We’re playing badminton, and I just flinched when the plastic feather thingy flew at me. Even though it’s sitting right next to my sneaker, Finny walks over to pick it up. He backs up a few paces and holds up his racket. There are too many pairs of us to be able to use the nets, so we’re scattered in random intervals throughout the gym.
“Try again,” he says. “I’m hitting it to you slowly. It can’t hurt you.” I dutifully raise the racket. With exaggerated movements, Finny tosses it into the air and hits it gently toward me. I bat defensively at it and it bounces off my racket and arches toward the floor. Finny dives, but my poor return is too much for even him. He plucks the white thing off the shiny yellow boards of the gym and looks at me again.
“Okay,” he says. “That was better. This time, try to hit it upward.” He gets into position again, then pauses. “But not straight up,” he adds.
This time when I hit the birdie, it veers off to the left. Finny dashes to the side, and suddenly it’s flying back at me.
“Whoa,” I cry. I swing at it but miss and it falls to the floor. “Sorry,” I say. I bend over and pick it up. It’s kind of like a bouncy ball, I think. I like bouncy balls. If it didn’t have so many plastic feathers sticking out of it, I might like the game better. But then it would be harder to see. I try to imagine seeing the little ball flying in the air. Maybe if it was brightly colored.
“Autumn?” Finny says. I look up at him again. I realize that I’ve just been standing staring at the ball.
“Sorry,” I say for the second time in two minutes. “I zoned out there for a sec.”
“I saw,” Finny says. “So do you want to serve?”
“Sure,” I say. I carefully toss the birdie in the air and watch it fall. I hit it, and it flies up and out. Finny lopes forward and hits it toward me, graceful, high, and slow. It comes straight to me, and without having to take a step, I whack it up again. We manage to pass it back and forth five times before I finally miss it again.
“That was good,” Finny says. Ms. Scope blows her whistle and we walk to her to place our rackets in a pile at her feet. Finny and I walk together, but not side by side. I lag a bit behind him and keep some distance between us.
“Oh,” I say, “Mom said to ask you what you want for your birthday.”
“I don’t care,” he says. “Whatever.”
“I have to have something to tell her,” I say.
“Um, I could use some new sneakers?” Finny says.
“I’ll tell her to get you an ant farm,” I say as we turn around to walk toward the locker room. Finny shrugs.
“Okay,” he says. “You want one too?”
“Yeah,” I say, though the thought hadn’t occurred to me. I could put it on my desk and watch it when I have writer’s block. We’re nearing the doors now. After I change clothes, I’ll go to my literature class and not talk to Finny again until tomorrow, even if I see him from a distance here or at home. “What are you doing for your birthday?” I ask.
“Just the same thing as always, having everybody over on Friday and we’ll eat and watch a movie,” he says.
“Sounds like fun,” I say.
“Do you want to come?” Finny asks. I stop short. Finny turns to me. We’re standing in front of the locker room doors. Our classmates walk around us to get inside.
“I don’t really—” I stumble on my words and have to look away from his face. “I mean, that wouldn’t really work, would it?” I say.
Finny shrugs, but he doesn’t smile. “I just thought I would ask anyway.”
“I mean, I would ask you too, but, you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” Finny says.
“But on our actual birthdays, we’ll have dinner with The Mothers, so—” I shrug, unsure of how to finish the thought.
“So it’s fine, we’re good,” he finishes for me.
“Yeah,” I say. “We’re good.”
“Finn, Autumn,” Ms. Scope yells at us. “Do you want to be late?” I realize we’re the last two in the gym. We turn away from each other and go through our separate doors.
