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Hands held above his head; fingers flexed and slightly parted. Left foot pointed like a jazz dancer; white tips of his yellow converse grazed the ground like cattle. Breathing labored; a feeble attempt to calm down rampant heartbeats. Shaky, he took a step, and then a second, before the palms of his hand hit the ground, sinking into the fertilized soil forcing him to kick up. He was upside down—for a second. Blood rushed from his toes through his knees and hips and torso into his ears, and for a moment everything is still. Until momentum took over and his body attempted to continue its fluid motion. But, his arms were shaky and his heart was beating slightly too fast until gravity was crowned the ultimate victor. He sunk into the dirt like it was quicksand, the back of his shirt is soaked with mud and sweat.
His eyes were closed but the sound of muffled laughter echoed through the blades of grass. He opened one eye and caught sight of his girlfriend. It was almost enough to make him forget he was the laughing stalk of Camp Half Blood.
His favorite headphones were around her neck, blending seamlessly into the dark gradient of her sweatshirt. The back of her hand covered her lips, trying to hide laughter in the same way strands of her hair tried to cover her eyes. The view knocked the wind from his lungs the same way hitting the ground had. For a moment, just like it had when he was upside down, time stopped.
But, instead of gravity taking over, it was the witchie cackle of Alice and Julie.
Jerry rolled his eyes, sitting up. "I told you I couldn't cartwheel."
Alice let out a wheezy cough, trying to return air to her lacking lungs. "I didn't think you were that bad."
"That's not very nice," Olivera said. She tucked her hands in her hoodie pockets. "He tried."
"I tried," Jerry echoed. He held out his hands and made grabby motions towards the three girls. "Help, please."
Olivera's grin was one fit for a demigod as she stepped forward and linked his hands into hers. She pulled him up, his feet leaving the ground for a millisecond.
Once he reoriented himself, he pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Thank you, Ol."
"Of course." She let go of her left hand to touch the spot where he had kissed—the phantom of it still present.
Behind them, Alice and Julie were fake gagging, hands pointing to their throats as they held their stomachs. Jerry sent a crude gesture in their direction before dragging Olivera over to the daughters of Hermes so he could bump Alice with his hip.
"Mate!" yelled Alice, hands pressed to her heart in betrayal, pretending to have the same lilt that Jerry naturally had.
"Dude," shot back Jerry, his best attempt at Alice's California accent.
"Let's get back to the real reason we're here," Julia claimed, rubbing her hands together. "Which is Jerry's horrible cartwheel skills."
"Aren't archers supposed to be uber-strong?" Alice questioned. Her voice had traces of the falsified British accent still, like she had trouble flipping it off. "It's too hard to pull those stupid bows back most of the time."
"I told you I was bad," Jerry complained. "I don't know why your expectations were high."
"You need practice," Olivera said firmly. "It's not too hard."
"Can you do one?" Jerry asked. He wasn't sure why he was surprised—his girlfriend had always had hidden strengths she never used. She preferred to hide in the corner of the Arts and Crafts pavilion with an easel and a palette of oil paints creating the next Starry Night.
Olivera's answer was in the form of removing Jerry's headphones from around her neck, placing them gingerly around Jerry's neck, before removing her hoodie. Jerry deliberately glanced away, though he caught a sliver of untanned skin exposed below the seam of her CHB t-shirt. She draped the hood over Jerry's head, before stepping forward.
Her cartwheel was the anti-Jerry's. The form was perfect and she landed standing, hands in the air. Jerry felt his jaw drop, and Julia pushed it in place, tutting slightly.
Olivera wriggled in her spot. "Mamãe put me in gymnastics when I was five," she explained. "I didn't like it much."
"You were probably too busy idolizing Leonardo da Vinci," Alice said. "Trying to paint the Mona Lisa at five."
"You were probably too busy idolizing Vincenzo Peruggia," said Olivera. "Trying to steal the Mona Lisa at age five."
Alice gasped. "I am no thief."
"You stole my watch yesterday," Jerry pointed out. "And the day before—"
"Alright, I get it." Alice said. "I may be a thief, but at least I'm a damn good one."
"She never gets caught," added Julia. "Makes Dad super proud."
"You're not a bad klepto, yourself."
"Aw!"
"Have I mentioned I'm concerned for you both?" Jerry said.
"All the time," chirped the two Hermes girls.
Olivera made her way over to Jerry, slipping her hand in his and leaning her head on his shoulder. "Could you?"
Julia raised an eyebrow. "What, Olivera?"
"Could you and Alice steal the Mona Lisa?"
"Hypothetically," Alice said. "We won't, but it's not above our wheelhouse."
"Everyone deserves art," Julia added.
Jerry knew Olivera was grinning broadly. "Art's amazing."
He squeezed her hand lightly. "You want to paint?"
"Or pilfer paint?" asked Alice.
Olivera lifted her head and gently flicked Alice. "Is that a joke, Peruggia?"
"Is it, da Vinci?"
Olivera grinned brightly and pulled Jerry's arm in the direction of the Arts and Crafts pavilion.
Julia skipped over next to Olivera, Alice running to Jerry's right. "Ollie, can you paint me a picture of Jerry's failed cartwheel."
"Fuck off, mate."