Music Playlist at MixPod.com

someday i am going to leave here, and i am not going to look back… 
I won’t look at the mistakes, or the pain and the tears, or that one night we spent together that seemed like if we held on it could last an eternity… i am not going to look back. I hope to look forward to new friendships and less crying, more love, and more trying… I am not going to look back anymore… for you.
 
And I loved you with all my heart. I fought for you, I treasured you… I went to hell and back for you… And I am still sitting here, lonely and afraid… without the only one that ever mattered.
 
I wouldn’t know what to call these past few years… other than a beautiful existence. It was highlighted by you, and given to me, it was shined on by many, and loved by few… and now here i am looking on that bright– second beginning.

The Vegas episode involves more than drunken addictive marriage. Monica and Chandler are looking for signs, wondering if they should be getting married. And they humorously find out that neither of them actually wants to get married and yet the signs keep following them, everything from catching a bouquet to standing in front of a priest. 

I get a B in originality. That’s my life right now. And considering how many times that’s been done, it’s probably not even a B. Probably more like a X. {Has anyone ever noticed, by the way, that ‘an X’ sounds a lot better than ‘a X’? Grammar is annoying sometimes.} I’m serious though. Should I be counting how many white necco’s are in a pack–or looking up at your name, or letting the key stick and repeat your initial? How many times have I seen you in a song, or heard you in an awkward silence? Why do I know you so well, or look at your facebook for the fateful day when you are chosen by someone else? Signs, signs, damn signs! Erase them–I’m hating it! 

It feels weird. I can’t really move on… it’s not that easy. But as they say in Friends, “I’m sick of the signs.” & as they said in Grey’s, You can’t be here. I will always love you, but I have to move on.  I have to move on. 

//no! no more sorrow, i’ve paid for your mistakes

your time is borrowed, your time has come to be replaced

your time has come to be erased //LP.

&–&

Honda Civic 01, tan seats, or at least they used to be tan. She made you angry enough that you’d kick my car…were it not mine. Anger that was visible. You were shaking at her memory, while I melted at his. Shaking together, then. Flirty. Laughing. Innocent touches across each others shoulders. 

What I was thinking about though, you didn’t like. As though I could help it, as though you were jealous of his captive hypnotic attention from me. It wasn’t a choice half the time to think about him, it just happened. I wanted to erase him. And when I told you how I wished for a pensieve, you “took” those thoughts, and crushed them under your toe. Symbolic, perhaps. Unfortunately the reality is not so easily swept away.

It was raining. We were wet, and comfortable, and laughing. Waiting for a reason to get in the same car, I think. The drizzle was ironic, and we were elated already. We’d won. There was a sense of excitement underneath everything, chemistry and sparks. A thought of us, or a thought of our successful candidate? Unknown. Victory E-Hug. 

The car was warm, and the windows were foggy. You were so close, half the time we were actually touching. Half the time in comfortable silence, half the time smiling and overzealous. You still were shaking at her injustice, shaking at the memory of her. I still was captivated. 

The phone rang. It was him. Finally, after all this wait, all this hurt…he was calling, and you were there. You! Smiling at me, laughing, seizing the phone, forbidding me from answering. But I needed to know. I needed to know that we were over. Or if I was sitting in the car with a guy when I was technically spoken for by a heartfelt handwritten query. 

It was a no. You heard me, whether you wanted to or not. I wasn’t quiet, and I barely left the car. Hovering nearby, trying to be strong. Strong branch, Mimi. Strong branch. 

I got back into the car, smiling at you now. Stunned. Shocked. It was freeing, it was fantastic. It was misery, and it was beautifully new. You were beautifully new. I was talking now, quietly, staring just past you, free. Free. 

Do you want to make out with me? It seems like such a simple question…straight-forward, semi straight-forward response. Truth is, yes, yes. I do. Do I think it’s a good idea? That’s what I don’t know. And that’s why I hesitated, and that’s what I think the suspense is. You were there. And he was in my head. I told you I was scared. 

You extended a coin. A simple penny, half bent and tarnished–your answer to the proposed. Heads we kiss, tails we don’t. Pulled out of your jeans, while you left me in suspense. I wanted to. You were right. I wanted to. And flipping the coin eliminated the option. Why not take the chance? Why not flip it, and let fate decide? Why not toss that coin in the air and try for something new, exciting? It’s a chance. If it fails, we know, and if it doesn’t, it could be wonderful. 

