Cambrie called me the following morning. Her voice was crisp and clean, as though she had gone to bed at a decent hour, gotten a full night's sleep, and awoke to the sound of birds chirping peacefully outside. Not as though she had been at a party until the wee hours of the morning.
She first asked why I left, to which I lent a vague interpretation of the truth, as my opinion of Tyson was not entirely foreign to her. She then wanted to know how I got home, which was where my story struggled.
"You walked home? Ell, are you crazy? You could have been killed!" she exclaimed.
If I was being honest, I considered lying to her; it would have been easier. After a few moments of contemplative silence with an expectant Cambrie hanging on the other line, I decided to tell her the truth. Very quickly.
"You – hang on – you what now?"
"Got a ride home with Ben Harrison." The words sounded strange coming aloud. In fact, when I woke up, I had thought the entire evening was some weird, foggy dream. But as the seconds passed, the clearer the memory became.
"How?" Cambrie asked perplexed. "Was he there – at Dillon's, I mean?"
I was then forced into telling her the long story, stopping every once in a while to repeat or further explain certain details based on Cambrie's gasping questions. Most notably, "Tyson did what?" – "You got an extra-large bag of Sour Patch Kids? Really?" – "Ben is kind of cute, you know."
We wrapped up our conversation about a half an hour later, Cambrie letting me know she would swing by later that afternoon and swearing she would kill Tyson. Before we hung up, I asked her what happened between her and the mystery man at the party. She stammered and giggled, and I didn't come away with much, but she promised to provide the whole story in person.
I was now curled up on the plush couch downstairs with an open book in my lap. My father was fiddling with our defective dishwasher in the kitchen, the interlaying sounds of pounding and cursing echoing from beyond the cased opening.
A loud slamming inside the kitchen made my head snap upwards, and, few seconds later, my father entered the living room, his face red and hands dirty.
"Fix it?" I asked, as my father traipsed across the hardwood floors and plopped down on the couch beside me. He smelled like sweat.
"We'll be hand washing our dishes for the unforeseeable future." My father leaned his head on the backrest and let out a defeated sigh.
"What does that make it now – Dish washer, twelve, Dad, zero?"
My father exhaled a slow, sarcastic laugh before propping his head back upright. "What are you up to today?" he asked.
"Nothing much. Cambrie's coming over later," I answered, gaze returning to my book-covered lap.
My father stiffened next to me, and I wondered how many seconds I had to prepare for whatever uncomfortable speech was about to commence.
"So, listen..."
Not long apparently.
"I wanted to ask you a question." My attention was locked on the book. "Sarah and I, well, we've been talking and, um, what do you think – how does dinner sound this week? How about Wednesday? She invited us to her place. She's a very good cook."
"I can't," I said immediately. "I have a choir concert." Even though it sounded like a lie, it wasn't. My choir group was putting on the winter event at a senior center that evening.
My father recovered quickly. "Oh, right. Right – yeah, I think you mentioned that..." I hadn't. "Maybe the next week then? I'll, um, ask Sarah."
I nodded and forced a smile, once again returning to my book. Nevertheless, I couldn't focus and kept reading the same line over again. My heart started to race, lungs empty. I could feel my father's eyes scanning me like lasers.
"Well, I'm gonna head out to the garage, see if I can find some more tools."
"Okay, Dad," I said, my eyes still staring at the page full of text as if it were blank.
As soon as he lifted off from the couch and removed himself from the living room, I snapped my book, and my eyes, shut.
***
It turned out Cambrie had an, in her words, exciting and steamy evening with the mystery man. Asher Modine was a six-foot-tall, densely built man with roping muscles, tanned skin, and pearly-white smile, and according to Cambrie, hands that nearly melted her panties off. They had flirted, danced, flirted some more, and then had a sizzling make-out session on the patio.
"In late-January?" I had asked, and while Cambrie's initial reaction was to roll her eyes, her face took on a look of guilt soon after.
"Yes, and all the while, you were running away alone."
I had laughed at her disposition, flattered at some level with her concern. Not that I was surprised; it was in Cambrie's nature to care, and I was grateful to have her.
When I asked if she was going to see him again, she simply shrugged, shot me a covert smile, and said, "We'll see."
It was now Tuesday and, I noted, week sixteen. I was on my way back to campus after having spent a few hours at the pet store before track practice. After changing quickly in the locker room, I entered onto the field, and felt small droplets of water fall periodically onto my skin. The sky was completely overcast, and threatening clouds were morphing together, creating one solid mass.
Soon after addressing the collective team and glancing towards the darkening sky, Nelson and Rodriguez explained we would spend the day conditioning and pointed us in the direction of the athletic complex. Having been a community college participating at the junior level, the campus housed a decent athletic complex. While some colleges boasted full indoor track arenas, ours did not, but the weight room was nothing to be rivaled. It was a large space with two levels. The ground floor had a full gym, complete with free weights and any machine imaginable. The second floor had one track to run and a plethora of medicine balls and yoga mats.
I had spent the first half of the practice downstairs completing repetitions on some of the equipment. Exhausted after forty-five minutes of non-stop exercise, I headed up the stairs to the second floor and perched myself on a yoga mat to stretch. Before I could begin, however, I noticed a familiar face on a yoga mat of their own, practicing an even more familiar sequence of movements.
Ben was positioned on his mat about fifteen feet away uncoordinatedly moving through a series of motions that made me remember a recent memory: me showing him the starting position. He was practicing the movements, and it took me a while to realize I had been staring. I noticed he completed one segment incorrectly.
