Sunny(18)

Coach said that even though tomorrow’s Friday, I need the extra day of practice to at least make sure I can get the discus out of my hand in a way that won’t put people in danger.

So yeah. That’s happening.





Dear Diary, You know how I describe the face Darryl sometimes makes? The stone turning into more stone? Well, today his face was more of the melty face, and the stone, instead, seemed to fill up all the space between us. And I could tell that both of us had thoughts going boing boing in our brains boing boing in my brain like a jumping bean,

boing boing in his brain like a jumping bean

our brains a moon bounce at a party we want to invite each other to.

And as we pulled into the driveway, Darryl sent me his version of an invitation.

He said he was going out with Mr. Nico’s sister tonight. Ms. Linda.

That’s a good thing. Finally. And finally Darryl also said—and this is the invitation part—that he was sorry about last night. And I knew what he meant.





Dear Diary,

Darryl’s gone out, and right now I’m sitting on the floor in my room. I’ve been sitting here for a while now. I know I already asked you this, but I just have to ask again. Do you know what it feels like to feel like a murderer? I do. Do you know what it’s like for something to be wrong with you. To be born incorrect. To be born a hurricane. I do. I’ve been thinking about my mother all day. Since Gramps gave me the picture in his office. Since I stuffed it in my sock, it scratching me with every discus throw. I forgot to take it out and give it to Darryl when we got home. Forgot until I peeled my socks off and discovered it stuck to my sweaty ankle. Now I’m looking at it. And thinking about her more. I’ve also been thinking about choking, about not being able to breathe, and about Mr. Rufus. About everything. But mostly her. Thinking about her dancing, and who she was and who I am and who we could’ve been together. Wondering how things would’ve been different if she was here. Would I have ever been a runner? Would I have ever been a dancer? Would I be me? Maybe a different me. A me with more mother. That’s for sure.

I should stop here, I think. I should.





Dear Diary,

I’m still awake. Second night in a row that I can’t sleep. There are no sounds. Nothing is settling. I need to move. And maybe . . .

I don’t know.





Dear Mom, I have never ever said, Mom. Not out loud. I’ve never called anyone that. I’ve never even called you that and you are my mom. You were. You would’ve been. And you would’ve called me son. Sun. Sunny. Or maybe Buddy, or Peanut, or Waffle like Patty calls her little sister. And you would’ve smelled like pancakes. And we would’ve had a secret handshake and a secret language and a secret dance routine that we performed at Darryl’s birthday parties because if you were here, Darryl would have birthday parties. If you were here, I would have birthday parties. You would probably be planning one right now. For Saturday. My birthday. And you would know that I would want you to throw me a surprise party.

Because you would know me.

You would know that I’ve never spoken on the phone to anyone my age. That I don’t have anyone my age’s phone numbers. That I’ve had teammates but never friends, until the Defenders, and even they don’t know my birthday is Saturday. And on Saturday nights we would do something fun like eat pizza or watch movies or make up dance routines, and I would probably have to tell you that your dancing wasn’t great, but that I could make it better, and help you get your booms and ticks right, and you would thank me. Not many people thank me for much, but you would thank me for that. And for helping you clean up the house. And for helping you do other things that I can’t think of right now, but you would thank me, and I would thank you and then we would hug and you would smell like pancakes and we’d make pancakes and I would tell you how many pancakes Aurelia has had me eat over the years, which I think is over a thousand, and I’d have to lay back in the chair in the living room until my stomach stopped dancing to the fried batter batter, fried batter batter batter. But the chair wouldn’t be there because it would be in your office, so I would probably have to lay down on the floor, or beg Aurelia to take me to your office so you could fix me like everybody says mothers can, and I’d kick back and complain about my ROI, and how a stomachache isn’t a good one, but that you wouldn’t have quit, you wouldn’t have given up on eating pancakes, or learning how to measure batter better. If only you hadn’t given up on me.

On us.

I’m sorry. I don’t mean that. I know you didn’t. Did you?

I hope you didn’t. Of course not. Why would you give up on the plan? You wouldn’t do that. You and Darryl had been planning everything since y’all were kids. Step by step to the finish line. But you pulled up early too. Plans change. Maybe I was the wrench in the plan. Have you ever heard that? Wrench in the plan. I can’t be a wrench. Not hard enough. Not steel. And can’t fit around nothing to loosen it up.

What else do I need you to know?

Aurelia is my best friend, which is cool because she was also your best friend. And best friends trust each other. And usually best friends have a lot in common, so sometimes when I’m with her, when we’re in the car, I look over and pretend she’s you. I pretend she’s you turning the radio up, and bopping around in her seat. I pretend she’s you playing silly name games like Big Money Sunny, and stuff like that. But I know she’s not. But I still pretend. Maybe you would have a bunch of stars tattooed on you. Maybe you’d have weird-color hair and be the coolest therapist ever. And you would sit me down, and tell me to tell you what’s wrong.