Free Sean Griswold's Head by Lindsey Leavitt Page B

you’ll need to let go and move on.”
    Does asking my Focus Object out on a bike riding excursion count as moving on? Didn’t think so.
    PFE
    February 8, afternoon
    Topic: Analysis of how I’m focusing on … focusing.
    â†’ I think I’ve figured out a way to maintain emotional distance from my Focus Object, yet still further my research.
    â†’ I will still write about Sean’s head, but now I’m going to get INSIDE it.
    â†’ I’ve set the goal of asking him five questions on our bike ride.
    â†’ It’s arbitrary, but it feels like the next logical step (if any of this can be considered logical).
    It’s warm out for a Pennsylvania winter. So warm, I slip off my sweater and go outside in nothing but a long-sleeved shirt and jeans. Dirty patches of snow melt into the yellow grass. The air smells overly sweet, like a car air freshener that’s just been unwrapped. I kick a rock across the cracked driveway, watching it bounce until it hits the garage door. The sunlight glints on the basketball hoop.
    It’s been almost two months—an eternity—since I last played. Basketball used to be scheduled in right between homework and my self-allotted hour of TV. It isn’t in my schedule anymore. I don’t have a schedule anymore.
    I grab a basketball out of the garage and bounce it once or twice against the concrete. The smell of the rubber envelops me like teammates in a time-out huddle. I close my eyes and shoot the ball into a perfect arch. I don’t have to open them to know the ball has gone in. The chains cheer.
    A few more shots can’t hurt. Dad and I used to shoot every Thursday, until he got MS. Then our shooting became more sporadic, based on how he was feeling, I suppose, not that I knew that at the time. I think of the failed baskets I witnessed from my window that day. Even though his playing isn’t always that weak, Dad is never going to fully get his game back. One more relapse, and he may lose his shot completely. Although, seriously, that’s the least of his worries.
    Now I’m pumping the ball harder, maneuvering around invisible opponents. The crowd in my head roars louder with each fake out, each shot. I’m about to win the one-person championship when someone coughs. The applause ends. I drop the ball. My dad is standing on the walkway, his famous grin overtaking his face.
    â€œDon’t stop now, sunshine. I think you’re about to win the game.”
    â€œOh. Hi.”
    His smile doesn’t fade. He’s so elated with his discovery, at my momentary athletic relapse, that his face is close to exploding. His hope is too much for me. “Can I shoot a few with you?” he asks.
    I fix him with a stare cold enough to melt the warmth of his smile. I want to freeze him there, so he can’t move. So he can’t feel. “No. You can’t.”
    â€œWhy not?” He shrugs. “Think I’ll take you?”
    No, I mean—you can’t. This isn’t wheelchair basketball. I laugh at my own cruelty. It worries me, this monster inside. The monster who would hurt someone already feeling so much pain. I choke on my laugh, trying to stop the familiar rise of emotion from surfacing. The truth, I know, is that it’s not my dad I’m really mad at. I’m mad at his disease.
    And it’s not anger. It’s fear.
    â€œSorry. Gotta go,” I say, brushing past him and into the house. Into the bathroom, to wash the smell of rediscovery off my hands. To wash the tears of self-loathing off my face.

ELEVEN
    Bike ride with Sean is today. My bike still has neon spokes and I haven’t been on it in a year. Not to worry. After all, riding a bike is like … riding a bike. You get on and go. A much bigger problem is clothes. I know hard-core cyclists wear tight clothes, but I don’t do spandex. The devil wears spandex. And I doubt the devil’s butt is as big as mine. Jac even had me