Why shouldn’t I give him that coin, and tell him to flip it today, when once again we meet by that civic? 

Or is that just looking for a sign?

I am continually saying to myself how ironic my life is, and right now? I just wish it would stop. I wish things didn’t always have to hit me all at once and entirely overwhelm me. I wish that I didn’t see meaning and signs in everything, and I wish I could just, sleep right now. Sleep, but not dream. Collapse in my head, my comforter… stop thinking, stop feeling, or at least feel a little bit less.

What the hell am I supposed to do right now? My research paper of three months is done… I sent a letter, and I got my answer. So it’s done. It’s over. That’s it. And I’ll be honest, it feels rather … good. I want to erase it all, somehow. I wasted three years of my life thinking of nothing else, letting him entirely rule my existence. It was so wrong, but it felt so right–and now I’m on the in-between. I’m on the upswing, or at least, I should be.

And yet I still notice the little things. My keyboard is messed up, but that doesn’t just happen without a reason, right? What I mean by this is my keys are being oversensitive–I don’t have to actually press the key for it to ink the letter. Or, one key is. And ohoh- guess what letter? It’s ‘D’ of course. I lay my hand on the keys, and immediately, four ‘D’s’ are written, before I’ve actually hit anything. How annoying. How aggravating. How…telling.

Keys become oversensitive like that on this ridiculous iBook G4 when you press it too often.

It’s ridiculous.

&//where should i start? (disjointed heart) i’ve got no commitment to my own flesh&blood.
left it all alone, far away from my {true} home..{cannot express} to the point i’ve regressed,
breaking a part of my heart to find release & taking you out of my blood to bring peace. //&LP

A…have you found the Tripisn yet?
–Mickey&others.

P.S. You should know, that originally read: A…have you foundd the Tripisnd yet?
…>.<

and i’ll tell you the thousand that do

show me a trinket that doesn’t speak of you

and i’ll show you, the sky’s still blue 

write me a song that doesn’t sing of you,

i’ll find the lyrics, and say, “does too.”

for the memories we share,

haunt my everyday

nothing is perfect, 

but we’ll find a way

for sure as the sky’s blue,

my dreams are of us 

& i love you. 

write me a play that doesn’t star you

though from me at least, you’ll hear “boo”

name the last time I thought of someone other than you

you could go back years, 

& i’d still say “not true” 

for the memories we share haunt my everyday

nothing is perfect, but we’ll find a way

for sure as the sky’s blue,

my dreams are of us, and i love you. 

there are things in the world

that don’t center on us

plays, songs, and tales

there must be, there must 

tell me the story, sing me the song

so i won’t think of you, since you said “so long.”

but the sky’s still blue

yes the sky’s still blue 

the sky’s still blue

& i’ll always love you.

LoveActually ^

Well, as Lynx so eloquently (in a random shakespeare way <3. ) pointed out, I never did put up my favorite quote. That’s probably because I have, say, a hundred of them. Seriously, I just, love generally all well-written quotes. In light of this, I have made a list, of all of my favorite quotes (which is currently, five pages long on my Word Document.) — and then, I am going to write out what it is I love from a certain quote, etc, over my next blog posts.

That particular quote, is one of my favorites for rather self explanatory reasons. If you look for it, love is everywhere. And without it, I believe this world would be a very dark, hopeless place in deed. In the end, for me, what matters is not who you have hated, but who you have loved.

I was experimenting with the sound, so I know in some cases it is weirdly cut and ripped- I apologize, it was like, 3 in the morning and I was dead tired…(but far too eager to stop ^_^).

–Story–

Another Phoenix Penna RPG video, this time once more focusing on Jana Rivers Eppes (Jennifer Morrison) (i’m not obsessed with her, I swear. *shifty eyes*), her imprisonment by Damien Silverhawk (creep.) based upon here bloodlin, and her surprising friendship with Damien’s son and heir Caleb Silverhawk (Jason Thompson.) At the beginning, she’s remembering Llian Eppes, her husband (currently…*sniffle*) — and how he proposed (*squee* guitarguitarguitar!), only to find that Caleb was not quite so dead. At first, he’s guessing that she was there by choice, and eventually realizes that nothing is that simple.

