"Oh my gosh, honey, what happened?"
My mother comes barreling towards me as I walk into the living room, an ice pack pressed to my bruised eye. I can barely see out of it and practically slam into the wall.
"I got hit by a tennis ball," I bluntly reply, falling into the brown leather armchair. My funny bone hits the hard armrest, and I suppress yelling out a profanity. Anything else you want to do to me, world?
"It looks terrible!" she says, crouching down next to me. Wow, what positive reassurance, Mother.
"How did you get hit by a tennis ball?!"
"The force of gravity remembered Isaac Newton and acted upon a ball to directly hit my beautiful face."
My mom frowns. "Really though, Whitney, what happened?"
"Mina and I decided to play tennis, and towards the end she hit a fast ball, and then I tried to hit it back, but that backfired clearly. What's new with me anyway."
She places her head in her hand. "Oh, Whitney." This is probably the thousandth time she has uttered this in my life. "Let's hope it's not too serious. I'll get you another ice pack."
Five minutes later, my dad walks in the room dressed in work attire, his tie half undone. I slowly look up. When he sees my eye, his blank expression changes.
"Oh dear God, Whitney, what did you do?" he asks. "Get in a bar fight?"
"Gee thanks," I reply sarcastically. "I got hit by a tennis ball."
He comes closer and peers at it. "You don't play sports. How did that even happen?"
I explain it to him, but on the inside, I'm frowning. I know he's wishing I was more like Poppy. She was always willing to go throw a ball with him because guess what?
She could actually catch it, unlike me.
Poppy walks in, and I begin to wonder if my mom has planned a family gathering, except this time, I'm the guest of honor.
"Oh my gosh, Whitney, what happened?"
I can't take any more questions and mumble a response before running upstairs. I shut my bedroom door behind me, throw myself onto my bed, and stare at the ceiling.
With one eye, of course.
***
June fifteenth is only a day away, and I know I have to make up my mind about this fitness camp soon.
I could sign up for this camp and utterly fail (not that I expected much greater) or I could actually benefit from it and become the second sporty daughter my parents probably always wished they had.
Ultimately, it's my choice, and that's what's killing me. It's in these moments I wish I wasn't a legal adult and my parents could decide everything for me.
I sigh as I walk out my front door, seeing Levi and my dad having a discussion on the porch. Everyone in my family besides me basically lives outside in the summer. I simply cannot fathom how you can pick grass and mosquitoes over air conditioning and leather sofas.
"Whitney, oh good you're here; you're coming with me!" my mom calls from the driveway, waving me over. She's standing next to her car with her purse and an impatient look on her face.
"Uh, why?" I ask, taking a nervous step back.
"We are going shopping." She makes her answer firm, and I nod happily, hoping we're going to the mall and even better, makeup shopping. I've been needing some new eyeliner. I open the door and slide into the passenger.
"Where are we going?" I ask as she backs out of our driveway.
"You," she says, pointing at my face, "are getting workout clothes."
My happy expression falls, and I cringe. First the application, now the workout clothes; this camp is becoming too real.
"Wait, what?" I ask, just for clarification.
"You heard me," she answers. "Look, I can't force you to go to that fitness camp, but I can definitely motivate you to go after something you want, and I'm going to start with some good old fashioned retail therapy."
"But Mom, my eye is still purple," I whine, looking at it through my phone camera. I would've never expected tennis balls could do this much damage.
"You call that an excuse?" she retorts. "Come on, Whitney, a tennis ball can't get between you and your goal."
"You're right. I've been contemplating this myself, and although I hate to say it, I will do it."
Wait, what did I just say?!
Her lips curl into a small smile, her green eyes gleaming. "See, that's my Whitney. I'm so proud."
Of a possible failure, my mind completes for her.
In about twenty minutes we reach the large mall, driving around in the parking garage until we find a space to park. While Connecticut is a nice, quaint state, it can be quite boring, one of the main reasons why everyone is out shopping in the malls or laying on the beach, contemplating whether or not they should move somewhere more fascinating.
"Now where do we start?" I ask, once we walk through the entrance.
