Break in Form: A break in position that results in a deduction from the judges.
THE FIRST warning bell rings as we pull into the packed parking lot of Ellis Hollow High. Home of the Monarchs, as in butterflies not kings and queens, and I’m back on the E.H.H.S. stage. Captain Springboard. New banners sway from the light posts.
GO MONARCHS!
STATE CHAMPS.
MONARCH PRIDE.
32ND ANNUAL MIGRATION CARNIVAL.
“Check that out. The PTA finally gave us props. You ready for this weekend?”
“Hell yes, I’m ready.” Chip glances at me sideways. “You better be ready, too, ’cause we’re gonna nab that title again this year or die trying.”
I give him a fist bump, but take a hard pass on dying since there aren’t that many Mackeys left to go around.
In less than thirty-six hours, the entire team will head to the quarry for Monarch Night where we’ll take turns diving off the cliff at Pikes Falls. In years past, guys have quit the team before willingly diving into what they saw as a blind death trap. But it’s been a Monarch tradition—and the way captains have determined how they’ll seed divers at meets—for decades.
Sometimes keeping secrets is warranted too.
When Coach Porter made Chip and me captains of the swim and diving teams, respectively, a few of our friends were pissed. But we didn’t ask for it; our performance at regionals junior year clinched his decision. We went big and came home bigger. Coach calls us his strong finishers. Now that we’re seniors, though, the pressure for scholarships is on. Full-blast.
We catch sight of Amy jumping to catch our attention as we trudge through the parking lot. Her platinum hair is bobbing like a jellyfish in the sea of students migrating toward the main entrance. Several people are pointing toward the football field. Smiling, nudging people they wouldn’t normally acknowledge in the social pecking order so they’ll see the rainbow arcing across the sky behind the goalpost.
I’m not one to believe in leprechauns and pots of gold. But today, I’ll take it as a sign of something promising. The Mackeys are Irish, after all.
“I better catch up to her,” Chip says, backhanding me in the chest. “Live to dive another day, bro. Know what I mean?”
I get it. Things can always be worse.
I hang back to make a call to roadside assistance, hoping they can send someone out here to give Bumblebee’s battery a charge while I’m in class. The call center’s robo-recording gives me my estimated wait time. Seven minutes is cutting it close. I keep my ear to the phone and head toward the space where I left Bumblebee parked.
There’s an orange flyer flapping under one of the wiper blades on top of our school newspaper, wrapped in a plastic sleeve. Not surprising since the PTA fells multiple forests going crazy for all things E.H.H.S., including the Migration Carnival, but especially the football game. Then again, they did give us props for being state champs on the banners.
I have no P to speak of, so I don’t have an issue with the PTA specifically. But if any one of the guys on the football team were capable of doing a somersault over another player, and then kept running for a touchdown, not only would I attend every game, I’d understand why all the T&A shows up too.
I prefer my puns intended.
I hate to admit I never read the newspaper, considering Iris is on the editorial staff, because that right there would be a perfect conversation starter. But the hours of homework on top of practice and looking after GP don’t leave me much time.
The flyer on Bumblebee is for the game, as expected, so it’s safe to assume the newspaper is full of articles about the football team, as well. But I think I’ll hang onto this edition, in case Iris asks. I’m about to crumple the useless flyer when I notice a handwritten note from Les on the backside. Every letter has been scribbled over multiple times in purple pen.
We should talk.
THE SOONER THE BETTER.
—Les
Christ.
Why couldn’t he just text me like a normal person?
The sooner the better …
The words run through my mind in my mom’s voice seconds before I sense myself disconnecting from the parking lot with an unexpected memory.
* * *
I’m standing at the top of the stairs in our old house, squishing my toes into the carpet to keep from running to my room to light matches until the yelling stopped. Wiped after a day of swimming at the quarry with Mom and Uncle Phil, my limbs weak as jellyfish tentacles, but I kept listening. I was always listening. Especially on days when fun ended in a fight between my parents.
“I need to know,” Mom said. “The sooner the better. Without proper guidance … Well, you know how that turned out for me.”
“He’s my son, too, dammit. Don’t I have a say?”
“Yes, of course. But he will see the truth on his own—it’s only of matter of when—and without proper guidance … Well, you know how that turned out for me.”
