We’re down again. This time I’m face-first in the grass, and Callie’s somehow ended up perpendicular to me, her leg twisted at an angle that can’t be comfortable.
“Maybe,” Boone suggests helpfully, “you should try crawling? Like, work your way up to walking?”
“Shut up, Boone,” we say in unison.
Wyatt sighs the sigh of a man surrounded by idiots. “Let me show you how it’s done.”
He and Boone tie themselves together with military efficiency. They stand, perfectly synchronized, and take a step.
It’s beautiful.
It’s graceful.
It lasts four steps.
On step five, Boone spots something that later he’ll claim was a butterfly, and turns his head sharply. This throws off their rhythm. Wyatt tries to compensate but fails. Boone tries to catch him but pulls the wrong way.
They go down like dominoes.
But they don’t just fall. Oh no. Wyatt grabs for the table to steady himself. It tilts, launching fabric strips into the air like confetti. Boone tries to get away from the falling table but rolls the wrong direction, taking Wyatt with him. They barrel-roll straight into the mayor, who’s been taking notes.
The mayor goes down with a squawk that doesn’t sound human. His notebook goes flying. His coffee flies in an arc before landing on Wyatt’s head.
“I think,” the mayor says from underneath Boone, “we need to work on the basics.”
Callie’s laughing so hard, she’s crying. I’m trying not to laugh but failing. Even Wyatt cracks a smile as he wipes coffee from his hair.
We try again. And again. And again.
Each attempt is worse than the last.
Callie and I manage three successful steps before I sneeze mid-stride and face-plant.
Wyatt and Boone nearly make it across the field before discovering they’ve been dragging the table, which got caught in their fabric.
Callie tries to race with Boone. They get competitive, start running, and tangle in the volleyball net someone left up.
I attempt to race with Wyatt. We maintain perfect form for ten steps, then step in the same cow patty and go down cursing.
By the end, we’re covered in grass, mud, coffee, and other indignities, and we haven’t successfully completed a single full race.
“Same time tomorrow?” Mayor Davidson asks hopefully.
“We’ll be here,” I confirm, because I’m an optimist or an idiot. Possibly both.
As we’re leaving, Callie turns to me. “Next time, I’m bringing kneepads.”
“And a helmet,” Boone adds.
“And a medical team,” Wyatt finishes.
But we’re all grinning, because sometimes failing spectacularly together is better than succeeding alone.
Two days later,we meet at the community center kitchen to practice for the chili cook-off portion of the fundraiser. The kitchen’s bigger than most home setups,with industrial-grade appliances that could power a small restaurant.
Callie’s already there when we arrive, standing in front of a table loaded with ingredients and looking like she’s planning a military operation.
“Ground beef, beans, tomatoes, onions, peppers,” she’s muttering, making notes on a piece of paper. “Chili powder, cumin, paprika...”
