As much as Nora cheers me up, the realization of my failure- in such a spectacular fashion- wears on me again as I continue the roundabout way home.
Being a competitive person, I like to argue that I'm fine with losing or looking stupid every now and then, but that's utter bull. Right now, I need to locate the closest rock, crawl under it, and die a shameful death.
Nora was right about one thing: I am a tad dramatic, a ham at times- shamelessly so.
Though I know it's very likely no one's probably home right now, I decide to kill some more time meandering around in my dust ruined attire with my duffle bag and hair looking a hot mess (but then again, when do I ever look like a showstopper?). Roaming, I pause every so often to hang under some much-needed shading. Other than that, I waste my time skipping over the cracks in the sidewalk like a four-year-old playing hopscotch while dragging a stick I picked up along the chain link fence of some of the houses.
"Joan."
"Ah, shit," I wince to myself, already forming a feasible lie. "I should have just dragged my ass home on time."
I thought I would have time to formulate a non-embarrassing explanation on why I wasn't going to make varsity- or any team- before my family could confront me about it. Guess that same demon is enjoying my misery today.
Pausing in my meandering, I try to act normal while simultaneously dying inside, "Hey, dad."
Taking in my appearance, he, of course, asks, "What happened?"
Glancing down, as if just noticing the dust on my clothes myself, I shrug then reply, "I fell."
Honestly, give me anyone else but my dad to admit this to. I don't know whether parents are just blessed with sixth senses once their kids are born or what, but my dad has an unfair advantage in this arena; it's as if he can envision what went down before I even open my mouth. It's unfair to us children, you know. I need to, at least, get one thing over on him.
"What's wrong?"
"It was really hot today, hotter than I expected and the girls there- talk about impressive. It was just a lot."
On top of being close to telepathic as one can get, my dad's not a very facially expression person- or verbally, at times. He could be solving all the problems of the world and not a muscle on his face would twitch- he's too stoic for me. Brent says I just need to study the way his eyes react because that's how you gauge his reactions, but I can't notice details as subtle as his eyes shifting.
"How do you think you performed?"
I shrug again, "Gotta wait for the coach to post the results."
"Joan."
He stops walking so therefore I stop walking and thus I know he knows what's up.
"What's wrong?" He asks, more persistent this time.
He's not one to beat around the bush and neither am I.
"I'm not making varsity," I sigh, resuming my walk.
There I said it!
He keeps my stride. "How are you certain?"
"Because I made myself look like a moron out there all day. Hence the dusty clothes."
One major difference I like between him and my mom is that, unlike my mom who would start probing, he doesn't do that. He simply asks-
"What are you going to do?"
"You mean what am I not going to do?" I huff. "Well, I won't be running cross-country this season or track next season or probably at all in high school, on either team."
"Joan."
I at least know what tones imply what and this one calls for me to stop over-exaggerating, so I do, huffing and sighing in dramatic fashion to get my point across.
Once he's got my attention, he beckons me to follow him, opposite the direction of home. I'm semi-sure I know where this is going, so I sigh and follow him, not bothering to ask questions.
By the time we arrive at the worn out picnic table with it's peeling red paint and rusty legs, I already knew where he was taking me. Sighing again, I drop my duffle bag next to me as I plop down on the table.
This rinky-dink table that rivals the age of this town is our resolution table, a table we've been coming to ever since I was four.
I don't like to say I was a pain in the ass kid, but I was borderline wild- it was free-spirited to me- and so, naturally, I would get into trouble every now and then and whenever that happened I was marched right out here to sort things out, however long that took. Coming here's not all bad, though. Sometimes my dad will bring me out here if we need to discuss any problems happening or that could happen. It's sole purpose to resolve issues. With such a history with this battered old thing, it's easy to understand my love-hate relationship with it.
Today, though, I don't know what kind of talking to I'm going to get, whether it's the pick-yourself-up-don't-whine-about-it special or the don't-be-too-hard-on-yourself token talk. I'm assuming the former since it's my dad, but it's a twist.
"Give me your hand," He instructs me.
"Why?"
"Just do it."
