The Girl Who Fell (3 page)

Gregg pulls an imaginary zipper across his own lips and I quiet. “Remember our school talent show in second grade?”

My voice almost left me that night, too scared to speak to an auditorium audience. “I remember.”

“You wore that Groucho mustache and told a bunch of knock-knock jokes. Remember your closer? Knock-knock . . . ,” Gregg prompts.

“Who's there?”

“Tanks.”

“Tanks who?”

“No, no, no,” he mimics. “Tank you!” He bows for an imaginary audience. “You had the crowd laughing their asses off.”

The memory paddles up in me like a friend visiting.

“You were a star that night, Zipper. You'll be one tonight.”

The eight-year-old me visits when she hears Gregg's nickname. She tells me I've got this.

Gregg bends his tree form to nudge my shoulder with his and we continue to the field. Our shadows march forward in front of us. Straight. Determined. Together. Just like our plan for Boston next year.

A sudden flash of pom-poms and cheer cascade by us.

“Cheerleaders?” Gregg says. I shrug.

Lani Briggs, head cheerleader, sidles up to Gregg's opposite side. “Hey Slice.”

“Lani. What brings you and the crew out tonight?” I can hear Gregg flashing her that killer smile.

“Football's loaning us out since, you know, the field hockey team hasn't gone to State in, like, forever.”

“Jinx much?” I mutter under my breath, and Gregg elbows me.

“That's cool. Good to see so much support,” he tells her.

“Maybe we can meet up after?” Lani asks, her full flirt dialed high.

“Maybe.”

“I hope so,” Lani coos just before she bounds forward to join her clan, her red and white pom-poms raised over her head.

“Gross,” I tell Gregg.

“Lani?” He laughs. “Please. I'm not man enough to handle her stimulating conversation.”

“I'm not sure it's conversation she's looking to stimulate.”

“Get your head out of the gutter, Doyle. You've got a game to win.” We reach the sidelines and Gregg hands me my cleats. “You'll rock this, Zeph.”

I lace up my cleats and watch the football cheerleaders line up on the opposite side of the field. I snug my mouth guard around my teeth and squat in a final stretch.

Coach calls for us to take the field and I assume my position as right wing forward. Gregg's unmistakably deep, “Bring 'em hell, Five!” reaches me from the crowd. Then the ref's whistle blows a split second before I hear wood crack against the hard round ball. I run deep, open the face of my stick, ready for a pass. I bend low when the ball comes my way, trap it under my stick and snake it down the length of the field. I reach scoring position without a defender, no one blocking me, but it's not my shot to take. Lyndsey is set in front of the goal and I flick the ball to her, where she instantly hammers it into the corner of the net, putting Sudbury on the scoreboard first. Lyndsey and I crash into each other with a full-body high-five, riding on our wave of adrenaline. The cheerleaders sing out a practiced chant, which makes tonight seem bigger than all of us. That surge carries me through the rest of the game, through the fatigue and frustration, until the ref  's whistle blows for the last time and he raises his arms in a win for Sudbury.

The cheerleaders sound out a victory cheer as my team smashes together, bound as one in our exhaustion and elation. I feel grounded here in the middle of a hundred heartbeats. Cocaptain Karen nudges me and we call the team into a straight line to high-five the Clinton Colonials. With each hand I slap I wonder why I've always wanted to leave this town so badly. Has it really been that bad? Because right now, in this moment, the thought of leaving Sudbury sits uncomfortably upon my bones.

Lizzie meets me at the end of the line, puts on her old-timey newsman voice. “You're a star, Doyle. Front page news, see.”

I laugh and pull out my mouth guard, jiggle it in my loose fist. “Front page, huh?”

“The frontest.”

Gregg joins us. “Way to go, Five. It's playing like that that'll get a Boston College scout scrambling for your number.”

I scoff. “As if. I'll be lucky if they let me sit on the sidelines to watch their games.”

Lizzie knits her eyebrows. “Maybe it's because I know exactly nothing about college sports, but why is it such an impossibility that you could play for Boston College?”

“Because those girls are amazing. They are, like, the best of the best.”