I should have left it alone. It wasn't my responsibility to help him. He may not even want my assistance or input. But, the memory of last weekend popped into my head like an annoying calendar reminder, and, even though alarms were firing off in my brain, I decided to suck down a breath and make my way over to his mat.
"Um, hi, Ben," I said sheepishly.
Ben was in a shallow lunging position with his arms at his sides. His head immediately snapped towards me and body lengthened.
"Hi, Elliot," he said, bringing his hands to his sides. There was a faint pink hue residing on his cheeks from exertion, and I noticed a few beads of sweat resting on his forehead.
"Hi" – I tipped my chin downwards - "So, um, long time, no see." I wanted to bury myself in a hole. "I see your sister didn't murder you."
Catching my half-witted joke, his mouth lifted in a smile. "No, she didn't. Melted ice cream was never part of the deal."
I nodded uncomfortably, wondering why I had meandered over here in the first place. Ben was looking at me inquisitively, and I felt myself grow even more apprehensive. "So," I began, "I see you were practicing the starting position."
Ben nodded and glanced down at his mat. "I was."
I nodded again and wondered what was responsible for maneuvering it. The next few words out of my mouth felt incredibly forced. "I noticed that – well, I saw that you're having some issues moving on from the set position.
"I am."
"Right – I – uh – well, I just thought I would offer some advice – if you want it, that is." I wished I could hop into that hole now.
"That'd be great," he said without a hint of derision.
If I were in Ben's place and somebody I barely knew offered me help, I would have said the same words Ben had, except they'd have been riddled with sarcasm. But, based on his welcoming demeanor, Ben was happy to take my advice, even if I was still working out why I was offering it. On some level, I owed Ben. He had given me a ride home last weekend, which otherwise would have been a solitary, three-mile-long walk in the dark.
Approaching Ben, I suddenly felt a wave of nervousness. He was tall, nearly six feet with milky-white skin and peach undertones. Swatches of red rested on his cheeks. His eyes, which had just lifted from the yoga mat to my face, were their typical warm, honey color, but seemed brighter, richer. Quickly, I pulled my eyes from his, noting an earthy scent before taking a step back.
A few seconds of silence filled the space between us, and while I knew I needed to say something, I found myself incapable. Just before the deafening quiet was too much handle, Ben piped in. "So, how many of the positions was I doing wrong?"
"Um," was all I managed to say whilst trying to command some composure. "You look better than a couple of weeks ago."
"That bad, huh?" Ben glanced down to his yoga mat once more. "So..."
"No, really, it's just one: the set position. If you get your stance angled correctly, it will help with your take off."
Ben's eyes landed somewhere in the distance. "Should I get into set position then?"
I nodded as he crouched down. He separated his legs, moving the right behind his left, and angled his arms accordingly. Technically, he was in form, however there were a few tweaks to be made to improve his stance. Ben started to wobble, and I took this as my cue to begin the critique.
"Alright, so first thing, you need to adjust your footing." The words did nothing to fix Ben's placement. He glanced to me expectantly before I offered more specific instructions. "Um – okay, so your front leg looks good, but, um, try putting more weight onto your back leg. The weight should be evenly distributed."
Ben attempted to follow my instructions, toppled clumsily, and then attempted once more. After a few seconds of sheer panic for Ben's stability, I relaxed. He had modified his foot placement so both feet were carrying a similar amount of weight.
"Yeah – okay – just like that." I took a single step forward. "Your posture is next. Your back and neck should be aligned and angled so that your eyes look to the ground."
With tight muscles, Ben again stumbled on the spot as he attempted to arrange himself as I described. My hands fisted with tension. A few tries later, he almost secured the position, but his neck was held incorrectly.
"Um – okay, hold on." Another step and I was right next to Ben. What happened next was completely out of character. Normal Elliot would have continued to prescribe oral directions, but instead, I found myself lifting a tentative arm, placing my hand at the intersection of his neck and collarbone, and lifting. He responded how I had hoped. I then placed my other hand on his upper back to keep his spine in line.
I ambled backwards and analyzed his set position. Ben was watching me out of the corner of his eye and I wavered. Blinking fiercely, I cleared my throat. "Okay, now bring your arms in place." Ben did just so. "Right – that's it. Looks good." And it did. Ben's set position was nearly textbook. A few of his placements were tailored to fit what his body was capable of handling because of his CP, but otherwise, everything of importance was correct: his weight was evenly distributed, his neck and back aligned, and his arms were held in place.
"So," I said, as Ben continued to hold form. "When you take off, this position should give you some power. Push with your feet and use your arms to propel you. And keep your eyes down – that's important. It should feel like you're being pulled by the top of your head."
Ben straightened to a stand. The pink tinged cheeks he was sporting earlier were still present, although I noted a bit more color developing. "Thanks, Elliot. And thanks for..." Something flashed on Ben's face – embarrassment, maybe? He then said, "Just thanks."
"Sure. No problem." I pushed back the stray hairs around my face. "Thanks for the ride the other night."
"I still can't believe you were planning on walking that far," stated Ben.
"It was a pretty terrible party."
"I'll say."
And with that, I smiled faintly at Ben, rolled up my yoga mat, and headed for the staircase. My insides felt off, like they had shifted and were now in unknown territory. My breath was out of sorts too, and so I headed for the double doors leading outside and claimed a few minutes of fresh air.