Friday: Ashe
The Master Sergeant stood in front of my shop. Every one of us was out in the afternoon blaze of South Carolina, faces tilted at that 45-degree angle that indicated we knew we were in trouble and yet it wasn’t any of our faults.
“Remember, everyone will be here tomorrow bright and early, in uniform. I won’t be here, but I’ve told the Sergeants you’re to clean out the entire storage facility. You’re taking everything out, re-cataloging it, cleaning what needs to be cleaned, and re-organizing it. Don’t worry, if you don’t get it done tomorrow you can do it on Sunday. Also, no comp time will be given this weekend.”
He walked the line. At 6’2”, he towered over each of us. He had the body of a runner and the mind of a politician. We waited for him to stop making himself feel important and leave before the dissension set in. My coworker and I looked at each other before walking as quickly as possible to our cars.
Drew was about 5’10” and built. The constant workout seasons had started to show as this Kentucky Greasemonkey started to lose weight and put on more muscle. If that tool thought he was going to ruin our weekend, we would just make tonight worth the lost days.
At 2100, I drove over to his complex. It was the same cookie-cutter apartment stacked infinitely high on every street in the community we lived in. Each apartment had been built in the early 2040s, replacing the houses from the 1940s, their colors and shapes lost to history. Each building faced the same way, had the same dimensions, was painted the same color, and had the same military-spouse-flavored decor fighting for the door of the month.
Drew’s light blue BMW sat in the garage, right next to his toolbox and three boxes of parts for his next project on it. He was waiting.
“Uber will be here in 10. Go on inside as I finish up in the garage. Help yourself to a drink—soda should be in the pantry and coolers are in the door of the fridge.”
I got my drink before I started planning out our club’s route.
“You good?” He asked
“Living the dream”
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Saturday: Kennedy
“How did I get this scar?”
The powder blue bra strap snapped into its place, only to be met with cries from the bed springs. The strap covered the discolored, nickel-sized asymmetrical circle on her right shoulder. With a trained liquid movement using just her left hand, the azure sundress that was lying on the floor was flipped overhead, landing only slightly disheveled on her frame. She took two steps back and gestured to the zipper before continuing on. The silver clasp hadn’t put up much resistance the night before after they had shuffled into the room, nervous and excited for something new.
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“Heh, the short answer is surgery. Old school, cheaper.”
She plopped down to the right of me, the give of the bed rocking me toward her. I rested my head on her shoulder as she lightly traced up my back, starting to create a sideways eight looping between my shoulders. Shivers and goosebumps formed on my skin.
“I was a Gamecock tennis player. Go Cocks,” she said dryly with a half-flare of sarcasm. “I’m pretty sure it started on a Tuesday. Tuesday was my partner’s practice day, so that makes sense. That overbearing heat mixed with the slight weight of the atmosphere pulled sweat out of my pores. HA, it wasn’t even during a game.” Her hand stopped briefly as she stared at the door. The muscles in her back tensed for a moment, and then with a deep breath, she relaxed.
“Julie was taking her turn practicing her serve. She had the stupidest superstitions—we all did. I hear that all performers do stupid things to keep themselves feeling like they have any control. Julie would pause at the weirdest time setting up her serves. Said that opponents get tense after the pause and couldn't return the serve.”
There was only a moment of pressure from her soft skin on my cheek before I was shrugged off; she was sitting straight up now. Her strawberry toes curled, then her knees. Each muscle in her body seemed to be tensing up as if a rebellion had started at her feet. She then fell back onto the bed, and as I turned to look at her, she reached up and pulled me back down by my shoulder. My head cradled under her shoulder as the smell of sweat and coconut rose off her. Her eyes closed as her hand rested on my thigh.
“I hated practicing at 2, almost as much as the person who designed those stupid courts to face where the sun rises and falls must have hated tennis players. I followed the ball up, and like a lens flare to the face, I was blinded. The twang of Julie’s racket recovering from the hit cued my eyes to squint as the lime-green blur rocketed over the net. I was lucky—the ball, matching my bounces, was going to the corner. I was on the beat to meet it. There was blue turf, the green ball, two steps, and pain.”
Her hand removed itself from my thigh. I could feel her starting to shuffle, so as I raised my head off her, she slid her arm over me. She started to massage her right arm as a few tears formed around her eyes.
“When I connected my racket to the ball, there was a new stabbing deep in the core of my shoulder. It felt like a spur caught between the front and back of my shoulder; sharp, relentless, and spreading like fire. Next was the burning. The burn of weight training or running. The burn that spiders out when your muscles have had enough. When your real workout is starting. Every hit—those two echoed each other, spiked then burned. I went to my sports medicine doctor to learn why they kept repeating. Apparently, I have a rare repetitive motion problem, and training the rest of the year without getting looked at made my shoulder chip bone fragments into my body. A few emergency surgeries later and, here I am.”
I offered to get her some Aspirin or Tylenol, and she glared at me as if I had called her pathetic. Wiping tears, she got up and walked to the door.
“Your name is Kennedy, right? My scar is what is left when a dream died.”