Page 10 of Where We Belong
Her nose twitches as she redoes her ponytail. “I should have this by now.”
“And you do. You just can’t have it a hundred percent of the time.”
I’m such a hypocrite. Do what I say, not what I do.
“Don’t overthink this,” I add, tipping my head toward the reception area. “Go home, and we’ll get it tomorrow.”
My words clearly haven’t convinced her, but I didn’t expect them to. Again, a fighter. Still, they get her to nod at me and head out, which is what I was hoping for.
The rest of the girls are already in the locker room since their practice officially ended ten minutes ago. I should probably go home too. I’m beat after the crazy week I’ve had. I’ve barely spent any time in my new home, the vast majority of my days—and nights—spent in the gym. Thank god Shelli doesn’t mind. In fact, I’m not sure she’s noticed.
I realized quickly after I got here that Shelli didn’t just wish for an extra full-time coach; sheneededhelp. Not all classes are full, and the gym’s schedule has holes that need to be filled, but it doesn’t matter. There isn’t enough staff. Shelli is too busy with administrative stuff to coach, and finding competent people to train the competitive-level groups isn’t easy. I’ve assisted Andy enough times to know all about it. Coaching has always been a good option to help pay for competition fees and team gear, so I’ve been at it on and off for years.
While cracking my neck, a bad habit I can’t seem to shake, I head to the staff room to grab my things. With the way my shoulders and neck are screaming in pain, I should probably take the night off. Maybe stream something or go to bed early. I’m still on schedule, I think. Hard to say without a coach telling me exactly what I need to be doing every single day to be ready for the Winter Cup in New York in four months.
Without allowing myself the time to feel bad about going home and changing my mind, I grab my bag and coat, then sit to change from my tennis shoes into beat-up sneakers I’d throw away if I had even a few bucks to spare on things like shoes. My back cracks loudly as I stand up.
“Jesus,” I mutter before chuckling to myself. How oldamI?
I walk out of the room, but just as I reach the reception, my phone rings, stopping me in my tracks. I answer the second I see the name on the screen.
“What took you so long?” I ask by way of greeting. I wish I didn’t have to don armor and prepare for battle every time I speak with her, but she’s taught me too well.
“Hello to you too, Alexandria,” my mother says in that raucous voice of hers before she breaks out into a wet coughing fit. I can imagine her, sitting on the cracked and rusty swing on the front porch, a cigarette dangling between her index and middle fingers and a glass of Captain Morgan in the other hand, the phone held between her bony shoulder and cheek. I hear her drag an inhale. “I’m guessing you’re not calling to talk about the weather?”
I grind my teeth together.Calm down. Riling her up usually makes things even worse.
When I feel I’m as calm as can be, I say, “Josie told me about Kyle.”
She hums. “So?”
“So?” I press two fingers at my now-throbbing temple. “So you know how he is. How it turned out last time.” Aka, him scaring the hell out of the entire house with every one of his outbursts, including one episode of a fist punched through the wall after I asked him to pick his socks off the floor. “Do you really think it’s a good idea to let him come back home?”
Ever since my sister called me yesterday, my mind has been filled with all kinds of horror scenarios. Kyle busting the data plan so Josie can’t do her schoolwork any longer. Kyle getting mad about Josie putting her music too loud in her room and throwing something heavy at her head. Kyle inviting friends over, and them somehow finding a way into my little sister’s room during the night. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Mom chuckles. “You’re one to talk. Aren’t you the one who was still living here last week?”
I exhale slowly. Of course, she skips over the part where I helped pay the bills and took care of chores at home, but she has a point. She did help me for a few years when I wasn’t able to afford moving out because of hospital fees and gym fees.
I swallow thickly. “Just… She’s young. He scares her. If you could just—”
“I know my own daughter’s age, Jesus Christ.”
I don’t bother answering.
I’m not sure exactly why my mother had three children with three different men when she clearly would’ve preferred to have none. I don’t remember a single instance when she made me feel wanted. No hugs exchanged, no kisses blown from the school parking lot, no hair braided on competition days. In fact, she always seemed to work her hardest to keep us out of her way.
Probably why she got me into gymnastics in the first place.
“Anything else?” she barks.
“No. Just… Please keep him and his friends away from her.Please.” My eyes close briefly at the feeling of phantom hands on my shoulders, on my arms, on my legs. I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood, fighting the shivers running down my body.
“Don’t worry. We’ll be fine without you,” she says.
I’m not sure whether that’s an actual reassurance or a dig at me, but exploring it further would be a bad idea. “Thank you,” I grit out.
“All righty then. Talk to you later.”
