Learn to Fly

Chapter 6: Alone

Tuesday, December 25th.

It's Christmas Day, and my parents and I sleep in until it's almost noon. I hand my parents their gifts first. Mom gets a simple dark gray sweater and Dad gets a compilation CD full of rock songs from the nineties. They give me some new shirts and hoodies, a handful of gift cards to my favorite stores, and two new sketchbooks with a large pack of colored pencils. "You mentioned that you're taking Art this year, so we figured we'd get you some actual sketchbooks so you don't fill up your other notebooks." Dad tells me with a small smile.

I suddenly have the urge to tell them everything right then and there. I feel tears flooding my eyes, but I manage to keep them contained. I take a deep breath. I want to tell them everything that happened that night as we sit there by our plastic Christmas tree while some cheesy Christmas music plays on the TV behind us.

I wipe my eyes. They wait with curious smiles. When I got home that night, they were both working late. I heard their cars pull into the driveway a few hours after I returned. I was supposed to have been at Riley's for the entire night. I showered until the hot water ran cold, then I crawled into bed and laid there, feeling exhausted but unable to fall asleep. Mom and Dad both left for work early in the morning, but I didn't get up until several hours after that. My throat feels tight, I can't get any words out. How can I talk to them about what happened? Where's a good place to start?

Dad looks down at his watch. Mom gathers up all of the wrapping paper and stuffs it into a garbage bag. They both leave the room. I'm still sitting on the floor, holding the sketchbook and pencils. I didn't even say "Thank you."

~

Wednesday, January 2nd.

The rest of winter break passed by with the blink of an eye, the new year is officially here, and the end of the second marking period is in two weeks. Now that it's thirty degrees outside and there's close to a foot of snow covering the ground, the gym teachers are letting us have class inside. I'm pretty sure it's warmer outside than it is in the gym. They tell us to quit complaining, that moving around will warm us up. Easy for them to say, they're not the ones dressed in t-shirts, sweatpants and leggings that do very little to keep us warm.

The first sport they're having us play indoors is tennis. I actually kind of learned how to play a few summers ago when I was staying at my aunt's house for a week. I played it with my cousins, and they taught me the basic rules. Since I'm the only one in the class who's at least a little familiar with the racket, I get paired up with none other than everyone's favorite jock, Jocelyn, so we can demonstrate the game to the others.

I get to serve first, a nice little shot with a bit of speed on it. Jocelyn sends it right back with a backhand. We go back and forth for a while. Then the coach blows her whistle to stop us and explain the scoring system in tennis, a system where the numbers don't make any sense to us non-jocks.

Jocelyn has the next serve. She aces it, a perfect serve that travels with such speed that it bounces off the floor behind me before I can even process that it's coming towards me. The crowd watching us applauds and cheers for Jocelyn. She smiles at the praise.

I remain stoic, fighting the urge to roll my eyes.

I'm prepared for her second serve this time. I hit it right back at a similar speed to hers, it obviously catches her off-guard. She swings and misses. The coach says something nice to me and Jocelyn adjusts the racket in her hand.

Neither of us are fooling around now. Her pride is at stake. A skilled athlete like her doesn't want to lose to some freaky, nearly-mute girl who used to be her buddy. She bounces the yellow ball up in the air and swats it at me. I arch my arm back and strike the ball with power fueled by all of my emotions, all of the pent-up anger. The ball flies through the court, speeding past Jocelyn and slamming loudly against the wall behind her, the sound echoing faintly throughout the gym. The crowd watches in awe. Another point for me. After several more rounds, Jocelyn is the winner by only a few points. My shoulders are sore and I can feel blisters growing on my hands. How does she do it?