Chapter Twelve
Chapter
twelve
MY EYES FLEW OPEN, AND even that small movement made me groan with pain. I rolled onto my side and groaned again. Every muscle in my body was sore. My bones felt sore too. Like my muscles were clinging on to them for dear life. I reached for my phone ever so slowly and sent a text.
Need a recovery day. Can’t move.
Theo texted back a few minutes later: The best thing for sore muscles is to work them out.
I literally can’t move.
You’re still in bed? Of course you can’t move. Get them warmed up and meet me in thirty minutes at the school. We’ll lay off weights today.
Fine. P.S. You’re mean.
I rolled out of bed, literally, and landed on my hands and knees on the floor. From there I crawled to the bathroom, barely able to pull myself onto the toilet. After washing my hands, I crawled down the hall.
“What are you doing?” Grandma asked from where she sat at the kitchen table.
“I’m warming up my muscles.”
“Since when do you wake up early both weekend mornings?” Dad asked. I hadn’t noticed him from floor height, but he sat next to Grandma.
“Since I enlisted the punisher as my trainer,” I mumbled.
“What?” Dad asked.
“Nothing.” I crawled to a chair and used its rungs to heave myself to standing. Then I walked to the cupboard where we kept the medicine and found a bottle of ibuprofen.
“Are you training for something?” Mom asked. She was at the table as well. It was a regular family reunion.
“Yes,” I said. If I lived through today, I would need a good excuse for all the working out I’d be doing. And she just gave me that excuse. “One of those mini triathlons.”
“Really?” she asked.
“When? Where?” Dad added.
“I’ll send you the website later.” As in, when I found one. There had to be someone hosting one of those things somewhere. “It will answer all your questions.”
“Is Jensen competing with you?” Grandma asked. “He’d do wonderful at something like that.”
I sucked in some air. “No, Grandma. Jensen and I broke up. Remember?” And he’s not good at everything, I wanted to add but kept it to myself. His current track record proved that thought wrong anyway.
“Did you break his heart?” Grandma asked. “That poor boy.”
“More like the other way around,” I said.
“You still owe me that long story,” Mom said, pointing her spoon at me.
He stole my dream. Why couldn’t I say that? “I know, I know. When my bones don’t hurt.” I downed a couple pills with a glass of water.
“Well, I’m glad you’re doing a triathlon,” she said. “It’s nice to see you trying something new.”
“Right,” I said, then, changing the subject, quickly asked, “Did you listen to the latest podcast I emailed you?”
“I did. It was so good. Why didn’t you publish it?”
I waved my hand through the air. “Because you’re the only one who listens. But that’s not why I asked. Did Grandma ever tell you that she was friends with Andrew Lancaster? That he painted her a surfboard?”
“I’m sitting right here,” Grandma said.
“Did you tell my mom?”
“I think so,” Grandma said.
“You never told me that,” Mom said, and she looked at me like she thought maybe it hadn’t really happened. Like Grandma wasn’t entirely in her right mind. Like she’d made the whole thing up. But that hadn’t been my experience with her early memories. Most of those had been spot-on.
“I don’t tell you everything,” Grandma singsonged. “Andrew was a beautiful painter. He didn’t know it at first. But I did.”
“He didn’t know it?” Dad asked, as if she’d told a joke.
“No, some people need to be told what they’re good at,” Grandma insisted. “And I told him. I’ll show you a picture.”
“We don’t have any pictures, Mom.”
“Why?” she asked.
“The fire. Remember?”
“Oh, right. What a shame.” She stirred her oatmeal around in her bowl.
“Was it a wood board?” I asked, remembering what Andrew was famous for.
“Balsa wood with a waterproof finish over the painting,” Grandma said. “You would’ve loved it.”
“I’m sure I would’ve,” I said.
“But Cheryl Millcreek borrowed it and I never saw it again,” she said.
“Who’s Cheryl Millcreek?” I looked at my mom.
“I’m not sure,” Mom answered. “I’ve never heard that name before.”
“Someone who doesn’t return things, that’s who,” Grandmasaid.
“She sounds terrible,” I said.
“Finley,” Mom chastised.
“What? She does.”
Mom shook her head.
The clock on my phone told me I didn’t have much time left. “I have to go. Let’s talk more about this Cheryl person later,” I said, shuffling my way out of the kitchen, my muscles screaming again after the short break I’d given them.
“A mini triathlon is supposed to be fun!” Mom called after me.
“I’m having the time of my life!” I called back.