I'm Scared of Heights | ONC 2023 ✔️

9) Speak in Memory

Natalie

I've always esteemed that excuses held fast to the oblivion of incompetence. This, upon further investigation, was rooted in the same principle of Paul Adefarasin, a Nigerian pastor, author, and televangelist. Excuse is the tool of the incompetent. A monument of nothingness, and those that use it are not wise.

A minuscule mass of my cells want to blame pure instinct on Sunday's situation, but the rest of my body of cells doesn't concur. If anything, the disagreers rally with reasons why the offered excuse isn't valid. Each reason is logical and based on the multiple sessions of human watching I have completed.

I should talk to him, to put it simply.

I tighten my grip around my metal canteen, sipping the concoction of two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen. To my left, another hurdler, the only other that stays on Tuesdays, supports themself against the concrete concession stand while sipping red Powerade, enjoying the shade the tin roof provides.

"Track star!" Coach Trent exclaims, sweeping a weathered hand across his curly brown mess of a scalp. "Whassup?"

"The usual," I reply, kicking off a spike and replacing it with regular trainers.

There is nothing "usual" about the past week and a half. This term predicts something I can only hope for while a minor. Because according to technicalities, which the LE knows well, Dad will be legally bound to the court's ruling on or after the tenth, meaning my siblings and I technically have to visit the LE if not ruled in our favor. Not to mention the legal trouble Dad could get in for this false accusation.

Logically, it doesn't make sense. Throwing parental kidnapping into the mix does nothing but complicate this, Mother. Never mind, Tina is the one who left us seven years ago. Why would utilizing family court be of benefit? The LE is wasting our and the court's time spouting detrimental prevaricates. Curse human logic.

No, there couldn't possibly be logic intertwined in the mix.

Trent chuckles, shaking his head. "And what would 'the usual' be?"

I purse my lips while zipping my duffle. "Surviving on a planet prone to lifeform extinction."

"I see." Trent rubs his chin in thought. "Does that explain why your form slipped? It isn't like you to break hurdles. To be that distracted."

My chest contracts, and the awakened thought twirls in a rage of discomfort. The impact on my right leg is sure to leave a hurdle-sized bruise. It isn't every day someone smashes their leg into a hurdle, splinting it in half. I've only seen it one other time. "Partly." I give a curt nod. "I should go."

Trent grabs me by the shoulder, his brows furrowing. "You good?"

"No," I answer after a moment. Trent opens his mouth to presumably assure me the world will return to a form of celebrated light, but I continue. My voice returns faster and louder. "Being 'good' is an impermanent state. You caught me at a sour point." I pace right, out of arm's reach, and into the supposedly yellow ball of gas's glare.

Trent nods in acceptance as he produces a key, unlocking the concession stand. "Take a day off. Hell, take the week off if you need." He stretches his hands wide after wheeling the cart of blocks into the gray building. Trent leans closer, his face forming a wide grin. "Hurdles are real expensive, y'know."

For a moment, I let my lips shift into a smile. The action is uncaring of the turmoil of all my other voluntary functions. That's precisely the kind of bonehead I am. "You're unconvincing," I say with a laugh.

Trent beams, his chest rumbles, and the dimples under his cheekbones glow. "Righty. Keep up the great work, track star." He claps my back before exercising his lungs with a blaring shout, alerting all in the area he's searching for the long-distance coach.