Free The Art of Holding On and Letting Go by Kristin Lenz Page A

told
them
to get real.
    â€œYou’ve made a life out of climbing—you don’t think I’m good enough?”
    â€œGet off it, Miss Junior National Champion,” Dad had answered.
    Mom had given her spiel about having choices. About how she and Dad didn’t have an education to fall back on if climbing didn’t work out, like if she or Dad got injured.
    We were still arguing about it on the plane ride to Ecuador. “I’m confident you can handle school and climbing,” Mom had said, “and we’ll plan our trips around the school holidays.”
    But I was supposed to be attending school back in California, not in Michigan. And what was she talking about when she mentioned K2? K2 was in the Himalayas, not South America. And Peru? Was that where they were headed next? Seriously, they were going to Peru and leaving me in Detroit?
    I gripped the phone tighter and willed it to ring. Nothing. I punched in Mom’s number one more time, but it immediately went to voice mail. I didn’t bother leaving a message.
    â€œYou’re done already?” Grandpa said.
    â€œWe got cut off.” I sighed and dropped the phone into its holder.
    â€œI wanted to talk to her too. Maybe she’ll be able to call back.”
    I shrugged and twisted the beaded bracelet on my wrist.
    â€œWhat did she say?” Grandpa asked.
    â€œNothing.” I trudged back to my room.

14
    On Monday morning, I paused outside of the kitchen when I heard the bitterness in Grandma’s voice.
    â€œWhat kind of parents just go off and leave their child? Lori never would have done this by herself,” Grandma said.
    â€œI know, I know,” Grandpa muttered.
    â€œMark was trouble from day one. You remember I told you that when she first brought him home.”
    â€œI know, I know.”
    I entered the kitchen with barely a creak of the floor. If I surprised Grandma, she didn’t show it.
    â€œGood morning,” she sang. “Tea?”
    â€œThanks.” I sat down across from Grandpa.
    â€œHere’s your sports,” he said, passing me a section of the newspaper.
    Grandpa thought that since I was into rock climbing, I must be some kind of jock and therefore must like all kinds of sports. I didn’t mind. It was nice that he was trying to understand me. I looked down at the paper, not even seeing it, and cupped my hands around the steaming mug of tea.
    Tea has always brought me comfort. Both Mom and Dad drank tea instead of coffee, not the average Joe Lipton in a bag like my grandparents but exotic greens and oolongs we’d brought back from China, steeped loose in a pot. Herbal teas we saved for cool nights around the campfire or for when we curled up on the couch, reading, in the evening. And always before a climbing competition. It was a ritual.
    My nerves were like earthquake tremors, but give me a warm mug of peppermint tea and I became a different person. I breathed in the scent, and the warm liquid relaxed my muscles one by one. I focused on the route I was about to climb, and everything else disappeared. By the time my feet left the ground, I was alone in the world. Handhold to handhold, foothold to foothold. Slow and steady, like a snake slithering, just me and the rocks. The world disappeared until I reached the top of the cliff, clipped the last bolt, and looked down at my belayer.
    I glanced up to see Grandma nudge Grandpa. She sent him signals with her eyebrows. I wasn’t interested in decoding the message. Grandma was clueless about my parents, my life; I didn’t need to hear her theories.
    I shoved my chair back. “I gotta go.”
    My sack lunch waited on the counter as usual. I knew I should appreciate that Grandma made it for me, but she was ruffling my feathers again. I grabbed the lunch, hoisted my backpack, and headed out the door.
    I was almost looking forward to school; Grandma and her knickknack clutter were suffocating. I probably smelled