STAMINA

By Amba Raghavan

I sat at the stairs waiting for my ride to pick me up. I made sure to be ready fifteen minutes in advance, God forbid I leave them waiting on me. It’s their world, and I’m just living in it.

I rested a plastic Walmart bag on my lap, the most inconspicuous receptacle I could find, in which I kept a flashlight, a phone charger, gloves, a scarf, earmuffs, water, and the sandwich my mother made for me.

She had offered to buy some bread and jam, a few days back, when Abby first invited me. “I will pack something. Are you worried they will say something? I will wrap it nicely, no smell will come. You must eat to gain strength and keep up with them. These people, I tell you, they all eat meat. Ok? They eat their bloody burgers and chikk-in and beef, and then have the horsepower to run around all day. We are not like them. You don’t have any stamina. What if you fall in some ditch in the dark?”

“We’re just going to a pumpkin patch, amma,” I pleaded. “Literal two year olds go there. It’s not a big deal.”

She continued, “I know how these Neb-er-ass-kuns are. They will tell you to go and jump in the dead leaves. There will be so much dust and mold, and then you will get a cold. Just inviting trouble. Why people do this nonsense— God only knows. I need all of their phone numbers, and both parent’s contact information.”

“Her dad left. They’re divorced,” I replied. “So it’s just the mom.”

“Vinitha, I’m so worried kanna. I haven’t even met these people. Are you sure these are good girls?”

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· · ·

Abby’s mother, Mrs. Scott, pulled into the busy entrance. The city was unrecognizable. For years, their most marvelous attraction was a 130 foot water tank that declared “Gretna. The Good Life. Population 5,014.” But this new Fall fair, with promises of “magical memories and treasured traditions”, had managed to turn dusty, old Gretna into the Nebraskan’s Epcot.

Unwilling to undertake the struggle of parking, she turned her hazard lights on and stopped the car in the middle of the line, unbothered by the honking that ensued. Abby jumped out. I waited for Mrs. Scott’s go-ahead, unbuckled my seatbelt, double-checked I had all my belongings, thanked her for the ride, and stepped out of the car.

Before I could close the door, Mrs. Scott called out, “Abby! Make smart choices.” Turning to me, she said, “Vin-ee-ta, hon’, you’re in charge. I know I can count on you to keep these girls in line.” She followed with a knowing nod and sly smile.

I had hoped Abby didn’t hear this. I couldn’t risk being plastered with more tags, especially not one that suggested sycophantic buzzkill. Mrs. Scott’s eyes darted from my bag to my unibrow. After a good, long look, her expression softened, and with a sympathetic sigh, she said, “But try and have some fun, kiddo, alright?”

With a polite chuckle, I answered, “Ok, Mrs. Scott! Thank you again for the ride!” “Oh gosh— always so formal. Didn’t I tell you to call me Eliza? Ok, bye kids!” she yelled.

I closed the door, took a step back, and waved as she drove away.

Mrs. Scott was a relatively good looking woman— for their standards anyway. Abby had once pridefully declared how her mother did pilates three times a week, which to her credit, kept her in nice shape. She didn’t seem like a mother to me. She never looked haggard, or anxious, or

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burdened. I remembered noting during an overnight stay at their house, years prior, how she served only one home-cooked meal a day: air fried chicken breast and rice flavored with salt, pepper, and McCormick cajun seasoning. When I asked her why the rice was brown and poky, she replied, “It’s wild rice, dear. Better for ya— less calories!” I remembered looking down at the okra curry and white rice my mother warily packed in advance, glistening in all its molten ghee-filled glory, and I wondered why we didn’t concern ourselves with calories.

