Why we fly, p.7
Why We Fly, page 7
I shake my hands, letting my eyes rest on the graffiti I’ve studied every time I’ve sat in this stall, taking a minute to calm myself. One puff would have been enough, had my unexpected guest not blown my high. I run one finger over the initials and words carved into the wall. It might be the last time I see these.
What am I going to do now that this place is compromised? I can’t sneak off campus or go out to my car. It’s not like I do this all that much—just when I need to manage a little stress. I wouldn’t have needed it today, and wouldn’t have jeopardized my spot, if that freaking captaincy hadn’t gotten away from me. My mind goes blank, like a GPS does when it can’t connect with a satellite. I’m just spinning and spinning, and I have no idea which way to go. But I know I can’t stay in here any longer.
I push the stall door open, and there, leaning against the sink closest to the door, is Marisol Fuentes. I don’t know her well, but we’ve been in classes together. She’s the only student who scored higher than me on the AP Calc exam, which I guess is not a surprise for a girl who aspires to be the future administrator of NASA, which we all know because she makes an annual Career Day presentation about it. She also heads the Gay-Straight Alliance. Marisol’s arms are crossed over a sleek black blazer. Underneath, she wears a gray graphic tee with hot pink lettering that reads Woke Up Lesbian Again.
“You’re going to need more than that open window to get rid of the scent of that loud,” she says with a smile that’s almost a smirk.
I clap a hand to my chest. That was a bullet I did not expect and can’t dodge. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Marisol makes the universal gesture, pinching her thumb and forefinger together and bringing them to her mouth. “I’m talking about marijuana. Reefer. Kush. Mary Jane. Dope. Pot. Weed. Wacky Tabacy.”
Is this girl ever going to shut up? My eyes feel like they might pop out of their sockets.
“Doobies. Blunts. Cannabis. Hashish. Grass. Any of this ringing a bell, considering you were just smoking it and that’s your vape pen in the sink?” She picks it up and twirls it between her fingers. “It’s a nice one. Clearly you’re a connoisseur.”
I wish Scotty would beam me up. I wish I were wearing ruby slippers I could click together. “That’s not mine. It’s not what you think it is.”
Marisol laughs and shakes back her bangs. “Dude, the gig’s up. What’s the big deal, anyway?”
“The big deal is that smoking in a bathroom is for burnouts, not future Harvard MBA students.”
“And yet, here we are.”
“Are you going to tell?” I ask.
“Tell who?”
“I don’t know, everyone on Snapchat?” I glance at the door. I need to get out of here. If Marisol showed up, someone else could.
“Now, what would I gain from doing that?” She crosses one foot over the other, leaning back against the sink again, casual as a character in a movie.
“The satisfaction of being the one who saw me when I was low.”
“Outing people just ain’t my bag, Chanel,” she says. “Your secret is safe with me.”
I consider her for a moment, searching her face for the lie. I don’t see one. “Thanks for that.”
“I’ve been low before too. And tried this.” She taps the vape pen against the sink. “As a way to distract myself.”
Part of me wants to dig deeper, but that’s not the nature of our relationship. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
She studies me for a moment, then nods. “Why are you feeling low?”
“I don’t know.” You know what? That’s bullshit. I do know. “I was just robbed of being elected cheer captain. I worked hard for it. I trained all summer. When everyone else was messing around, I was practicing. But apparently, hard work was not a prerequisite. They picked Leni instead.”
Even Leni has to know she’s not in top form. She’s been out for almost a year. How is it possible the team thought someone who’s been sidelined for that long was a better pick than me?
“You’re right,” Marisol says. “That’s jacked up.”
I feel a little warm glow that someone understands.
“You’re certainly bossy enough.”
The warmth becomes a burn. Marisol is just like everyone else. “Well-behaved women rarely make history.”
“Oh, shit. You’re right. I guess I need to check my internalized misogyny. Don’t ever let anyone tell you how to behave.”
