Bouncing
They bounce, their feet leaving the ground, leaving behind the stretching fabric of the trampoline, swaying uncertainly in the air as their bodies hang suspended over the ground. Floating. One of them dares the other to jump higher, so they both sink low into their knees, pressing their weight down into the balls of their feet before they rebound higher and higher each time, both certain that they will poke through the clouds. One of them sinks so low, he swears to the other one that he felt the ground beneath the trampoline, swears that when he shot upwards, he could see over the top of their neighbor’s roof. The other one listens and nods, eyes wide and unblinking. “What does it feel like to fly?” he asks, and “How did you convince your feet to come back to earth?” and most importantly, “Do you think you can do it again?”
So, they continue, sinking into their knees, letting their bodies rise, limbs flying up and out, both panting with exertion, hair sticking to their foreheads despite the cool temperature. In their imaginations, they sail above their yard and their house and blow through the clouds, sticking their fingers out to catch wisps of them in their mouths – wet and cool. They bounce until the sun sinks low and the sky turns red and purple and the sky seems to close in around them, clouds sinking closer to the earth. They bounced until their mom calls for them to come inside, and even then they bounce, ignoring her, both resolving to stay out as long as possible, hopeful that their mom will forget and they can stay out there all night long, falling asleep among the arms of the stars and the moon.
One of them suggests that they play basketball, so they search the yard until they find a nearly deflated thing resembling a ball, bright orange and made for small palms and small fingers. They try to blow it up, placing their mouths over the small hole built for an air pump, puffing out their cheeks as they draw in deep breaths and then pushing all the air out of their lungs at once until their cheeks deflate. After a few minutes, both of their chests heave underneath their shirts, their breath coming in and out in great gasps. They both place their hands on their knees, heads hung low the same way that they have seen real basketball players do it on TV after dribbling up and down the court. The ball looks just as deflated as it had before. One of them shrugs, “Good enough?” and the other nods in agreement. They both take in a few more gulps of the frigid air before running back to the trampoline, each one trying to be first.
When they get there, the older one climbs up, his long arms grasping at the metal springs (careful to avoid pinching his fingers), and then pulling the rest of his body up and over the ledge. “Me too!” the younger one shouts, and the older one reaches down to help him, his fingers pulling at the waistband of his brother’s jeans, hauling his brother’s legs up and over, both of them tumbling onto the trampoline in a tangle of arms and legs. They used to have a small ladder with rusting metal rungs that hooked onto the lip of the trampoline, but they had disconnected it and used it as part of a racetrack they built along the side of the house and had forgotten to put it back. When their mom had asked them about it they had told her they didn’t know where it was and had instead shown her their trick – how the older one could pull the younger one up. She had sighed and shaken her head and gone back inside the house.
Their mom comes back outside again, this time, on the phone. They can tell that she is talking to their dad by the way her mouth is tight and stern, her nose wrinkling as she speaks. They bounce and pretend not to see her, tossing the ball back and forth and shouting “Basket!” or “Three points!” whenever the other one drops it. Their mom gestures and points towards the house, but it’s not until she hangs up that they drop the ball and scurry down the trampoline and into the house before she has time to shout at them about how they never listen to her. Inside they each hug her legs and try to make her smile, try to make her look down at them and see them. “Dinner time,” she says and they dutifully wash their hands and sit down at the table, neither of them bothering to ask what time their dad will be home.