“Even if he is like you, Sophia, he has a family. He’s not some orphan.”
“Don’t be merciless, Mitch. It’s ugly. And it’s unfair.”
“Do you want to talk about what’s fair?” Dad spat. “Or should we start with mercy?”
“A little mercy might be nice.”
“For me or him? I never thought I’d say this, Sophia, but you might actually be delusional.”
“You know that’s not true. You can’t blame anyone for this but me.”
“Because you’re addicted to the power of your own mind. If you do this you’re on your own. There won’t be any room for mercy.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“We’ve been here before and you made your choice, Sophia. You can’t have us both.”
I creaked down the steps, terrified he meant me.
Mom stepped away from the harsh light of the fireplace and smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“Hey you. I thought you were asleep. You want to come for a ride with me to Uncle Phil’s?”
“Is Dad coming this time?” I looked at him, hopeful, but he kept staring at Mom.
“No. Not this time. Go grab your shoes.”
As I turned to run back up the stairs, I saw my father sigh and hang his head.
* * *
THE SHRILL peal of the second warning bell rushes me back to the parking lot, my heart racing from running up the stairs because the return of this memory felt entirely real. Not real the way people say when they mean it abstractly. But a total mind-trip. I felt like I was standing on those carpeted stairs, the soft fibers squishing between my toes, while my parents’ anger and disappointment hung in the air alongside my fear that they were arguing about me this time.
I knew this could happen, Uncle Phil warned us, but having it hit me out of the blue leaves me a little unhinged.
After Mom died in the fire, I started having bizarre dreams and night terrors. Dad tried everything in his arsenal to help: sleep aids, guided meditation, Adderall. But he couldn’t do it alone. He wasn’t trained that way. And eventually he called on Uncle Phil for the heavy lifting, even though they weren’t on speaking terms. He told us I had PTSD and offered hypnosis as treatment with one stipulation. Dad couldn’t be in the room. Uncle Phil warned I might lose random pieces of memory from around that time, as well, that might come back someday, triggered by certain words or objects, a familiar scent. But not like this.
A disembodied voice echoes from another dimension and takes me by surprise until I realize it’s coming from my phone.
“Hellooo? Mr. Mackey, are you still there?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m here.” I put the phone to my ear and swoop down to save the flyer from soaking through in the puddle at my feet.
“And are you still in need of assistance?” the woman asks.
“Yes, I am.”
The sooner the better.
I unlock my door, tossing the flyer and newspaper onto the backseat, forcing myself to answer all the required questions about Bumblebee: location, spare key, number of my parking space, membership identification. Then I take off across the parking lot to beat the late bell, still struggling to shake off the memory of my parents’ argument until I can talk to Uncle Phil.
The hallway that leads to my physics class reeks of pencil shavings and nervous sweat. The gross but comforting constant helps put me back on track until I round a corner and zero in on Iris, her long black hair, the stacks of beaded bracelets circling her wrists.
Crap.
Sooner isn’t always better.
I skitter to a stop. My wet running shoes squeak against the linoleum and heads turn, including hers, which makes me freeze. I wasn’t expecting to see her until Monday. We don’t share classes on odd days because of E.H.H.S.’s block scheduling, so it’s not like I was purposely avoiding her or anything. I just thought I’d have more time to get my shit together.
She sends me a broad smile and I realize there’s nowhere to hide. I breathe in deep through my nose and pull it together before I have to dive in. Resistance is futile.
“Hey you,” she says, backtracking in my direction on quick feet. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere since yesterday.”
“You were?”
“We were supposed to exchange phone numbers after Malone’s class.”
“We were?”
She nods, examining me like I’m as out-to-lunch as I feel. “I turned around to get yours after class and you were already gone. Malone thought you might be sick. Were you? You did leave fast. I got Les’s number, but he seemed like he was in a rush too.” She digs through the slouchy, canvas bag at her hip. “I can never find my phone in here. Or my favorite pen. Some journalist I am, huh? It’s a miracle I have a pad of paper.”
“We had practice,” I blurt while she’s still digging.
It’s not a total lie.
I had to get some air after Malone announced that the first part of the semester-long project was due in two weeks. He was still yammering about interviewing our families about their lives and the importance of creating extensive family trees when I bolted in search of a noose I might use to hang myself from the single branch I have left. I won’t tell Chip this because he loves when he’s right, but I’d probably call that avoidance. I haven’t even visited my parents’ graves yet. Interviewing them would take an act of necromancy.
