Cartwheels by Natalie Schriefer

Nick’s millionth cartwheel looks like his first: He plants one hand on the grass and then, before I can catch his legs and help, he tumbles into a round-off. For a moment I’m taller than him, and I wonder if this is what being the older sibling is like, trying not to roll your eyes while the younger one does something stupid and uncoordinated, again and again, but then Nick stands up, and I’m rolling my eyes anyway, and it’s my voice in the quiet of the early evening going, “Seriously, dude?”

Nick brushes off his hands. “You made it look easy.”

“It is.”

His sigh is so dramatic I almost roll my eyes again. Instead, I look towards the house. Somehow the lights are still off.

“C’mon,” Nick says from beside me, and I turn back to him as he positions himself for another go. His old Lakeview High t-shirt is smudged with dirt. “Jax harassed me about this all semester.”

“That’s because everyone can do this,” I say. “Except you, apparently.”

“Then help me!”

I wave him on. How my older brother got to college, playing D-II lacrosse, without ever learning to cartwheel is beyond me. Across the street the sun dips behind the trees. We’ve been out here for an hour, ever since Mom told Dad that she wants a divorce. That was all I heard before Nick steered me out here. No one has come looking for us yet. Are they arguing? Is someone moving out? When does that happen in a divorce? Because there are only two weeks left of school, and Spirit Day is Friday, and everyone from jazz is dressing up as dominoes; Mel and I picked three and four. I don’t want to think further ahead than that, about summer, or about sophomore year in the fall.

In front of me, Nick asks, “You ready?”

“Are you?” I snap.

Nick reaches for the grass and falls into another round-off.

He’s scared, maybe. Confused. No lacrosse stick to help him make sense of this, but what he really needs is to trust gravity. Centrifugal motion, or whatever. He stands and I say, “You have to commit to it.” As an example, I cartwheel at him just to be a jerk, but he doesn’t sidestep me. He grabs my legs instead and holds them. My fingers leave the ground.

“Like this?” he asks from somewhere above me, laughing.

For a moment I hang there, blood rushing to my head. My scalp pounds. Even upside down, I can see the house, lights off. Everything is suspended. I’m tired of goofing off. If Nick would just try, he’d get his cartwheel, and we could send video proof to Jax, and then we could go inside and find out what’s going on and—

I kick my legs, but Nick holds my knees.

“Stop!” My fingers scrabble against the grass. “Let me go!”

Nick hums.

“Nick!”

He releases my legs. I fall sort of sideways, my arms breaking my fall, dirt smearing my forearm. I sit up and brush it off.

“You’re an asshole,” I say.

Above me Nick frowns, face shadowed. He looks like he wants to say something. Maybe he’s sorry for messing with me, but maybe it’s about everything still to come: how he’ll be here for the summer, but in the fall he’ll go back to school and lacrosse. He gets to leave.

I stand. I want to tell him that this isn’t fair, that everything is about to change and I hate it already, but I can’t make myself say it because someone will come looking for us eventually, and then all of this will be real, and I don’t want to rush that, so I tackle Nick, jamming my shoulder into his chest.

He stumbles backward. “What the—”

We separate, and I try to shove him again, but Nick grabs my arm. I scream, but I’m giggling too, fourteen going on six, those summer afternoons when we battled monsters in the woods across the street, plastic swords and all. He narrated us like we were in a story. Sometimes I’d mess it up on purpose, run left when he told me to go right, just to see how Nick would spin it: “Lady Bailey knew the map couldn’t be trusted, so she followed her instinct left.” He made me feel smarter. Better. But maybe there’s no rewriting a day like today. Maybe some days it’s all we can do to pretend, harping on cartwheels like they matter as the day chills to evening.

I yank my arm free from Nick. “Oh my God,” I say. I sound mad but I’m smiling. “Just do your cartwheel already.”

And Nick does—almost. This attempt is only a little better, but we’re laughing, and I’m wondering if I should throw some dirt at him, maybe a fistful of grass, anything I can hold, even if I know it will slip through my fingers eventually.

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NATALIE SCHRIEFER — Natalie Schriefer, MFA is an academic editor and freelance writer. Her writing has appeared in Poets & Writers, HuffPost, CNN, Wired, Bloomberg, and more. She focuses on pop culture, health, and identity (particularly bisexuality). When she isn’t at her desk, she’s often out walking or learning a new sport.

Art by GWENN SEEMEL — Since 2003, Gwenn has been painting in a polka-dot Cubist style that lends their feminist figurative art an aura of joy, even as the artist addresses serious issues. Gwenn’s work has been featured everywhere from Newsweek and Hyperallergic to the cover of an Oxford University Press book. An avid questioner of copyright, the artist speaks regularly about creativity, notably giving a TEDx talk in Switzerland. Seemel is both French and American, and they live in Lambertville, New Jersey. See more of their art at gwennseemel.com.