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  Dear Diary,

  Mr. Rufus deserves his own entry.

  He’s much older than me, but cool. I don’t know what kind of cancer Mr. Rufus has, but I know he’s had it for a long time. But he’s still always fun to visit. Always so happy, even though his voice is weak. Like when someone wakes you up too early on your birthday and your voice isn’t all the way turned on yet, but you’re still excited. That’s how Mr. Rufus sounds. Whenever I see him, I do my weirdo wave, and he does a weirdo wave, which is basically just a wave, because, Diary, I don’t know if you know this or not—don’t know why you would—but waving is always weird. It always comes across as yikes.

  Anyway, Mr. Rufus has bright eyes with saggy bags under them, and the brightest teeth I’ve ever seen. Like tiny TV screens lined up side by side. He always brags about how they’re all still his, but judging by the way the nurses roll their eyes every time he says it, I think he might be lying. But that’s not the reason he deserves his own page in you.

  He deserves his own page because he is by far the best bed dancer I’ve ever seen. I mean, he really knows what he’s doing. He always tells me about how he used to be a dancer on a TV show back in the day called Soul Train. I believe him when he says this. You ever heard of that show, Diary? I’ve never seen it, but Mr. Rufus and Aurelia and Gramps all say it was some kind of dance show. That bands would perform and young people would be dressed up on national TV showing off their booms and ticks. I asked Mr. Rufus if Cher ever came on there to perform some of her music. He just laughed at that. Not sure why. She makes great dance music.

  But what I do know is that Mr. Rufus can tick with the best of them. I’ve seen him do it. Turn his body into real life stop-motion animation. And even though he was good at ticking, he said spinning and sliding were his specialties back in the day, and that the crowd always went crazy when he did a split. Diary, I tried to do a split once. It didn’t go good. Or feel good. Anyway, when me and Aurelia and Gramps get to Mr. Rufus’s room, he always adjusts the bed just enough so that he’s not lying flat, and when the music comes on, he starts bopping around and jamming in the bed, as if he’s trying to break loose, break free. And maybe he is. It’s like he understands what dancing is for. It’s not just to watch, it’s to do, to somehow remind yourself that you’re still . . . you. That whoever the invisible you is, the you that only talks to you, it’s still alive and can add, in Mr. Rufus’s words, love, peace, and soullllllll to the world.

  Dear Diary,

  Have you ever heard of Salisbury steak? It’s like a hamburger drenched in a special sauce, which I guess is called Salisbury sauce. They serve it in the cafeteria at the hospital. Aurelia told me a while ago that Salisbury is a place, and let me tell you, the first chance I get, I’m going there. There’s probably this sauce just raining down from the sky. Actually, that would be pretty messy. But maybe it’s like lakes full of it. That would be better. And if that’s true, I might try a new sport.

  Swimming.

  Dear Diary,

  It’s Technique Tuesday, and usually at practice I would be working on my stride, but now I don’t really have a stride to work on. So it was weird. I did the usual stretches, and while I was touching my toes, and Aaron was counting out the numbers, and while Coach and Whit were off to the side looking at the clipboard, probably putting a line through my name, Lynn, who also runs the mile, asked me why I was even stretching, since I’m not a runner no more. But the way she said it, it was like she gave each word teeth.

  I told her I’m still a runner, I just don’t run.

  She said that don’t make sense.

  I wanted to tell her sense don’t have to be made. It already exists.

  She would’ve said that’s stupid.

  She also said I was the best in the whole league and that I’m stupid to quit. So I got the stupid anyway.

  And that’s when Patty jumped in, and before she could shoot her own teeth-words at Lynn, Lu jumped in to calm Patty down. Then he made a speech to everybody about how sometimes things change in life. And how I’ve made a change. And how I’m still on the team and should be supported. I appreciated that.

  But then Brit-Brat called him Dr. Phil. It was a joke. I kind of appreciated that, too.

  And then Aaron challenged Lu. Told him he should run my race since he’s so supportive. He said “supportive” in a not-very-supportive way.

  Then Coach came out of nowhere and yelled at everyone, shutting it down. And all I could think about was how there is no way—zero way—Lu can run a mile. NO WAY.