"The athletic store; we're here for a reason, remember?" She darts ahead, and I jog as fast as possible in my strappy sandals to catch up with her as she takes the escalator to the second floor. Truthfully, I'm angry at myself for agreeing to this because I could be binge-watching the whole fourth season of my favorite show right now. I left off on an epic cliffhanger.
We walk into a sports store together, and all the athletic vibes in front of me blind my lazy soul. Running shorts, sneakers, soccer balls, yoga mats; my worst nightmare comes to life.
"Look over here," my mother calls, shuffling through a rack of black exercise leggings with different colored waistbands. Next to them are the matching tank tops and sweat bands.
"Will this size work?" she asks, holding up three identical pairs of leggings.
"I think so," I say, taking them from her with a thank you. She shuffles through the tank tops and hands me three different ones and then dumps a pile of short sleeves with cheesy motivational quotes on them on top of the pile which I put back when she's not looking. She's already asking a sales associate a question, and then she motions me over with her hand. I drag my feet to my mom, following the woman to the fitting rooms and trying not to send my heaping pile of clothing to the floor.
"I'm Tracy if you need anything else, okay?" the worker says, holding the door open for me. I smile and lock the door behind me and take off my boyfriend jeans, pulling on the leggings. They fit, but I know it's going to take some time for me to get used to how I look in bottoms as form-fitting as these are. I then pull on the tank top and tug at the end, standing up straight and feeling like an absolute idiot.
I always admire how girls can look so cute and fit wearing this kind of attire in their exercise posts on social media, but I just look like an out-of-place Whitney. As I am about to open the door to show my mom, I hear a high-pitched whine come from the room next to me.
"Mom, seriously, these extra smalls are too big! Is there an extra extra small here?"
If she can't even fit in the extra small, why is she here? My subconscious remarks rather rudely, as I try to recognize who might be talking. She calls to her mother again, and I sink into the wall, my back hitting it with force. I know exactly who this voice belongs to.
Willow.
"Whitney, are you done yet?" I hear my mother call, and I cringe, sinking back farther into the wall. Of all times she had to yell out my name.
"In a second," I hum, fiddling with the lock and stepping out. As I do, Willow walks out on my right. Our eyes meet, and we each take one giant step back.
"You look so cute," my mother gushes. Willow rotates between staring at me and the ground until her mother makes an entrance.
"Honey, do you know this girl?" my mother whispers to me, trying to look casual. I nod slowly and take another step backwards.
"Whitney, so nice to see you!" Willow's mother remarks with a smile. The only reason she knows me is from the years of volunteering she did at my high school, never realizing the great animosity between her daughter and me. I never knew parents could be that oblivious.
"It's great running into you too," I reply awkwardly, looking up at her. Willow's mom reaches over to shake my mother's hand.
"Claudia," she says. I take note of how she's in a pencil dress and has her ashy-blonde hair in an updo despite the fact she is only out shopping. It's evident who Willow takes after.
"Jennifer," my mother responds.
"It's funny we haven't met before," Willow's mother replies, retracting her hand. "Your daughter is such a lovely girl."
I am about to throw up hearing a compliment from Willow's mom while Willow herself is just standing there, arms folded across her chest and staring at me as though she just stuffed a ripe lemon behind her teeth. Neither of us dare to utter a word at each other, and my mother takes notice.
"I think we need to go now, Mom, right?" I ask, nudging her with my hand and giving her another fake smile. She doesn't understand why I'm in a rush but gives a goodbye to Willow's mother anyway.
I pull her outside of the fitting room area after I change, holding the pile of clothes in my other hand. She buys them even though I haven't tried them all.
"What was that for?" she hisses, once we step away from the entrance of the store.
I bite the edge of my lip. "Mom, her daughter and I don't exactly like each other. To put it lightly."
Her eyes widen. "Oh my god, is that the girl who was so horrible toâ"
"You mean the Willow? Yes."
"Gosh, I would have never expected that was her," she mumbles to herself. "To think her mother seems so lovely."
"I guess it's not always like-mother-like-daughter," I answer and make a turn to my favorite makeup store indiscreetly. My mother notices and steers me away to the escalator. I try to forget about Willow as my mother drags me into a shoe store and gravitates to the lines of running sneakers.
Except I can't, since one of the main reasons I will never wish to go back to high school is made up of only two words.
Willow Gerard.