So I do, cupping my hand to receive whatever he's giving me.
When he places the object in my palm, closing my fingers around it, I glance down at it then back up at him, puzzled.
"Why are you giving me your ring?"
"Because you need a reminder."
My face contorts in further confusion. "A reminder? A reminder of what?" Of how much I suck?
"Of who you are."
"Um," I glance between him and the ring again. "I know who I am, dad."
"It's not supposed to tell you who you are, it's supposed to remind you."
Truth be told, ever since I was a baby, I've always been transfixed by my dad's ring. It's the nicest piece of jewelry I've ever seen- and I've seen Nora's aunt wearing real pearls. It has this blue gem in the middle that's pretty big for a ring, it also has some engravings on the inside that have been worn away a bit. It's also his wedding band. He gave it to my mom before they were married but then she gave it back to him on their wedding day. Long story short, I've always admired my dad's ring, but I never expected he'd give it to me.
I stare at it with a slight frown. "Okay, remind me who I am, but why give this to me? Isn't this like your wedding band?"
"It's more than that," He says, a bit too ambiguous.
"What is it then?"
He looks off into the distance to somewhere I can't follow before responding normally.
"A family heirloom- a reminder."
"An heirloom. Really?"
Okay, color me intrigued.
"My father's father gave it to him then he gave it to my mother who passed it down to me when I was eight. When I met your mother I gifted it to her. Now that it's back in my possession, I'm handing it down to you."
After hearing a history like that, it's hard not to be amazed.
After studying it for a second, I reply with more reverence, "Thanks, dad. I'll never lose it or take it off."
Putting it on, it's a little too big on my finger, but I'll stuff some napkins or something for the time being.
"I'll string it around my neck then maybe one day my fingers will be big enough to wear it properly," I say, staring at it still.
Squeezing it tightly in my fist, I go to hug him.
"Thanks, dad."
"Hm."
I pull back, a little more out of the storm clouds then before. Honestly, if I was surrounded by people like myself instead of people like my dad, I swear I would have axed myself off either out of sheer annoyance or a dramatic, impulsive reaction.
"Well, I'm going to head home and wash up," I announce, getting to my feet and readjusting the bag on my shoulder.
"Are you going to run back?"
"Huh?"
"You said the girls there were impressive. Don't regress."
Sucking in a sharp breath as I shake my head at the ground, I know he's right. I have to redeem myself somehow, even if he's the only one watching.
"Here," I give him my duffle bag while I wipe back the hair that sticks to my face. "I'll meet you there."
Shoving the ring securely into my pocket, I take off towards the house, starting off in my ever perfect form. From the getgo, I'm a machine- from 0 to 60 in a heartbeat.
"Now where was this magic that I'm used to when I was at tryouts?"
Running like the sun isn't even out, my legs are practically flying- flying like the feeling I'm used to experiencing when I'm running. I'm freer than the birds in the sky at this stage, with no man, no negativity, nothing in this world to catch me. If I feel like a fluid flash in time, then I am what I believe. Hell, adrenalized doesn't even begin to compare to what I feel like when I run. I guess this explains why I went in so cocky. I'm used to this. I'm known for this. Hell, I'm the fastest runner in Cauldron- I've been almost all my life.
Our house, our humble blue Cape Cod, is on the west side of town, close enough where it's counted as a community, but far enough apart from the next house that it's not a cookie cutter neighborhood. It's always quieter over here since nobody visits it much, not like the main hive of town, which doesn't bother me in the least. Less people equals less annoyance and fewer annoyances equal a happier, less aggressive me.
Though the house is only two turns away from where the resolution table is, that short run is enough to make me feel like King Kong on crack. This is what running is supposed to make me feel like- this is why I run.
Only once I pause on the porch do I bend over and the after effects hit me- and boy do they hit. When I run I feel nothing but what I want to feel, but reality always catches up.
My dad will take a few more minutes to show up, so I relax on one of the rocking porch chairs, trying to cool down.