  NOOOOOOoOoOooOOOOOoo WAY!

  But . . . I think he’d try.

  Dear Diary,

  All this time I had no idea there was a concrete circle on the field. Let me explain. The track goes around a field. And in the field, down by the first two-hundred curve, there’s a concrete circle. Like a bald spot. Never noticed it before. I guess the grass has always been just tall enough to disguise it.

  Coach said that bald spot would be my new home. He said all my greatness is going to come out of that small space, and that what I do in that circle will affect how far I go outside of it. Or something like that. You know Coach. Actually, Diary, you don’t know Coach, but if you did, you’d know that sometimes he be speaking in Shakespeare.

  Since it’s Technique Tuesday, and because I don’t know nothing about throwing the discus, Coach wanted to just walk me through the steps. He kept telling me it was just like dancing, and to remember the whoosh part of my dance. The spin. Except it was going to be a double spin. A whoosh whoosh.

  Actually, a whoosh whoosh, then a release. That’s what Coach said.

  So, a whoosh whoosh aah, I corrected him.

  He just nodded. Took my word for it, then showed me the steps.

  1. Stand straight, bend knees just a little.

  2. Spread arms like wings.

  3. Wind body back and forth with hands straight and stiff, cutting the air.

  4. Count to three.

  5. On three, spin right leg 230 degrees around. (Coach said, not 360, but not 180. I told him, 230.)

  That’s the first whoosh. I repeated those steps, again and again

  and again and

  again again again again

  until practice was over. Coach said the second whoosh was coming tomorrow. I asked him, when do I actually get to throw the discus? He said first I gotta learn how to whoosh whoosh, and then my wish will be granted. Aah.

  Dear Diary,

  Darryl asked me how practice was, which was a good sign that the mad was maybe unmadding, and I told him about the discus and the whooshing and the whoosh whooshing and how Lu stood up for me and how Aaron told him to run a mile and how there’s no way he could ever run a mile because he’s never run for longer than ten seconds at a time and to run a mile like me you have to be okay with running for forever. And then Darryl cracked a little smile. Not enough to be a real smile, but still a crack in the stone.

  When we got home, I made a TV dinner. When I say made, I mean microwaved. It was chicken, mashed potatoes, and peas. It all tasted like chicken, mashed potatoes, and peas, if chicken, mashed potatoes, and peas were made of plastic, and were melted. Darryl made one for himself, and while we were eating, Darryl said Gramps called him.

  What he say? That’s what I said.

  Darryl said Gramps said he should talk to me about why I quit.

  And as I tried to find my words, the doorbell rang. I can’t figure out if the doorbell loves me or hates me. If that was an interruption, or some kind of bailout.

  It was Mr. Nico at the door.

  He came in like he usually comes in, singing, Do you believe in life after love? by the lady, Cher. Mr. Nico is the reason I even know who she is, because he’s always singing that song, and whenever he does, it’s in a jokey-joke way as a sign to let my father know that he’s going to ask him about dating his sister, Ms. Linda. And that meant that Mr. Nico and my father were going to step outside and smoke cigars and talk in private,
and I hate the way cigars smell, and I hate the way my father and Mr. Nico talk, so I went into the family room to work on the puzzle by myself.

  So far we only had the border complete, and the top of my mother’s head and forehead. And I was trying to find her eyes. But, Diary, you would be surprised how many puzzle pieces look like eyes. Or parts of eyes. Eyelashes. Eyeballs. But I got the whole left one done, and most of the right, then went upstairs to my room to try and close both of mine.

  Dear Diary,

  It’s late and I can’t sleep. Because the quiet has been unquieted. Sound. Coming through my bedroom door. I wish it was something cool, like harps or drums, or even the weird creaking of this big house “settling” as Darryl sometimes says. But, no. It’s just my father choking on his own snore. Choking on his own sleep. He probably needs to adjust, roll over, or something.

  He’s not choking.

  No, I don’t think he’s choking at all, actually.

  I think he might be crying.

