Page 2 of Through Quick and Quinn
And so was born my first dig.
I searched on the internet for hours that day. It felt cathartic almost, casting aside any names that reminded me of, well, anything. Characters from shows I used to watch with him? Those were out. Names of friends he had at school? Out. That was round one. I moved on to round two, filling pages upon pages in my notebook with potential names and their meanings. A total waste of time. Because when I saw it, I just knew.
Maverick
Origin: American (that made sense, considering I was born and raised)
Meaning: an independent man who avoids conformity; a free spirit
Maverick. I loved it. And no, not because of Top Gun. I didn’t even see that movie until my sophomore year in high school, and I would not have named myself after a role being played by that actor. Just saying.
Ok, so, Maverick Alexander Broderick Williams.
Ugh. Seriously? That’s ridiculous.
Alexander. Nope. Not a defender in the least. Not after what happened that spring break. Out.
Broderick. Brother. I thought I should keep the name, but Maverick Broderick? Nope.
Maybe Brody, I thought. Turned out Brody meant “ditch” or “muddy place.” Ummmm, no thank you. That was literally the last thing I wanted to think about, especially when it came to my brother.
Maverick, it was then. Just Maverick.
At the time I didn’t really understand the first meaning, but I knew that I wanted my spirit to be free. Free from the sadness and the guilt. I definitely lived up to the non-conformity thing, without trying or perhaps without even realizing it. Interestingly enough, though, the name never stuck.
Declan
Maverick
Quick:
The Name That Stuck
Seventh grade. New school, new town, all the new stuff. Well, except for friends. I didn’t care enough to try to make any, but I still had some all the same. Maybe not friends. Acquaintances?
There was this one kid who I kind of hung out with that year. Aiden. No, Kayden. Hayden? Brayden. No, not Brayden. There wasn’t a consonant blend at the beginning of his name. Jaden? I never remembered the name of the kid who basically named me. Not really my fault though. Everyone called each other “bro” and “dude” back then anyway.
I didn’t memorize his name, but I did his goofy face, probably because he was always sticking it right in front of mine. “Hey, wanna walk to P.E. together? Hey, wanna study for the history test together? Hey, wanna sit together at lunch today?” It was constant. Constant questions, but never a space to answer. He just kept talking. It was fine with me. The more he talked, the less I had to.
He named me on a Thursday in October that year.
For two months in gym class, we’d have to start by running a mile. Coach said it was a warm-up, that we needed cardiovascular exercise, that it would wake us up and our endorphins, too. All of us went along with it, but I knew the truth. At the top of every hour, Coach got a fifteen-minute break. Not a bad gig.
That Thursday in October was a little different though. Coach incentivized us, offering a free pass for the following day’s running and fitness tests to anyone who could finish the mile in under seven minutes.
Challenge accepted.
I checked my laces. I took some deep breaths. And then I knocked that mile out in five minutes, seventeen seconds.
“Dang, dude! How the heck did you run that so quick? Are those some magic shoes? Did you even know you could run that quick? What the heck?” Yep. All questions, no space to answer. Fine by me. I needed to catch my breath a bit.
We walked to history class together after that, and Aiden/Kayden/Hayden/Jaden was still reeling over the mile, that I had been keeping this superhero power a secret all this time. Not but an hour later, he considered his new assessment of me as officially confirmed, given what happened in our next class. The teachers must have had a meeting and decided on this thing together. That, or the mid-fall laziness kicked in. But our history teacher offered the same type of deal that Coach did, on that same Thursday.
Berkey started off every history class with a trivia question. It was her thing, I guess. “Just for funsies,” she would say. I knew most of the answers, but I only begrudgingly muttered them when no one else would get it and it was taking too long. But that day, that Thursday, was different. If I was first to answer correctly, I wouldn’t have to take the vocabulary test the next day.
Challenge accepted.
“What are the two types of lava?” Berkey smirked when she asked the question, convinced that she stumped us and that everyone would be taking the test. That debunked my laziness theory.