“Trust me. I don’t.”
She dangles the pen before me. “Then go stick up for yourself.”
I can’t explain why, but her words motivate me. It’s time I spoke with Coach Pearce.
By the time I get back, the gym has cleared out. I head down a hallway toward the coaches’ offices. Through the window in the door labeled CHEER, I see Leni sitting on the couch with an unfocused gaze, while Coach talks spiritedly. Only a few minutes pass before they finish and Leni emerges from the office.
She smiles. “Thanks for waiting. Let me just grab my bag, and I’ll be ready to go.”
I can’t believe she jumped straight to that. “I need to talk to Coach first.”
It’s clear when the revelation hits her—her whole face crumples up. Does she not think I deserve a conversation? Even if she was the Leni of last year, before her two accidents, I would still deserve some insight into why I wasn’t chosen. She’s just going to have to wait.
“If that’s what you feel you need.”
That comment doesn’t warrant a response, so I turn and slip past her into the office.
“Chanel!” Coach says with a too-bright smile. She keeps her office cozy with a couch and throws instead of a desk. She directs me toward the seat beside her, crosses her legs, and rests her hands on her knees. “I thought I might be hearing from you tonight.”
Of course, I think, because you already know how unfair this choice is. I sit with my back so straight no judge could take a deduction due to form. “I admit I’m surprised by this decision, Coach. I thought my summer training, my routine accuracy, and my leadership abilities would have made me the obvious choice.”
Her lips pull back in a strained attempt to maintain her smile. She shifts, crossing her legs the other way. “You’re a star, no question about that.” She laughs uncomfortably. “But there’s a difference between an individual star and a team leader. Based on the votes, it was clear to me that the team feels safer under her leadership.”
Safer? That’s dramatic. If anything, my focus on accuracy keeps them safe. I have no idea what this woman is talking about. I am constantly offering advice and working to enhance the skill of my teammates. Everyone else acts like an individual. I’m the only one who tries to guide the others.
“Coach, I realize this is only your second year here. Perhaps you haven’t had enough time to assess. But one thing is for certain—I have been an integral part of building this team.”
Her face tenses. The put-on smile she’s been wearing drops. “I know, and that’s why I’m counting on you to support your friend and be an influencer in the locker room.”
An influencer? What am I, some D-list social media celebrity? This dismissive response is not worth my time. I stand and smooth my puff back into place. “Well, thank you for your time. I know what I need to do now.”
“I hope so, Chanel.”
I shut the door gently behind me, because my mother taught me never to show your hand when you’re plotting. Slamming a door would definitely reveal my hand. As I leave Coach’s office, I feel a vibration in my bag and reach for my phone to see a text from Leni, saying she’s gotten a ride with Three. Ugh—I thought she would be past that summer fling by now. School is starting. It’s time to get focused. I’m low-key glad she left, though. I can’t be bothered with her right now.
When I arrive at the Bumblebee, I tune SiriusXM to the baroque station, close my eyes, and breathe. The Young Visionaries Project application waits for me at home, and that is the most valuable use of my energy going forward. Leni can take care of the team and begin to appreciate what she’s gotten herself into.
7
Eleanor
August barrels toward September, leaving me without a minute to rest. My days are filled with practices, reviewing routines with Coach Pearce, watching video to see what the team’s strengths and weaknesses are, and all the preparation those things require. I thought Nelly and I would be doing this together. She has a better eye for technique than I do. If I ask, she looks at footage of something specific and tells me what’s not working, but she doesn’t volunteer her help. I understand that she’s hurt, but I’m surprised by how far she’s stepped back and how unhappy she seems with me. It’s not like I campaigned to be captain. I didn’t even vote for myself.
On top of my after-school commitments, class work has become my personal hell. I finish most assignments the period before they’re due, working on them between classes, hastily submitting them via Google Classroom. At least half the work I turn in is late. When my grades start getting posted, my parents are going to be furious.
