Better Off Friends

Macallan studied me. “Well, what about it?”

“What about what?”

She wrinkled her nose. “What about that game?”

“Oh,” I said, disappointment seeping through. “It was fun.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. One of her timers went off. “Well, I think I need to ask you to leave. I don’t serve dirty food, and with your luck …” She let the words hang there, but I was grateful to have her say something teasing to me. Macallan didn’t waste her time, or her barbs, on people she didn’t care about.

Now that I think about it, having Macallan as my best friend prepared me for all the trash talking that can happen in the locker room. And the weight room.

“You call that a rep?” Keith taunted Tim as he pushed up the weights on the bench press a week after Thanksgiving.

Tim got up and sat down on the mat next to me while I did leg lifts.

“Let me show you how it’s done.” Keith laid down on the bench press and started easily pumping the weight up and down.

“Yeah, you only weigh fifty pounds more than me, dude,” Tim reminded him.

“Dude, I can’t help it if I make everything look good.”

I stayed quiet as I worked on strengthening my lower body. Tim started stretching, and asked, “You want to go run some suicides on the court?”

The weather had gotten even colder as Christmas approached, so we’d taken to staying inside to work out. We’d hit the weight room above the gymnasium after Tim was done with basketball practice.

“Yeah, man, sounds good.” I got up and grabbed my gym towel.

“That’s right, you ski

“That didn’t even make any sense.” Tim laughed.

“Hey, I’m pumping a lot here. Gotta save everything for the game.”

“Nice excuse,” I snarked at him.

“What’s your problem, California?” Keith got up and came toward me. “You’ve been acting all weird lately.”

I hadn’t been acting “all weird.” I’d just stopped laughing at Keith’s jokes when they weren’t fu

Keith continued. “It’s like you get a taste of the good life and then can’t handle it anymore. But don’t worry, this year will fly by and then we’ll be back on the field. Senior year’s go

I shrugged. That sounded nice, but I didn’t know what price I’d have to pay for it. For the first time, I wasn’t so sure it would be worth it.

“I’m telling you” — Keith threw me my water bottle — “track is go

Yeah, but all the important people in my life showed up for that.

It was then I realized that maybe Macallan wouldn’t be showing up this year. I wouldn’t really blame her. But I’d gotten used to having her there, cheering me on.

She was always there for me when I needed her. I only wished I could say the same for myself.

“I think I know what this is about.” Keith sat down and motioned me to join him on the opposite bench. I obliged because that was what I did. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened with your chick friend.”

“Macallan,” I corrected him.

“Macallan.” He sighed when he said her name. “I’ve apologized to her, which I’m pretty sure she didn’t believe even though I was being serious. I practically begged Boockmeier to not suspend her. I snapped — I realize that. I don’t know what it is about that girl, but she just gets to you. It’s like she doesn’t care what anybody thinks about her.”

No, I thought, she just doesn’t care what you think of her.

“I don’t know.” Keith looked thoughtful for a second, then slapped his hands against his knees. “Girls, you know?”

No, I didn’t know. Clearly, I had no idea.

But I didn’t say any of that. I sat there silently until we headed down to the gym and started ru

Tim and I lined up at baseline under the basket. Keith had his stopwatch out and yelled for us to start. I sprinted to the free throw line, then back to the baseline, then to the middle of the court, back to the baseline, to the opposite free throw line, back to the base. I couldn’t wait to sprint the full length of the court. That was when I excelled. Tim was only a few paces behind me, but I would make it a greater distance in the long stretches.

I couldn’t hear what Keith was yelling or anything. I focused on my next goal, the next place I was to touch down, pivot, and start over again.

I knew I had Tim beat heading toward the opposite baseline. All I needed to do was pivot and run back. I bent down to touch the baseline, but when I pivoted, my lower leg stuck and my upper leg turned. I felt a pop, and before I could process what was going on, I buckled under my own weight and collapsed on the court. An excruciating pain from my knee jolted through my entire body. I grabbed my knee and screamed.

I rocked back and forth, holding my leg.

“Stay still, Levi!” Keith was on his knees next to me. “Just try to relax. Tim went to get Coach.”

I couldn’t stay still. It hurt too much to lie there. My entire body started to shake.

Something was wrong.

Something was very, very wrong.

What is it about guys and having to out-bench-press or outrun one another? Why does everything have to be a competition?

I don’t know — testosterone?

That’s your excuse for everything.

It is? Well, does it at least work?

No.

Okay, what about you girls?

What about us, the clearly superior gender?

Yeah, you’re not biased.

Of course I’m not. We women are a rational, nonjudgmental breed.

Are you even being serious right now?

What do you think?

You know I sometimes don’t know if you’re being serious or not.

It’s one of the flaws of your kind.

Yes, because girls never give out mixed signals.

You are one hundred percent correct. That’s got to be a first.

I sometimes don’t even know why I bother.

See, guys give up on stuff so quickly.

We do not.

Oh, really, do I need to remind you of why we’re even talking right now? Who was the bigger person?

Ugh. You’re right.

I know.

Girls.

Yes, we are made of awesome.

I had finally come face-to-face with my nemesis. And this time I was determined to be the victor.

I gently took the ramekin out of the oven. The soufflé was properly puffed up and looked to be the right consistency. I cradled it in my hand as I cautiously stepped to where my dad was sitting.

“It looks perfect,” he remarked once I set it down.

“Taste it,” I ordered. This was the fourth soufflé I’d attempted to make. My first two tries hadn’t risen since I hadn’t beaten the egg whites enough. The third time, I’d taken it out of the oven too soon and it had collapsed before I could even place it on the counter.

Dad smiled as he dived in. I leaned in as he took his first bite.