Anything but Ordinary Read Online Free PDF Page B

It was a relief when her mom called her to dinner.

    In the kitchen, the Grahams sat facing each other on black, hard-backed chairs, eating Bolognese off of oversized white plates. The plates were so big, the food looked like dabs of paint.
    “This isn’t bad, Beth. You haven’t made it this way in forever,” her father said.
    “Maybe because we ate takeout every night for the last five years,” Sydney murmured, rolling her eyes.
    “Mmm, gotta carbo-load,” Bryce said, ignoring her sister. “Just like before a meet. I’m going to walk tomorrow.”
    “Bry,” her mother warned. “You’ve had a lot of excitement, you don’t want to push it.”
    “Sure she does,” her dad chirped. Her mother stopped chewing. “Well, that’s why she’s progressing, Beth. Because she knows how to train properly.”
    Her mother gave a fake laugh. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot you’re an expert in physical therapy.”
    “Unlike you, I’m trying to encourage—”
    “I’m done,” Sydney interrupted, taking her napkin from her lap. “I have to go.”
    “No, you don’t,” her mother responded firmly. “You’re grounded.”
    “Mom,” Sydney said with a condescending smile, “we did the family dinner. Let’s not try the whole punishment thing.” And with that, she was gone.
    Bryce looked at Sydney’s empty place, her food untouched. The front door closed, and her parents continued to eat. Bryce opened her mouth to say something, but what?
    “So…” She swallowed a forkful of pasta. “I went into the den before dinner. Are you going to tell me why the last highlight DVD in there is from four years ago?” Over the last couple of months, when her father came to her hospital room from work in the evenings, she had grilled him about how the season went, how his recruits were looking, how Vanderbilt had placed in their conference. But he had always changed the subject.
    Bryce’s father sighed and put down his fork. “I stopped coaching, Bry.”
    She thought of her dad’s office in the Vanderbilt athletic department, where she’d spent so much of her childhood. The walls were so covered by Sydney’s art and Bryce’s newspaper clippings that the paint was barely visible. Bryce would sit in the swivel chair while he was at practice, eating granola bars and playing games on his computer. Then when she made the Junior Olympic team, he let her practice with the college divers. They would sit for hours after everyone else had gone home, watching tape, pointing out the good and the bad as Bryce iced her legs and braided her long, wet hair. She tried to imagine it now, filled with someone else’s kid’s drawings.
    “It was…too much…after your accident, Bryce. I hope you understand.”
    “But you’re still wearing Vanderbilt stuff—”
    “Of course, of course. I didn’t leave Vandy. Never could. I’m in Admissions now.”
    “So I guess we won’t be watching tape, then,” Bryce muttered.
    “We can still watch tape,” her father offered, trying to smile.
    Bryce just shook her head. “You guys have to tell me things.” She found herself choking a little on the words. “I mean…I know you’re not used to me being able to hear you, but I’m here now. I’m awake.”
    Her parents looked at each other, but their eyes never met, as if they were trying to press two magnets together at their north poles. They barely smiled, barely touched each other. Is that how it had been the whole time she was asleep?
    Her father squeezed Bryce’s forearm, and they went back to their pasta. Silence and chewing. The sipping of water.
    The phone rang.
    “I’ll get it,” Bryce said, wheeling to the kitchen, past her parents’ protests.
    “Graham residence.”
    “Oh, my god.” The young man’s voice sounded oddly familiar.
    “Hello?” Bryce said.
    “Bryce, it’s Greg.”
    She clutched the phone, speechless.
    “Bryce?” His voice had gotten so much deeper.
    She leaned on the counter and hoisted herself out of