Opposite of Always(68)

Nothing.

So the earth rotates around the sun, right? And it would be super weird for it to start happening the other way around, right? Like, suddenly the sun starts revolving around the earth— Except that’s sorta like what loving someone is all about— You’re moving along life, doing your thing, managing your priorities and commitments— And then suddenly you meet THE ONE.

And you fall completely out of the orbit you’ve been spinning in.

And now you’re doing laps around this new world.

And you’re hoping gravity can sustain you.

But there’s no way of knowing if it can until you realize it can’t.

Guess it’s all an orbit of faith.





Mandrake Moolah


I’m nearly too nervous to watch.

I’m confident that Mandrake is going to win. I mean, I’ve lived the goddamned future. But still. There’s a beaver-colony-level gnawing happening in my stomach that I can’t shake. It’s as though my stomach is made of the most tender whatever wood that beavers love most. The choicest wood that male beavers send to the female beavers of their affection. And these beavers are going to town in my stomach, because they haven’t seen this amount of sweet-ass lumber in a long time and they are taking full advantage of this new haul before it disappears.

At halftime Mandrake is down by double digits and the commentators are saying Mandrake should be happy to have made it so far, that no matter what happens they should be proud, and, hey, even Cinderella had to face midnight, there’s no shame in losing this game.

The second half is harder to watch. The first four minutes Mandrake looks like an elementary school team playing an NBA team; it’s ugly, but an ugly you want to keep watching. And I do, with my hands over my face.

But then the incredible happens. Mandrake gets hot. They can’t miss. They drill shots from all over the court. Mandrake’s defense is smothering, the other team struggles to even get the ball across half-court, and that insurmountable lead shrinks. You can see their opponents fading, their poise dissolving. They finger-point. They argue with the refs, with each other. They wave off their coaches. They can’t buy a basket.

The Mandrake point guard shimmies past his defender, dances into the paint, and launches a midrange floater that kisses off the top of the backboard square before falling cleanly into the nylon. The announcers flip out.

. . . And Mandrake takes their first lead of the game with twenty seconds left! This is the greatest comeback in the history of sports, people! You are witnessing history . . . the fifteenth-seeded Mandrake Pigs have battled all the way back and are now poised to secure their first ever national championship . . . this is beyond words . . . this is what sports is all about!

Me? I can’t say what sports is about. Or what this means to the Mandrake players. But I know what it means to me, what I hope it’ll mean for Kate.

I jump to my feet and I’m ugly-dancing-screaming around the basement, and Mom is thoroughly confused because a) she didn’t realize I was this into basketball and b) we have absolutely zero connection to the Pigs.

“It’s the classic underdog story, Mom,” I assure her, pumping my fists with an intensity that nearly dislocates my shoulders.

She high-fives me. “It is pretty amazing.”

My phone buzzes.

FRANNY’S DAD: How did you know?!

ME: What?

FD: You knew they would win.

ME: It was the longest shot ever. I just figured what the heck, why not them?

FD: I’m not buying it, but it doesn’t matter. Congratulations! You’re now a rich kid—let’s just hope you’re not a dead one after we try to collect your winnings.

ME (for five minutes, not knowing how to respond): . . .

ME (five minutes later): Is death seriously something we should be concerned about here?

FD: Not WE. I’ll text you a time and place to meet tomorrow.

ME: You’re joking, right? About the death thing . . . I mean, I KNOW you’re joking, but I’d just like some confirmation I guess, because honestly I’m new to all of this gambling stuff and . . .

But I don’t hit Send on this last text because I don’t want to be an idiot even though I’m having idiotic thoughts. Of course he’s joking.

Right?

I don’t sleep, just in case.

The place: Elytown Public Library. The time: four p.m. I park Mom’s car and head inside.

Franny’s dad slides in ten minutes late and he looks freaking happy. Or maybe he’s pretending because the people who are going to kill me for winning so much money have told him not to tip me off to the danger that I’m in—stall him, Franny’s dad, they said, while the assassin sets up his sniper rifle between the bookshelves.

“Hey,” I say, standing up when he gets to the table.

“Hey, killer,” he says. He tosses me a duffel bag. “I’d find someplace to hide that were I you.”

“Right,” I say, surprised by how light $200K feels.

“Count it in the bathroom if you want. I’ll wait.”

“I trust you. Did you take out your cut yet?”

He smiles in a way that reminds me of Franny. “Told you, it’s your money.”

“Well, thanks,” I say. “A whole lot. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”