Why We Fly, page 9
“Twenty years from now, are you going to remember how many yards this man ran? Or are you going to remember he’s the one who stood up when it was demanded of him? Like Ali. Like Tommie Smith and John Carlos. If we’re talking about career and impact, seems to me Mr. Knight has cemented himself a place in history.” Rhonda gestures around the room. “What I wonder is what these young minds are going to do with this information. What I wonder is what these aspiring athletes before us would do to support their teammate if they were on those sidelines with Mr. Knight.”
“These particular athletes would not do anything. The bottom line is that this is a disruption,” Coach Brown says. He’s not talking to Rhonda anymore—he’s facing his team. “The reason for it doesn’t matter. I would never allow that type of behavior in my organization.”
In the middle of all this, Mrs. Walters shows up. She pushes Ray aside like a porch door. “Rhonda, what’s going on in here?”
Aunt Rhonda’s setting people straight is what’s happening.
“We’re just having an enlightening conversation.” And once again, no one is a match for Professor Rhonda.
“In polite society, we don’t talk about religion or politics at parties. I think we should focus our attention on my world-famous end-of-season peach cobbler, which is warming in the oven right now.” Mrs. Walters looks at me and Leni. “Girls, how about I serve you first.”
“That sounds fabulous, Mrs. Walters, but unfortunately, cobbler is not part of our approved nutrition plan. It’s never too early to start training for Nationals.”
“Now, that’s an attitude I approve of. I didn’t know Coach Pearce had it in her,” Coach Brown says.
Leni’s mouth opens like she’s might actually scold Coach Brown for that insult, and I know it’s time for us to go. I grab her elbow and hustle her toward the door, plastering a customer-service smile on my face. Over my shoulder, she waves and calls, “Thanks for having us!”
We don’t say anything all the way out to the car. But once we’re safe inside my Bumblebee, I let it out. “That was intense!”
“That was a lot of passion to display in front of a house full of guests,” Leni says wonderingly.
“I’m not really surprised by that. I’m more overwhelmed that someone took down Coach Brown. Did you hear that crack he made about Coach Pearce? The nerve.”
“Completely unfair,” she says, then glances out the window toward the front door. “Aunt Rhonda. I didn’t see her coming.”
“Professor Rhonda, you mean? With her bestseller and appearance on The Daily Show? She is goals.”
“What she said about supporting Cody Knight?” Leni says. “About doing something more? That was epic.”
“Too right. It must have been really lonely for him to take that stand by himself.”
“I’ve never thought about it like that.”
“Watching Aunt Rhonda work made the entire afternoon worthwhile.”
Neither of us has much else to say on the ride home, too busy processing inside our own minds.
9
Eleanor
Saturday morning, we have our very worst practice of the season. Val says he’s fine but looks green, and our bases miss two catches, so I have to opt out of participating in stunts for fear of another fall. Afterward, I have to shower quickly in the locker room so I can make it to Rosh Hashanah services on time. When I slide into a pew beside my mother, my hair is still dripping. She frowns at me, looking perfect in the tasteful black wrap dress she reserves for the High Holy Days. My father wears a conservative blue suit and the tallit he got for his bar mitzvah a billion years ago around his shoulders. My brother Seth, who drove down from school in Charlotte, sits on the far side of my dad, wearing his own bar mitzvah tallit. My mom isn’t wearing one, but at our Reform Jewish synagogue, lots of women do, and it’s super common to see them wrapped in beautiful embroidered prayer shawls for services, especially when they’re called to the bima. When my bat mitzvah rolled around, my parents carried on the family tradition and gifted me a tallit. It’s cream-colored linen gorgeously woven with aqua and silver threads, the 613 strings and knots, or tzitzit, representing the number of commandments in the Torah.
And it’s currently sitting in the bottom drawer of my dresser at home, because I was too rushed to remember to bring it.
Great.
It takes me a while to shrug off the frustration and disjointed thoughts of the morning, to stop focusing on all the ways our team sucks this year and all the things I’m not managing to do to fix that. I can’t stop worrying about what The South Cheers is going to say if we screw up publicly at our next game. And you know they’re going to have someone there to spy on us—or “scout,” as they call it. Cheer moms are something else. Even though I wish my own mother was a little more invested, I’m glad she’s not like the lady who runs that blog.
The familiar flow of the service proves to be the best distraction. Hearing the congregation chant the prayers I’ve been chanting since I was a kid soothes my swirling thoughts. I know the words so well, I can follow along without thinking. My pulse slows. Sun filters in through the twelve stained-glass windows dotting the sanctuary, casting colorful blocks of light across the congregation, glinting off a bracelet here, a kippah bobby pin there as we rise and bend our knees and sit in unison. My eyes drift over the windows, which are art deco–style representations of the Twelve Tribes. I have years’ worth of pictures of myself—from consecration, my bat mitzvah, and confirmation—posing in front of the one representing the tree, because my father insists we’re descended from Asher.
By the time Rabbi Spinrad rises to give his sermon, I’m feeling as peaceful as I have in weeks.
