Spontaneous Combustion

They call it a stitch, but it feels like my ribcage is splintering. Still, I run and run, chased by cleats scraping my Achilles. I’ve already signaled for a sub. My teammates amplify my plea, but Coach is a bellowing bull. “I’m counting on you!”

I count ten girls on the bench who never get to play.

My lungs scorch, I gasp and gag. Bitter bile rises, my white uniform a canvas for the eruption of my sour heart.

***

High school soccer practice is from 4-6pm, but Coach never stops before 6:25. Our parents’ SUVs purr in the parking lot, beasts spewing sulfur. We race to gather the cones, herd the balls, drag the nets. We slap sweaty hands, chug plastic polluted water, unwind tape from stressed ankles. We waddle off the field, weighted with two backpacks and two hours of homework.

Back at my house, I eat, shower, and bury my nose deep in my dog’s neck. My books and binders are a tower destined to topple.

Our coach’s parting words every evening: “Remember ladies, prioritize sleep, take care of your bodies.”

***

At school, my counselor asks me to rate my stress level, one to ten.

How do you rank an ocean’s waves ebbing and flowing, receding and rising, tugged by the power of the moon?
“Volunteer hours?”
She’s reading from a checklist.
“What are you passionate about?”

I don’t tell her that I wrote a poem. About the magnolia tree outside my bedroom window and the petals that feel as smooth as the inside of a seashell.

I don’t tell her that I paint my thirteen-year-old brother’s fingernails a different color of the rainbow at his request, and how he chips them all bare before morning.

I don’t tell her how I sniff peppermint oil before exams, sip ginger tea before games, dab lavender behind my ears to help me sink into sleep past midnight.

I think about telling her about my job washing dogs at the Pet Parlor down the street. How I murmur soothing words as my hands lather shampoo, the smell of wet fur in my nostrils.

I part my lips to speak, but her eyes skitter to her chiming phone.
“Find your passion; it will give you purpose,” she says, her finger swiping the screen.

***

My mom says I talked in my sleep again, but my words were garbled. I remember my dream, the rapid river that flooded my lungs and drowned my voice. I choked on a fish.

At church on Sunday morning, I exchange a sleepy sideways glance with my brother. Our phones are in the car; an itch we cannot reach. Afterwards, I have seventy-eight messages from my AP Chemistry group chat, an afternoon shift at the Pet Parlor, and an evening of babysitting, but Mom insists we go out for brunch because “I hardly see you.”

At the restaurant, my English teacher balances a platter of pancakes two tables over. Her hair is pulled back into two low ponytails.
“She looks twelve,” my mom says.
I’m thirty-years-old, but I can’t buy a house, my teacher once told us. Her student loans loom as large as a mortgage.

“Liberal arts,” my stepdad snorts.

I think about how to keep my Pet Parlor job this summer. The weeks are already scheduled with SAT tutoring, soccer camps, and college visits. Mom expects me to earn a scholarship.
My brother tosses his bangs out of his eyes and drums his hands on the table. He’s kept the nail polish on each of his middle fingers. One is blue, one is pink.
“You need a haircut,” our stepdad tells him.

Cold air blasts from the vent above our table. I rub my arms and shiver. My mom pulls at the neckline of her blouse and fans herself with her napkin. My stepdad manspreads and snaps his fingers at our waitress, orders more coffee.

I close my eyes and scratch Fuel + O2 → CO2 + H2O across the inside of my eyelids.
If our teenage brains are so undeveloped, why are we able to see the bigger picture, while the adults only see what they want in the moment?

My brother kicks me under the table and tips his head toward the door.
I push my chair back and rise. “We’ll wait outside,” I tell our parents.
My brother and I bump shoulders on our way out. He holds the door open, and I squint into the sunlight. The warm air feels like a hug.

Kristin Bartley Lenz is a writer and social worker in metro Detroit. Her young adult novel, The Art of Holding On and Letting Go, was a Junior Library Guild Selection and a Great Lakes Great Books Award honor book. You can find more of her writing at www.kristinbartleylenz.com.