Authors: Allie Everhart
"Yeah, if I remember right, she wasn't too selective." He grins at Nash.
"Asshole," Nash mutters, but he's grinning too. We all give each other shit. It's the way we show our brotherly love.
"Do these girls come up to you when you're out with Ivy?" I ask Jake.
"All the freaking time. She knows I'd never cheat on her, but still, she makes me buy her something every time it happens."
"Like jewelry, or what?"
"Tools." He grins. "How awesome is that? Words can't describe how much I love that girl."
"Which is why you still get her jewelry," Nash says.
"Well, yeah, but not every time. I'd be broke if I did."
My phone dings. It's a text from Van, asking when I'll be over there.
"I gotta go." I slide out of the booth. "Thanks for lunch, Nash."
"No problem. Have fun at practice. Sorry we can't make it tomorrow."
"Next time," I say. "See ya, Jake."
"Call the waitress!" he yells as I leave.
I just shake my head. I'm not calling her. She's not my type. I'm not really into blondes and that heavy makeup is a turn-off.
When I get to the house, Van and Dylan are already playing.
"What took you so long?" Dylan sets down his guitar. He's our lead singer but also plays bass. It's a three person band. I play guitar and Van plays the drums.
"I was having lunch with my brothers."
"They coming tomorrow?"
"No. They've got plans. And I'm not late, so stop giving me shit."
"Ignore him." Van tosses his drumstick in the air and catches it. "He's just nervous about his song."
"I'm not nervous." Dylan gets up and takes a water from the mini-fridge. "I just want to make sure we get it right. Austin, you want a water?"
"No thanks." I go in my spot and get my guitar set up.
We practice in the basement of the house that Van and Dylan rent out. They're both in college. Dylan's a senior, and Van should be too, but he couldn't decide on a major until his sophomore year so he won't be graduating in the spring. It'll probably take him another year to finish.
The house they rent is old and run-down but the basement is perfect for practice. It's big and open and we can be as loud as we want. And sometimes we get pretty loud. I'm sure the neighbors can hear us, but they're all college students so they don't care.
"Why are you so nervous about this song?" I ask Dylan. "If people don't like it, tough shit. Since when do you care what people think?"
Dylan is one of those guys who never doubts himself. He's Mr. Confident.
He reminds me of Nash that way. Nash never gives a shit what people think. He dresses how he wants, says what he thinks, and doesn't back down when people challenge his opinions. I'm kind of that way, although I sometimes doubt myself, like now, when I'm supposed to be making all these life decisions and I have no idea what I want to do with my life. But I figure that's true of most people my age so I don't worry about it too much.
"He cares because the lyrics are about that girl," Van says.
"
Inspired
by her," Dylan clarifies. "Not
about
her."
"Who is this girl anyway?" I go to the mini fridge and get a water because now I'm suddenly thirsty.
"It's that girl he banged at a party last May." Van taps his drumstick on his leg in a steady beat. He's someone who can't sit still. He's always tapping his fingers on something or bouncing his foot up and down. But his movements always have a pattern, a rhythm. It's like he's got music playing in his veins that just has to come out. So it makes sense he's a music major. He plans to teach it someday.
Dylan seems agitated as he takes his place at the mic. "Are we going to practice or what?"
"Who was she?" I ask. "You never said."
Dylan sighs. "It doesn't matter. It was a one-time thing. Just forget it."
"Do you even know her name?"
He shoots me a look. "Of course I know her name. You really think I'm that big of an ass that I'd have sex with her without knowing her name?"
I shrug. "My brother, Jake, didn't always know their names."
"Yeah, well, I'm not Jake. And I'm not telling you her name so shut up and play."
Van laughs. "Isn't this great? We finally found something to annoy Dylan with."
Dylan doesn't like losing his cool. He does everything possible to avoid it. We've tried most everything to annoy him and nothing works. Until now.
"So Dylan, how old is this muse of yours?" I ask, trying not to laugh. "Is she our age? Is she in college?"
He glares at me. "Seriously, shut up. It's bad enough I get this shit from Van. I'm not taking it from you too, Wheeler."
