Why we fly, p.5
Why We Fly, page 5
When I finally get out of bed on the day of The Appointment, I head toward the kitchen. I don’t do anything without fuel. Besides, it doesn’t take much brainpower to whip up my staple, the egg white, arugula, sprout, and chèvre omelet I’ve made every morning since Nelly and I discovered Quinoa Mitchell’s Healthy Mornings cookbook when we were twelve. I’m not as hard-core about it as Nelly, who makes a different recipe from the Quinoa plan every day.
Day 0. You ready for it?
Three’s text puts a smile on my face. We haven’t spent much time together since Nelly came home, but he gets it. With his season opener just a few weeks away, Coach Brown has the team doing two-a-days, and Three’s dad has him on a bulking-up regimen I couldn’t hope to contend with. I’m a little surprised—and kind of thrilled—that he remembered my appointment date. I reply with the 100 emoji and take the stairs two at a time, feeling just fine.
Today, I put the wheels of my life back on the track. Monday, school starts. Nelly and I will put our plan to make Nationals into high gear. We’ll do athletic résumés and send them to college coaches. All the things we wanted before my concussion are within reach. I’m ready to fly again.
I just need Dr. Ratliff to say so on that medical clearance form.
I pause in the entrance to the kitchen. My mother and father ping-pong around, doing their chaotic getting-ready-for-work dance, passing each other coffee mugs, checking the weather app, packing lunches. I haven’t seen it much this summer, since I’ve been off my routine. I smile, bizarrely relieved that this will again be the background to my mornings once things get completely back to normal.
They go quiet when they see me enter, their eyes running over the cheer warm-ups I dressed in for good luck.
“Morning,” I say, heading to the refrigerator and trying to dispel the ominous feeling that accompanies their silence. I glance over my shoulder and catch them mouthing things at each other. They stop when they notice me looking.
“Big day today, huh, Eleanor?” my father says.
“Well,” I say, “today’s the day when one man has the power to put me back on track or end my cheerleading career entirely. So I guess you could say it’s a pretty big day.”
Mom sighs. “Leni, you’re working on keeping your expectations reasonable, right? Dr. Ratliff warned you that some of the effects of severe concussions don’t ever go away. I’m worried that if you don’t hear what you want to hear today, it’s going to…derail you.”
The words fly across the room and smack me in the face. “You think he’s not going to clear me?”
“It’s a possibility. He said—”
“Did he call to give you a heads-up or something? If you know, you have to tell me.”
Dad puts a hand on my shoulder. “Take it easy, Leni. We don’t know anything. No one called us. We’re trying to be supportive.”
“We want you to know that no matter what happens today, you have other options, if you’re willing to explore them,” Mom adds, and I flinch. She sings this song on repeat, and I’ve never liked it any better than I did the first time. “You always have.”
If they’d been trying to support me, they would have driven me to PT for the past eight months. I bet they’ve been half hoping this concussion would put an end to cheerleading. I know they blame my grades on all the time I spend at practice. They can’t be honest with themselves about the fact that I’m not an intellectual like Seth or a math prodigy like Daniel. They don’t want to accept that cheer is my only real shot at differentiating myself on college applications, despite the fact that Franklin’s guidance counselor said that very thing to their faces.
My nose wrinkles as I fight back a sob. I am not going to cry over this. “I don’t want those options. I want to cheer.”
They exchange another Meaningful Look, the one they always throw around when they’re tired of trying to get through to me.
My phone dings with another text from Three.
Hey, so how about I give you a ride this time?
“Your appointment is at eleven? I have meetings on campus until ten thirty.” Dad pulls out his phone and begins thumbing through screens, no doubt checking the busy schedule he keeps as the director of the university Hillel. “Maybe I can move a few and give you a ride there.”
Nelly also offered to drive me. But if there’s a chance to spend some time with Three, I’m going to take it. “I’ve got a ride. I’ll see you guys after.”