I reach into my letterman’s jacket for a pen and pull out a Sharpie. “Will this work?”
Iris pulls her eyes from her bag and smirks. “Black Sharpie, huh? A pen says a lot about a person, Theo. Especially the color.”
“Oh yeah? What does my black Sharpie say about me?”
I tend to put this type of assessment in the same realm as those online quizzes that determine what breed of dog you are. I’m a pit bull, by the way. Definitely a misunderstood breed. But it’s just a dog. And this is just a pen. Plus, it’s not even mine. Chip dropped it after writing his event, heat, and lane numbers down the inside of his arm at a swim meet a long time ago and I forgot to give it back. Still, I rock back on my heels and wait for Iris to analyze me as fuzzy or thick—thickheaded might be true.
“I’d say you either have issues with impermanence or you’re the type of person who doesn’t intend to make mistakes. Black isn’t your color, though. You should stick with Monarch orange.”
Iris winks at me and I get this … I don’t know what to call it, but whatever it is she does it to me. For me. Big time.
“What’s your color?” I ask. “I mean, of the pen you’re missing.”
“Violet. I special order them by the dozen.”
“So, you like purple pens.” I remember the note left on my truck. “Maybe Les took it by accident when he was giving you his number.”
“Oh. Maybe. He was sitting next to me in class. But to answer your question, I like violet. There are lots of shades of purple: lavender, orchard, grape. Violet has something special.”
So does she.
I bring up something that might sound less moronic to fill the awkward silence.
“Did you know violet isn’t actually a color in the rainbow? Isaac Newton called it violet but he was actually seeing dark blue. It’s a physics thing. Supernumerary circles.” I draw an invisible circle with my finger. “The blue and red overlap.”
“Does something about me make you think of rainbows?” Another smirk makes a dimple pucker in one corner below her mouth.
“Not you specifically. I saw one this morning. Over the goalpost. I mean, I was thinking about you; it’s not like I was distracted by thoughts of leprechauns and rainbows with pots of gold at the end or anything. I was headed to physics before I ran into you. I have refraction on the brain.”
“Sounds serious. Does it hurt?” She tries not to laugh and I realize I just springboard-diver physics-geeked the hell out on her.
Asswipe status achieved.
“Do you have your phone?” she asks, when I stand there mute. “I’ll give you my number in case we need to talk. Les told me he’s already in good shape for the project and finding more than he needs. Did you have a chance to pull any of the stuff on the syllabus together?”
“A little.” I hand her my phone with another lie. “You?”
“Personally? No. But my dad is all over this project. Our living room looks like Memory Lane. I’m sure you know what I mean.”
“Totally.” I swallow hard because the lies are piling up in my throat.
Getting help from GP will be about as easy as nailing Jell-O to a tree. Believe me. I’ve tried to bring up the night of the fire before. Timing is everything for me, in my home life and in diving.
“I was a little worried when you bolted yesterday that you might not to want to partner with me.” Iris shakes her head and punches her number into my contacts. “It doesn’t matter. I can already see I was wrong. I wish we had more time to talk now. I have to get to journalism class. Lots of high school news to report. But it sounds like we’ll be in good shape for the field trip on Monday.”
“The field trip?”
She hands me back my phone. “To the county clerk’s office? Are you sure you’re feeling all right, Theo? You seem a little muddy.”
“Yep. I’m good. I just forgot for a second. County clerk. Info. Monday. It’s a date.”
“A date, huh? All right, Theo Mackey. Text me so I have your number. We’ll see you then.”
I pat myself on the back for a job well done. Saving that conversation from complete failure after diving blind in the middle was tricky. And then I realize we’ll means Iris and Les Carter, tagging along like a third wheel.
Iris peers at me over her shoulder with a smirk, confirming my delayed grasp on the Les situation.
I try what we call a save in diving. “Hey, what if I drop my phone in the pool? How will we get in touch with each other?”
She turns and walks backward toward the newsroom. “Worst case scenario, you know where I live.”
Yes. Yes, I do.
I’m still smiling like an idiot when the inference in her words clicks. Iris has seen me drive by her house. Probably more than once.
Smooth, Mackey. Real smooth.