Natalie

I've always esteemed that excuses held fast to the oblivion of incompetence. This, upon further investigation, was rooted in the same principle of Paul Adefarasin, a Nigerian pastor, author, and televangelist. Excuse is the tool of the incompetent. A monument of nothingness, and those that use it are not wise.

A minuscule mass of my cells want to blame pure instinct on Sunday's situation, but the rest of my body of cells doesn't concur. If anything, the disagreers rally with reasons why the offered excuse isn't valid. Each reason is logical and based on the multiple sessions of human watching I have completed.

I should talk to him, to put it simply.

I tighten my grip around my metal canteen, sipping the concoction of two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen. To my left, another hurdler, the only other that stays on Tuesdays, supports themself against the concrete concession stand while sipping red Powerade, enjoying the shade the tin roof provides.

"Track star!" Coach Trent exclaims, sweeping a weathered hand across his curly brown mess of a scalp. "Whassup?"

"The usual," I reply, kicking off a spike and replacing it with regular trainers.

There is nothing "usual" about the past week and a half. This term predicts something I can only hope for while a minor. Because according to technicalities, which the LE knows well, Dad will be legally bound to the court's ruling on or after the tenth, meaning my siblings and I technically have to visit the LE if not ruled in our favor. Not to mention the legal trouble Dad could get in for this false accusation.

Logically, it doesn't make sense. Throwing parental kidnapping into the mix does nothing but complicate this, Mother. Never mind, Tina is the one who left us seven years ago. Why would utilizing family court be of benefit? The LE is wasting our and the court's time spouting detrimental prevaricates. Curse human logic.

No, there couldn't possibly be logic intertwined in the mix.

Trent chuckles, shaking his head. "And what would 'the usual' be?"

I purse my lips while zipping my duffle. "Surviving on a planet prone to lifeform extinction."

"I see." Trent rubs his chin in thought. "Does that explain why your form slipped? It isn't like you to break hurdles. To be that distracted."

My chest contracts, and the awakened thought twirls in a rage of discomfort. The impact on my right leg is sure to leave a hurdle-sized bruise. It isn't every day someone smashes their leg into a hurdle, splinting it in half. I've only seen it one other time. "Partly." I give a curt nod. "I should go."

Trent grabs me by the shoulder, his brows furrowing. "You good?"

"No," I answer after a moment. Trent opens his mouth to presumably assure me the world will return to a form of celebrated light, but I continue. My voice returns faster and louder. "Being 'good' is an impermanent state. You caught me at a sour point." I pace right, out of arm's reach, and into the supposedly yellow ball of gas's glare.

Trent nods in acceptance as he produces a key, unlocking the concession stand. "Take a day off. Hell, take the week off if you need." He stretches his hands wide after wheeling the cart of blocks into the gray building. Trent leans closer, his face forming a wide grin. "Hurdles are real expensive, y'know."

For a moment, I let my lips shift into a smile. The action is uncaring of the turmoil of all my other voluntary functions. That's precisely the kind of bonehead I am. "You're unconvincing," I say with a laugh.

Trent beams, his chest rumbles, and the dimples under his cheekbones glow. "Righty. Keep up the great work, track star." He claps my back before exercising his lungs with a blaring shout, alerting all in the area he's searching for the long-distance coach.

I jog from my position and deposit my bags by the metal rung gate. The warmth in my legs remains vibrant, ready for another sprint around the track, something I'm unwilling to voluntarily enable. It's an illogical edge away from routine, but, in essence, rounding the oval once more is a deviant of standard. Although, I have certainly become more fond of the idea. If one thing goes to hell, why not take everything with it?

Not all routes bid in a sea of no structure. Waves can overtake creatures unable to swim, and other nouns can get swept out to the vast blue we intellectual organisms call the pelagic zone. Lost forever.

The remainder of the ocean, unsurprisingly, has been claimed. There is a simple explanation for why we ape-like beings decided to own bodies of water. Being the cursed, power-hungry beings we are, as per intellect's gift, our species declared a need for natural resources.

It's like a battle of the mind all in all. The dominant charge can pioneer through the coastal shelves, scouring for treasures of the mind, similar functions, new knowledge, or skills.

At any moment, the waves could drag one out, rendering one lost in a forlorn landscape of nothing but blue.

There isn't anything wrong with blue or being lost.

What is blue can gain color.

What is lost can be found.

Red will turn blue to purple. Yellow will turn blue to green.

Inherently, no lost item is hiding, only waiting to be remembered.

The problem lies in survival and willingness to tread water. How long can one float until rescue? How long will one's skin survive the squelching rays of the sun? How long can one last without clean water?

To piece a puzzle together is to solve a game of the mind. As I round the last curve at a steady pace of fifteen, the image fades into a splotched dot, smearing into an unrecognizable mass of an idea.

I edge into a walk and grab my bags at the gate's threshold, not bothering with the cursory glance many perform in a relieved hurry to abandon the field. The sweat hog's lounge is nothing but a blue and orange block of cement, and the stands are an eyesore. Without saying, the grass field remains the worst aspect of the arena.

The lights of my car blink, the headlights sporting a familiar afterglow I need to get fixed. I check my phone, ignoring the message labeled LE and instead ping my next "match" according to Scramble's algorithm and Winn's oversight, Sid Wright, with a short, I will arrive momentarily. My ETA is 5:10.

Sid immediately replies. I got caught up. I'll be there soon, though.