One of them sighs, but I can’t tell who. I’ve already spun back to the fridge.
* * *
A huge navy-blue pickup, the kind with the extended cab, pulls up to my house at exactly ten twenty-five. When I reach for the door handle, the door flies open, and a linebacker-size guy who looks a whole lot like Three steps out. One of the brothers, I’m guessing. Three is driving. He slings one arm over the passenger seat beside him while his brother pops open the rear door of the cab and slides in.
“Get in, Greenberg. Day Zero, right? Can’t be late for that.”
I look pointedly at the squished seat in the back, where Three’s brother has angled himself sideways to have enough space for his legs. “I can sit in back.”
The brother waves me off. “Three yammered at me the whole way over here to let you sit up front,” he says. His teasing smile lets me know it’s Three he’s annoyed with, not me.
“Shut up, bruh,” Three says, sounding not very menacing at all.
I’m going to make us late if I stall any longer, so I settle in beside Three, who pulls away from the curb. He leaves his arm across the back of my seat. I hate that I notice that, but I do.
“I didn’t know you had your license,” I say.
“Of course I do. I just don’t have a car,” he says.
“Yeah, ’cause then how would Dad the drill sergeant keep tabs on you at practice, make sure you’re running the full hundred,” his brother mutters. I glance over my shoulder and see that he’s looking out the window like he’s not part of the conversation, except he must be listening pretty closely.
“Ray.” Three’s tone is flat and serious.
“It’s the truth. A car is equal to freedom in his mind.”
“Man, you know it’s not like that. Dad’s just keeping me focused on my plan.”
“Your plan? You the one who decided to set the alarm for a six-mile run at four a.m.? You the one who dictates drinking three protein shakes a day? You the one tweeting game film at scouts? You the one taking out loans to pay a personal trainer and maxing out credit cards on a professional-grade home gym?”
Three begins twirling one of his twists between his fingers, and it’s clear he doesn’t like the way this conversation is going. It’s also clear Ray can’t stop. It’s way too hot in this car, and I surreptitiously fan myself with the collar of my shirt. We roll to a stop at a red light, and Three drums on the steering wheel, banging out an irregular rhythm that’s nowhere near in time with the music on the radio.
“So he’s wrong for wanting to give me the best shot at making it? We both know those are all things I need to get me where I want be.”
“And if you never earn those league paychecks? Then what?”
“Just because you didn’t make it doesn’t mean I won’t,” Three says quietly. But not quietly enough.
Ray scoffs. “I did make it. I have the life I want. You all act like the choices I made are some kind of failure, but you’re delusional if you think the only valuable things in life are the ones Dad and Coach Brown tell you to want.”
Dear God, I have never wished so hard for a magic wand in my life. The only thing I want to do right now is whisk myself a trillion miles away. I’d rather be having the worst PT session of my life than overhearing this family spat. We don’t do this in my house. When anyone in my family gets mad, they get quiet and excuse themselves from the conversation. The tension level rises skyscraper high for a week, and then we get over it, but we don’t talk about it, and we certainly don’t fight about family matters in front of strangers.
Luckily, we’re pulling into the clinic parking lot. This torture will be over any minute. I just need to hold out until we arrive, and then I can flee.
Three navigates to the front of the building, and I’m out the door almost before he stomps on the brakes. I’m maybe a foot away from the car when I hear Ray shouting. I glance back and see that he’s switched into the driver’s seat and rolled down the passenger window. “Hey, Three. You invite shorty to the Labor Day cookout? Bet you didn’t, ’cuz you know that’s not part of the plan.”
Oh. My knees lock. A cookout. That I am not invited to. I’m not going to look at Three. I will melt into a puddle of humiliation if I do. I can’t help myself. I glance over. A scowl snarls his features. He shakes his head at his brother, but then he catches sight of me, and his body droops.
“Leni, just ignore Ray, okay? He’s full of it, like always. Come on, let’s get this medical clearance that’s coming your way.”