It's always weird to me that my dad just walks everywhere, and when I mean everywhere I mean everywhere. I have to run places because I'm not old enough to drive and too uncoordinated to operate a bike safely. My dad, on the other hand, he chooses to walk because he refuses to get his license; he's lived in the States for eighteen years and can't drive. Mom tried to teach him once, but he's like an alien to all things vehicle and gets very uncomfortable being behind the wheel, so she just does all the driving. I guess vehicles are only for the elite in Transylvania, I don't know.
Thinking about vehicles, my thoughts are interrupted by the obnoxious honking of an abused, rust tin of a car that's pulled up to the house. If I didn't know the driver behind the wheel, I would have suspected it to be an abduction car that kidnaps kids to sell them on the black market. But since I do know, I smirk then get up to gallop down the stairs to meet the dork as he steps out of the rust tin.
"Why are you still driving that beat up sardine can of a car?"
"Thanks for hurting her feelings," He says, approaching me. "It's not like she has feelings or anything?"
"She doesn't."
"That's what you think, but you'd be surprised what cars are capable of."
Partaking in our usual pinch greeting that we've had since I was seven, I try going for his thigh- his weak spot- but he karate swats me away.
"You're still too slow, speedy," He grins.
"That's a hyperbole."
"Actually, it's an oxymoron, moron. Try again."
Sticking up tongue out at him, he laughs.
"What'd'ya roll in sand or something?" He observes my clothes.
"Since when does sand stick like that? It's dirt, genius. In fact, gimme a hug-"
"-no! Ah, seriously?"
I give the twenty-six year old a rueful head shake as he tries to rub the dirt off his clothes. Eventually, he gives up.
"Ah, whatever, that's what washers are for anyway," We start towards the porch. "Is anyone else home?"
"Mom's at work, Brent's out somewhere with his friends planning world domination or something, and dad's on his way here."
"Still walking as always?"
"Better than driving around in a reject Transformer."
"You're cruel, you know that?"
Returning to my rocking chair, I grin mischievously.
"So, how's life?" He props his feet up on the railing.
"Trash at the moment but getting better," I copy him. "How's life been treating you, kid?"
Before he can reply, though, I pipe up.
"You dyed your hair, didn't you? It looks darker."
Running his hands through his now aubrey hair, he nods. "Out with the old, in with the new."
I pull one of his locks. "As long as you keep these curls then dye your hair purple and green for all I care."
He gives me a cheeky smile which reveals his dimples. "I don't know how to get rid of them."
"Good."
I love it when Clifford comes around, he has such a compatible energy with me- in a completely platonic way, of course. He's like a big kid uncle who gets me and isn't offended by my humor.
We recline back in our chairs like some old farts at a retirement home until dad gets here. When he does, Clifford notices him first and perks up.
"When are you ever going to learn how to drive? You can't walk everywhere. What if it's an emergency?"
My dad leans against the banister of the porch, replying flatly. "Then I'll run."
Clifford shakes his head, placing an arm around him. "What if you can't run?"
"Then I guess I'll die."
That makes him laugh and he smiles brighter.
"You're glad to see me again, aren't you, Axel? Your daughter always is."
Despite my dad sighs and not always appearing thrilled at Clifford's presence, he and Cliff have been close before I was even born. Clifford used to be a kid my mom babysat when she was younger, yet him and my dad are the ones that are ridiculously close. Honestly, I thought my dad's name was actually Axel because Cliff- and everyone minus my mom- always call him by that name.
"My daughter and I have very different taste," He replies, "Are you planning to stay for supper?"
"Wish I could but I promised my mom and Dean I'd be home tonight. I'm only passing through and they wanted to see me before I left.
As we enter the house, the kitchen's always the first place I go to, naturally, so we congregate there.
"How do you do it?" Cliff asks, not even bothering to ask before rummaging through the fridge. "How do you just settle down?"
"I don't know, but you should try it," He mutters absentmindedly as he pulls out two glasses from the cabinet.
"Hey, I'm still young. I have places that still need exploring."
Like the father-daughter team we are, we counter back in unison-
"You're twenty-six."
"Better than thirtysomething."
Dad's not amused, at least facial wise he isn't.
