Page 14 of It’s All in How You Fall
The barbecue smell in the air has only grown, and fireflies wink in the shadows, out too early to put on a real show against the stately colonial-style houses that line the park. But I’m too pissed to enjoy any of it, walking fast enough I might as well be running. I think about yanking off my sandals and sprinting across the grass in the easement along the sidewalk.
Home is a mile from here, past the park and straight through to our cul-de-sac. Dad won’t be there to serve as a buffer from Nat, which sucks, but I have nowhere else to go. Mom is in Beijing still (I think). Peregrine’s house is less than a mile from mine, but it’s across both the highway and railroad tracks and involves going back the way I came. Sunny lives four miles in the opposite direction. And honestly, seeing either of them right now, all healthy, their untraitorous bodies freshly showered after practice, will probably just make me cry.
I have the park basketball court in my sights when a rumble hits my ears. A warning growl. A blue Dodge Challenger sweeps to a crawl beside me. Alex is nice and all but he could’ve taken the long way around. The passenger window comes down and my dumb-ass brother hangs his face out like a human Welsh corgi.
“You know I’m just on you about this because I love you. Stop overreacting.”
I don’t respond, eyes pinned straight ahead. The car follows as I race-walk at five miles an hour despite my flip-flops.
Nat tries again. “Caroline, please get in the car.” He repeats himself three times. A minivan slows and swerves around Alex with a honk.
“No. Bye. See ya.”
“Caro, come on. I know you’re touchy about the gymnastics stuff. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed you. I just didn’t think—”
“That’s your problem, Nat. You never think.” I whirl on him, my face immediately flaming. I want to rip out my hair and I totally would if I hadn’t conned Dad into buttery highlights at the beginning of summer. “If it isn’t about you, it isn’t anything at all. Go away.”
“Caro—”
“Go away.”
My brother begins to respond because he always wants the last word, but he’s cut off by an engine roar. Alex catapults them back up to speed and they shoot up the hill to the cul-de-sac and our house.
At least someone is listening to me.
A few minutes later Alex’s car is back. He passes with a wave, but then the rumbling stops, brake lights shining. He reverses until he lines up the open driver’s side window with me. The look on his face is one of genuine concern, brows pulled together, one white incisor biting down on his bottom lip. “Caroline, I’m sorry about your back.”
“Thanks.” My voice is tight and so much more tired than just five minutes ago, all the adrenaline trickling out of me. It’s then that I realize he called me Caroline, not Flip. He did that at dinner too. The second he found out I quit.
“I’m sorry about the handstands. I wouldn’t have even brought up gymnastics if I’d known you were…” He starts gesturing. “Here.”
Here: forced retirement at fifteen. A place where I don’t know who I am or what to do because my identity was completely wrapped up in leotards and chalk and hair spray for so long I literally do not remember another way to live.
“I suggested the handstands,” I say, because he shouldn’t feel bad. Alex didn’t know what he was doing—Nat did. “Nat’s right that I can’t let go. But I don’t want to.”
The way my sentence ends—high and with the promise of a sob—it’s clear I’m teetering on the edge of dumping on him. Still, Alex doesn’t run away and he doesn’t push me to get the word vomit over with. Instead, he simply turns on his hazards and watches me as I find the words. Somehow cars are nicer about passing him now even though he’s facing the wrong direction.
Maybe it’s not him—maybe it’s me. Maybe I look so distraught I’m guilting people into not honking. Anyway, I appreciate that Alex waits for me, because I never get that sort of pause from my own brother.
“What do you think will happen if you let go?” He’s watching me like he can read the barcode on my soul.
I can’t look at him. I stare at my feet instead. “That I won’t… I won’t be me. Not anymore.” It’s something similar to what I admitted at dinner and yet it feels so much worse without the heat of anger behind it. I will myself not to cry as my identity crisis slides into full view, but that’s where we’re headed on this runaway train.
Alex gets out of the car. Steps his big-ass Jordans toe to toe with my Old Navy flip-flops and turquoise polish.
“Caroline, look at me.”
And I do.
“You are stillyouwithout gymnastics. Part of life is moving on. We’re not the same as we were when we were little kids, and we’re not the same now as we will be when we’re adults.”
Gah, he’s right. I know he’s right. But still.
“I amnothingwithout…” My voice goes up an octave as my throat begins to close. I’m gesturing again because I can’t say the word, even if it’s all I’ve thought about for weeks.
Alex’s brows meet in concern just as a tear slides out of the corner of my eye. Oh God. I swipe at it, but like with everything that’s not gymnastics, I’m too slow, and Alex sees that I’m crying before I can hide it.
“Caro…”