When I turned around, Abby was nowhere to be seen among the swarm of toddlers dressed as pumpkins, entwined high school couples, and gossiping soccer moms. Though inclined to stay put and recruit the help of an adult, like the safety police from elementary school taught us, I didn’t want to seem pathetic. Moreover, I refused to confirm Abby’s most recent postulation that I only had “book-smarts”, something she likely fabricated to placate her ego after receiving only an 82% (compared to my 94%) on our biology exam two days before. Or perhaps this had less to do with individual skill sets, and more to do with certain, apparent, physical attributes. I made a decision then and there to not conform to such baseless claims, and act like a normal teenager for once. I pulled myself together into a narrow frame, clutched my sister’s old Coach crossbody, held my breath, and entered the busy crowd, making my way to the ticket booth.

“Hi! Welcome to Valla’s Pumpkin Patch & Apple Orchard, where everyday is guaranteed Fall Family Fun! Which pass would you like to purchase today?” the chipper blonde at the counter asked me.

What was she so happy about, sitting in her dinghy wooden booth at six P.M. on a Friday night in 40 degree weather? “Hi, I’d like one night pass, please,” I said.

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“Alrighty, that’ll be $39.99, attractions and refreshments not included,” she replied with a glued grin.

“Forty dollars?” I exclaimed.

If this was the cost for just one night of “fun”, then sorry Mrs. Scott, I didn’t want it. I reluctantly handed her the two Jackson bills my father left for me on the dining table this morning, and started to walk away.

She called out once more, “Thank you so much! And would you like to support our amazing Griffins by donating $5 to the Gretna East High School varsity footb—” “No,” I interrupted with a rare conviction, knowing full-well about their prized athletes, seeing right through their superficial “need”. I held my head high as I marched past her, through the red barn, barrels, and haystacks, under the string lights, onto the farm ground. From this point on, the main road split into three. One led to the four acre Corn Maze, the second led to the Pigtucky Derby Pig Races, and the third led to the Haunted Farmhouse. Unsure of which path to take, I asked myself what would a girl who had divorced parents, exercised for fun, and had at least two crushes at any given time do? Unable to even remotely relate to this persona, let alone anticipate its impulses and follow in its footsteps, I remained unmoving at the crossroads.

· · ·

After a few minutes of getting eyeballed by pedestrians for anxiously walking in circles, I picked up my phone to call Abby for the fourth time. That’s when I heard two familiar voices to my right. I followed the sound of shrieky, girlish chatter, until I reached the familiar sight of fluttering red, white, and blue. Standing so relaxed and carefree under the banner of their people, were two girls, pale as can be. My Abby and her Peyton.

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Abby had planned a few days prior to invite Peyton, her friend from cross country. They were both runners, and could sunburn in less than two hours outside, which I suppose was enough of a connection to bond over in a single week. Of course, it had taken me a whole year of carefully planned conversations and listening only to Charlie Puth for Abby to even call me her friend.

“Oh my god, I forgot to tell you,” Abby said. “So Chris said hi to me in the hallway during passing period yesterday!”

Engrossed, Peyton replied, “Girl— he’s literally obsessed with you.”

“Right! And those squat drills Coach makes us do actually came in handy, cuz I dropped my pencil, and bent down reaaaal slow to pick it up. And Chris just. kept. staring,” Abby said, reenacting the scene for her friend.

“OMG stoooop! You’re so craz— Oh look, Ve-ni-da’s here! Hey!” Peyton screamed. “Hey, where were you? We were waiting, for like—” Abby turned to Peyton, and whipped her head back around to face me, “—forevurrrr!”

“I’m really sorry guys! I was being kinda slow, and didn’t know where to go,” I blurted. “But…I— I tried calling you, Abby, '' I added, casually examining my surroundings, while trying to steady my voice.

“Ohhh, my bad lol,” Abby said, grinning at a new text from Chris.

