Enough, he thought,of playing the same old part, the fuck-up twin. As bleak as it is, his father might be right.
Slowly he walks to his mark, stretching his arms to the sky, telling himself that this is good for him. Materially, of course, it has been. Cleaning up his act has invited prizes: an increase in his weekly allowance, muscle on his lanky frame. More time with Lola, on the field, in the car after practice, around the kitchen table at night doing homework. Even a new note of recognition in his father’s voice—or if not recognition, tentative relief. It is almost enough to trick him into thinkinghe enjoys this. The fact remains: every fiber of him rebels at the nonsense of jumping, the endless, pointless repetition, the obsession with every gained centimeter. Last night he spent an hour watching videos of pros online, trying to mesmerize himself into submission. Their bodies alarmed him, carved out by this bizarre aspiration, their legs overlong, their asses comically flat. Contortion had made them monstrous.
“Come on, kid, let’s see it.”
He exhales. Somehow his body begins to move. Hop, skip, jog, accelerate, bending knee and twisting and throwing himself into the—shit (fuck!) shrieking pain rippling up his (agh!)—he felt it when he went over, bar clattering into his back, his ankle the new center of his body, his hands clutching it, his back on the edge of the mat, and he can tell even with his eyes shut that Lola—two hundred meters away—is aware of him, is coming.
“Elevate it.” She moves him onto the grass, offering her knee as a surface while the coach calls for ice.
“I twisted it.”
“You were tired.”
Her face, though flushed from hours of exertion, is calm and focused. Gently, she unties his shoe, slips it as lightly as possible off his foot. She tilts his heel as though she can feel where it hurts, how far is too far. Directly she fires off instructions to the group that has surrounded him. “Get his backpack, the green one. Ask Zoe for an Advil. Tell Coach I have to go.” She wraps gauze around the ice pack that has materialized, studies his face as though it will tell her how much he is broken.
“You’re going to have to drive,” he says.
“I know.”
Last month they pooled their money (mostly hers) to buy a beat-up Corolla, a manual, the interiors so sticky and disintegrating they call it Sugar Baby. They both refer to it as “their” car, but really it’s Sebastian’s. He’s the better driver, more at ease with the flow of the road. Every morning, he ferries them to and from school. Generally, it’s his favorite part of the day. They listen to talk radio. The world flows through them,a young Black senator from Chicago, a peace agreement in Darfur. If the twins share anything it is this: an understanding that the world is an unstable place, that anything can be taken away from you at any time.
She lifts the keys from the front pocket of his backpack and he hops to the car, leaning heavily on her shoulder. She tugs hard at the passenger door while he balances on one foot.
“How long do you think I can play this up for?”
“A week, maybe.”
“Damn. Is that it?”
He turns the radio on and she turns it off. “No distractions.”
“Fine. By the way, it’s been sticking between second and third.”
“I won’t need third.”
Lola reverses like a geriatric, then begins to drive, leaning up close to the wheel, back straight as a board.
“This is honestly the least efficient ambulance I have ever been in.”
“You’ve never been in an ambulance.”
“Exactly.”
“But if you want to, I’ll amputate your damn foot.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Don’t push it, I’ll do it,” she says. “I cut open a sheep eyeball in Bio yesterday.”
The pebbled driveway judders his leg and he moans dramatically. She opens the door for him, helps him out of the car. He doesn’t make it past the living room before sinking into an armchair. Lola fetches the ottoman, sets a pillow under his ankle. The ice pack has gone warm, and his ankle swells against the gauze.
“We might have a squeezy thingy downstairs,” he says.
“A compression bandage?”
“That’s the one. With all the medical stuff. In the basement.”
He saw it, didn’t he? When he was rooting around a while ago, looking for the Christmas presents that his father claimed were from his mother every year. It’s where they would be, if they were really from her. He’d found nothing but junk. Cartons of dusty electrical appliances:old lamps and fans that don’t seem to work, withered baggies of wing nuts and niche-looking metal fixings. A box of unwrapped medical supplies: bandages and syringes and sanitizers that had failed to save his mother’s life.