My stomach burns, and an ache rumbles in a sickening sensation as I pull onto the bypass. If, by any chance, this character is anything like Jack, I will be forced to entertain a different procedure. After all, I am not insane. Although, there is no telling what the divergent action plan will be.

I exhale, taking a piece of gum from my glove compartment. My head throbs with an urge to turn back now. To eliminate myself from any situation, such as Sundays. But my plan reminds the insurgent thought why I'm here, scheduling another meetup, not a date, instead of taking a second trip to the fair with the LE. If Caleb and Lindsey knew she decided to press parental kidnapping charges, I'm sure they wouldn't be with that woman, but they don't need to know.

I inhale, stepping onto the asphalt. The air smells of the inner city, car exhaust, and the occasional odor of trees plaguing the area. A flock of birds soars overhead, flying a distance from my destination. My destination, in turn, does nothing but glare at passersby, luring humans in with its Greek architecture and an extravagant display of roses.

What if these meetings are a test? I wouldn't be surprised after their presentation last August. They weren't only creating an atmosphere of "connectivity" at the convention. They were also collecting data, clearly stated at the bottom of the terms and conditions slip emailed to each event participant. I know not because I partook in the escapade, but because I have the no-so-great power of listening.

My heels dig into the worn concrete, and my eyes survey the crowd hurling out of the library, searching for a guy my height with wired glasses and mousy brown hair. I stop on a guy beside the nearest rose bush who glances at his phone.

Reaching the "match", I offer a handshake. The guy gins, mouth wide open, showcasing purple and yellow braces. "Natalie, right? It"s brilliant to meet you. I'm Sid, but you already knew that didn't you," he chirps. His head tilts in compliment to his loopy smile.

"I am." I retract my hand, noting how his fingers find his pockets.

"I saw on your profile that you're into sci-fi," Sid starts, "Which is better, Star Wars or Star Trek?'

I bite my cheek, allowing my opinion to zip out. "Neither, both have their faults, as does everything. Other works like A Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy are more enjoyable. I don't read for the action. I read to be awed by creative's inventions." Before Sid interjects, I add, "As per my example, I enjoy a good satire."

"I get your point," Sid replies as he meanders to the crosswalk that leads to the local park. "But you really don't have a preference?"

"Star Trek wouldn't have been a franchise without Star Wars," I point out. My shoulders relax, and my stomach simmers to a mild heat.

Sid shakes his head. "True. But Star Trek beat Star Wars in diversity by a long shot."

My eyes drift over the park. The lone trees, quoting the amount of green required, and park benches bring the only life to the deserted area. Although, the other side is better, meaning half a mile around the park's concrete path. "The execution of multiple episodes was subpar," I state.

Sid grimaces as if having war flashbacks to the first season. "C'mon, the premier was in the 1960s!" Sid exclaims, excitement lighting his eyes. His head lifts high, and his grin spans his entire face. "The characters are just brilliant, and don't get me started on the ships! It's so cool!"

Consciously, I ensure my voice is light. "Based on a filmmaker's perspective, Star Wars would be superior while Star Trek builds on multiple themes Star Wars neglects to cover."

Sid shakes his head fiercely. "I disagree. The filmmaking isn't that horrible!"

Winn would agree.

I swallow hard, fighting phrases speeding across my mind. It doesn't help that the scene repeats in my head, causing me to cringe each time I speak in memory. Jack scowls like the practiced jock he is, Winn acts with regular kindness, and my nonchalant behavior weaves into the situation, creating a disastrous evening I'll never forget. At least on my part, "disastrous". I should have said something and opened up.

I play a laughing card, forcing a chuckle. "What do you agree with then?"

Sid glows as he speaks, his gestures wild and enthusiastic. His jubilance echoes and saturates those around with the simple degree of his tone. I would be captivated by his extensive points if I were present.

Lighten up. Jack's rough voice resonates within my head and caps the threshold. You don't have a sense of humor. His glower is prominent, poking my insides. This is just how I am.

I have to agree to disagree. Perhaps you could find joy in activities that don't involve one-sided jokes. That answer stood on the tip of my tongue.

Wrong answer.

That type of answer caused Jack to up and leave. Yet, that isn't what I regret. That bonehead should have left me be. Though, my actions irk me.

For forty-eight hours, ten minutes, and just over thirty seconds, I've exercised the idea that I'm incompetent.

I needed to pick up Caleb and then Lindsey after track yesterday. I had APES homework and a paper due by the end of the bi-week. My phone was at sixty, and Winn was probably busy. I need to meet the "match" today and interact like a regular human.

I have excuses galore.

I should contact Winn.

Deep down in my crumby soul, I want to... talk, maybe, tell him that I'm alright and don't need his help or even, if push comes to shove, a snippet of my wasteland. Some form of communication would do. A simple Hi or Good morning text even.

"Yo! Winn!" Sid screams, frightening a gaggle of geese.

I startle, blinking, searching for Winn's buzzed head. Pinpointing him I note how he jerks, turns, and lets his eyes grow wide, gleaming in a moist fog. He rakes a hand over his face, shakes his head, and rubs his eyes.

My brain freezes over. The action is followed by my stomach dropping down a one-hundred-story building as Winn sashays over. He swings a leather sack cross-body and stares at me as if he's attempting to gain answers to his queries.

Winn smiles. His hazel eyes pierce through me. "What's hopping?"

My brain has no choice. I'm present, finalizing my internal turmoil.

The battle ends.