"Just wait."
"Oh, I'm waiting. I have been for a while."
It doesn't take much for me to remember that I still have dirt grounded into me and need a shower, big time.
"I'm gonna go wash off," I say, already creeping out of the room.
"Take your bag," My dad tells me.
Retrieving it, I wave to Clifford. "Peace, kid."
"I think I'm going to get you an English book for your birthday, that way you'll know the difference between an oxymoron and a hyperbole," He calls out to me.
"Please, try me."
I head upstairs then into my room where I shed my clothes before darting into the bathroom to hop in the shower, where I take a nice, brisk cold shower- just the way I like it. I hold the record speed for quickest shower taker in the house, my brother maintaining last place and not in a hurry to get rid of the disgraceful title.
After my shower, I change into a clean set of clothes to wear for the rest of the day, which will also mask the obvious sign of my failure.
Flopping down on my bed, I stare up at my wall that's lined with pictures pinned to the wall. Sitting up, it's a slap in the face to witness the two shelves full of trophies from my winnings and achievements as a runner. Holding the 1st place title for three consecutive years on my track team is not an easy feat despite how easy I make it seem.
Lying back down on my bed, I stare directly up at the ceiling, coming face-to-face with the biggest sore spot of it all. Above my bed, a poster has been taped to the ceiling ever since I was nine, a poster that shows various Olympic runners from time's past, their faces twisted in starved victory. It's supposed to remind me, inspire me each and every day to strive for my dreams, but today, it's doing more harm than good.
Rolling over onto my stomach, groaning, I know I shouldn't be as dramatic- it's not like all hope is lost. Regardless of what anyone or anything throws at me, I'm going to the Olympics one day and bringing home gold- not even God, at this point, could persuade me otherwise. Though after today's tryouts, I'm looking at bronze, and nobody remembers a third placer.
Since making a fool of myself physically drains me, resting my eyes evolves into a full-blown nap, making it's no surprise when I wake up about an hour and a half later to the sound of the toilet flushing.
It's a blessing and a curse to have a bedroom near the bathroom. A blessing because at nights when I'm as blind as a bat, I just have to stumble two steps to the bathroom, a curse because I can hear whenever people use the toilet or shower- even the damn sink sounds like a geyser.
Getting up like a druggie from a psychedelic slumber, I rub my knotty bedhead and peer out the door to see my brother emerging. He stops once noticing me, his smug little smile showing.
"Aw, did I wake you?"
"What do you think?" My voice still sounds like a man's.
That dashing smile of his widens even more.
"You use the upstairs bathroom on purpose, didn't you?"
He shrugs like a kid caught in a not so deceiving lie. "Yeah, it was more fun that way."
I mouth a nice "F you" to him as he walks away, and like the kid I've raised him to be, he smiles, mouthing a subtle "Screw you" in return.
This kid is great.
I chuckle, closing my door as I follow him downstairs to the family room.
"Did you see Cliff?" I ask as we slam ourselves onto the couch in our usual ritual.
"When I was coming in, yeah."
We both fight for the remote, though I don't really care what we watch, it's just fun fighting over it. Letting him win, I watch as the TV springs to life.
"He left as I was coming in."
"Oh," To compensate for the lost remote, I sprawl out on the couch, leaving no room for him to sit. "Where's dad?"
"He went out," He replies, not fazed by my defiant act. He simply plops himself right on my buttcheeks.
"Went where?"
"The moon."
"I'mma fart on you."
"Please do, maybe it will inflate these flat cushions I'm sitting on."
That's it.
I roll over so we both drop to the floor then quickly hop on top of him, holding him down while tries to fight against me.
"Beg me not to," I threaten, wiggling my fingers above him.
He resists, shaking his head as he angles the remote at the TV.
"If you do it then I'll change it to the baby channel."
"Don't you dare."
I proceed to start tickling him, not letting up even as he squeals and flays under me. I'm a sadistic sister, I know. Though he tries to change the channel, all I have to do is knock the remote from his hand.
Now with the full advantage, I taunt him. "Beg me."
