Chapter One

Chapter One

“I don't know why you aren't more excited. Cousin Olympics are the best!” Ellie, brilliant, beautiful, beneficent Ellie, is clearly full of enough excitement for the both of us.

I turn to Ellie, raise an eyebrow: “Says the girl who always gets a medal.” It's not one hundred percent true, but Ellie's name has been stitched onto the Champion's Quilt more than any other cousin's.

She rolls her eyes and I turn and look back out the window, watching the green, rolling scenery of Abbadon, Georgia fly by. I have my arm out the window, allowing it to rise and plummet with the wind that's coming in hot and fast. Even though we're both sweating through our shirts, it's a tradition of ours. It makes the lake water feel that much better. This stretch of Jot-Em-Down Road is my favorite. It's the last bit before we cross the bridge to the Jennings Family Land. The river roars by at the far edge of the valley, while alongside the road the regular afternoon downpours create an ever-changing series of pools that reflect the green of the reeds, the blue of the sky, the white of ubiquitous clouds. I close my eyes, enjoy the tempered, red-warmth of the sun through my lids and the smell of wet earth, the last moment's peace before...

“Hello?! I'm talking here!”

“Sorry Ellie. What were you saying?” I turn and take in her profile again. Long caramel colored hair, piled in a messy heap on her head, tan, perfect skin, a delicate, straight nose, naturally long and curling lashes. We're so close--and she's so oblivious to it—that I sometimes forget just how pretty she is.

“Well, I was laying out my attack plan for our team's success. Now that we're finally on the same team, we have to get our shit together.”

“You can plan all you want. I don't see how it'll account for my shortcomings.” Most notably my lack of enthusiasm, I think. Instead I say, “You'd better get that unladylike language out of your system or Gram's gonna take the Board of Education to your ass.”

Ellie chuckles knowingly then says, “right back at you.”

Then it's my turn to laugh. “C'mon. You know I'm her favorite. She hasn't paddled me since she caught me letting the dogs eat the stuffing straight out of the serving dish.”

“You're only her favorite because she feels sorry for you, loser.”

Ellie looks over at me, checking like she always does to make sure that my feelings aren't hurt. They aren't. I'd rather have people say stuff like that to my face then behind my back. “Well, there aren't many benefits to being the family freak, so I'll take what I can get.”

Her sympathy changes back to furrowed focus. “Anyways, as I was saying, I've been reading Sun Tzu in preparation for this summer--”

“Why?” I interrupt. “Eastern Philosophy isn't even an Enlightenment category.”

Now, Grampa Joe is all about sports. He says it brings out the best and worst in humanity, but his pet event is Enlightenment. For this part of the Olympics, he devises challenges based on his latest interests. It's kind of like trivia on steroids. He's a retired philosophy professor with a wide range of interests, so the categories can get pretty out there. He releases them at Christmas Eve dinner after a too long speech in which he discusses the need “now more than ever” of Renaissance men and women. He then lectures on the vital importance of “digesting not cramming the material,” makes a gross pun about digestion, and then finally gets to the point--the topics.

This year he has decided upon: The Geography of Subsaharan Africa, The Native Americans of North Georgia, The Literature of the American Renaissance, Practical Implications of Quantum Mechanics, and Baseball in the Era of Kennesaw Mountain Landis. Wow. Luckily on Christmas morning the teams are announced, so most teams divide and conquer, giving them ample time to prepare. The topics are tough but he always manages to find interesting ways to have us show our knowledge. It's actually my favorite part of the Olympics mostly because it's my strongest event. I've even finished first a few times, like the year when two of the categories were “19^th Century Russian Literature” and “The Art of Fishing.” We had to create a work of art that explored the two topics. I spent the whole summer fishing and taking notes and then wrote a short story titled “The Hook & The Barb” in which I recounted how a man, who's just trying to feed his family, goes mad after watching fish after fish in its death throes, and eventually drowns himself. Luckily, this was the summer before everything happened, so I didn't feel like it was some sort of pity handout. Anyways, I think his plan is to lure us into learning and it's worked. Our oldest cousin Joey is finishing up his dissertation about the Abbadon vernacular after Grampa Joe picked “Dialects of the American South” as a topic.

