by Rachel Toor
“A little what?” I said, prepared to defend Walter-the-Man.
She hesitated.
“Intimidating. The two of you together are a force of nature. There’s no room for anyone else when you guys are going at it.”
She pointed to my scone and said, “Are you going to eat that?”
Even though I still wanted it, I pushed the plate over to her.
23
Joan was right: I was not the slowest person on the Saturday-morning group run.
Nikki and Miles and a tall balding computer programmer named Owen, who cracked jokes that were snarky but funny, and a few other guys whose names I didn’t learn, were the speedy group, but there were a bunch of other people there as well.
After the first ten minutes the runners spread out and the fast ones got far ahead, though you could hear Nikki’s laugh for a long time. I ended up running with Candace, a graphic designer, and Jeff, a professor of economics who used to be fast, he said, but was recovering from knee surgery, and Valerie, who ran a local nonprofit, and Ruth, who seemed to own a lot of property, and David, who was fast but thought the conversation at the back of the pack was more interesting. We ran slow and did a lot of talking.
It was amazing how much easier it was to run with a group. It felt like we’d only been out a short time before we got to the turnaround where Joan had dropped off water and cups. I could not believe how quickly the time passed and how good it felt.
The best thing was that after, when we got back to the parking lot, Candace pulled out a cooler filled with drinks and a tin of homemade treats. The fast people had added on another few miles so we all finished at the same time and everyone stood around refueling with neon-colored sports drinks and peanut butter cookies.
These runners seemed so different, with different body types and different backgrounds and even different systems of belief—when the conversation turned to politics, Valerie started talking about what races were coming up—but they all seemed devoted to being there each Saturday, and to really care about one another.
Miles and I stayed in the parking lot long after everyone else had left.
We were by far the youngest—some of the runners had kids they had to get home to, or gardens to weed, or work to do. But for me and Miles, 10:30 on a Saturday was still when most of our peers were sleeping in. We walked a few laps around the edge of the parking lot, then sat on the warm asphalt.
“Do you really think Joan is a failure?” I asked. I’d been spending a lot of time thinking about this. If the question surprised Miles, he didn’t show it.
“She choked during her last race. She lost confidence.”
“Or maybe,” I said, “she changed her focus. Maybe she didn’t really want what she thought she wanted.”
“Why wouldn’t you want to go as fast as you can?”
“Well,” I said, nibbling on my last bit of cookie, “because there are other things that matter. You can’t be fast forever. No one can. ‘Nothing gold can stay,’” I said.
“Can stay what?”
“It’s a quote. Google it.”
“Huh,” Miles said again. He was quiet for a while, and I thought we’d bumped into a place where we were going to argue.
“You know,” he said finally, “she’s probably made more of an impact with the store than she ever did as a runner. There are lots of people who used to be fast—and then didn’t do anything significant with running, except complain about how the new crop of runners isn’t good enough.”
We didn’t speak again for a while, just sat on the pavement, leaving big wet spots from our sweat-soaked shorts.
“How’s the Tater Tot?” I said. “Haven’t seen the little guy in a while.”
“He misses you,” Miles said, and then he blushed. “How about a spud run on Thursday after school? We could go out to the Kanawha State Forest and do a longish loop on the trails. Harry says he needs to get out more, that he’s in danger of going from a hot dog to a summer sausage.”
“Can’t let that happen,” I said. “How long is longish?”
“About eleven, but we’ll take it easy.”
Eleven miles? Today I’d done nine and it felt good. Could I do two more?
I wasn’t sure, but I wanted to go.
So we agreed I’d pick him up at Harry’s and drive us to the forest on Thursday.
24
When weeks went by and I never heard back from the rat lady at the college in Boston, I felt embarrassed. I figured she must have thought I was a dweeb to write her such a long and personal message, if she even bothered to read it.
But when I’d finally stopped cringing every time I remembered it, I got a reply from her.
To: Alice Davis
Subject: Internship?
* * *
Dear Alice,
Rodentiaphilia! I love it!
Thank you so much for writing. I’ve been out of the country (I had to take my students on a trip to Prague!) and am just now catching up on e-mail. I almost missed this wonderful message from you.
Have you figured out what you’re going to do next year? It’s too bad that your applications didn’t work out, but there are so many wonderful colleges and universities in this country, and so many incredible professors to work with, surely you will have a lot of options.
Here’s one you might consider: I could offer you a place in my lab for the fall semester. You could do an internship with us and sit in on some courses while you reapply to colleges. I’ve mentored students who have gone to graduate school all over the country and I’d be happy to put you in touch with them.
This is also a self-interested offer. I rely on students to help me think through experiments and carry them out. Since I’m at a small undergraduate institution instead of a big research university, I don’t have a surplus of labor. I do have a student coming in the spring for the second part of her gap year, so having you in the fall would work out well for me. The undergrads are a great group and you would likely enjoy it here.
Think about it and let me know. It would be easy to find you housing and Boston is a great running town.