“You guys. It’s getting dark already. Let’s go,” Peyton yelled as she grabbed Abby’s arm, and ran up the hill. “Last one to the haunted house has to buy everyone caramel corn!” I attempted to run after them, but my body refused to cooperate. With each forced stride, my feet hit the ground with a blow, shocking my kneecaps, exposing the jiggle of my stomach to the world, while the Walmart bag, hooked on my arm, flung back and forth into my face. Though

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the brisk October air left my skin dry and numb, I could feel the splatters of wet spit on my chin and puffs of warm air on my upper lip from heavy exhalations. I watched them running up ahead, arm in arm, gliding above the ground in perfect form, their already petite frames becoming smaller in the distance.

· · ·

When I finally caught up to Abby and Peyton at the haunted house, they were in line talking to three boys in front of them. I didn’t like this. When I finally joined them, Peyton looked at me with a certain awe, like when you find a nice pencil in your bedroom that you completely forgot went missing years ago. Abby’s gaze was fixed on the tallest boy. He had moss green eyes, a rather lean physique, and wore his baseball cap backwards, exposing the beginnings of a receding hairline. The other two were not tall, but not short, and had stocky, almost chubby builds, common features of the white Nebraskan male demographic. One wore pants so baggy they dropped below his Calvin Klien band, and the other hid his face behind long skater boy bangs. When Peyton introduced me, Skater Boy shot a quick glance in my direction through his veil, while the other two, engaged in some awkward, ugly form of roughhousing, murmured a disinterested “hey”.

“Sooo, what school do you guys go to?” Abby asked in some synthetic voice. “West,” they barked in unison.

“Cool! We go to North,” she said. “What grade are you?”

“Sophomores,” they shouted, taking the term “outside voices” quite literally, it seemed. “Oh! We’re freshmen!” Abby squeaked. The Tallest immediately dropped the headlock he was holding Baggy Pants in, and walked toward her with renewed interest.

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The group started talking about sports, school, and how they would never use algebra in real life, so it was basically pointless. I tried to join in a few times, and at one point went on a short rant about my research on military conscription, siviilipalvelus, and Zivildienst for debate team, partially because those were the fanciest words I knew, and thought their grandeur might help assert my presence, but also because I was nervous and had never held a conversation with teenage boys before. I received no fantastic response. Peyton and Abby were briefly caught off guard; Tallest, Baggy Pants, and Skater Boy pretended like they didn’t hear me.

The crisp evening air turned humid, which meant the hair I had so painstakingly straightened, strand by strand, had become a bird’s nest. When Mrs. Scott picked me up earlier that day, the first thing she said to me was, “Oh my gosh, Vin-ee-ta! I never realized how pretty

you are.” That was new for me, and I was not ready to let it go. I spent the next thirty minutes or so, silently standing behind the others in line, preoccupied with my thick, wiry, jetblack frizz, and whether or not they were secretly repulsed by it. By me.

· · ·

After enduring maybe fifteen different versions of: “Bro, this is so DUMB”, and eight renditions of: “Like, I just can’t be scared, dude. I’m a freaking God,” I finally made my way out of the haunted house. I had never been more grateful to breathe in that fresh cornhusker air. At some point between the Ghostface hallway chase and the satanic sacrifice in the attic, they had unanimously decided among themselves that our next destination would be the Barnyard Challenge Course and Zip Line. I hated the idea of participating in anything athletic, but was relieved that the boys may finally release the pent-up testosterone, or adrenaline, or whatever it was that had triggered their sudden lycanthropy.

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It had gotten colder, and was almost pitch black outside, with only some scarcely scattered Jack-o’-lanterns lighting the vast acreage. Abby, Peyton, and I trailed slowly behind, watching the Tallest, Baggy Pants, and Skater Boy howl in the moonlight and chase each other down the hill.

“You guys!! This is so perfect— there’s literally one for each of us!” Abby said. “I’ll take Aiden, obvi, cuz his green eyes compliment my blue eyes!”

It was clear, then, why Abby had failed art class last year in eighth grade.

“And PeyPey, OMG! You and Josh!” she added, oblivious to Peyton’s visible disgust. “You two would be SO CUTE together.”

Abby continued. “And Vin-ee-ta—”

Peyton started whooping “ooOOooh” and winked at me.

