“You’re going to be alright, right Bailey?” His older brother -Samuel- asked, repeatedly sending quick glances over at the boy riding shotgun.

“Of course.”

“You sure?”

Bailey’s gut twisted up, fingers idly tapping against the door handle. They were already so close to the big gym where regionals would be held. "Of course." He sat up straight and squared out his shoulders until his whole body looked stiff.

“I mean really Bayleaf, you’re going to be alright?”

There was a long pause with only the sounds of Bailey’s sighs to fill the silence. Finally, Samuel pulled up to the front of the building where the silence was broken with the car’s quiet sputtering and Bailey picked up his bag.

There was no smile, no look of reassurance on his face, just those tight set lips and the blank eyes that refused to let his brother in. “Of course.” Samuel yanked at the strands of hair pulling them taunt until his skin seemed to lift from his scalp. He sighed but nodded anyway.

Bailey unbuckled his seatbelt when all of a sudden his brother’s right hand was gripping tightly at his knee. Instead of looping his other arm out of the seatbelt, he paused looking back at his brother who was now using the hand on his thigh as leverage to lean across Bailey and pry open the glove compartment. It was a mess on the inside: filled with paperwork, old candy wrappers, and dried out pens, and in all of that mess Samuel pulled out a granola bar which he handed to Bailey.

“Okay then. Eat well and stay hydrated. I’m going to go park the car.” Bailey’s lips tilted into a smile as he took the snack before finally slinking his way out of the car. As he closed the door the car behind them honked, and then Samuel was gone leaving Bailey to walk into the building alone.

The room itself was spacious but still the air felt suffocating. Everywhere he looked there were clusters of people stretching or chattering with one another. Some of them looked vaguely familiar, but most of them were fresh faces, happy faces. Bailey could not relate to any of them. His tongue slid against the bumps of metallic braces in front of his teeth, raking back and forth as he passed the masses on the way to the men’s changing room. When somebody looked at him he’d smile, close lipped, but when they weren’t he went back to that blank slate of a face, the one that didn’t require any effort.

The dressing room was filled with commotion, everybody hurrying to put on something less restricting than the sweaters and jeans that clung tightly to their bodies. Since there was less talking going on Bailey didn't need to put effort in to being social. Instead, he opted to find a quiet corner where he could dress himself and quickly leave.

When he finally got out the stands around the gym had started to fill up. Bailey’s dark eyes raked around the people desperately until he could find the row with Samuel and Mama, but next to the two of them Harter Shaw was nowhere to be found. His lips drooped downwards for a moment and his gaze lowered from the stands to the competition roaring on below. The women were starting their rounds on the uneven bars. He was watching the first woman spin around in a kip, locking her arms tight as if she was a swimmer pulling herself out of a pool of water while she began her forward spin. He should have been stretching out his muscles, should have been getting ready for competition.

---

“You can’t do it.” The little ginger boy snickered as he prodded Bailey’s side with his boney index finger. He should have noticed the slight pain from the jab, but instead he was completely mesmerized by the swirling of her supple body as it raked back and forth between the uneven bars. Her body flipped backwards, small fingers protected by her ring grip, clasping the higher bar. The dark ponytail atop her head flopped up to create an extension to her body as she dove into her next spin around the bars. The process looked to be just as simple as the parallel bars beside him, yet there was an alluring aspect to the height difference between her bars that had caught Bailey’s attention.

“Why not?”

Beside him, the little ginger boy squinted his beady leather eyes. “It’s a girl thing, so you can’t do it.” He proclaimed puffing out his chest as if to end the conversation. Bailey scuffed. If she can do it then so can I. His eyes hungrily gazed on as the girl flipped forwards off the taller bar and landed on the tips of her feet. He watched the smile alit her tiny face as she curtseyed, thanking the empty air, before wandering off to the stands. It was then that Bailey marched forward, a young kid, radiating confidence in his heavyset footsteps towards the interesting looking bars.

“Dude. Yo! No. Wait up!” cried the ginger kid as he scurried to catch up to little Bailey Daniels. “You’re going to hurt yourself.” he warned.

“No I am not. It’s just some bars, I do them all the time,” came the curt snap of his voice as he reached the mat.

“But these bars are different. They’re all weird,” the little ginger paused, his voice hushing down to a whisper, hand shielding his mouth before he continued, “And they probably have a bunch of girl cooties or something.” With a roll of his eyes, Bailey dipped his hands into the grainy bowl of chalk dust besides the bars. He smashed his fingers around in them until they turned ghastly in tincture and a cloud of white chalk wafted out with the pull of his hands.