"If talking about this girl bothers you so much, then why do you even want to perform the song?"
He takes a deep breath, trying to stay calm. "I just do, okay? But if we aren't going to practice, then I'm leaving. I've got other shit to do."
Van's giving me a look to keep egging him on but I decide not to. Whoever this girl was, Dylan really liked her, enough to write a song about her, so I'll cut him a break, at least for now. Besides, I know he'll get enough jokes from Van, his roommate and best friend.
Dylan and Van went to high school together here in Chicago, and then ended up at the same college. Van had originally planned to go out East for school but then his parents divorced and he decided to stay here for his sisters. They're younger than him and didn't take the divorce well so he wanted to be here for them. Van's annoying at times, but overall he's a good guy. He has a big heart. He fits the stereotype of the sensitive artist, but that's what makes him a good musician. He literally feels the emotion in the music and can tell when a note is off. And he's awesome at writing lyrics, most of which are based on his past relationships. That's why he's being so hard on Dylan. Dylan is usually the one making fun of Van for writing songs based on girls, but now it's the other way around.
I position my guitar and strum out a few notes. Dylan gives me a grateful nod for finally playing, then moves up to the mic and starts the song. Whoever this girl is, she brought out Dylan's softer side. I mean, seriously, a love ballad? That's the last thing I would've ever thought he'd write.
It just shows what a girl can do to you. I've seen girls change all three of my brothers, and now I'm seeing it happen with Dylan, after meeting a girl one time.
I'm not sure I'm ready for that. I don't want some girl coming in and changing everything. Not that it's always bad. My brothers are happier than they've ever been. But so am I. Being single doesn't bother me. I like my freedom. My life is fine just the way it is, so why complicate it with some girl?
Kira
"I just got into town," I say, relaxing back on the couch. "Do we really have to go out tonight?"
Amber stands over me, her hands on her hips. "First of all, you didn't just get into town. You've been in Chicago for a week. And every night you have an excuse for why you can't go out. Now it's Saturday, and we're not sitting at home on a Saturday night."
"It's not
we
staying home, just
me
. You can still go out. I'd just rather stay here."
She sits next to me. "What's your deal with going out? We used to go out all the time."
"That was in high school. I'm not a big partier anymore."
"This isn't a party. It's a bar. With music. We'll listen to the band, have a couple drinks, then come home." She touches my arm and talks to me in the same concerned tone my mom uses. "It'll be good for—" She stops herself and fakes a smile. "I mean, it'll be fun. You'll have fun. I know you will. Now come on. Let's go get ready."
"If I'm going, I'm wearing this. I'm not changing."
"Jeans and a t-shirt? That's not going out clothes. Let's go to my room. You can wear something of mine."
"Amber, really, I don't want to get all dressed up. If I'm going, I'm going to hear the music, not find a guy, so it doesn't matter what I wear."
She smiles. "You never know. You
might
find a guy."
I sigh. "For the last time, I don't want a guy. I need to stay focused." I see that look on her face. The one that says I need to accept that it's over and move on. She's given me that look every day since I got here and I can't take it anymore. So I'm just going to say what she wants to hear. "On school. I need to stay focused on school."
"School doesn't start for a week, which means you have a whole week to date someone."
"Yeah, a week-long relationship. That'll be great."
"Actually, it could be. Sometimes you connect with someone right away. You don't always need that long to—" She stops when her phone dings. "Shit. Matt's downstairs. I have to finish getting ready. Can you let him in?"
"And there's another reason why I shouldn't be going out with you tonight. I'll be a third wheel on your date."
"Matt doesn't care. In fact, when I told him you were coming along, he thought it was a good idea." She runs off. "When he gets here, tell him I'll only be a few minutes."
"More like a half hour," I yell as her bedroom door closes.
"Ten minutes, max," she yells back.
She's such a liar. It'll be at least twenty minutes, but more likely a half hour. She always takes forever to get ready.
Amber and I have been friends since we were kids. After high school, she went to college and I stayed in Michigan to train full-time.