The only good news is that I’m flying and my concussion symptoms have not been affecting me too badly. Sometimes my temper goes wild like an off-leash dog in a crowded dog park, but not often. I think that’s mostly stress, anyway.
I’m not complaining. This just…isn’t how I expected senior year to go.
One evening a couple of weeks into the football season, I have a rare free moment to walk Hamilton, our only-slightly-out-of-control Bernedoodle, who’s two but still acts like a puppy. Practice ended early because Val threw up. We didn’t know if it was from exertion or if he was getting sick, and we couldn’t risk the whole team going down with a stomach flu. So Pearce called it, and I’m home before dinner for the first time this year.
I don’t know what to do with myself. The right answer is homework. I should work on my English essay or maybe prep for my Earth Science lab. And isn’t there a precalc quiz on Monday? I should check the class website. But neither of my parents are home yet, and Ham is going crazy. He needs exercise. Maybe a walk around the neighborhood with him will help me focus on what I should do with the rest of this evening.
Ham and I don’t run. He’s not the kind of dog you can jog with. The one time we tried, he chased every squirrel, rabbit, and falling leaf we passed and tangled the leash around my knees, then around a tree, and landed himself in a ditch. He’s too curious for his own good. I stick to a brisk walk and try to keep him from wrestling trash cans.
After a block, Ham sniffs the air, loses control, and bolts. I haul after him, and we round the corner and bump into Ham’s best friend, a fluffy little Pomeranian named Matzoh Ball, who’s being walked by our neighbor three houses down. Our neighbor who is also our rabbi.
“Sorry, Rabbi Spinrad,” I say as we do the inelegant untangle-the-leash dance.
“You know you can call me Ezra, right, Leni? We’re not in synagogue.”
I could, but it would be weird. I’ve known him well since he helped me through an uncomfortable situation a few years ago when Nelly and I joined a competition squad that prayed before every tournament—in Jesus’s name. His guidance gave me the guts to ask the team to change the prayer to something more egalitarian, and he’s been a close family friend since. But still—the man tutored me for my bat mitzvah. He wears robes to conduct services on High Holy Days, teaches Sunday School, and speaks in the gentle tone of someone who counsels for a living. I’d never call one of my teachers by their first name, and in the same way, I squirm at the thought of calling him by his.
“They make an odd couple, don’t they?” Rabbi Spinrad says, gesturing at the dogs, who are jumping around and wrestling. Matzoh Ball bounces like…well, like a ball. Ham is an eighty-pound giant who could gobble him in one bite, but he’s a gentle teddy bear. He’s never so much as set his teeth on the little dog. “I think Matzoh Ball misses him.”
Normally, the rabbi’s wife brings Ham over to play in the backyard with Matzoh Ball during the day, but she got called out of town yesterday. “When’s the other Rabbi Spinrad due back? Cutting it a little close to the big day, isn’t she?”
“Babies don’t take the High Holy Days into account when they decide they’re ready to join the world. They’re inconsiderate like that,” he says with a laugh. “Dana’s sister wants her to preside over the bris, so she’ll be gone for a while. I’m afraid it’ll just be me doing Rosh Hashanah services this year.”
“Well, don’t tell her I said so, but I’ve always liked your sermons better.”
“You just say that because they’re shorter.”
I grin. “No way. She’s better at chanting Torah, though.”
“I’m rabbi enough to admit that,” he says. “You used to be pretty good at chanting yourself. Any way I can entice you to make a guest appearance this year? We’re still looking for a reader for the afternoon youth service.”
I used to love doing that. At our synagogue, after your bar or bat mitzvah, they let you come back and read Torah at services if you want to. I’ve done it a handful of times, and the youth services for families are my favorites. Those kids, a few years away from their own b’nei mitzvah who are starting to learn the prayers for their own service, look at you like you’ve won an Oscar when you chant a flawless haftarah portion.