Even as he squirms with laughter, he cries out, "Screw you."
Relentless, I increase my tickling. "Do it."
Though he clearly isn't one to take defeat, he takes it this time and cries out for me to stop.
"He went to the store."
I free him, getting up to lounge back on the couch. Victory is mine.
"That's all you had to say," I reply smugly.
He can't be mad at me even when wiping the tears from his face due to him laughing so hard. Choosing a new position, he leans against me as we relax on the couch.
"So, how'd it go?" He asks, scrolling through the infinite choices of channels.
We're a pretty fast moving duo when it comes to conversations so subjects switch pretty quick.
My groan says it all. If there was one person I didn't have to lie to it was Brent.
"You didn't completely botched it, did you?"
"Plastic surgery couldn't repair what damage I did today."
Making a face at the TV, he replies, "Yikes. Whatcha gonna do?"
I let out a bitter laugh. "Nothing. Sit here and suck it up."
"You cried, didn't you?"
"No. I held a pity party but I didn't act like a crybaby. Don't you know I'm a robot with no emotions?"
"Could've had me fooled."
Seems like there's nothing interesting on TV right now so he switches to Netflix.
"I'm thinking of trying out for indoor track in the winter, but I don't know if my dignity will have recovered by then. Maybe I should wait until senior year when it's fully recovered."
"Jesus, what did you do?"
"Not reliving it," I grumble.
He shakes his head as he scrolls through the selections.
"Well, since you had a crap day, I'll let you choose what we watch."
Rubbing his hair playfully, I grin at him. "Aw, look at you."
Peeved, he swats my hand away before asking, "TV show or movie?"
"Hmm, movie."
"Genre?"
"Something that will not inspire me to commit a homicide."
"Stupid funny or clever funny?"
"Something fun funny."
He clicks a few things then comes up with some options.
"How about...the Labyrinth?"
"Now we're talking."
David Bowie anything is a go from me.
Ever since we were still taking kiddie baths together, the Labyrinth has been our goto movie for any situation. Rainy day? The Labyrinth. Failing grades (usually me)? The Labyrinth. Armageddon? The Labyrinth, all day every day. We know this movie line for line, move for move. I could put this movie in a time capsule and save it for all of humanity, it is my lifeline.
Half the time, now, we don't focus all our attention to the screen while it's playing- it's mainly for background noise as we talk or do whatever- annoys the hell out of our mom.
"So," I begin. "What's going on in your world?"
He gives me a sideways glance then fiddles with his fingers.
"If I didn't love Hugh, I would have to ax him out of my universe domination plans. I'm realizing how dumb he is."
I scoff. "Um, I knew that. He must have slipped out of the doctor's hands when his mom pushed him out because his level of stupid is its own category."
He sighs heavily. "Alas, I like him too much to let him walk off a bridge."
"You know, you were always the kinder between the two of us."
He sighs again. "Unfortunately. But there are only a few people that can fall into the brand of mean like you do, you know."
I slap my hands to my face endearingly. "Aww, how sweet of you. You're not so bad, Jack."
"Wish I could say the same for you, Beanstalk."
It's stupid- though mostly everything we do is stupid- but ever since we were little kids, we've established nicknames for each other. Since I'm about as stringy as yarn, Brent used to call me beanstalk instead of beanpole when he was little- we tried to correct him but it just stuck. So to keep with tradition, I started calling him Jack in return due to his favorite fairytale (he made us read that story more times than we had cared to). We're weirdos, judge us not.
Though usually the TV acts as white noise for us, since we're glued to the TV, we sing along to every song- some of us sounding better than others, not mentioning any names, but my brother doesn't understand what it's like to not be gifted with an angelic voice that'll take him places the older he gets. I fully understand, as does everyone around me, why I should never even think of being a singer.
As I sit there singing along with my brother, my parents arriving home together sometime later, I can't deny I'm not feeling as down and moody as before, but I also can't say I'm jumping off the walls. For now, I'll do with all my embarrassing moments- bury it.
I have an heirloom, awesome friends who get me, and a family that, regardless of my screw-ups, has my back. What more could I want?