You Will Know Me(84)

“Whose dream?”

“It doesn’t matter whose dream it is,” she said. “Just that it’s a dream.”

Katie stared down at her hands, the rock salt still under her nails. There were many things she wanted to say, like that she’d never had a dream for Devon, had only followed her daughter’s desires. But then her thoughts snagged on that word, desire. That word that was all over Devon’s essay. Desire, desire. Now it is only desire that rules me. Whatever desire meant to Devon. Whatever it had done to her.

“Gwen, you’re wrong,” Katie said. “About everything. And this gym, you boosters, all of this—it’s poison. It’s poisoned everything. I’m going to BelStars now and I’m taking my daughter away from all the poison of that poisonous place.”

“As if we were the poison. It’s us. It’s me. You and Eric were delicate virgins when you arrived at BelStars all those years ago, right? Katie, that just doesn’t fly with me. Eric made the boosters. The two of you are BelStars.”

“Not anymore,” Katie said. “You’ll see how little we need you.”

The bell over the front door rang, and Gwen’s gaze turned to it, the older couple walking inside.

“And Gwen,” Katie said. “I’m sorry your daughter’s second-rate, second-string. I’m sorry she’ll never be your elite, your Thoroughbred. Her legs aren’t strong enough and soon practice won’t matter anymore.”

It was as if Gwen didn’t hear, and, the customers arriving at the hostess station, Gwen’s eyes landed on the dish tub with the ketchup lapped up one side. She shook her head.

“Heather! Jeff!” she shouted, so loud and so sudden, Katie nearly jumped. “Come get the f*cking tub. Get the f*cking tub now.”

“I’m nothing like you,” Katie said again, wanting to say it a hundred times.

Gwen turned, as if surprised Katie was still there.

“No,” she said, a grim tug to her mouth. “You’re much better.”



“I changed my mind,” Katie said. “I want him with me.”

Mr. Watts nodded as if it made some kind of sense, helping Katie rouse Drew from his sickly slumber, tug on his coat.

“Where we going, Mom?”

“The gym.”

“Okay.”

Mr. Watts followed her outside, Drew lagging behind, resting on the porch steps, tying his shoes.

“Are you okay?” Mr. Watts looked at her. She had no idea what he saw.

“Thanks for watching him.”

“I like him. I don’t need any thanks.”

“Mr. Watts,” she said, looking at Drew on the front steps, pulling at the tongue on his sneakers, “you said something before. About the day Devon got hurt. The mower.”

“I did.”

“That you saw me. You said you saw me.”

“Standing at the screen door. You had your hands over your ears because of the mower. You were watching her run to her daddy. You always loved to watch her run.”

“You’re remembering it wrong,” she said. “I wasn’t at the door. I was in the kitchen and I heard her scream. Then I ran to the door. It was over by the time I got there. So you had it wrong.”

He looked at her. Her keys jingling in her hand, her body fixed and tight. She didn’t move.

“Well,” he said, blinking slowly, “my memory isn’t what it used to be.”

“No.”

“Memory can be a funny thing,” he added softly.

“You ready, Drew?” she called out, voice rasping.

He rose, and then began running toward her.

“Safe drive, Mrs. Knox,” Mr. Watts said as she hurried Drew to the car. “You be safe, okay?”



On the drive, she let Drew sit beside her in the front seat.

She was thinking of the first time she’d ever visited BelStars. Walking into that hallowed space. Seeing all those girls, the older ones, impossibly strong and fresh-faced, practice their floor routines. The music echoing from the old boom box Teddy used to use. Russian folk songs, high opera, tragic arias, erotic tangos. Bouncing, running, diving, propelling themselves into the air to music grim, dramatic, melancholic, carnal.

At the time, she’d thought how strange it was, all these little girls performing to such adult songs. Songs about things they couldn’t possibly understand—songs of desire, longing, sorrow, passion, loss. What did they know of such feelings, the big emotions of life?



Slowly, Katie and Drew walked up the stands, to their usual spot, 13-J.

She didn’t look at the other parents, the boosters, but she could hear them behind her, whispering excitedly, pointing and churring and chattering and pant-hooting, about the new beam coach, how three of her girls earned top spots on beam at the last qualifier and how Teddy must’ve poached her from EmPower, what a coup.

On the floor, bodies were moving—bounding, swooping, flicking, spinning. Girls on the ropes, climbing with ferocity. Girls on the bars, swinging layout flyaways, straddle backs, baby giants. As if nothing had happened. As if the last ten days had been a fever dream.

“Do I see sickled feet, missy?” a familiar voice rumbled. “Because those are deductions, my dear. The ugliest kind.”