Free The Theory of Opposites by Allison Winn Scotch Page B

unavoidable, and all around me, pedestrians stop to gape and wonder, perhaps, if they can indeed dare themselves to a better life. Maybe it’s that easy, the girl to my left considers — dare yourself! — and she can finally meet a guy who calls her after sex. Maybe that’s the answer, the chubby guy next to the girl thinks — dare yourself ! — and he can finally stop inhaling éclairs at midnight and lose the twenty pounds he’s convinced are keeping his life, his entire life, in a rut.
    I peer toward the bridge, right in time to see Vanessa catch air. She hesitates just before jumping, and I know it’s to swallow down her fear, but then she closes her eyes, counts to three, and throws herself forward. I can hear her shriek all the way from where I am on the sidewalk, but then I also hear her scream, “Holy shit! This is amazing!” And I watch her fly, soar, float through the air on her way down. The gathered crowd erupts in spontaneous applause, and Vanessa pumps her fist in reply. She bounces twice at the bottom, and then starts to hyena-laugh at what she has done.
    I stand there watching, my heart in my throat, my breath quick and measured, and I start to weep. For her bravery, for her leap. For something that I could never do.
    And then, as they pull her up, she must spy me, even from her upside-down angle, and she yells, “Willa Chandler-Golden! I dare you: you’re next!”
    And we both laugh because we know that I’m not.
    —
    Vanessa insists that we walk home, though it’s over five miles and the June heat wave has continued, and I’m already feeling damp. I wrap my hair up in a bun and tug my tank top away from my chest, but I’m too late: already, tiny pock marks of sweat have seeped through.
    “You should tell Hannah to get into bungee jumping. It will goddamn blow her mind!”
    We’re weaving our way through Chinatown, which is vibrant, too awake on a Sunday morning. Chickens hang in windows, knock-off handbags spill from corner vendors, tourists push and elbow their way through. Vanessa’s practically levitating, amped on high from the adrenaline of the leap. A guy tries to sell me a fake Rolex but I contort my face no and say to Vanessa:
    “Why would I try to get Hannah into bungee jumping? Also, I’ll probably never speak to her again.”
    “Because this is probably exactly how coke feels, but it’s better for you. And you never know. Don’t burn a bridge.”
    “Just jump off one instead?”
    “Hardy-har,” she says.
    We point ourselves north through Little Italy toward Soho, the demographics shifting with each passing block.
    There’s a hot new yoga studio on the corner of Broadway and Houston — Yogiholics! — and throngs of skinny women in black capris and Lululemon tanks emerge. They slide on their sunglasses and make plans for brunch. Vanessa and I stop on the corner alongside their pack, as the skinniest, tallest one of them says:
    “God, is Oliver not the best teacher in the world? I swear, his pranayama breathing turns me on.”
    The light changes and they charge forward, giggling, gossiping, mostly happy, though also probably with a secret Xanax habit just like Raina.
    “That’s weird,” I say. “Her yoga instructor is named Oliver. How many hot yoga instructors are named ‘Oliver?’”
    “Isn’t yours in India? I checked his Twitter feed last week.”
    “World’s most famous yoga guru is addicted to Twitter. How ridiculous,” I say, a little too spitefully.
    Vanessa’s eyebrows skewer inward. “Oliver isn’t hurting anyone, even if he is a little ridiculous.”
    “You’re right,” I concede. The blood moves over my cheeks. “I’m just having a bit of a shit life moment.” I explain Nicky, and my dad’s lover, and Shawn’s disgusting eggs and coffee and “dude.” Not to mention our argument this morning, to which she was witness. “Shawn and I don’t argue. I mean, we don’t have shit moments.”
    “I guess you do though.”
    I want to slug