“Shana tova, a happy and sweet new year to all. This year, I’ve been thinking about the ways in which our lives flow from year to year without change. Time moves on, and we’re busy people. Activities fill our days, and the joys and sadnesses of life raise us up and bring us down. And that is normal and good. But on this day, as we sit together, perhaps among people we rarely see, we have an opportunity. I’d like to ask that we use this moment to take stock not only of where we are, but also of where we might go. I’d like to begin this year by loosely quoting Thomas Merton, who was quoting his mother—because we should all listen to our mothers more often than we do.” The congregation laughs. “He said, ‘The goal is not to see what we make of life, but to see what it makes of us.’”
I meant what I said about Rabbi Spinrad giving the best sermons. I really like hearing what he has to say.
“When I look around, both at our larger world and our own community, I see enormous pain. I see injustice, and I find I sometimes struggle with the right words to discuss it with my children and with you. There are those who deny the humanity of people of color. Who ask that they be silent in the face of unequal, hateful, violent treatment.”
An image of Cody Knight pops into my mind. He’s making headline news on more than the sports channels these days. My news app sent me an alert this very morning that people have been tweeting at him that he should shut up and throw the ball, and worse. I don’t know if that’s exactly what Rabbi Spinrad is talking about, but it’s likely, since he’s both a sports fan and the head of the social justice initiative at the synagogue.
“We are silent in the face of their disparagement. You may wonder: Rabbi, what has this got to do with me? Well, I would argue that it has everything to do with us. We have a moral obligation to bear witness to injustice in society. Our tradition insists it is our responsibility to protect the marginalized and to partner with other communities to confront the powerful who perpetuate injustice. What’s more, we will have to account for our actions or our inaction. To me, that is a part of our covenant. And so I ask—what will life make of us this year? Will it make of us a community that pursues justice, as we are commanded? Or will life sweep another year past the same as it always has been? To end with a quote from another mother, Mother Teresa, ‘God doesn’t require us to succeed. God only requires that you try.’ Shabbat shalom, and shana tova u’metuka to you all.”
You don’t clap after a sermon in synagogue, but from the waves of emotion flowing through the room, I bet I’m not the only one who’d like to. Yeah, I’m pretty sure Rabbi Spinrad has been following the Cody Knight news.
* * *
Game day feels like the hottest day of the year so far. I know that between the last bell and when the Friday-night lights flicker on, there will be more for the team to do than we’ll be able to manage. So I tell everyone to pack themselves dinner and stick around school. As usual, we spend hours getting ready for the game, working with the Booster Club to set up the merch table, painting signs, applying temporary tattoos, and putting all the girls’ hair up in the squad-approved ponytail-and-bow combination. I’m drowning in sweat by the time Val, Chloe, and I put the finishing touches on the banner we made to celebrate Three’s new touchdown record. I’m dwelling on the gross locker room showers I’m going to be forced to use when I feel my phone buzz in my back pocket.
Three.
What are you up to?
Getting ready for the game, of course.
Bet you look beautiful doing that.
I glance down at my damp warm-ups.
Rn I look sweaty and gross.
Not from where I’m standing.
I jerk my eyes up, scanning the grounds, the concession stand, the restroom area, as another text comes through.
Come wish me luck.
He stands in the tunnel leading back to the locker rooms, wearing a pair of loose basketball shorts over compression pants. We’re too far apart for me to make out the details of his face other than the gleam of his smile. With his practice schedule and mine, we haven’t managed to hang out this week. I’m not sure what that means; when Roman stopped asking to hang out with me, Nelly said I was avoiding the signs, and she was right. If I’d paid better attention, I would have realized he’d moved on long before I did. But that doesn’t seem like what Three’s doing. He’s consistent about texting and FaceTiming me before bed.
He waves me over. I leave Val and Chloe to gather up our markers and paints and head to meet Three in the tunnel. It’s not exactly private, but it’s out of the traffic heading toward the locker room.
“Hey.” He takes hold of the hem of my shirt, reeling me in. “Beautiful.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Sweaty.”
“Works for me.”
“Do you practice your smooth lines in front of the mirror?” I ask with a laugh.
“You think I’m smooth?”
“You think you are.”
He sets one hand on my lower back. “Is it working, though?”
It is, and he knows that. I can tell when I’m not going to win a verbal battle, so I close the last sliver of distance between us, sliding my hand up his arm.
“Guess so,” he says right before I kiss him.
Three leans against the wall and holds me to him, running that hand all the way up my back and into my hair. His lips part mine, and we kiss until we’re so tangled up in each other that all the stadium noises fade into the background, until we’re gasping for breath. He stays close while we recover, nuzzling my cheek.
And then Bull’s booming voice pops the peaceful little bubble we’ve retreated into.
“Three! Untangle yourself from that octopus, and let’s go.”
Jeez, trust Bull to be as humiliating as possible. Everyone in a fifty-foot radius probably heard that. My face and hands go tingly, like they do just before they fall asleep, and I try to back away from Three. He refuses to let go.
