. It may not be entirely severed, but it’s damaged for sure, and it’s too soon to tell if it will ever be repaired. “What are you going to do?” I say.
She shrugs. “My doctors advised me to take a gap year after we graduate to figure out what I really want to do, maybe just work for a while. I’ve been reading these stupid college forums online and everyone says that I need to stand out in order to get into art school, so I joined the newspaper. I think I’m going to apply for spring admission for next year.” Her voice trails off. “I don’t know what else to do.”
“You have so much talent,” I say. “Don’t forget that.” It sounds like something you’d write in the yearbook of someone you never plan to see again.
The bell rings.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
IN MY ANGRY moments, I hate seeing Cassie’s hair bouncing on her shoulders in the hallway. I hate when I hear her laughing from across the cafeteria where she sits with some of the summer crew while I eat with Andreas, Rena, Dimitri, Juliana, and Marcos. If she’s laughing, she’s not missing our friendship. Sometimes Juliana ventures into her territory. I don’t.
Still, it’s better than thinking about her under the bridge.
I intentionally let it slip when Rena pauses from rambling to ask, “What about you and Cassie? Are you girls still friends? It seems pretty damn chilly between you.”
“I wish none of this happened,” I say.
That’s all I need. Although she doesn’t know the extent of this, Rena will repeat it to Andreas, who will tell Juliana, who may mention it the next time she’s across the cafeteria. Message in a bottle. Cassie will receive it eventually.
FOR THE FIRST time, I own Ponquogue High School athletic garb. After all, I did make a deal with Marcos. “Planning to flip over the hurdles?” Jason Kortis calls when he passes my locker. Beth, the track team captain, mandated that we all wear our team tank tops to school in honor of our home meet. Maroon background, white winged foot.
Although I only have about an hour of practice available a day before I head to the gym, the coaches don’t mind. Compared to the stress of staying on beam, running around in circles is kind of relaxing.
Crammed through the cracks of my locker, just above my precalc textbook, is a blank manila envelope.
I fold back the silver tab. It reminds me of opening the acceptance letter from Owego, with the second letter offering a full academic scholarship. I’d already known I was in, but the scholarship was a nice surprise. Marcos received his full tuition scholarship from Suffolk and continues to give me far too much credit for my contributions to his math grades.
A folded piece of notebook paper flutters to the tiles.
Next, a photograph. I catch it before it falls. Black and white. The subject’s legs are crossed, toes pointed. Her arms wrap over her chest and pull to the left side. They’re wrapped as tightly as her leotard, and the muscles in her arms clench beneath the glitter. Her eyes are half-closed and her teeth are gritted in concentration. The short ponytail is a sunburst. She is upside down, suspended above the ground. The background blurs. Her knees are braceless, holding themselves together.
I unfold the paper.
Savs,
I was throwing out my crappy old photos when I found this one. It’s the day you broke your knee doing the triple-double or whatever your dad called it. I debated giving it to you, since that’s kind of messed up of me to remind you of that day. Then I realized that I’ve done a lot of messed up things recently.
I’m sorry that I wasn’t more supportive when you said you were going back to gymnastics. I was always jealous. You had this world that I didn’t get, and you were so good at it. Look at you in this photo–you’re untouchable. When you started hanging out with Marcos, I felt the same way. Once again, you were joining a new world without me.
That doesn’t excuse anything that I’ve done. But maybe it is a bit of an explanation.
I wouldn’t trade any of our memories. Not for Juliana, or art school, or any stupid person from the summer.
I hope you can forgive me someday.
Love,
Cass
“You ready?” says Marcos, leaning against the next locker in his own Ponquogue Varsity Track and Field maroon-and-white jersey.
“Matching? For real? You guys are gonna make me puke,” Andreas calls as he bounds past.
“The only people that will be puking will be Southampton when we beat them,” I say.
He high-fives me. “Damn straight!”
I see Cassie behind him. She stands still as the crowd bucks around her, looking straight at me. Even from here, I know she’s cracking her knuckles.
The girl in the photo does not know what will happen in the next moment. She doesn’t know that when she lands, everything changes.
I smile at Cassie. Not a large smile that says, Everything’s great and I forgive you. Because it’s not and I haven’t. But a smaller one that acknowledges that I read her letter and that maybe there’s hope for both of those things someday.
“I am,” I say to Marcos, and looping my arm through his, we make our way into th
e crowd.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
One of my writing mentors, Roger Rosenblatt, started class by writing a W.B. Yeats quote on the board: “A line will take us hours maybe; yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought, our stitching and unstitching has been naught.”
Thank you to everyone who helped me stitch and unstitch this story. To Danielle Ellison, editor extraordinaire, who plucked this book out of Pitch Wars and who has tirelessly helped me find the heart of it. To the team at Spencer Hill–especially Traci Inzitari, Britta Gigliotti, Harmony Beaufort and everyone else– for their help in making this book shine. To Jenny Perinovic for the gorgeous layout. Publishing’s quite the ride, and I’m so grateful for having Tina Wexler and Lyndsay Hemphill guide me on the way. Also, a shout-out to Dahlia Adler, who read an early version and encouraged me to keep going.
To my writing teachers, especially Victoria Boynton, David Franke, and Roger Rosenblatt, for their unflagging support. Everyone should be lucky enough to have teachers like you. To Susan Scarf Merrell, who happily answered my publishing questions. To all of my coaches throughout the years who cheered me on, tossed me into the air, and caught me on the way down.
To my parents, who attended every gymnastics competition and didn’t bat an eye when I decided to major in writing. Thank you for always encouraging me to pursue what I love. To my brothers, who keep me from taking anything too seriously.
To Lena, best friend and query queen. I might not have written fiction without you, and I definitely wouldn’t have started gymnastics if you didn’t make me watch the 1996 Olympic beam finals with you.
To Flo, who has read this story almost as many times as I have, analyzed Make It or Break It episodes with me, and reignited my love of YA fiction.
To Tony, who has been there since the first draft with ice cream, chai, and support in spades.
To Alex and Ali for the popcorn, LOTR marathons, adventures in the Qrypt, and general awesomeness. Team 150 all the way!
To Beth, who inspired the opening chapter, and Regina, who filled me in on the details of CPEP. To Katrina, Neely, and Goldy for the humor, emails, and enthusiasm.
To the girls I coach, who make me laugh every day and who may see pieces of themselves in Savannah’s story. I know you’ll always find a way to land on your feet.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Though Diana Gallagher “. . . be but little, she is fierce!” She’s also a gymnastics coach and judge, former collegiate gymnast, and writing professor. Her work has appeared in The Southampton Review, International Gymnast, The Couch Gymnast, The Gymternet, and on a candy cigarette box for SmokeLong Quarterly. She holds an MFA from Stony Brook University and is represented by Tina Wexler of ICM Partners. To learn more, visit dianagallagher.blogspot.com.
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