  6

  Wednesday

  Dear Diary,

  It’s Wednesday morning, and I’m pretending I didn’t hear Darryl crying last night. I said good morning, and he said good morning back, which made the morning goodish. Better than the last three. But I wonder if he was just saying good morning in the same way people say fine when you ask them how they’re doing, just because that’s the answer everybody gives, and it’s easier than the truth, which might be something like . . . constipated. I’m not even sure you can really have a good morning after having a bad night, and it sounded like Darryl had a bad night. And I didn’t have the heart to ask about it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not freaked out from hearing him cry. Crying is crying like laughing is laughing like sense don’t never have to be made because it just is. Whoa. I felt like Coach with that one. Sunny Shakespeare. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is hearing my father cry is normal.

  Every time we finish a puzzle and have to take it apart, he cries.

  Every birthday, he cries. His or hers. Or mine.

  Every anniversary, he cries. Of their marriage. Of her death. Which is my birthday.

  Every first-place ribbon, he cries. Not around me. But at night.

  But he didn’t do that this weekend. There was no crying because there was no ribbon. And I learned a long time ago to never check on him. To leave him alone. When I was little, maybe like six, I asked him if he was okay and he yelled at me. And that yell was a yell like nothing I’d ever heard. It was as if my father’s throat had become a revved motor, as if his eyes had become headlights, as if he had become something that would run me over. And he never has, but . . . never again.

  Dear Diary,

  Have you ever heard of a movie called Baraka? Probably not. I hadn’t. And when Aurelia said we were going to see it, at first I thought she said Barack, as in President Barack Obama, and I asked her how she knew him.

  She didn’t know what I was talking about.

  So I asked her again. About Barack Obama.

  And she said, Baraka. Buh-RAH-kuh. It’s a movie, and, Diary, you should see it. Not like you can, but if you were real—I mean, you’re real because you’re here with me, but I’m saying real like a person—then I would say you should definitely see it. I saw it today. Aurelia took me on a field trip to the movies. She said it was for history and science class.

  We drove across town to this old movie place. At least it looked old. But Aurelia kept trying to explain to me that it wasn’t really old but it sometimes showed old movies.

  We ordered popcorn, gummy bears, gummy worms, Swedish fish (which are also gummy), and nachos. And water, because like Aurelia always says, health is wealth. We carried everything into the theater—thankfully, we were the only people there—and plopped down right in the middle of it all. Aurelia did that thing where you pretend like your head is blowing up and you make the brrrrggghsssh sound, and told me to get ready.

  Ready for what?

  That’s what I was thinking as the movie started. There was some kind of flute playing, long, drawn-out notes. Fluuuuute. Fluuuute. Mountain range. Big and beautiful and stone. And then from there we see a monkey in a hot tub. I know this probably all sounds silly, but if you saw it, you would be like, look at that monkey in that water, and you wouldn’t be able to turn away, with all that fluuuuuuute, fluuuuuuute going on in the background, and that monkey just sitting there, up to his neck in a bath, relaxing, looking at the camera. And I’m sitting there wondering where that monkey is, and where they have hot tubs made by God like that. And then . . .

  Everything everywhere.

  People, running and dancing and crying and working and walking and spinning and moving and moving.

  Animals, climbing and fighting and dying and running and swinging and moving and moving.

  Things, like cars and buses and clocks and sun and moon, ticking and changing and swerving and crashing and moving and moving.

  And fluuuuuuute was met with boom boom boom and tap tap and symphony and drum armies and so much more that I really can’t explain. I guess the best way to explain it to you, Diary, is this is what you will be like when I’ve filled up all your pages, maybe. Or maybe if everyone—the whole world—wrote in you at the same time. Or something. I can’t explain it right, but Baraka must mean something like Whoa. Either Whoa, or maybe it’s the sound tears make but not the ones that come out, the ones that stay in. Yeah, that might be Baraka. Because that’s how I felt at the end of it. Like maybe I should cry. But I didn’t. But I felt like maybe I should. And, honestly, I didn’t even really know why.

  As the credits rolled, Aurelia exhaled as if she’d been holding her breath the whole time, and asked me what I thought.

  I hadn’t even touched the popcorn. Or the nachos. Or any of the gummy stuff.