He takes my hand and doesn’t let go until we’re ushered into Dr. Ratliff’s office, which is a small industrial room with a fake wood desk and bookshelves laden with medical textbooks, two chairs, a few degrees on the wall, and nothing else. The room smells of disinfectant and cologne.
Three lounges in one of the uncomfortable chairs, tall enough that his feet reach all the way to the desk in front of him. I pace.
“How many?”
“What?” I pause by the window, which overlooks the parking lot. I wonder if Dr. Ratliff is too low in the hierarchy to merit an office with a view. Maybe that means we shouldn’t take his prognoses too seriously. We should probably get a second opinion. Why didn’t we ever think to do that?
“Steps,” Three says, halting my mental horses before they bolt. “Between the door and the window. I know you’re counting.”
A faint smile creeps over my lips. “Twenty-three, and how did you know?”
“It’s what I’d be doing if I was you.”
God, how does he always just get it?
“It’s okay you’re nervous.”
The words of protest die before they exit my mouth. I never tell people this stuff. It’s not what they want to hear. But in this too-warm room that smells of bleach, I suddenly feel like I can say what I want to this boy with the Crest-toothpaste smile and a guaranteed future in a professional sports league. “I’m scared as hell.”
I flop into the empty chair beside him and lean back.
“What if he says I’m not cleared? What if he says I can never cheer again? Every time I get a headache or forget anything, I get nervous, and then I worry about getting nervous, and then I get a headache. I’m running on this hamster wheel, and I’m constantly afraid that before I have a chance to step off, I’m going to get flung off and fly smack into a wall!” I crook an elbow over my eyes. “Just so you know, if he says I’m done, I’m probably going to cry.”
Three slides his hand between the chair and my neck, cupping it, his skin warm and soft. He squeezes gently. “I can handle it.”
“I can’t.” We’re quiet for a minute, and I’m grateful he doesn’t spout a bunch of BS about thinking positively. Or worse, repeat all the crap my parents get into about having “other options.” His silence wraps me in a cocoon and asks nothing of me, and it’s peaceful in my mind for a change. “What would you do if someone said you couldn’t play anymore?”
He expels a loud breath. “You go right for heart, don’t you? I can’t even think about it. I’ve got nothing without football. It’s all I do. It’s all I am.”
I lift my arm and peek at him, eyes burning. His face is grave. This is why Three always gets it. “Same.”
“So,” he says, his voice dropping to husky whisper, “how are we going to celebrate when he clears you?”
I raise an eyebrow. “By getting back to practice, finally.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“You’re one to talk. You work out like it’s your job.”
“It is my job. But I know the difference between a job and a celebration. Come on, I’ll take you for ice cream.”
I laugh. “That’s it? That’s your idea of a big celebration?”
“My dad always took me for ice cream when I won a game in peewee. Just the two of us. My mom would go back to the house with my brothers, and we’d go to Carvel, and he’d get me two scoops in a waffle cone. With sprinkles.”
Oh dear God. Why is that such a cute story? If I were a Southern belle, I’d be having the vapors. But, I remind myself, I am not a Southern belle. And ice cream is not in my diet. “We always went to Dave & Buster’s. I’m the reigning Skee-Ball champion of my family. I like to celebrate a win with another win.”
“Hard-core, Greenberg.” He slides closer, close enough that our knees touch. “How about we go after this? You can win me one of those ugly stuffed animals from the claw machine.”
“For real?” Is this… Is he asking me on a date?
He leans closer, and I freeze, dying for him to kiss me and feeling ridiculous that I’m so desperate for him to kiss me that I’m willing for it to happen in this doctor’s office.
“Yeah, for real.” Three’s hand slips from the back of my neck over my shoulder, fingers trailing along my skin. My breath catches, and he stops, his mouth hovering close enough that I can smell a hint of the blackberry-and-mint gum I know he keeps in his pocket. His deep brown eyes watch me intently, but he waits. Waits for me to decide what I want. It’s not as difficult a choice as it should be. I lift my face, and his lips brush mine gently at first, and then he presses closer, and we fall over a cliff into the kiss.