In agreeing to help her however, at first Jana recieves a terrrrifying scare- Caleb acting exactly like Damien to trick him…and then he apologizes, though Jana thanks him anyways (in shock.)

The rest of the video is sort of, looking into the future- things that Caleb would say to Damien, what Jana might do, how Damien will react (*hides*) and Jana’s answer to the big question of ‘WHY’ are people helping her now, five years later?

–

Jana Eppes – Me!

Caleb Silverhawk – Lynx!

Llian Eppes- Lynx!

Damien Silverhawk- Lynx!

(hm. *huggleslynxtodeath*)

Song– Let the Flames Begin, Paramore.

I do not own any of the clips, or the song, which are mostly credited to Youtube uploads, wounded hearts.net, JCchasez Media Source, my own camera, ‘all the kings men’,and House. This is purely for fun.

Jana: Fun. Ha, that’s an interesting word for this video.

Writer: I KNEW you were going to show up at some point..

Jana: Well, it’s my video, duh.

Writer: >-<

–

Also, the song, Let the Flames Begin Lyrics that are..pertinent to the storyline are:

What a shame we all became such fragile, broken things.
A memory remains just a tiny spark.
I give it all my oxygen,
To let the flames begin
To let the flames begin.

Oh, glory.
Oh, glory.
This is how we’ll dance when,
When they try to take us down.

This is what will be our glory.

Somewhere weakness is our strength,
And I’ll die searching for it.
I can’t let myself regret such selfishness.
My pain and all the trouble caused,
No matter how long
I believe that there’s hope
Buried beneath it all and
Hiding beneath it all, and
Growing beneath it all, and…

This is how we’ll dance when,
When they try to take us down
This is how we’ll sing it.
This is how we’ll stand when
When they burn our houses down.
This is what will be oh glory.

Reaching as I sink down into light.
Reaching as I sink down into light.

]]> http://abifaye.wordpress.com/2008/09/21/never-give-up-video/feed/ 0 Abi http://abifaye.wordpress.com/2008/08/21/a-note-on-sanity/ http://abifaye.wordpress.com/2008/08/21/a-note-on-sanity/#comments Thu, 21 Aug 2008 20:17:23 +0000 abifaye http://abifaye.wordpress.com/?p=58 ]]> A writer’s mind is like a three-ring circus. Villans parade round book circles of intellectuals wielding unconventional weapons. Heroes gallop through, chasing dragons on ice skates. Professors make crucial late-night discoveries, wizards duel to the death, chilors sing. Birds take wing as young couples kiss for the first time under a brilliantly unreal sunset.

All of this happens in about three seconds.

When writing, these characters come to life, personified as letters on the loose leaf page. From the imagination, they swing free to tell their stories to others. It’s the writer’s job to communicate for them, and therefore with them. A bond of sorts is created, between writer and character, and it must be mutual. Only the original creator can known truly what their character thinks and how they would react to something. If the creator is cut off from creation, there is a void remaining.

What does this mean? To the understanding, avid enthusiast- the writer will begin to feel far more insane if their characters cannot talk to them. To the untrained eye, it will appear that this means the writer is no longer “hearing things”. They no longer can blur the line between fantasy and reality. Grounded, surely they will finall by “sane”. They will no longer run off topic as they spot a bird or giggle as they think of something, though the room remained silent. The writer that ignores characters is a “real person.”

Bull.

To the writer themselves, the silenced characters have left them hollow. Their stories will fail without communication, for if you fail to listen to your characters interpretation, you fail to tell the story properly, and you lose the writers soul. Is it therefore a great irony that in discussin the so-called sanity of a person that talks to different creations of theirs in their head, if you were to deprive them of their characters- that is when the writer truly goes insane.

Yeah, it’s two-thirty-five am, I’m leaving at seven- and I haven’t packed a thing. If that’s not the definition of procrastination, I suppose I don’t know what is. Two graphics,  checking my email obsessively, a post, a video, and more lyrics read than I can count pretty much do it too.