I'm a gymnast. Or I used to be. No. Scratch that. I'm still a gymnast. It's who I am, no matter what my parents or Amber or anyone else says.
Gymnastics has been my life for as long as I can remember. Amber is also a gymnast. That's how we got to be friends. We used to be really competitive, but in a good way. We always pushed each other to do better and spent hours together at the gym. Then our junior year of high school, she joined the cheerleading squad, started dating the quarterback, and was named prom queen. She had no time for gymnastics so she quit, but she still supported me in my dream to make it to nationals. And I achieved that dream.
After high school, I trained all day, every day, and all my hard work paid off. Competing at nationals was the greatest day of my life and gave me a new goal to shoot for, which was to make the Olympic team. As soon as I got home from nationals, I started training even harder. I pushed my body to the limit, hoping to reach the elite status that only a few gymnasts achieve. I knew it was a long shot. I had a good coach but not the best, and I didn't do that great at nationals, but at least I'd made it that far, and I knew if I trained hard enough, I could make it there again.
But then the accident happened. It was at a regional meet. I was doing an aerial back flip on the balance beam and as I was coming down for a landing, my foot slipped. It happened fast but in the moment, it felt like slow motion. My foot went to touch the beam, but I only felt the very edge of it, and that's when I knew my body would soon crash to the ground. And it did. I landed with a thud, my leg hitting at an odd angle and with such force that I shattered bones. I heard them crack. And then the pain hit like a lightning bolt, exploding up and down my leg. It was so bad I passed out and didn't wake up until I got to the hospital. By then, they were pumping pain meds in me and rushing me into surgery.
That one tiny misplacement of my foot changed everything. I was supposed to ace nationals and earn a place at the Olympic trials. Yeah, I know the Olympics were a stretch, but that doesn't mean I couldn't try. It was my dream and I wanted it so bad. Not just for me, but for my family; my parents and three younger brothers.
My parents sacrificed everything for me. Their time. Their money. With four kids, I know my parents always wanted a larger house but they couldn't afford one. Because of me. And my poor brothers, stuck spending their childhood being dragged to my gymnastic meets, and yet they rarely complained. Because they believed in me. They believed in the dream just as much as I did.
But now they don't. Nobody does. My parents keep telling me it's over. That I'll never do gymnastics again. And what's even worse is that Amber agrees with them.
Amber. My best friend. A fellow gymnast who knows how hard it is to get to that level. How could she take my parents' side? I thought of all people, she'd support me. Encourage me. Tell me I could compete again. She was a freaking cheerleader, for crying out loud. She should be cheering me on, telling me to never give up, to keep trying. But instead, she pities me, just like everyone else. Even now, a year after the accident, she still gives me that look that says she feels sorry for me. And not because of what happened, but because I refuse to accept that it's over. As if I'm crazy for even thinking I could ever go back to gymnastics again.
It can't be over. This is what I've trained for my whole life. I don't know who I am without it. And more importantly, I owe it to my family to keep trying. They nearly went broke paying for my training, my coach, my travel expenses. And now they have nothing to show for it.
The guilt I feel over that is overwhelming. It eats away at me every day. I have to pay them back. That was the plan. As an elite gymnast, I'd hoped to make money from endorsements and pay back my parents all the money they spent on me. I'd buy them a better house and new cars and I'd buy my brothers all the stuff they wanted but couldn't have all those years my parents' income went to my gymnastics training. It wasn't fair they had to sacrifice everything for me and I promised myself that someday I would make it up to them.
So I don't care what anyone says. My gymnastics career isn't over. The past year I've spent every day trying to get better. I didn't miss a single physical therapy appointment even though each session hurt like hell. And whenever doubts entered my head, I'd shove them away. I have enough people doubting me. I don't need to do it myself. So I force myself to stay positive, which isn't always easy, especially when my leg is aching, like it is right now.
That's why I didn't want to go out tonight, but if I tell Amber that, it'll just be more ammunition for her to use against me. More proof that my leg will never be the same. Another reason why I should give up on my dream.