Page 83 of It’s All in How You Fall
When I meet them outside, Sunny hands her keys to one of the two valets, eyes going wide with “ain’t this the life” joy about two seconds after she pretends her keys go the valet route every single day.
“So fancy,” Sunny whispers, stepping up the curb, where Peregrine and I have already exchanged obligatory hugs of greeting. They both smell delicious and are, as promised, completely country club appropriate in sundresses and sandals. Even Peregrine’s lipstick has been toned back down to lavender instead of black.
I check my phone for the time, and three texts from Lily Jane blink on the screen too—an order, a thank you, and a line of emojis. “Alex should be warming up now—his family is saving us seats. I promised we’d grab their order from the crepe tent on our way back. Sound good?”
“Are there crepes in it for us?” Peregrine asks.
“Well, duh.”
Peregrine arches a brow high over her sunglasses. “How much will these fancy country club crepes cost me? More or less than a questionable airport turkey club?”
“They’re free with your entry?” I did not expect free-food pushback.
“So only for the low, low price of my soul? Got it.”
The unengaged valet is apparently eavesdropping because he bursts into a snicker, hiding it poorly because he’s got to be our age.
Sunny drapes one arm around Peregrine’s shoulders and starts steering her toward the stairs. “How is that any different than the concession-stand coupons we get at meets? Other than being five hundred times more delightful than nachos smothered in space cheese?”
“Sunny’s got a point,” I say, jogging up the steps to get the entry door so Sunny can steer Peregrine inside. “Crepes are just rich people’s nachos.”
“I would liken them more to a quesadilla,” Peregrine argues.
“Holy jeez,” Sunny answers, catching my eyes, “let’s get some food in you, Hangry Falcon, before you steal a golf cart to drive yourself home.”
“While I appreciate that you decided to use my superhero name in public, I would like to point out that if I were anactualfalcon, I wouldn’t have to drive anywhere, I could just fly—”
“Oh my God, in the building, now.”
It’s amazing what a good crepe can do. By the time we arrive at Northfield’s largest-capacity court—court one, naturally—with armfuls of piping-hot Swiss-mushroom-spinach goodness, Peregrine’s snark has completely evaporated.
“Okay, the French quesadilla is awesome,” she admits with a grin, busting into hers before we even climb the baby risers to where the Zavala-Mack family is holding down two rows. “Why don’t they have these at gymnastics meets?”
“I saw them at nationals,” Sunny pipes in, grinning at Lily Jane, who has spotted us and is waving like we’re navigating a giant arena and not four flights of bleachers. “Sushi too.”
Peregrine rolls her eyes and elbows me. “Elites always get the best stuff—fame, fortune, access to the Olympics, and crepes. It’s really not fair.”
Okay, maybe her snark isn’t completely drowned in Swiss cheese. Sunny doesn’t dignify that with an answer, but I… I find myself being okay with the gymnastics joke. I’m not elite, and now I never will be, but the pain in my chest is so dull at this point that I can actually grin. Like, really.
“Oh, thank you, yum.” Lily Jane lunges for one of the two paper boats and foil-wrapped goodies I’m holding—obviously hers because she asked for a side of kettle chips that will be annihilated by her hummingbird metabolism in two seconds flat.
As we get situated, Peregrine and I wave at the Zavalas. Sunny introduces herself and immediately compliments Mrs. Zavala’s shirt, and they begin the kind of little chitchat of which both Peregrine and I are truly incapable. Peregrine situates herself on the end of the row and plows through the rest of her crepe with such singular focus that I know we should’ve gotten her two.
Meanwhile, I take the opportunity to get a decent look at the court. Alex is nearly through his warm-up with his opponent—a kid his age or maybe a little older. Today Alex is in white and blue, pristine Lacoste ball cap shading his face as he runs through his net shots. I decide to wave at him, and he immediately waves back. Alex never misses a thing. Of course, Coach Bev doesn’t miss our interaction either, her sunglasses sliding down her nose over tightly pursed lips.
Well, fine. As much as I want her to see me as an ally and not an opponent for Alex’s attention, I know that if he kicks butt the way he can, that will contain her concerns more than either of us can—
“Rematch of the 6A state final.” Coach Brandt’s voice startles me out of my thoughts. He’s leaning over, eyeing the guy across the net—we’ve definitely hit it off the past few days, which is a relief, to say the least.
“That’s the guy Alex beat in May?”
Coach Brandt nods. “Barrington Cassell from Jewel Academy—well, he was. He graduated. Scholarship to Mizzou.”
I take a better look at the guy on the other side of the net—and even if I didn’t know his school affiliation, I would be annoyed with him because though he’s also in a ball cap, he’s wearing it backward. Fine for neck protection, but completely stupid considering they’re playing in the full sun of early afternoon in late July. I’d take actually being able to see properly and avoiding crow’s feet over a red neck and whatever sort of cool factor he thinks he’s pulling with that hat placement.
“Alex beat him in straight sets at state this year,” Coach Brandt says, “and last year he was the defending champion of this tournament but had to bow out with an ankle injury the round before Alex won.”
I suck in a hissing breath between my teeth. “So he wants this one bad.”
