“Oh, absolutely,” Fox says. “I’m so in.”
Kit shrugs. “Fine.”
Pan beams, and looks at me. “Tink?”
Fuck no, I think. I don’t want to do this. I mean, I’m not weak. I can actually do push-ups okay, but I have to kind of spread my arms the way I saw in some Instagram reel. Something about women’s hips and how that makes it easier to distribute our weight. I don’t fucking know, but still.
“Uh…” is all I manage.
“We’re talking one handed or two?” Fox drops to the ground, tucks his right arm at the small of his back, and pumps up easily on his palm a few times. “Cause I could do this all day.”
“Show off.” Pan chugs back a mouthful of beer and jumps to his feet, cracking his neck side to side, then his knuckles out infront of him, and then sheds his jacket. “Just regular. We won’t get fancy. Wendy here can be our referee, right?”
She nods eagerly. “Yeah, absolutely,” she says.
“Perfect.” Pan crosses his legs at the ankles and sinks immediately to the ground, crisscross applesauce once again. “I am going to kick all of your asses.”
“This is so stupid,” Kit mutters, but he still sheds the top layer of his flannel, revealing thick, dark ink up most of his forearms. “Is there at least some kind of prize for this?”
“Bragging rights aren’t enough?” Pan says. But he nods, thoughtful. “No, you’re right. We’ve gotta have stakes. Cash?”
“Bo-ring.” Fox rolls back to sit, arms wrapped around his knees. “I think it’s more like…like loser does everyone’s laundry for a week.”
“No,” I say quickly, too quickly. “That’s—that’s fucking gross.” I amend quickly, “Uh, sorry,” I add to Wendy.
Fox looks slighted. “Okay, well then what doyouthink we should do?” he says. “If that’s too gross.”
“Uh.” I look at Wendy. “I don’t know?” I say, sort of to her, sort of to everyone else.
She thinks. “Loser…” She presses her lips together. Then her eyes light up. “Ooh! Loser has to get a tattoo,” she says, rushed and out of breath, “and I get to pick it.”
I grimace. “That?—
“That is agreatidea,” Pan finishes for me, eyes gleaming. “Good thinking, Wendy.”
Kit looks skeptical. “Design, location, or both?” he says to Wendy.
“Um, design,” she says. “I guess it’s not like you guys have that much space left anyway, right?”
She looks around. I say nothing, obviously.
“All right, enough yapping.” Pan sticks his tongue in his cheek and rolls to his knees. “Ladies, shall we?”
Kit sighs but assumes the position, Fox snaps his toes back like a G.I. Joe, and I—Fuck, I think.I really have no way out of this. I am going to lose. I am almost certain I am going to lose. But I literally have no other option.
“Come on, Tink,” Wendy says, the slightest note of curiosity in her voice. “Are you ready?”
I cycle briefly through any excuses I can think of: bad wrists, bad knees, muscle strain. But there’s really nothing I can say that won’t sound suspicious. Nothing that wouldn’t invite further scrutiny, and further scrutiny on mybody, which is what I don’t need.
And maybe…maybe I can notwinexactly, but not come in last. Which is just as good, for my purposes.
So I get down, nodding. “Sure.” I tuck my toes to the back and position my hands. What did I see on that reel? Hands under your shoulders but kind of flared out? I scootch my hands apart on the floor—which is filthy, incidentally, sticky like a movie theater—and give my muscles a flex against gravity. It’s not bad, not easy but not impossible.
“On your mark…” Wendy says, getting to her feet. “Get set.”
I glance to the left at Kit and then Fox, and to the right at Pan. I am breaking a sweat just from holding the up position, and all of them look fine.
“Go!” Wendy cries. “Down! Up! Down! Up!”
