Hollis Taylor
For a bedroom filled with so much crap, it’s weird how I can’t seem to find anything. We’ve been moved in for a month. That’s thirty days I’ve had to dump my clothes out of trash bags and put them into actual drawers. I miss my gym, though, and I found a place to lift and work out that I want to try. The only thing stopping me is locating my Nikes. I’m probably compounding things by the piles I’m making in the center of my floor while I search.
“Mom!” She’s going to rip me a new one the second she walks in, but her lecture is worth the use of her location superpowers. My mom can find anything. My dad reported a credit card missing last Christmas, before consulting her. The moment she found out he lost it, she walked straight out of the house and to the driveway where she began surveying the bushes. She plucked it from some branches in seconds and held it up proudly. He’d been holding it in his teeth while wheeling in the trash receptacles the night before and must have spit it out and forgot. She remembered; she always remembers.
“Jesus H. Ch—”
“I know. I’m working on it,” I lie, cutting off my mom’s assessment of my room mid-blaspheme.
She digs her fingertips into her forehead with both hands as she steps over the pile in the entryway and into the center of my room. Chin down and jaw tight, she holds back all the little comments I know she’d like to make about how could she have raised such a slob.
“Nikes,” I say. It’s best to give her a task.
She breathes out through her nose loud enough that I fully understand how irritated she is. She makes a slow quarter-turn while she scans the perimeter of my room and stops abruptly, letting out another huff that indicates I would have seen them myself if I only got my shit together.
“They are on your PlayStation, for whatever reason,” she says through a grimace.
“That’s right!” I leap over the new pile I made and grab my shoes before leaping toward my mom and kissing her on the cheek. “You’re the best.”
“Mmm hmm,” she hums.
“Keys?” I know, it’s a big ask considering the state of my room. My parents are suckers, though. With her tongue over her front teeth, she sucks in and reluctantly hands me the keys to the van.
“Tonight, this gets taken care of, okay?” She doesn’t bother to look me in the eyes, and it’s probably because she knows I’ll fail at her ultimatum. I’ll try to unpack, though. I truly will.
“Deal,” I say, catching the short laugh that leaves her chest, showing her doubt.
I dart from my room, shoes in one hand and keys in the other while my mom lingers in my room and opens my drawers. I bet most of my things are put away by the time I get back.
“Off to try that workout place. I’ll let you know,” I shout at my dad as I hit the driveway. He gives me a quick wave while playing street hockey with my little brother, Ben. He’s taking shots at my brother with whiffle balls. Ben is eight, and he wants to be a goalie. My dad tried to talk him into catching instead, but Ben is obsessed with the ice. He’s going to outgrow my dad’s hockey-coaching skills soon, but until then, Coach Travis Taylor will be splitting time between the ice and the grass.
I slip my feet into my untied shoes before backing the van out, my dad moving my brother’s goal out of the way while I pull into the road. It’s going to take me a while to line up the view I’m used to seeing with the one I will for the rest of my senior year. Both my old street and this one are tree-lined, and both houses have a certain nineteen-seventies charm about them with banged up vinyl siding and pretend shutters glued on either side of the windows. But where a two-minute jaunt down a Staten Island road took me to Sal’s Meats and Cheese, Al’s Liquors, Rose’s Deli, and Rick Manning’s Boxing Elite—the gym I grew up on—the only thing two minutes down this street is more trees. They’re nothing but winter sticks now, but I bet when spring rolls around, it’s pretty.
Having a real yard is nice too. And Dad promised Mom a pool in the ground. The above-grounder we had back home—our old home—leaked twice a season. Even when I take off for college, my family will stay put. That’s what this deal is about, finding a good place to settle in and raise Ben. While I loved being so close to the city, it made my parents nervous. They said Ben isn’t tough like I am, which I guess I can kinda see. He doesn’t get bullied or nothin’, but he’s quiet. Whatever their logic is or was, it ended up with us living here.
At least I get to be part of a better team during my senior year. Xavier Prep back home was competitive, but only against other small schools. We won state in a tiny division that means nothing to colleges because our school was more about academics. We didn’t exactly have the largest pool of ball players to choose from, either. And the parents on the board were not keen on the idea of me playing on a team with boys. It didn’t seem to bother them enough to fund a softball team—not that I wanted to switch sports—but the topic sure dominated the conversation at parent meetings.
“What’s she gonna do, play football next?”
“I suppose Coach Grady will bring his daughter in to QB?”
“She’s going to get hurt.”
My dad and I heard that last argument time and time again, and it irks me the most. Nobody knows how much I can endure, not even my father. Some trials in life are survived and meant to be kept close to the chest, used to build armor and grow strength. I’m strong on my own, but the battles I’ve come through on my journey to do something I love have definitely shaped my fortitude. They’re my stories to either tell or keep tucked inside, and I see no reason to share them with anyone.
After ten minutes of weaving through streets and stop-sign intersections, I spot A&P Fitness. It’s promising, especially because the building doesn’t look like some slick treadmill factory. Rick’s was a boxing gym, so I’m used to working with free weights and jump ropes. The occasional speed bag is fun too. I pull into a spot near the door, between two sedans. I should probably back out and move somewhere else; the fit is tight. But before I shift into reverse, a jacked-up pickup slides into the spot behind me. I won’t be here long; this is only an exploratory visit.
I grab my dad’s ear pods from the center console and head inside. I’m greeted by a heavy boom that echoes around the brick walls, and I flinch a little.
“It’s just the tire,” says an older man from behind a desk. I’d guess he’s in his late sixties, but maybe he’s just a smoker. His skin is pretty tan and wrinkled. Straw-like blond hair pokes through the sides and back of his trucker cap, and his arms fill the sleeves of his Notre Dame T-shirt. He’s fit for a senior. I have a good idea this place belongs to him.
“Ah,” I say, glancing around the gym again until I find a familiar body squatting to lift the side of a monster tire. His body was the first thing I noticed about Cannon at the New Year’s party. Tacky and predictable, maybe, but he’s not built like the guys back home. He’s taller. And pretty stacked for a pitcher. I see why now that I watch him pushing up what must weigh 400 pounds with ease. His gaze hits mine briefly across the tire’s tread.