He stood in front of the lower bar, meager chest trembling as he took a few steps back before running forward. Little feet bounded off the springboard and while the ginger boy didn’t approve of Bailey’s actions he still rushed to push the board away from Bailey’s path as he spun circles around the bar. Every rotation he’d come eye to eye with the higher up bar in front of him and think, next time, I’ll go for it next time, before making the full loop around again. Finally, he let go reaching out for the bar in front of him that suddenly felt a lot higher up than it had from across the room. The tips of his fingers grazed the metal and grasped at empty air as he plummeted down, landing on his ass.

“Ow!” He cried out, glancing over to see the little ginger boy curled up on the floor with a cackling bout of laughter, before his eyes fixed themselves on the bar in front of him.

You can’t do it.

They looked so easy right there in front of them.

You can’t do it.

And why not?

---

A gymnast ahead took her flyaway, flipping off the higher bar and landing on her feet where the parents in the crowd cheered. By then the last female contestant was making her way over to the uneven bar. Next would be the lone high bar. It sat close by to the unevens and Bailey’s stomach shriveled into itself just looking at it. Of course that was where he would make his debut. It was easier than the parallel bars for him –yet not as easy as the uneven bars which was a females only routine— but somehow having that lone bar gleaming there as the center of attention felt empty, like there should have been something else, anything else, beside it. The judges were going to watch him on the empty metal and pick apart every little action or gesture he made on them which had him squirming uncomfortably from his spot on the sidelines.

---

Bailey sniffled up the loose snot in his nose as his head dove into the warmth of Harter’s curved neck. It was the smell of freshly cut grass and once burnt wood mingling into cheap drugstore cologne that eased his shoulders downward. “She’s gone,” his voice muffled outward against the rough cloth of Harter’s shirt. Beneath him, he felt Harter’s shoulders shake and then stiffen.

Now there were vibrations along his back, right over his shoulder blade, where Harter’s hand patted against him awkwardly, “Shhsh it’s s’kay, Bales.” And then the patting stopped and Bailey was left with just the ghostly warmth of where his hand had previously rested along his back.

The moments passed with neither boy moving from the half embrace before Bailey finally pulled his head back to greet Harter’s eyes. Bailey drew his lips into a downward slope and pulled the skin of his face inward by the tight knitting of his brows. “It’s all because she was in the wrong, isn’t that right?” He asked scrubbing away tears until the pale skin of his face gleamed red. “God punished Mother because what she was is wrong.” Mama, Samuel, and Bailey had spent all afternoon with Mother. Their clothes were black and properly pressed in the morning when they went to meet her then they watched her sink down into the dead grass and dirt and they cried the wrinkles into their faces and attire. Little twelve year-old Bailey had nothing else to equate this traumatic experience with except that she chose another woman over a man to make a home. She brought this upon herself and even worse upon him.

“No, umm-look,” Harter fumbled. “I mean now,” he paused watching as Bailey ducked back into his shoulder where the boy began to cry more viciously. He could feel the tears and the snot that rubbed against him soak the bit of cloth, and Harter gritted his teeth trying to ignore the temptation of calling the boy out on it. “Now it’ll be easier for y’all to keep on pretending,” he sighed instead, “You don’t have to hide your parents anymore; just let ‘em all think your pop’s gone. Nobody has to know. It’s perfect.”

Bales pulled back once more, his hands gripping Harter’s shoulder and after a moment he smiled. It was barely an upturn of his lips, but it still allowed the blemished metal braces still to shine through. That’s when Harter plucked one of the wilting tulips from the bouquet off his bed and began to weave behind Bailey’s ear, his fingers slipping as he attempted to get it to stay in his short hair.

“Hey stop that,” Bailey frowned, putting his hands up to Harter’s until the point his nails clawed into the skin, “I’m not some girl.”

“You look just like Mother though.”

Bailey yanked the flower out, staring at it. “Really? How do you even know she was my mom?”

Harter’s calloused fingers fell down and toyed with the flower Bailey had taken from his hair, “Sometimes you just know Bales.”

“And Samuel?”

“No, no I think he’s the other mother’s,” and the tears started to crash down all over again.

---

Bailey reach out, his hands gripped the bar tight, spiraling forward.

---

“You can do it.” Harter mumbled from underneath his mop of blond hair. They had been sitting on the back porch of the Shaw household with their dinners set down in front of them talking about Bailey’s latest attempts to conquer the uneven bars. Harter had already finished chugging down his soup and was now glancing down at the old phone between his hands, tapping away as Bailey talked.

“You really think so?”

“Ya, sure.” He clicked away some more.