“You haven’t wished me luck yet.”
“You don’t need luck, Three,” I say. “You’ve got focus.”
He grins. “Damn, you’re good.”
“Coach is looking for you, man,” Bull shouts.
That gets Three moving. He releases me and jogs toward Bull and the locker room. He doesn’t look back, but I’m not offended. I recognize when an athlete switches into game mode. Three’s getting ready to dominate.
I should be hustling too. I have to shower, change, do my hair. I have my own game face to prepare and a team to hype up. But my eyes follow him all the way down the tunnel, my feet rooted to the spot where he just stood kissing me like a guy kisses someone who matters to him.
At least, I hope that’s what it was.
A throat clears behind me, and I know by the sound of it that it’s meant for me. I spin slowly and see Mrs. Walters standing in the shadow of the bleachers. I feel a flash of heat, wondering if she saw all that, if she heard Bull. I decide to bravado my way through the embarrassment.
“Hi, Mrs. Walters. Are you excited for the game?”
“Well,” she says, looking me up and down, “I am, but I didn’t expect to find my son in the cheap seats instead of getting ready.”
That tingly feeling is back. I guess I don’t have to wonder how much she saw or what she thought of it. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do.”
“I know we don’t know each other very well—”
“I know your kind of girl.”
I fold my hands in front of me to keep them from shaking. “What kind of girl do you think I am?”
“One with an agenda. I’ve seen girls like you for more than twenty years, since I first started dating Mr. Walters. I watched a girl who was looking for a ride to the NFL wives suite get hold of my son Ray, get pregnant, and distract him. I couldn’t stop it.”
Her tone is sharp, but her eyes aren’t angry. They’re sad.
“So let me be clear—you should not count on my child being part of your plans, because you are most certainly not part of ours.” Mrs. Walters flicks some invisible dust off the jersey she wears. She doesn’t have to spin around for me to know it has Three’s number on the back. “Go back to your cheerleaders, girl.”
I cross my arms. “My only agenda is leading my athletes to the national championships. And your son is old enough to make his own plans.”
“Athletes?” She smirks. “I predict that by homecoming, my son will have recognized you for what you are: locker-room lice.”
Her smug smile sends a boiling wave of anger over my skin. She’s mistaken if she thinks she knows anything about me. Her feelings toward Ray are about her, not him. And they’re definitely not my problem—or Three’s. I don’t have to stand here listening to her insults. “You should get out there and get good seats, Mrs. Walters. Wouldn’t want you to miss the start of your family’s last season of high school football.”
We eye each other for one more moment before she walks away.
Anger propels me through my pregame routine faster than normal. By the time I join the rest of the team, they’re already dressed and hanging out in the locker room. I’m just in time for our pregame chat.
Paris is reading something from her phone. “Mr. Knight was fined an undisclosed amount for defying the league’s edict regarding appropriate posture during the anthem. The team owner has stated that he will pay Knight’s fine himself, using personal funds, as a show of public support for his new star QB.”
“Damn, Cody Knight is all over the news for this,” Kendall says.
“You know the bizarre part?” Nelly says. “Everyone is so busy arguing about what he’s doing that they’re not listening to what he’s saying.”
Her words echo like a thunderclap, the truth of them ringing in our ears. Then the team comes to life.
“Oh my God, Chanel,” Gia says, “you’re so right.”
Sydney reaches up for a high five. “Preach it, sister.”
“Nobody ever wants to listen until you make them,” Trin adds.
The energy in the room spins into a tornado, whirling us all up with it. We’re all chiming in, cosigning Nelly. If I stay silent one more minute, I think the pressure in my chest might combust.
“We should do something,” I say.
“We should take a knee,” Paris says. “In support of Cody Knight. He’s our alum, right?”
I look around the room at the faces of the team. They’re turned to me, eager and worried expressions mingling together. Wondering what I think. “I like that idea,” I say.
“So do I,” Nelly says. “If they won’t listen to him, maybe they’ll listen when all of us speak up.”
“Yesssssssssss.”
The hiss comes from everywhere, all of us, as one.
10
Chanel
We have only a small window of time to get organized. If we’re going to do this, we need to do it in a way that makes our point and looks orchestrated.
I stand in the entry tunnel, double- and triple-checking my bow. The excited and nervous whispers of the team jangle me. “Leni, how are we doing this? Do we go on a cue? Do we all kneel at the same time, or like a wave? What if we all go down on one knee one by one?”
“Ohhhhh, a wave,” she says. “I like that. You should get them organized.”
I hold up my hands, palms out. “You should do that, Captain.”
“Nelly, you’re the best at things like this.” She nudges me around to face the team. “Please.”
I go to work, because if I don’t do this, who will?
“Listen up, guys. Here’s what we’re going to do. Remember the routine where we go into pom-pom stands one after the other? We’re going to do that, but instead of popping into pom-pom stands, we’re going to take a knee. Does everyone know their position?”
“Sure do,” says Avery.
“Perfect. We go on Leni’s cue.”
