Page 58 of It’s All in How You Fall
“Um,” I start. “So Nat knows about the coaching.”
Alex pauses, hands overhead and curled around the lip of his trunk. I can’t see his expression. “Yeah, he made that much clear before I’d even cut the engine in the staff parking lot this morning.”
His voice is a little uneven—surprising.
“I told him you were just being nice. I was too embarrassed to say anything earlier.” It’s the third time I’ve said that to someone and though I know it’s the truth, it still comes out weak every time. “It’s hard to admit you’re starting over… even when you have help.”
Alex nods with a little shrug. “Well, I didn’t tell him either.”
I want to know why, but Alex doesn’t appear to want to elaborate. He shuts the trunk with a satisfying clang. And when he turns, he’s looking at his keys, fumbling for the locking clicker. Not looking at me. Actually, looking anywhere but me. “Nat’s a good big brother. He’s not always the best at expressing himself without sounding like a total jackass, but he means well.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
Alex pauses. Shifts his feet. His face darkens beneath his cap.
How much of a jackass was Nat exactly?
They’ve been the best of friends since literal diapers, our dads former college roommates. Last night, I told every bit of truth to Nat except for the Sunny side of it. And Nat was still a little peeved but didn’t question me. Except for the whole initial lie of it, which, yeah, he had every reason to be suspicious about.
Alex begins to walk toward the court and I follow, Lily Jane’s racket swinging loosely in my grip. “Anyhow, he wasn’t in much of a listening mood,” he admits as we slide through the opening in the chain-link fence surrounding the court. “So when you see him maybe you can put his mind at ease and inform him that Sunny and I are going to dinner on Friday?”
“Youare?” I grab Alex’s arm and swing in front of him. He’s blushing, so he’s definitely not bluffing. Wow—and she didn’t tell me first? I would be pissed if I weren’t so pleased that my repayment has come to fruition. “Why didn’t you lead with that?!”
“I expectedyouto lead with it.”
I mean, I would have. I have a serious itch to whip out my phone and fire off a subtleDO YOU HAVE SOMETHING TO TELL MEtext to Sunny, but I have at least some tiny modicum of restraint. Life is full of happy surprises. Maybe Iama slightly better matchmaker than Emma Woodhouse. However, my stomach swings low, my heart stuttering. My fingers shake. I’m too warm and though I pump enthusiasm into my voice, I only demand details because I’m supposed to. I don’t really want to know. At all. “Tell me, tell me, tell me.”
It must work because Alex’s blush is spreading. This is a good sign. He literally sits down on the courtside bench—another new development. Suddenly I need to sit down too.
“Well, um,” he starts, and I grip the bench as hard as possible. “Let’s just say that after my conversation with Nat this morning, I got up the courage to text her.”
Now that makes sense. I swallow. “And you’re confirmed for Friday?”
He squints at me. “That’s all you have to say? You’re not going to toot your own horn? Give me a rundown of how you’ve been working the angle from the other side? Declare victory over your overdeveloped sense of debt?”
I deadpan. “I’m not Nat.”
He surrenders a little smile.
“No, you’re not.” Alex stands. “Let’s get down to business,not Nat. Warm-up and service drills.”
26
I text our Sunny-Peregrine-Caroline group thread as I walkhome from practice, sweat ringing all parts of my body where fabric starts and stops—the tabbed ankles of my socks, the hems of my shorts and waistband, and, of course, the neck and arm holes of my Nastia tank. I’ve got my racket under my arm, the handle resting on my curved elbow, a water bottle from Nat’s endless collection of Northland Basketball knockoff Nalgenes dangling almost empty from one thumb-typing hand.
Um, Sun, I hear you have PLANS for Friday night?!
They’re not out of practice for a few minutes, so I slip my phone back into the side-holster pocket on my shorts and turn off the main drag and toward our neighborhood, the park about a half mile ahead. After a few minutes, my phone vibrates, and when I rearrange all I’m carrying to draw it from my pocket, it’s no surprise that Peregrine replies first. I picture her standing two feet from Sunny, typing as they literally congregate at their lockers, practice finished for the day.
Oh REALLY.She caps it off with the staring, disembodied eyes emoji.
Pretty sure the same sort of side-eye is happening in real time and tinged with chalk-caked sweat. Sunny’s little typing bubbles seem to last forever. Stopping and starting. Likely telling Peregrine everything in real time. A pang of sadness claws at my chest. How I wish I were there to watch this unfold in person, not through blinking dots on my phone.
And then it occurs to me that I might be helpless at being there as a gymnast, but I’m perfectly capable of getting the low-down in real time without being two feet away.
I hit the video button on Sunny’s contact and all of a sudden we’re FaceTiming.
Sunny answers, the screen jostling as she literally scampers out of the building, away from the prying ears of Olga and Elena. “I was going to tell you guys!” she scream-whispers, first to my face, then to Peregrine, who is jostling her bag, flip-flops, and phone.