Bailey sighed at the bowl in front of him. Little chunks of chicken bobbed around in a pool of oil mingling with the carrots and noodles that all formed one coherent color of yellowish mush. The spoon relaxed against the lip of the bowl submersed to the tip of the handle with cooled fluids. His hand reached out to pull the spoon up, dark eyes following as he dripped the flow of broth off of it. A frown fell upon his lips and the spoon clattered back down, splashing into the bowl with a small glub. Now the deserted bowl was left behind and Bailey’s hands came back to his lap, fidgeting, lacing together. He heard the faint clicking beside him and looked up to see Harter’s cellphone. The man next to him sped his fingers along the buttons and smiled to himself. Bailey watched him as time ticked by but Harter’s eyes stayed fixed to the screen. Bailey’s fidgeting fingers unlaced to reach out for Harter. His fingers hovered inches from Harter’s skin and stalled there. Harter’s face continued to curl in towards the screen. Finally, Bailey’s fingers pressed against the man’s shoulder eliciting no more than a small grunt.

Time ticked by with the silence of breathing bodies and occupied minds. Harter and his phone, two isolated objects in a world of their own. Yet the man sat just a few inches from Bailey. A heaved sigh broke out of him as he leaned forward to examine Harter’s screen. “Are you texting your girlfriend again?” They hadn’t even been dating a week, but it was freshman year now and she was some ‘upperclassmen’. Since he rallied up the nerves to ask the lass out and she said yes, Harter had thrown thoughts of everything else right out the window of his rickety old farmhouse.

“Mmhmm.”

“Thanks for the encouragement.” Bailey mumbled, pulling up from the porch and wiping the dust from his jeans before collecting their bowls.

“Anytime. Just lemme know when you make it big at those strip clubs.” Bailey, who was now halfway through the backdoor, turned around to look at Harter. His eyebrows tied themselves together and for a moment his lips parted, to question the response, to ask if he had even been listening, but it was a lost cause and Bailey just turned away.

---

Bailey looped around the bar again, feet over head and slowing down as his right hand crossed over his left, twisting on the turn down and ending the swing backwards before coming up again and holding a handstand.

---

“I mean really Bayleaf, you’re going to be alright?” There was a long paused after that in which Bailey took the time to compose himself.

“Of course.” He repeated and Samuel handed him the processed artificially colored snack.

“Okay then, eat well, and stay hydrated. I’m going to go park the car.” He offered his brother a smile as he slunk his way out of the car. Samuel drove away and Bailey turned back to the door to get ready for competition. He walked inside, still holding the granola bar and mindlessly unwrapping it to take a bite before he caught sight of the gleaming metal uneven bars on the other side of the room. Bailey glanced down at the food in his hand, surveying the room around him, and walking over to find a trashcan where he disposed of the granola.

---

Bailey crossed arms again, his eyes closing momentarily, heart pumping faster, and now his breathing started to heave its shaky way along. I can do this. I can do this. This was regionals; this was his ticket up to state, up to nationals. Just don’t screw up the landing. Perfect landing.

---

Harter smiled, looking down at Bailey with those warm brown eyes and that lopsided dimple he only seemed to get when he smiled off to the left. “I’ll be there Bales don’t worry, you know I’ll be there.” He assured Bailey and in return Harter received the upturn of Bailey’s closed lips. His fingers scooped down under Bailey’s chin, tilting his face higher up, “Come on Bailey, don’t be like that. Give me a real smile and show me those braces.” Bailey hesitated, he wasn’t really all that ecstatic at the moment but then Harter laughed and the smile bubbled up inside of Bailey, just a moment of a real smile –braces and all—before he pushed away from Harter’s touch.

“Just promise me you’ll be there. Don’t let your father talk you into another Saturday afternoon shift in the clinic.”

“Look Bailey, I promise. I know this competition means the world to you.”

---

Bailey’s arms quaked from between his chest and the pole like they were a dainty tether trying to pull him together. There was a granola bar in the far trashcan, uneaten. He propelled himself forward --Mother’s lonely grave-- on the swing --there were tulips there. Would the judges find the routine perfect? Harter wasn’t in the crowd, let go of the bar that was now underneath him, perfect, just perfect. His tongue grazed upon the metal in his mouth, it was a blemish, flaws. Bailey’s legs spiraled upward parallel to the high bar underneath, people in the crowd were watching, and his hands reached down once his legs passed to catch the bar again. You can’t do it. Just one more spin --don’t touch the soup-- before the flyaway --uneven bars are for girls--stick the landing --every pound is a trick on those bars you cannot achieve. The tips of his finger brushed against the metal --was it always that high up?-- and he grasped desperately at thin air as he began to plummet.