Lizzie bursts a short laugh and looks to Gregg.

He shakes his head at me like I'm dense. “You're a captain who just took her team to State, Five.”

And that's when it hits me that the girls playing for the Boston College Eagles were playing for high school teams before they got to college. Hope spikes in me and it's almost too much to want.

“Zephyr!” It's my mom. At the bleachers, waving.

Lizzie pulls up her notepad. “I should go see how the Clinton coach spins this loss. I'm hoping for lots of expletives, but we probably both can't get that lucky tonight.”

Gregg tosses his chin toward the corner of the field. “I'm gonna roll with Alec. Catch up with you later?”

My eyes follow his nod, find Alec. He's alone near the net, waiting for Gregg. Watching me. He gives me a shy wave and I raise my stick casually. Like him watching me is nothing.

“Tell your moms I say hey.” Gregg pats me on the shoulder and jogs toward Alec.

I go to Mom, her face too small to hold a wider smile. “Oh Zephyr! You were amazing! I'm so proud of you, honey!”

“You should be,” Coach says from behind, catching me off-guard. “You played one hell of a game, Doyle.”

“Thanks Coach.”

She nods and asks Mom, “Does she get her athletic talents from you, Olivia?”

Mom laughs. “I'm the definition of uncoordinated. Zephyr has her father to thank for her physical skill.”

Mom hugs me to her. It's odd how easy it seems for her to talk to Coach about Dad. Mention him in this offhanded way like he comes up casually in all our conversations lately.

Coach raps on my stick, tells Mom, “You make sure she rests up, Olivia. Tonight is only the beginning.”

Mom beams, pulls me tighter. “I will.”

“I'm grateful,” Coach says before heading over to the other players, their parents. But I'm the one who's grateful, for Coach including Mom in our team's success. It's a mission Mom doesn't take lightly. After devouring an enormous banana split at Fernalds, we head home where she tells me to shower and head to bed. “Like Coach said, you need your rest.”

I oblige her the shower, but I spend half the night texting Karen and some of the other players. We're going to State and sleep is the last thing any of us seem capable of.

The following night I go to my dresser and grab the woolen socks that are standard armor for a fall party in New Hampshire. Only days ago I would rage against the idea of attending yet another lame party at Ronnie Waxman's, but tonight feels different.

My full-color Boston College catalog sits on my desk. I trace my finger along its spine. Like always, I imagine I'm the girl on the cover, walking the brick path to the arched entrance of an academic hall, books rested on her hip, the photographer catching her on an up-step so that she looks like she's floating.
Soon,
I think.
Soon.

Except . . .
except . . .

Lately I've had a harder time imagining I can really be that girl . . . self-doubt Lizzie would attribute to parental issues.

When I sit on my bed to fasten my boots, a soft knock sounds on my bedroom door. For a dumb second I wonder whether it's Mom or Dad.

“Come in,” I tell Mom.

She opens the door slowly, Finn forcing his wide doggie body through the crack before pushing his soft head into my shins. I feel for his ears, that sweet spot that makes his back leg flick quick as a jackrabbit.

“Hey Sunshine. Do you want to join me for pizza before you leave?”

Finn's head lifts at the mention of pizza, and his enthusiasm tempts me down the hall.

In the kitchen, Mom's setting the table, still wearing her fitted navy suit. She's a state prosecutor with meticulous grooming skills, never a hair or fact out of place. I wouldn't want to go up against her in a courtroom. She's fierce and forward in a way I could never own.

She sets out knives and forks, folded napkins. She's even poured two glasses of milk. Dad's the eccentric artist type—writes graphic novels for a living—and is way more relaxed. When he lived here, we'd stand around the island eating pizza right out of the box, sneaking Finn the crusts. I take a seat, slide a slice onto my too-formal plate. Finn drools at my side.

“I noticed the Boston College catalog in your room.” Mom wrestles a slice onto her plate. “When's the application deadline?”

