Page 9 of It’s All in How You Fall
Yeah, I know. But to me it’s relaxing and feels good, and it’s something I actually enjoy.
And so not even three weeks after my life ended, I sit, rolled forward in a full middle split, head in hands, watching two perfectly tanned tennis players grunt through a pretaped set as rows of smartly dressed British people clap politely.
“Ah, the moping continues and has moved into the living room.” Dad comes out of his office dressed in his on-call outfit: khakis and a button-up with the sleeves rolled up. He’ll do whatever he can get away with before he has to shrug into his official on-duty doctor coat.
“I’m not moping.”
“You can’t fool me. My other doctorate is in moping.” This is true. Dad’s still not done moping over breaking up with Mom, and it’s been five years. Though Olga has helped.
I wrinkle my nose. “Both of those doctorates should point to the fact that I can’t help the fact that I’m moping.”
“And now you’re an admitted moper. I win.” He smiles, but his eyes aren’t in it.
Ugh, yeah, I confirmed he was right. “It’s not like I have anything todo.” It’s almost four o’clock—right now I should be in the thick of the afternoon session, finishing up on beam as the lower levels march in. Then conditioning and stretching and home.
“You cando. You’re cleared to do anything but gymnastics. Try something new!” He totally catches me rolling my eyes and starts excitedly tossing out potential activities before he loses me all together. “Soccer would be fun. Or what about volleyball? Or basketball?”
“Dad, it’s been weeks and I’m still four ten.” It’s not uncommon for gymnasts to shoot up after quitting but, um, apparently I’m not in that group. “Plus, if I miraculously grow five inches, I’m still only five three, which is, like, a no-go in every single sport you mentioned.”
“Your brother is living proof that’s not true.”
“Yeah, because he’s played basketball fortwelveyears. Seriously, stop selling this. I’m perfectly fine filling my days with moping and stretching.”
He doesn’t stop selling it.
“Maybe we’re looking at this all wrong.” Dad begins pacing. Jesus. “What about nonathletic activities? Band, choir, mathletics? I’m sure there’s got to be a camp—” Dad’s phone chimes with the tone he keeps for hospital business. He hesitates and almost doesn’t check it. But then duty gets the best of him and he holds up awaitfinger, eyes flashing down before a frown glances across his features. When he looks up, I know he has to leave—on-call ison-call—which is a relief to the pressure behind my eyes.
“It might be a late night. And I know I’m behind on ordering groceries. You’re in charge of dinner—Natdoesget a say, unless that say is trying to convince you to do Happy Cow as a meal, yes?” He digs into his back pocket for his wallet. Out comes a pair of twenties, which he dangles in front of my face.
“So ice cream as sustenance doesn’t count as trying something new?”
“Not when I’m paying for it. Bruno’s or Burger Fu or grocery sushi.” Dad pockets his wallet. “Save a dollar or two and bribe him to eat a vegetable, will ya? He raided the chocolate stash and I’m fairly certain he’ll forget he’s fifty percent Snickers when he’s done with his pickup game.”
I glance down becauseI’mthe Snickers glutton and he’ll never guess it in a million years… I haven’t touched a Snickers publicly since age twelve. My moping comes with a side of chocolate. “Got it.”
Dad takes a step toward the garage door, fishing out his keys. He turns back, a tight smile on his lips. “I’ll check the community center for camps tomorrow.”
I know he’s trying. But if this conversation is a sign that Dad isstillfeeling guilty about forcing me to say goodbye to my hopes and dreams? I’m totally fine with that. I might be slightly bitter, but if I have to live with this nonphysical pain, so does he.
5
When I’m hungry enough, I slip on my flip-flops and head to thepark—a half-mile shot straight up from our cul-de-sac. It’s hot, the afternoon lifting in a sizzle off the pavement, and the neighborhood already smells of nice-night barbecue. Hedgerows bound the park, basketball and four-square in the middle, a slight hill leading to both a little duck pond and a ribbon of parking spaces. The ducks themselves are on break, snuggled together in a little huddle on the lawn, their white feathers winking in sunlight dappled by the trees.
As I approach, squinting because I totally forgot my sunglasses, there’s a lone figure on the far half of the basketball court working a lazy layup.
I’m about to call his name, but then the sun shifts, and that’s when I realize the shadow is way too long to be my brother, who’s been left in the dust vertically by all his friends. It’s not Nat—it’s Alex Zavala, aka Nat’s BFF since diapers. They’ve played basketball together nearly as long, and of course they’re doing the Northfield Country Club groundskeeper gig together. They’re basically inseparable most of the time, and it’s almost kind of cute.
My flip-flopping does not allow for a quiet approach, and Alex’s eyes drift my way as he rebounds a miss. “If it isn’t Caroline Kepler. What’s up?”
Alex’s got on a tank top with a Nike swoosh across the front and orange basketball shorts. He’s sweaty from playing, rivulets running from under a KU ball cap, but he’s the type of guy who never looks schlubby, even after hours in ninety-degree heat.
“Hey, Alex, where’s Nat?” I make a point to glance around. Two Nalgene knockoff water bottles with “Northland Basketball” printed on them sit on the nearest bench.
He coughs out a laugh, dimples winking. “Um, I’m surprised you missed him.” Alex lifts his chin, and I follow the line of it across the park, past the playground equipment.
Even with Alex’s stage direction it takes me a moment to see him, because he’s literally past everything, including the perimeter of the park, standing on the sidewalk, another basketball in his hand as he gestures his way through a conversation with a dark-haired boy and girl. Though I can’t see their feet, they were definitely on a run, handheld water bottles in their grips, rubbing perspiration out of their eyes as he continues to talk. And talk. And talk… and, oh God…
“Is heshirtless?”