But there’s more to it than that I suppose. This is due to the fact that it’s been about two months or so since I’ve updated [I've been SO busy- college tours...], but true to my word, I have returned. Even if just for a few minutes. I am off to New York in like, four hours…and I can’t WAIT. It’s a little scary, considering I’m driving. If it goes well, then I get to prove to my mom that- hello, yes, I do have the ability to drive, and not only that, but drive well, so- you can let me go to the Streetlight concert in October now. If it doesn’t go well, I’m basically screwed as far as driving-to-NY goes. So it’s nerve wracking, not to mention all the insane hysterics of excitement.

There’s a little bit of sadness/anxiety mixed into this…mix. [wow. you can totally tell i'm tired.] One of my best friends was supposed to go too, and now…it doesn’t like she will. *hugs* She will be missed, lotsandlots, and I haven’t given up hope yet.

The anxiety comes in the form of knowing who I most want to see, and wondering [quite painfully] how far it goes- and why it’s so poignant now, when two weeks ago I was so ready to never talk to them again. Bizarre, isn’t it? Now that I might see them, I’m overwhelmed with…wanting to? Not in an unhappy way, no, definitely. Just, anxious. Anxious excited, anxious nervous [ha. those words mean the same thing. but not really, just ask Lemony Snicket.]

*sigh* Procrastinating over.

Here’s the graphic. ^_^

&&. Now it needs a name. So if you guys could read it and respond with the name, it would be muuuuucho appreciated!

This Is Where the Name Will Go, in Case You Were Wondering.

On Valentine’s Day, candy companies manufacture confectionaries in the shape of hearts. These hearts, sweet-tart hearts, became a staple in Haley’s gymnastics bag. She was holding them up now, blurring the outline of Kara on the balance beam. It directed attention to Haley, eliciting a giggle from her teammates, and Haley read aloud,

“Fax me.”

The surrounding nine, ten, and eleven year olds snorted at the fact that it was supposed to be romantic. They’d made a game of it, attempting to hold a conversation with only what they said. Haley, however, used the game as a distraction from Kara. She didn’t need to see Kara land the perfect dismount to know that she would. All she wanted to do was compete herself, and prove once and for all that she was not the best gymnast there. This meet was no different than any other to her. The same chalk cloud hung over everything, the same dull floor music pounded out every four and a half minutes on a loop for five hours. None of the girls were ever any different; bright eyed, covered from head to toe in sweat, and chalk. Hair spray stuck their hair in a sculpture that wouldn’t melt for days. The only difference was the gymnast’s own story about how they’d gotten there, and why they stuck out a sport that told you every day you weren’t perfect. Gymnastics told you every day that you failed. It told you that you weren’t good enough, that you never would be good enough, and yet we continued striving for the ephemeral ten-o, the perfect score.

“Dream on.”

Another girl read off the sweet tart heart, and the team giggled again, including Haley. Balance beam was Haley’s best event. In the sport of Gymnastics, at meets such as this, teams would follow Olympic order. When there were enough teams, as there were now, every team would start on a different event to rotate. Haley hated to start on her best, as it meant ending on the Uneven Parallel Bars- her worst. It gave her the impression that she’d lowered her all around score before even stepping foot on the events.

Kara didn’t have a best or a worst event.

At practice, she would lecture them all. “If you decree one to be more important, basic psychology will dictate low scores on the rest.” As if the eleven year old knew any form of basic psychology. It was easy for her, Haley would think. Kara was the one with the medals. She wore them to every meet, claiming they were good luck charms. Haley had papered her gym bag in ribbons, but the medals were reserved, it seemed, for Kara. The other girls on the team would ask her, whenever she’d gotten up to the podium, what the carpeted platform felt like. Those who placed first, second, or third, would know. Haley wasn’t. The best she could place was fifth, hard as she tried. At this stage, that meant a ribbon.

Everyone knew that was a load of crap, though. In the Olympics, there were no ribbons, and everyone there was there in someway because of the Olympics. Every exhausted, overdriven child there had their eyes on the Olympics. Everyone was told from day one the stories of Nadia Comaneci’s perfect 10.0. A fall in practice earned the renowned story of Kerri Strug. In the 1996 Olympic’s Kerri Strug had fallen, broken her ankle, and still managed to compete one final time. Her heroic effort would win the team that gold medal, awarded atop that carpeted podium. This was the level of dedication that was assumed would be given.