“I know it's not a category—it was just for fun. Will you listen to me?” I come back to her war talk, roll my eyes at her idea of fun, but nod in assent. “Sun Tzu is famous for saying, amongst other things, that war is deception. We're always the complete opposite and so aggressive--”

“I'll say! Jake broke Logan's nose last year, Joey needed 30 stitches after the disastrous Ancient Pentathlon year...seriously, Grampa Joe thought javelin throwing was a good idea?! And--”

Ellie's breaks in, “I know, I know. That's my point exactly. So, here's what we're gonna do: deceive them.”

“Hm. How?”

“You. You're our secret weapon.”

She turns to see the incredulity on my face. “Ha. Okay...Well, there's just one little problem with your plan. You seem to have forgotten that I'm usually a bottom three finisher. The Trips beat me last year. Every one of them. They were nine. The only reason I'm not always last is because of the transients.”

She snickers in agreement. Grampa Joe's Official Jennings Olympics Rules Manual states that all family members between ages of 10 and 30 are expected to participate. The games used to feature our aunts and uncles more regularly, but the competition has turned into a generally cousins only affair as the older generation has moved into their fifties. Growing up, our friends thought it was weird. They thought Grampa Joe was some sort of despot. Mom even hinted at that now and then, but the truth is that we wanted to be there. It was mostly fun and it was clear it made our grandparents happy. So we made every effort to participate.

If you were sick or injured, it had better be serious or you'll never live it down, but of course people have to miss. Acceptable reasons in the past have included sports camps--although thankfully our weeks fall outside most allowable NCAA practice dates--study abroad, creative writing seminars, Habitat for Humanity or the like. Not to mention--babies were born, people passed away, work got too hectic--life happened. Sarah tried to bail out one time to go to the beach with her boyfriend du jour, but even she relented under the pressure and then made the mistake of bringing him with her instead, a more epic mistake than almost not coming in the end.

But when you couldn't make it, Grampa Joe was still firm—a minimum of five teams of four no matter what. That's where the transients came in. Sometimes Julie or James, the two youngest of the prior generation, would fill in, or a spouse or partner--three cousins were married and we wished Jose and Michael could be-- would help out. Sometimes it was just a friend. When Ellie was ten, she convinced her team to stack their roster, with transients moving in and out of events, playing to their strengths, over twenty different participants in all. Grampa Joe said he admired her strategy, but that it didn't “engender community,” so now you can only ever have seven different people on a team in any given summer.

Thankfully, there are always at least a couple transients who are only good at a specific Enlightenment category or long-distance running or something. I'm experienced enough to beat them overall, which is good news because although I didn't get the full force of the family genes, I certainly inherited the desire to win when I could.

“I'm serious Persis,” Ellie says, determined to continue explaining her strategy. “Here's what I'm thinking. During the first week, you tank it, maybe even worse than usual.” I huff but she continues. “We'll do our best to keep things in contention, but out of first place. Then, you come out of nowhere and dark horse them in the closing week.”

“Theoretically that would work, if I were capable of coming out of nowhere.”

“That's just it. This is your year. Look at the events. You're actually a good swimmer, which no one ever seems to remember. Since I can't be there in closing week, they won't even think about you. There's doubles kayaking this year, and you and I can almost read each others thoughts. There's no twins or triplets on the same team for the first time in forever. And...”

“And...you're forgetting volleyball. I'm so bad I can probably make us lose single-handedly. Oh, and clay pigeon shooting and I've never shot a gun. And cornhole? I have no idea where Grampa Joe came up with those two. It's like he's been hanging out at a redneck frat house. What's next, beer pong?”

“I wouldn't rule it out,” Ellie says and then giggles. “Now, you're totally right about the volleyball. You're terrible. But we'll have Herc and Sarah at the net. Everyone's going to be terrible at shooting. As far as I know no one's ever done it. You're one of the only cousins staying here all summer, so you can practice while everyone else is...”

“...out having a life. Thanks for reminding me.”

“Whatever. Same thing with cornhole.”