My smile fades, and a guilty spiral swirls around in my stomach. “I’m sorry, Rabbi Spinrad. I don’t think I can. I’ll be at services in the morning, but we have an extra cheer practice that afternoon. I’m captain this year. I can’t miss it if I—”
He holds up a hand. “No need to explain, Leni. Your team is an important commitment. I’m glad we’ll get to celebrate the new year with you during morning service.”
I know he means that, but it feels wrong telling the rabbi I’m working on one of the holiest days of the Jewish year. That it’s more important to me. But honestly, it is. I’m sure my parents wish I wouldn’t dip out of the luncheon we’re hosting, but I can’t ask the team to practice if I’m not there. That feels wrong too.
Wrong and right are supposed to be easy. I wonder when every decision started feeling like a shade of gray.
* * *
“Girl, no,” Nelly says, letting herself into my room. “That is not what you’re wearing.”
“What?” I look down at my shorts and yellow halter top, both of which are new. The shorts make my legs look tan. Nelly is wearing a royal-blue dress with cap sleeves and a V-neck and a hint of white lace along the hem. Okay, so maybe that’s a bit dressier than I was expecting for a cookout.
Nelly’s already in my closet, shucking hangers aside. “Where are your dresses? Did you hide them? Yikes, I can’t find anything but yoga pants in here. We need to take you shopping.”
I grin. My wardrobe never meets with her approval. Half the time when we go places, she doesn’t bother with my closet and just dresses me from her own. She’s her normal in-charge self today, and I love it. Away from school and the team, we’re closer to the way we used to be.
Nelly emerges with a black-and-white color block dress with a slim waist and a flowy skirt that her mother bought me as a gift. She lays it on the bed with a very final sort of nod. “You’ll present better in this.”
“It’s a barbecue, Nelly, not a job interview.”
“That’s what you think.”
I don’t know whether she agreed to go because I begged and she felt bad for me or because she thought she needed to keep an eye on me. Though I wore her down, she made it clear she is not into the idea of this party.
Once I’m dressed, I consider my shoe choices. Nelly would pick the kitten-heel sandals, but I hate the way they pinch my toes. I rebel, going for a pair of black flip-flops. She clicks her tongue when she sees them but lets it go.
“Nelly, I’m really glad you’re coming with me. Maybe after it’s over, we can come back here and work on the pyramid a little? Maybe you could make a demo video we can post to the WhatsApp group?”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to.” She opens my jewelry box and picks through it, which is her way of avoiding me.
“Come on, Nelly. I was counting on us doing this together. You’ve basically disappeared.”
The lid of the box snaps shut, and she whirls around. “Captain is your responsibility, not mine.”
“Yeah, but we both know I would have helped you if you’d won.”
“I didn’t, though.”
Oh. That hits different. I knew she was disappointed, but Nelly wouldn’t hold a grudge just for that. Her feelings are hurt. “Nelly—”
“We should go. You don’t want to be late and make a bad impression on your little crush’s family.”
She clips out of my room, and I have to hurry to keep up.
* * *
Cars line the street near Three’s house, and a stream of people heads toward the door, carrying dishes and trays of cupcakes. The next generation of athletic superstars—a horde of kids ten years younger than us—runs around in the front yard, throwing a football. An older man with graying hair sits on a folding chair on the porch, smoking a cigar and calling instructions to the boys that they mostly ignore.
The door stands wide open, and we follow the others inside. A TV blares from the living room, and laughter trickles from the kitchen. But most of the noise comes from the teeming backyard, where we find the bulk of the partygoers. There must be fifty people here, some crowded around Mr. Walters, who stands at a chrome grill, wearing an apron that says GRILL GOD and waving massive tongs. On the other side of the cement deck, another man has set up a tiny tailgate grill that gives off the powerful scent of charcoal. Mr. Walters’s grill is certainly fancier, but the other smells more like a barbecue to me. The middle of the deck is taken up by two huge folding tables sagging under the weight of all the dishes people have brought.
