Holding On (10 page)

The piece of ribbon holding the picture to the board was
running right
down
the
center
of
the
picture
between
me
and
Brad.
It
was
splitting
the
picture
in
half,
Brad
on
one
side
and
me
on
the
other.
How
much more
symbolic
can
you
get?
Not
only
were
our
hearts
split
between being
friends
and
wanting
more
but
we
were
also
separated
by
miles and miles of
country.

Anger began to well inside of me. Anger at my mom. Anger
about the
move.
Anger
at
Brad
for
waking
up
my
feeling
and
for
acting
on his. The anger was bubbling over, and I finally threw my phone like
I originally wanted to, shattering it into pieces, just like my
heart.

I spent the next two days unpacking, blasting my music, and trying
to do something besides think about Brad. The problem with that is
that every
song
reminded
me
of
him.
Every
photo
I
hung
reminded
me
of something we had done together. The photo he had given me as part
of my
gift
was
still
the
only
one
on
my
board.
It
had
somehow
become
the focal
point
of
my
room.
I
was
looking
at
it
more
and
more
every
day,
thinking
about
the
possibilities.
I
found
myself
thinking
about
the
things that would change and how I wished that things could be
different.

Then,
of
course,
there
was
the
ring.
I
had
yet
to
take
it
off,
and
I was
sure
that
I
wouldn’t
be
able
to.
Ever.
Sometimes
it
felt
like
that was all that I had left of him. If I took it off, I would be letting him
go in
a
sense,
and
I
wasn’t
ready
to
do
that.
He
was
still
my
best
friend. I
still
loved
him,
unconditionally.
I
still
wanted
to
be
with
him.
The more I entertained those kinds of thoughts, the more I believed that
it was possible. It all seemed possible until I would look out the
window
and remember that I was two thousand miles away from making
those dreams a reality. My mind was whirling around in a circle most of
the time these
days.

My
mom
noticed
my
ring
the
morning
after
I
put
it
on.
I
was
in the shower when she came in to let me know that she was going to
the grocery
store.
She
must
have
spotted
it
on
the
bathroom
counter
because I
heard
her
gasp
over
the
spray
of
the
water.
I
gave
her
the
shortest version
of
the
story,
and
I
was
pretty
sure
that
she
had
started
to
cry.
I was not sure if she was crying out of guilt for moving us or
because she realized how sweet a gesture it was for Brad to make. She left
the bathroom
and
was
off
to
the
store
by
the
time
I
finished
my
shower.
We
haven’t talked about it
since.

On Saturday morning, I realized I had yet to leave the house
since
arriving and in two days, I would be starting school again. I needed
to get a new phone, and I needed to find my way to school. Being a
little OCD
at
times
comes
in
handy,
so
when
I
realized
these
things,
I
planned a
little
adventure
for
myself.
I
may
not
be
able
to
be
on
time
when
I need to be, but if there were no time constraints and I was in
complete control, my OCD would kick into
overdrive.

After showering and leaving my mom a note, I grabbed my
purse, keys,
and
tennis
bag
and
headed
out.
I
had
the
address
of
the
phone
store
in
my
GPS
by
the
time
I
pulled
out
of
the
driveway.
Our
new
house
was
nice. It was not as large as the one we use to live in, but I had my
own private
space,
and
that
was
really
all
I
needed
to
get
through
the
next five months before I could go back to Michigan. The yard was
expertly landscaped
before
we
moved
in.
It’s
amazing
what
someone
can
do
with
rocks,
sand,
and
a
few
plants.
It
was
different
from
what
I
was
used to
seeing,
but
it
looked
nice
and
blended
in
well
with
the
rest
of
the neighborhood.

An hour later, after spending two hundred of my
dad’s
hard-earned dollars, I had a new phone in my hand, and most of the numbers
from my
old
phone
had
been
transferred
over.
I
had
damaged
my
memory card
a
little
bit
when
I
“accidentally”
dropped
my
phone
down
some
stairs,
or
so
I
told
the
service
representative.
I
was
only
able
to
get numbers that had been stored in my phone the longest. Basically, I
had
Brad’s
number,
moms,
dads,
and
a
few
family
members.
I
knew
most
of my friends’ numbers by heart and sent a mass text with my new
phone number the second I got in my
car.

I followed the navigator’s directions to the school, and as I pull
in, the sheer size makes me cringe. My little town, my little school,
where
everyone
knows
everything
about
everyone
was
lost
to
me
at
this
point. The
entire
campus
of
my
old
school
could
probably
fit
in
the
parking
lot I’m sitting in. This place was
huge!

I could only see about four buildings from where I was parked,
but I
knew
that
there
were
probably
more
just
out
of
sight.
I
gathered
all
my courage and opened the
door.
It’s
January in Tucson.
January,
to me, usually meant layers of clothing, a thick coat, scarf, gloves, and
winter
boots. There was no chance of playing tennis outside in January
when
you live in Michigan. Here, January means a sweatshirt, maybe a
light coat and jeans.
Today
I was wearing my running pants over my
tennis skirt and a hooded sweatshirt. I planned on warming up on the
courts, so I knew that a jacket would have been too
much.

As I crossed the enormous parking lot, I realized how quiet it
was,
how
alone
I
was.
I
shuddered
at
the
thought
of
someone
sneaking
up on me, and my senses went on high alert. I clutched my keys,
knowing that
I
had
Mace
if
I
needed
it.
I
walked
up
the
stairs
leading
to
the campus, and as I broke the top enough to see the rest of the school,
my breath
caught
in
my
throat.
It
was
beautiful.
There
were
at
least
eight buildings
plus
what
looked
like
the
gym
and
maybe
a
theater.
None
of the buildings were attached to each
other.
It was a completely
open campus. The best part was the open quad in the middle, where I
could see students probably gather before school or to have
lunch.

I
gave
myself
an
unguided
tour,
roaming
around
freely.
I
passed
the gym
and
rounded
the
corner
to
see
the
tennis
courts
come
into
view.
There
were
ten
courts
side
by
side,
and
I
couldn’t
help
but
smile.
We
had four courts at my old school, and we were lucky to get ours
resurfaced every
couple
of
years.
These
courts
were
in
pristine
condition,
and
there were a ton of them to choose
from.

I
raced
back
to
my
car
and
grabbed
my
bag.
Entering
the
courts
felt surreal.
I
hadn’t
been
on
an
outside
court
since
before
my
accident
at the regional competition last spring. All of my rehab had been
indoors, and then the snow had started to fall, making it impossible to
practice on
my
own
once
my
shoulder
was
healed.
This
was
going
to
be
the
first time I was able to practice on my own without the watchful eye of
my coach or
trainer.