There was a sudden cheer from the team around her, and Haley realized that Kara had dismounted. Sourly, Haley stood herself. Kara didn’t look at her as she passed to take her own turn, but she spotted her father in the stands. With a wide-eyed grin, he had both thumbs up as he indicated her. Even far away, she could feel his expectation. Her heart plummeting somewhere into her stomach, Haley took a few breaths before stepping up to the beam.

“Are you going to get a medal this time?”  Haley blushed as her father spoke. He’d asked her the same question before every meet, to no different result. Whether they were dragging her sister along, or Haley’s mom was bringing the video camera- the question was the same. It had nothing to do with what tricks she was performing, what new routines. Everything was about results.

Haley grinned up nervously at her dad, responding, “Sure, Dad. Whatever.”

“Come on. Up, up!”

Haley’s father was a big sort of man, with a presence that spoke volumes without him opening his mouth. Tall, and round, he had a natural crinkle around his eyes that reminded Haley often of Santa Clause. With wild eyes, he alternatively excited her, and evoked a sense of intense expectation from her. She had to get a medal. Another ribbon was just a postponement of that inevitable day. She smiled as beckoned her, and clambered onto his lap.

“Well little girl…what is it you want today?”

It was part of their ritual. She acted as young as she possibly could, pink from embarrassment. He’d pretend to be her Santa, ask for a medal- as expected, and scurry off to go get ready for the meet. Her mother would grab a brush, and run it through the tangled nest of brown, somehow managing to twist it expertly into a stiff helmet. Her sister would fetch make up— insisting that even at eleven it was important to look your best. Haley thought it best not to point out that it would be sweated off within five minutes. Her sister wouldn’t have paid attention anyways. She never put down her phone long enough.

They piled from there into the car, her sister waving from the driveway, and then hurrying back into the house. What she did all day, alone in her room, was a mystery to Haley. One she didn’t have time for, of course. Her life was the sport of gymnastics. Her tee that day even said so. Her closet was full of them, shirts that proclaimed sayings such as: “If gymnastics was easy, it would be called football”, or “Eat. Sleep. Gymnastics. What else is there?”  

The ride to the meet was long. She’d heard other parents complain of the drives. Other parents remarked upon the irony of driving four hours for a five hour meet and six minutes of videotape. Her dad never did. Haley was painfully aware the entire time there how glad he was that another meet had come. With twenty-two hours of practice a week, meets were what they all lived for.

“Hey, mom?”

Haley was speaking over her father at that instant without realizing it. Whatever it was he was babbling on, he stopped. She had been staring out the grimy window, and even though she’d addressed her mother, her Dad responded.

“What is it, Hales? Did you see a hawk?”

“Yes, Haley?”

A hawk was supposedly a good luck charm. Haley had seen one when she was four, and made the gymnastics team the next day.

“No hawk. I have a homework question.”

Haley had been sitting on this one for a while. Kara had pronounced quite haughtily at practice the other day that her mother did her homework for her. If it hadn’t been Kara to say it, the team wouldn’t have believed her. Kara was special though. Kara, with her perfect blonde hair that never ratted around her head, but hung elegantly in a dancers bun.

“Well, keep your eyes out Hales, you never know.”  Was her father still talking about the non-existent hawk?

“Sure Dad.” Haley shrugged, blinking.

“What’s the homework question?” Her mom didn’t look up from her knitting.

“Well. Kara was saying the other day…that because we have a meet today, her mom was going to do her homework for her.”  It wasn’t phrased as a question of course, but her mother got it anyways. With a nonchalant shrug, her mom responded, “Oh? That’s nice of her mother.”

“Right.”

Haley slumped back against the seat, deciding not to bring up the poem she hadn’t even started due in approximately thirty-six hours.

Kara had always been late. No one ever cared either. Haley always seemed to get more anxious when it happened, as she was sure that it meant Kara wouldn’t show up. If Kara didn’t show, they’d have to disqualify themselves. Not because they didn’t have an alternate—they did, but because Bridget was just not up to Kara’s standards. Kara made this team. They won half of the meets they did because Kara pulled a stunt like Kerri Strug.

As such, while they waited to be chosen for an event, Haley tucked at her hair and bounced on the balls of her toes. Bridget was standing off in the distance, not even bothering to change. Haley always felt badly for her. Gymnastics was always technical, with seven members to a team, not six and not eight. It was not sentimental. There was no room for the person who ranked eighth. Haley, being ranked fifth, didn’t even have to worry about herself being that eighth. 

