Page 61 of Hypothetical Heart
Our towels are all laid out in the sand, and we all sigh as we take our seats. The sun is just starting to set over the horizon, slowly turning the sky an ombre of orange. It’s nearly seven o’clock at night.
“I don’t think I’m ever going to hear out of this ear again,” Winnie groans, tipping her head to the right, no doubt trying to get the water out.
“I’m not going to be able to walk straight for at least a month.” Luke lays back on his towel.
“You got tackled a couple of times. Stop acting like you got fucked.” Eloise smacks him in the back of the head.
“Yeah, Luke, you should be able to handle it better thanany of us,” I say. “You got tackled on turf every Friday night.”
“That was different,” he says breathlessly, like he’s recalling war memories. “Eloise isn’t a football player. She’s much,muchworse.” We all laugh.
“I don’t think it’s fair that I’m being compared to a two-hundred-pound lineman,” she replies.
Luke rolls his eyes. “I think I almost blacked out underwater when you tried to Muhammad Ali me.”
“You did not just use Muhammad Ali as a verb,” Genevieve scoffs.
“Honest to God, E, you should take up a contact sport becauseholyshit,” I joke.
Once the conversation dies down and music starts playing from someone’s speaker, the atmosphere takes a dramatic turn.
We’re no longer chasing after each other, worrying on-lookers that we’re trying to kill one another. Instead, we’re simply enjoying the company of being surrounded by the people we’ve known our entire lives.
We laugh at the jokes we make, and by the time the clouds start to cover the sky, we’re all dancing in the sand.
Eloise and Winnie have their arms hooked as they spin in circles. Genevieve is on Jameson’s back as he runs up and down the shore.
Everything feels peaceful, and once the sun has almost completely set and all our stomachs begin grumbling, we reconvene.
“Can we go to a seafood boil for dinner tonight?” Winnie asks, referring to our favorite restaurant, and we all immediately agree. It’s one right on the beach, and on weekends, they do huge seafood boil dinners.
Even Genevieve enjoys their food, which sayssomething. “It will be Jameson’s first time!” She smiles, and we all pretend to congratulate him.
That’s how we’ve convinced ourselves to call it a night, with the promise of the best seafood in town. We head back in the house so we can all shower and change before heading into town.
There’s no wonder why people in these types of beach towns all eat dinner so late. Everyone wants to soak up the sun while it’s still light out, only going to dinner once it’s dark.
“Everyone, get your bike!” Eloise yells through the house. “We’re leaving!”
There are many memories I have made that I believe people will forget when I die. But, as we all ride our bikes to dinner–laughing because Winnie barely knows how–and being so happy together under the street lights illuminating our path, I know it’s one I’ll remember forever.
19
My entire life, I have strived for perfectionism. I’ve wanted to be the best ballerina, the best daughter, the best friend.
The mantra of my life has been “Do better, do better, do better.”
Yet, with every extra practice, every impressive accomplishment, every kind word, I’ve only ever been met with the notion that nothing is ever perfect.
It’s almost as if everyone is trying to make me feel better by promising me I will never be perfect.
It never makes me feel better. Instead, it only makes me wonder if perfection is only impossible to reach because everyone believes it to be.
“That was better,” Madame Bacri says as I continue practicing. “Not perfect, but better.”
Fouettés, oh, how I hate them.
She steps closer, motioning towards my waist. “You need to keep your hips more aligned. Try again.”