The door flies open, and Three straightens up. I jump back and pull my hands away from him, folding them in my lap. Dr. Ratliff walks in, his white coat flapping around his thighs.
“Sam,” he says, the sound of a barely suppressed smirk in his voice. “Nice to see you, though it’s a bit of a surprise, considering this is Eleanor’s appointment.”
“Had to make sure my number-one fan was ready to be on the sidelines, cheering me on while I throw those touchdowns, Doc.”
I swing an elbow into Three’s unprotected side. He laughs and rubs his ribs. Dr. Ratliff takes a seat behind his desk, squirting a blob of hand sanitizer into his palm. I stare at the repetitive motion as he rubs it in, and my amusement fades. I feel my cheek muscles sink and drag the grin off my face, replacing it with the hangdog look I wear when I’m worried.
“Okay, Eleanor. I’m sure you want to get right to it,” the doctor says, booting up his computer. “After a second impact like you had, it’s important to ensure that you’re completely symptom-free.”
“I am, Dr. Ratliff. I promise. I’m ready to go back to cheerleading.”
“You know you’re three to five times more likely to suffer additional concussions now, right? You’re at heightened risk for long-term cognitive impairment.”
My hands tremble. The first time I heard those words, I didn’t even know what they meant. I do now, and there isn’t much that scares me more than permanent brain damage. Except having to give up the only thing I’ve ever really been good at.
He looks at me hard. “And your goal is still RTP?” I nod. Yes, all I want is to return to play. “Okay, then. Let me compare your recent post-injury results to your baseline.”
The doctor clicks around interminably on the computer, reading with his mouth pursed. I clench my fists and think please, please, please. Besides me, I hear Three’s breathing speed up.
“Well, Eleanor, I have to tell you…”
Please, please, please.
“Your scores have returned to baseline, and your exertion test results were normal.”
“Yeah!” Three leaps out of his chair and punches the air.
I’m not ready to celebrate yet. “Does that mean I’m cleared?”
“Based on this post-impact assessment, I’ll clear you to return to play under the following protocol.” Dr. Ratliff types as he talks. “One week of noncontact drills. As long as your symptoms do not return during that time, then—”
“I can fly again?”
The doctor smiles. “Yes. You can fly again.”
I’m crying. I thought I’d cry if he said no, but here I am, tears trailing around my nose and dripping into my mouth. I try to wipe them away, but Three grabs me and hugs me tight, pressing my face into his shirt. Oh, gross, I’m snotting all over him! He doesn’t seem to mind, though; he just runs his hand over my hair again and again, letting me sob.
Dr. Ratliff prints out the note I so desperately need and hands it over. “All right, you two. Get out of here and go celebrate.”
Three sets his hand on the small of my back and propels me from the office. “Yes, sir, this girl’s got a game of Skee-Ball to win.”
Three decides we need a whole group to celebrate with. While he texts his teammate and best friend, Bull, to come get us, I can’t stop staring at the clearance note. I text a picture of it to Nelly, who replies with about fifty confetti emojis. I can barely see them through the tears, which won’t stop falling.
“You’re back,” he says, tapping the page. “Has it sunk in yet?”
I shake my head. I wonder how long it’ll take.
Three throws an arm around my shoulder, smiling. “Listen, you should come to our house on Labor Day. For the cookout.”
A thrill runs through me, but the echo of Ray’s words in my mind brings it to a halt. “You don’t have to say that.”
“The guys from the team will be there. You could bring your girl, Chanel.”
He twirls the end of my ponytail softly. From the corner of my eye, I see an older lady with carefully curled white hair emerging from the passenger seat of a sedan in the valet line. Her mouth quirks into a knowing smile at the sight of us. I imagine her speaking in my grandma Joan’s voice. Enjoy that one, dear, she would have said in her sassiest accent. He’s a cutie.