“Not till January.” I don't tell her that I've applied early decision. Fact one: I can't wait until spring to know my academic fate. Fact two: I can't have Mom checking in every day to see if I've heard. I play with the crust of my pizza, knowing Mom's approach. She knows the application deadline but wants to talk about something important, something more important than Boston College. I imagine this is how she warms up her witnesses, gets them comfortable with some safe, calming chitchat.

She blows on her slice. “I talked to your father.”

She doesn't even try to camouflage these explosive words. The words I have longed for and dreaded since my eighteenth birthday, the day Dad left with a note as his explanation: “Zephyr's an adult now and there are things I need to do besides being a parent.” That wasn't his whole message, but it's the part I remember, the part that hurt most.

I stare at Mom, unable to conjure a simple
and . . .

“We're going to meet for drinks. Tonight.”

“You're
meeting
him? As in
seeing
him?” I want to scream,
Where is he? Where has he been? How can he all of a sudden be in a place that's close enough for you two to meet up?
In my brain four months spreads itself out like a distance. Four months means equator far away. Off-our-radar far away.

Mom's fingers move to the middle of the table and pick expertly at the yellow leaves on the centerpiece lipstick plant. She's been vigilant about perfect houseplants lately, as if pinching away dead foliage will exert some sort of order in our Post Dad Universe. “I know it must seem out of the blue, but we have a lot to talk about, Zephyr.”

I tense in my chair, slip Finn my slice. He slinks to the corner to indulge. I can't help but wonder where Dad's been eating his dinners and if he's been alone. Does he have a girlfriend? Another house? A new kid on the way?

She wipes her hands on her napkin, reflattens it against the table. “He wants to talk to you, Zephyr.”

“It's a little late for that, don't you think?” The words bite with all the anger I've stored.

She looks at me hard. “No. I don't. I don't think it's ever too late. I didn't have the luxury of talking to my parents or even knowing them.”

I soften, knowing Mom's parents were killed in a car crash when she was an infant. “I know. But this is different. Dad
chose
to leave. Does he expect me to just forget him ditching me? That note?”

“Those are questions you'll have to ask your father.” Mom reaches for my hand across the table. “I think you need to be really careful about dismissing your father, Zephyr. You can be angry at him. You can be upset. But in the end he's the only father you'll ever have.”

I look at her, searching. Doesn't she know that I know that? It's why his leaving hurts so much.

I hear Lizzie's horn outside and practically jump for the door. “I gotta go.” I bring my plate to the dishwasher and knock Mom's pruning shears from their perch at the sink's edge. The dull
twang
of them hitting the metal echoes in our quiet house.

I give Mom a quick kiss on the cheek. I don't tell her to have fun, like I would if she were going to her gardening club or meeting a friend. I can't find a combination of words that would be appropriate in this beyond bizarre situation. I mean, a twenty-six-letter alphabet has its limitations.

I fold into Lizzie's passenger seat.

“How's Olivia?” she asks.

“My mom is officially jenked. Apparently she's having date night with my father.” I pull my seat belt across my chest and hope it's enough to keep my insides from spilling out.

Lizzie twists to face me. “So wait . . . what does this mean exactly?”

“It means that my parents are the last thing I want to talk about.”

She gives me a hard stare. “But your dad is back, right? You don't want to talk about that fairly major event in Doyle family history?”

I press my head to the cold glass of the passenger door, hoping it will freeze still my racing thoughts. “I don't know if he's
back
back or why he's here. I can't even process.”

Lizzie lets out a low sigh. “You still up for going out?”

“God yes. Anywhere. Please.”

Lizzie drives and I watch the dark blink past my window. By the time we arrive at the party, we have to hike to Ronnie Waxman's house because cars already pack both sides of his private road. The October air sings crisp and I pull my scarf from my pocket, wrap it around my neck.

Lizzie links my arm in hers. “Be prepared to be treated like royalty.”

Sovereign is the last thing I feel. “What for?”

“This place is crawling with jocks, and you just captained your team to State, girl. That makes you an A-lister.”

“Hardly.”

“You'll see.”

As we approach Ronnie's house the rap is deafening. I'm grateful it absorbs the ache in me as we walk across his enormous, flawlessly groomed backyard, the earth thudding with reverberating bass.