She did, though. In her mind, Kara was the only one that could be sure that she would never be the alternate in the situation. Even the number two was nervous about it. It’s just how the sport worked.

When Kara strolled into the gym, Haley and the rest of the team watched her with a glare. Bridget leaned back, and took out a bag of popcorn. All of them noticed the fact that Kara didn’t seem to walk, but float. Kara was a constant presence of grace. Kara was perfection. Kara was the perfect-ten, whether she scored it or not.

“Beam first, ladies?” She asked as she drew up level with her teammates. The line-up already decided, Kara had half the amount of time as we did to warm-up, and still would perform first. We all knew she’d do it perfectly, and as such, there were no qualms about this line-ups. Haley bitterrly removed the bag of conversation hearts from her bag when Kara stepped up to compete, drawing the chalk line against the beam to mark where she should dismount. It was such a common occurrence to the gymnasts, that none of them paid attention to the action; an action that, if incorrectly exercised, could mean a broken neck.

As the flag hit the air for Kara to begin, Haley lifted the first heart from the ribbon-covered bag and turned to her teammates. Some of them held stuffed animals for good luck. Most had on crazy socks, to protect their feet from the arena ice they’d spread mats down upon. None of them imagined that cheering on Kara might even be possible. All she’d do, after all, was yell at them about breaking concentration.

Following Kara in the line-up was a thorn in Haley’s side. Kara didn’t acknowledge her as they traded places. Music on the floor once again struck up when Haley drew her own line across the beam. It was the rudimentary music that pulsed through all of them, the same beat of compulsory gymnastics. They didn’t get their own routines until they’d hit the next level, but they all yearned for the day they might not have to hear the same music a hundred times a day. Haley’s eyes swiveled from her jovial father, to Kara’s platonic smile. Kara was mouthing something about where Haley had drawn her dismount cue, but Kara always assumed that she knew more about these things. Haley didn’t pay attention.

Kara sat down to watch her. Haley felt her skin was burning under the gazes of her father, Kara, teammates, coaches, and the judges. The judges wore dead blue suits to indicate their authority.  Every gymnast had sat beside them at one point and held up the scores they were handed to tell the previous competitor how far from perfection they were. One such score was shown now, a nine-point-four-five, for Kara’s routine. Haley knew that was perfectly high enough for second place on beam, if not first. She didn’t look at the score, but rather the girl holding it up. The expression proved to Haley these judges were no different then the others. The consensus was that judges were the gymnasts that hadn’t made it, and remained embittered about it, enjoying telling others they weren’t good enough. The bizarrely twisted scribbles they made without pause were an indication of failure, technical symbols that gymnasts hoped they’d never learn. They looked back at Haley without emotion, silently asking if she was ready to mount. Without thinking what it meant, Haley threw her shoulders back and saluted.

As it always did, the gazes slid off of her when her hand grasped the beam. Her mount was simple in comparison to Kara’s, but it was one of her favorite moves to perform, and she lost herself in the motion. Holding herself up, she slowly straddled the beam, twisted her hand behind her and pivoted up to stand on her hands. After remaining stationary for a few moments, she kicked down, and came to be standing at the end of the beam. The hardest tricks were those to get out of the way first, besides the dismount. Though a routine was a fluid motion, they were heavily choreographed, from every jump performed to every hand flick. Gymnasts like Kara went through them with mechanical perfection, which was what the judges preferred. Haley had never mastered that. She flowed through her routine, focusing on being in the moment, instead of stark contrast from move to move. That was why her optional floor music was Bach, where Kara’s mirrored ‘Great Balls of Fire’.

Taking a breath, she spun on her heel, swung her arms, and breathlessly drew her feet to the dismount mark, unaware of the world around her. She was, in that moment, living for the freedom that Gymnastics gave you. The sport they went through hell for, gave them the free fall of adrenaline. As they spun, jumped, kicked, arched, flipped, twisted, held, and flew through the air—there were no rules. There was just the action, the pure moment of existing. To watch someone like Kara do it, to watch the perfect ten routine so yearned for, was secondary when they were actually performing themselves.

Haley hesitated a minute, before springing to action, swinging her hands down to her side, and diving backwards, onto her hands, feet, hands, feet, and pushed off hard for the third time to launch her off the beam and into the air. A simple layout flip later, she’d have landed, and she was aware that her routine had been one of the best of her life.

