Fireworks

Weeks fly by like they’ve got wings, and I’m stuck on the ground staring jealously into time. I’m trapped in a broken record, my scale bouncing back and forth between 83.0 and 85.0. The 85.0 days are when I can’t sleep at night and replay Robin’s video until I do. The 83.0 days are when I come home, disgusted at myself for becoming so weak. The voice in my brain is constantly jeering at me.

You can’t do anything right.

What, you’re going to eat that? Ha, you’re on your own if you do.

Shut. Your. Mouth. You. Pig.

I hardly recall the details of homecoming. I went with Rachel, we flitted among cliques, I sipped one cup of spiked punch for the entire night. I looked for Robin, found him in a tux and tie with the rest of his sophomore friends – boys and girls alike – and ran off to the bathroom to hyperventilate.

Yeah, I’m probably losing it.

Rachel is saner than me. She arrives at school every day genuinely bright and cheery. She talks to everyone about everything. I don’t know what part of her body hasn’t met the blade now. A tiny part in the back of my mind is worrying, urging me to call the self-abuse hotline we got in science, warning me she’s plummeted in deeper than she should be. I swat that part away in annoyance every time it bothers me.

Those said weeks blend into months. Nothing changes for me. There are more school dances, school events, but I skip out. I stay home and practice my guitar, for what I don’t quite know. I sense Michelle in the shadows, her spirit a block at my side, but when I spin wildly around the dark sitting room, there’s no one. I’m not scared. I play on for her to listen.

PE switches from tennis to street hockey. This I’m eternally happy for, my favorite class of the day, because I love street hockey. The rush as you’re batting the puck down the asphalt, the scrape of the stick against the ground, everyone as they jab and swipe, the thrill of shooting nothing but net – every injury I’ve ever had in street hockey I was proud about. It’s definitely my favorite unit in PE and I enjoy being the only girl on the boys’ teams because the other girls in class are too concerned for their freshly painted nails to get into the game.

Coach reminds us of the rules and assigns four captains – two for the girls against girls, and two for the boys against boys games. I frown and step off to the side.

“Hey, Coach, can we play co-ed?”

She appraises me with an eyebrow raise. I also read approval. “Well, most of the girls don’t want to play co-ed…but I suppose you could join with the boys’ game if you’d like.”

I thank her and stand with the rest of the guys.

That catches their attention.

Since I don’t usually open my mouth in PE, they point and talk about me like I’m not even there. It’s what people do to the quiet ones, and I get that.

It’s actually sort of amusing.

“Shouldn’t you be over there?” Ben Quentin jerks his chin to the other side of the white basketball sideline. We play street hockey across the basketball courts on the blacktop.

“No,” I deadpan.

They don’t seem to know how to answer to that so they continue picking teams. Naturally, I’m the last one left. Since Ben’s team has one less than Jeremy Weldon’s, he grudgingly takes me.

“Don’t screw anything up, just pass it to one of us,” he orders me as we select our sticks and drag them to the far court.

I ignore him. Of course I’m not doing that. The adrenaline is already emptying into my veins as I face the opposite team, spread out on their side. Seven here and there.

Our side’s got no one on face-off. There’s that moment where everyone hesitates because they don’t know who wants to go, so I roll my eyes and take my place eye-to-eye with Jeremy.

He looks smug. My smile widens. The sound of basketballs clapping on the blacktop by the sophomore class pounds in my ears. Or maybe that’s my anticipating heart.

“I’ll go easy on you,” Jeremy says.

I smack my stick on the ground once. “N.” Again. “H.”

He catches on. “L!”

But I’ve already scooped the puck back, flicking it off to Ben.

I don’t think he was expecting such a clean pass, because it sails right into his stick and he doesn’t move. When I glare at him, he finally blinks and carries it up the court.

Our team scatters. I intercept an attempted pass to George Zhang and deliver it off to Tommy Peyton. Tommy passes to Ben, who passes to Anthony, who’s got a diagonal shot to the goal blocked by the hefty goalie with his Great Wall of a goalie stick.

Anthony gazes straight at me. “Giovanni!” He’s the first to willingly give the puck to me, and I stop it easily, preparing to shoot it.

As I look up to fire the puck into the net, my eyes instinctively take in the sophomores in the background.

Robin is staring directly at me, the ball clasped slackly at his side. He doesn’t even pretend he wasn’t looking.

I lower my eyes and send in the perfect goal.

“Nice one,” says Ben, incredulity lacing his vocals.

I act insulted. “I can play, you know.” I whack his shin with my stick.

“I know now.”

The vision of Robin is tossed into the clouds as our team wins, fifteen to two.

My arms are lightly sweating, the sun is beating down on my gym clothes, and I’ve tied my hair up into a messy ponytail by the time Coach blows her whistle and calls us in. My stick clangs its way into the cart and Jeremy is whining to Ben about how I get to be on his team tomorrow.

Everyone is already walking back into the locker rooms, telling tales to their friends about their PE adventures. Coach scrutinizes the vacant fields before dismissing us. She calls my name as I’m walking past.

“Great job today, Giovanni,” she says, gesturing for me to wheel in the cart.

I get praise in return for cleaning up the equipment and being the last to change into my non-sweaty clothes. Oh, I’d take that any day.

Not.

“Thanks.” I actually manage a smile. “I like street hockey, especially when it’s co-ed.”

“I’m glad.” Coach pushes the cart against the wall. “Keep it up.”

Sure enough, I’m the last to yank on my jeans and finger-comb my hair with no mirror because I’ve got no one to borrow it from. My locker is the last one to clang shut, a fork that reverberates off the tile walls.

Rachel’s got somewhere to be today, so I’m stuck here until Dad can come and pick me up or I get a ride. I sigh and insert my iPod’s ear buds into my ears, circling my thumb to heighten the volume to ‘Can You Keep A Secret?’ by The Cab.

I’m sitting at the rock at the corner of school well into three o’clock. 296 songs have gone by.

I feel like sleeping on the tanbark at my feet.

I slump into the bark, leaning back against the rock. It’s solid, full of edges, and all in all not really that comfortable, but I close my eyes. The pounding guitars in A Day To Remember’s ‘The Downfall Of Us All’ was swallowing me whole, and I was reveling in it. Everything was all around me, the music was the trees, the ground, the concrete I couldn’t see –

There was a nudge at my left arm.

My first reaction – I wrench away fiercely, my eyes rocketing open.

My second reaction – my heart starts beating in sixteenth notes, staccato in my chest, because it’s, guess who?

My third reaction – ohmyGodwhatthehellwhatishedoinghereit’sRobin.