“—For you….Sam!” Abby concluded triumphantly, gesturing toward Skater Boy. They both ran behind me and gripped my arms tightly. They started nudging, pushing, and shoving me in his direction. Each time I squirmed or tried to break free from their painful grasp, they dug their fingers harder into my flesh. I wanted to cry, but knew there would be no coming back from that.

My anguish soon turned to anger, and suddenly, unable to swallow anymore of this nonsense, their stupid obsession, and their bloody ignorance, I screamed, “LET GO!” “Whatever,” Abby scoffed. She let go of me and pranced down the hill in pursuit of her delusions.

Peyton just stared, unsure what to say or do. After some hesitation, she turned away, and ran after the others.

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After catching my breath and some scrambling deliberation, I knew what I had to do. Given I was stuck in that place, with those people, for another four years, the best option was making peace. So, like the many others before me, I swallowed my pride, held my head low in embarrassment, and walked onward in search of my friends.

· · ·

At the Zip Line, young children and teenagers were lined up, anxiously waiting for a turn before closing time. I could not relate to their anticipation, because I saw it for what it was: a sorry excuse for a ride, the sole afterthought in this whole extravaganza. How the owners could only afford, even after charging $10.50 per candy apple, just a rope tied to a frisbee “seat”, gliding across another rope six feet off the mulch, was beyond me.

We sat on a bench closeby, waiting for Baggy Pants to finish his turn. The smell of burned flesh wafted our way from the Teepee barbeque across the field.

I stared straight ahead, any original curiosity or excitement for the pumpkin patch, for this time, with these girls, gone. My head felt light, and my stomach gurgled with a formidable rhythm. Over the course of the evening, my mother’s peanut butter and jelly sandwich had been squeezed into a pinkish brown pulp under the stressed grip of my sweaty hands. I was slipping away into another world, when I felt a familiar poke on my arm. Peyton was looking at me nervously, with a forced, toothy smile. She suggested I try out the Zip Line and offered to hold my belongings. I never disliked Peyton; she was not obnoxious, or loud, and had never tried to hurt me, at least not intentionally. There she was, extending an olive branch, trying to move on for the sake of our friendship, and my face burned up. All I felt at that moment was regret for my juvenile sulking, and shame for putting a damper on their fun. I needed to let go, to be more lighthearted and easygoing like them, and that Zip Line was my last chance.

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I got up and walked toward the orange-clad worker who helped me onto the frisbee. With false courage, I tried to balance my chubby thighs on the disc, sat up straight, smoothed down my fluffy hair, and gripped onto the poky jute rope for dear life. The attraction was fifteen feet long, and sloped ever so slightly, just enough to excite the young ones. By the time I reached the other side, I felt thirty years older. I thought my weight might have slowed down the contraption, and hoped the others didn’t have to witness that. The Gods must have been in a giving mood, because by the time I walked back, the only thing left waiting for me was an empty red bench.

Abby, Peyton, Aiden, Josh, and Sam were nowhere to be seen. They had left and taken my Walmart bag with them. One-by-one the Jack-o’-lanterns went dark, the workers cleared things away, and ushered customers out. People passed by me like smudgy streaks, blending into a blur of white. I tried to isolate the sound of shrieky, girlish chatter in the frenzy, to no avail.

I knew I had to start moving, searching; do something, anything. But when I tried to lift my foot off the ground, a sharp twinge shot up my calf. The few muscles I had, seized, and started yowling in repeated canons, as something inside stabbed away with a sharp silver fork, shredding them to pieces like pulled pork. Unable to hold myself up any longer, I fell to the brittle grass with a thump. My tight shirt had rolled up a bit, just enough to let everything I was sucking in fall out. But it didn’t matter. I didn’t have the stamina, to go any further, to keep up, to keep chasing after. So I just sat there, rocking myself back and forth to the pathetic throbs of my defeated, wailing body.