Kara, it transpired, had been correct about where her dismount mark had been. It occurred to Haley as she fell on her butt, her foot awkwardly beneath her.

Haley didn’t let herself wince or look at her father. Gymnastics didn’t although for such sentimental actions. What she did, was spring back up, salute the judges with a beam, and hobble over to her teammates. They showered her with conversation hearts, and Kara chattered advice at her ear. When the score came, Kara shut up momentarily, her arm around Haley.

“Haley, want me to look?” Kara asked her.

Haley muttered something, but nodded ruefully. Kara was the last person she wanted to inform her how far her score had dropped because of a simple mistake. A mistake she could have prevented, of course, had she listened to Kara. Stupidly, she’d ignored her, and now …

Now her score came back. Eight-point-six. Good enough for the fifth-place ribbon.

The entire team watched anxiously. They had pens out, scorebooks, and calculators. Even with the computers in the corner having decided fifteen minutes ago who had won, and what place, the team still had to figure out for themselves before hand. Anxiety was the killer. Haley sat in silence, ducking the looks from her father. She knew he was going to be only good-naturedly disappointed that she wouldn’t be getting a medal. His look, however, said that he was still waiting for a miracle. With her eyes, Haley tried to correct him. The facts were the facts. Haley had fallen, Kara hadn’t. Gymnastics was built of rules and technicalities. Hard facts won out.

As the scores were called out, Haley watched in a daze as she gained a ribbon for her floor vault routine, and was passed over for bars. Kara was up both times, a ribbon on vault, which she tossed in her bag irreverently, and a medal on bars. Haley was glaring at her whenever she knew Kara wasn’t looking. Her teammate could have been more gracious about her boastful answers to “So what does the carpet feel like?” After all, it wasn’t like Kara’s dad was sitting there with a goofy expression on his face, waiting for his daughter to get a medal.

As the beam scores were called out, Haley did the calculations mentally sixteen more times before concluding that nothing spectacular was going to happen. As it turned out, Haley was half right. Kara scored second, clanging the silver beam medal against her bronze from bars. Haley scored fourth, standing on the ground beside that carpet. There was a grin on her face, captured forever on camera by her father, who had a tear in his eye.

Haley stood apart from the team now, proudly displaying the two new ribbons, and cautiously realizing that her dad was smiling, with his right eye glistening. As she approached him, Haley could hear him saying things. “Guess you needed the hawk, hm?” Or maybe it would be just, “Next time, Hales, it’ll be a medal.”

She stopped moving about a foot away from him. Her mother held the camera as her father engulfed her in a hug and said with a guffaw, “Fourth, Hales, fourth!”

It was the highest place Haley had ever gotten, medal or no. A relieved grin cracked across her face, and she muttered sheepishly, “It’d have been first if I’d listened to Kara.”

Obviously, Haley’s father didn’t quite get this concept, but he indicated Kara over his shoulder.

“Oh! Well, you can go congratulate her if you want. I think she’s back there…somewhere. Does she have an older brother? Want her to come out with us to ice cream?”

Haley’s eyes widened with horror. After all, Kara hovered near her shoulder constantly. Didn’t she have other friends? And Kara was the one that had pointed out the mistake costing her a medal. Kara had been the one with her arm over her shoulder, telling her just how low her score was. Why would she want her to come to ice cream with her?

“No…No, thanks Dad, I’ll just go congratulate her, and we’ll be off.”

Scurrying around her father, to placate him, her eyes searched out Kara in the crowd of over-excited kids, sweaty and chalked. When she found Kara, finally, Haley swallowed to see Kara ignored and bored, with her brother texting besides her. There was a friction in the air there, of desperation, and Haley’s heart plummeted again, even as she walked buoyant, proud of her fourth. Here was Kara, the one that everyone knew would achieve a perfect ten one day, perfectly content, and yet alone.

 Approaching her awkwardly, Haley tilted her head and stuck out her gym bag. Kara blinked.

“Oh, I’m not…We’re just waiting for my dad to pick us up. He’s bought me a big screen television for qualifying for nationals you know. ”

Haley just shook her head offering her bag while saying,

“Thanks for the tip. I’ll be sure to listen next time. Candy heart?”