I can tell Ellie is about to launch into the finer points of her strategy or give me a detailed cornhole practice schedule, but I am saved by the end of the pavement. The gravel crunching under the tires makes it too loud for conversation, so we're quiet until we come to the bridge that will take us over the river to my summer home. The boards thump our arrival, drawing dogs and cousins down the stairs that lead from the main house to the circular driveway.

I am filled with both comfort and anxiety. I've spent every June and July of my life here and plenty of other time to boot. I'm grateful for my family. I really am. They have always stuck by me and defended me when people called me crazy. I know I'd have no one if not for them. But just because they'll defend me from outsiders doesn't mean they don't give me my fair share of shit. Even if it wasn't for my “imaginary friends” I'd still be a prime target because I'm the runt. Twenty freaking cousins and I end up the shortest. Did I mention that I'm 5'7”? Or that I have seven younger cousins? Add to that my pathetic status as an only child and the fact that I'm not a star athlete or valedictorian (we've had six in the family, including Ellie, the most recent graduate) and I'm basically guaranteed to get harassed constantly. I don't have much time for thought, however, as a mass of people come into relief as we pull up to the front door of the main house.

Before the dust can settle, Ellie's bounced out of the car and is stomping Godzilla like with a Trip under each arm. I watch from the safety of the car as the third--Jason?--jumps on her back, bringing her crashing onto the grass. Jonathan and Jessica stand with Seth and Andy, laughing at Ellie and the Trips' performance. I start calculating, realizing that Seth and Andy's presence can only mean--

--but before I can react, I'm being dragged by Jake and Herc from the car. “Here's the wittow wunt,” Jake taunts. “What should we do with her? Sit on her? Tickle her until she pees? Put dirt in her hair?”

Herc looks thoughtful and then a wicked grin spreads on his face. “I know. Let's sacrifice her to the Lake Gods!”

“No!” I shriek. “Let me change!” I struggle, writhing helplessly as Herc, so nicknamed because at 6'8,” 300 pounds he's the strongest of the family, throws me effortlessly over his shoulder. I don't really care about my clothes, but I want to enter the lake on my own terms, not at the hands of a giant man-boy.

“Woo boy...she's thrashing around like a caught shark! I think a straight jacket's in order for Psycho Persis. That'd subdue her.” I kick out at him as they stride down the hill behind the house, the water growing ever nearer.

“Nah,” Herc says. “We don't want to drown her—we just wanna toughen her up so she doesn't come in last again.”

We're on the dock, approaching the end, when Ellie and the Trips catch up with us. “Herc! Put her down! She's on your team this summer, you stupid meat-head!”

“Oh. Yeah. Forgot.” He puts me down, pats me on the head. “Sorry cuz.”

Being on the same team means a certain level of protection. I begin to relax, turning to thank Ellie, when I see Jake's arm extend out of nowhere, shoving me into the mineral green water of Lake Carver's shoreline. “You're not on my team, runt!”

I flail as I enter the water, plunging deep under with the force of Jake's invitation. I right myself, kick to the surface, and break to the sounds of laughter. Only Ellie's face shows concern. I know it's not because she's worried about my team performance for once. It's because that's how I died.

If Grampa Joe's best friend, Dr. Turner, hadn't found me and resuscitated me, pumped the water out, forced the air in, I would still be dead. But I'm not, and after seeing and talking to ghosts, death seems boring but nothing to fear. So, I've never been nervous around water, insisting I'm fine. Everyone but Ellie seems to take me at my word on that.

I climb the ladder back onto the dock and furiously launch myself at Jake. He's only two inches shorter than Herc but is more slight, so I manage to wrap him in a soaking bear hug. “Oh cousin Jake, I love you. I've missed you so much!” I drawl. I smile sweetly, and then sneak in a kidney punch he hardly seems to feel.

“Dammit Persis! I just changed!”

“You're kidding me right? You did just throw me in the lake.”

“Good point, cousin.” He grins and leans over, affectionately squeezing the water out of my ponytail.

We start making our way back towards the house. Herc pats me on the back. “I saw that punch. That's the kind of spunk I like to see.” Then he trips me just enough to send me reeling. I scowl my way back up the hill, wringing out my shirt and shaking my head, knowing this is only the beginning. But a smile creeps in, too.