  I told her I didn’t know.

  Then she asked me what I thought it was about.

  I told her I didn’t know that, either, but that at the same time I did know but didn’t think I knew.

  Aurelia said what she thought, which was, everything is moving. Everything. Even the things that aren’t are, because the world is moving. It’s spinning, so everything is changing constantly. Her, me, Darryl, and even you. And that somehow everything is still connected. Aurelia gets deep like Coach sometimes too. And I like it.

  Dear Diary,

  Practice was funny. Sort of. The part of it where I tried to explain Baraka to Patty while we were stretching. That was funny.

  I told her the movie was deep. Deeper than deep. Stretch.

  She couldn’t believe there were no words. Stretchh.

  I told her, over and over again, that it was just action. Stretchhh.

  And Patty didn’t get it. But Lu said he did.

  He said there would be all action whenever a movie was made about him. Stretchhhh.

  And then Aaron jumped in all huff and puff and blow your house down. He said no one would ever make a movie about Lu. Then, switch!

  Lu said they’d make one about him before they’d make one about Aaron. Sounds true.

  Ghost said, Womp womp.

  Patty laughed. I laughed. Then Aaron said something about me not being allowed to laugh because they were having a runners’ conversation.

  And then I was gonna tell him that I didn’t know there was a such thing as a runners’ conversation, but before I could, Lu said he was right. And that I was not a runner no more. That I’m a thrower. Then Lu said he was a thrower too. He put his fists up and said he had those two things to throw right at Aaron’s face.

  Patty made that weird noise when you blow air out your nose in a short burst as a way to be like, ohhh. The noise that sounds like gkish. Ghost nodded and held his fists up too, and then, of course, Coach came over and said those hands better be getting ready to work on form. Then he told Lu to count us off. Not Aaron. Lu.

  Ghost said womp womp again.

  I should’ve just named it Womp Womp Wednesday because while everyone else ran ladders, which woul
d’ve been a piece of cake for me—to run four laps, then three, then two, then one, then one, then two, then three, then four, which comes to five miles—I had to spin around the track. Like . . . spin. Around. The track.

  Coach said the plan was to work on the second spin. The second whoosh in the whoosh whoosh. This picks up where the rules for the first whoosh left off.

  6. Then go straight into a 180-degree turn, completing the second whoosh.

  But the way he wanted me to practice it was to line up on one of the white lines on the track. The lines that make the track lanes. One of the ones on the outside, so that I’d be out of the way. Coach told me to keep my feet on the line. That every step—after the 230, then after the 180—should land on the line. Coach demonstrated it so I could see how it was done. Then he did it again. Then again. Faster. It looked silly when he did it slow-motion, but once he sped it up, it looked almost like the way a ballerina would walk down the street if they didn’t want to just walk regular, and maybe wanted to show off. Just quickly spinning and prancing—Aurelia calls this allegro—which I think is sort of beautiful.

  Spin, step. Spin-step.

  Spin, step. Spin-step.

  Coach told me it was just like ballet.

  I asked him if he knew ballet.

  He said he didn’t.

  I told him I did. And that he was close.

  Dear Diary,

  On the way home, I tried to explain Baraka to Darryl. He also thought I was talking about the president, and when he found out I wasn’t, he laughed. Just a little. But that little laugh led to me talking about the monkey in the bathtub, and the monkey in the bathtub got us through traffic, through all the people trying to get home, and I talked about all the people in the movie running and dancing and crying and working and walking and spinning and moving and moving, and then we were getting out of the car, going into the house, where we heated up TV dinners that were supposed to be meat loaf but Darryl called it “some animal,” and I explained the animals in Baraka, climbing and fighting and dying and running and swinging and moving and moving, and then we were in the family room, standing at the big table where the puzzle pieces were scattered and just my mother’s eyes—Darryl completed them last night on his own—stared up at us, attached to nothing, like random spots of dark and light, and I told Darryl about the cars and buses and clocks and sun and moon, ticking and changing and swerving and crashing and moving and moving. And fluuuuuuute Fluuuuuuute. A sound that sounds both sad and happy. And that sad and happy made me bring up why I quit running.