Best,
Marnie
I had assumed I’d go to one of the two schools that admitted me, neither of which I was crazy about. I knew I only got into Bowdoin because both my parents went there and have given lots of dough to the alumni fund, and I’m pretty sure I got into Trinity because I wrote my supplemental essay about the dad who had the heart attack during our information session. They probably felt like they owed me something.
Mom told me she’d sent a nonrefundable deposit to both schools because while she understood that I might not be ready to make a decision, it was worth losing the money so I would have a choice.
I’d started getting mail from two colleges that each thought I would be in their freshman class next year.
Miles had talked about taking a gap year starting in January when he finished high school but I never thought I could do that. I was on a path, the straight-and-narrow course of the college-bound.
Could I step off the hamster wheel I’d been on my whole life?
25
When Potato got in the car, he jumped onto my lap and licked my face like a crazy person.
I couldn’t help laughing. He tried to slip his tongue into my mouth, and I said, “No French-kissing today, doodlebug,” and then felt my face turn bright red.
Miles buckled his seat belt and leaned over to grab Potato off me. As he came close, I could smell his shampoo. His shoulder brushed against mine. Potato was wiggling and wagging and it seemed like it took Miles a long time—with his shoulder against mine—to get a grip on the squirming little dude.
He gave me directions to get to the trailhead.
I liked the way he navigated: he gave me plenty of warning and would say, “I’d turn left here,” as if I were making a choice and he was just letting me know what he would do if he were in my position. He was the opposite of that bossy Gladys from the GPS.
“Happy brown sign!” Miles said as we passed a sign that read RECREATION AREA 3 MILES and had images of a tent and two hikers with backpacks. “When you see a happy brown sign, you know something good is coming.”
I’d never noticed them. I barely remembered what the different colored signs meant from when I had to take my driver’s test. I knew yellow stood for caution; brown probably meant recreation. I liked that he’d given it a name and knew that I would always think happy brown sign when I saw one.
After we parked and Miles opened the door, Potato charged out of the car and ran around and peed on everything he could find, including:
1. A tire of the only other car in the parking lot.
2. A flower.
3. A lot of trees.
4. The ladder to the slide on the playground across the street.
5. If I hadn’t caught him in time, my leg.
Miles slipped a small pack onto his back. I hadn’t thought to bring anything to drink. He saw me looking at him and said, “I’ve got plenty of supplies, including water for the tuber. There should be some out on the trail, but Harry worries if she sees me leave without water for him. I’m a cairn terrier’s Sherpa.”
He gestured with his head toward the trail and motioned for me to go.
“Wanna?” he said.
I did.
At first it was open and we ran through a grassy meadow. Then the trail slid into the woods. It was single-track, so we had to run in line, not side by side. Potato dashed ahead. Sometimes he stayed on the trail, sometimes he ventured into the woods to chase squirrels, real or imagined. The trail climbed, and soon I was huffing and shuffling along.
“Do you want to go ahead?” I said to Miles. I wanted to walk, but someone had written on the START wall, No one ever got better at running hills by walking them. That went through my mind every time I got to a hill.
Plus, I didn’t want Miles to think I was wimping out.
“I’m good,” he said. He sure was. He never had to breathe hard. He said, “I like the way you’re attacking the hill—slow and steady. You’ve got natural talent.”
It struck me as strange to mention talent in relation to running. It seemed more like something that should apply to culture, like being able to carry a tune, or the way Jenni could look at a piece of material—wood, fabric, discarded Christmas ornaments—and transform it into something else. Running seemed so, well, pedestrian. You put one foot in front of the other to stop yourself from falling. All it took was the decision to keep doing it. You couldn’t help but get better.
Miles continued. “Like Remy.”
“You saw it!” Hearing he had watched Ratatouille felt like a gift.
“I had to do some work to convince Harry. She didn’t want to watch a cartoon. Said she stopped watching them with Fantasia, which was made by Disney, like, two hundred years ago. But I told her it was important to me, that the movie had been highly recommended by someone I trusted, so she agreed, with a bit of grumbling.”
“And?”
“Great thing about Harry. She says she loves being wrong. Now we’ve been on a binge of watching Pixar films. She said she was mortified to have been so bigoted, to have passed judgment without knowing what she was talking about.”
“And what did you think?”
“I think you’re awesome.”
I was glad he couldn’t see my face.
Then he farted. Three times, three little farts in a row.
“Must be ducks around here,” he said, and I busted out laughing.
About a minute later, I burped. Really loud.
We both laughed.
Even though the trail was still going up, being so comfortable around him gave me a shot of energy and I felt like I could keep going forever. I also felt kind of brave.
“Look,” I said. “There’s some stuff I need to tell you.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
I took a deep breath.
Joan was right. Some conversations are easier when you don’t have to face each other. “Well, you may not think I’m awesome anymore. You may think I’m a freak.”
“Doubt it.”
So I told him about Walter.
He said, “A rat? A real rat?”
“Yes.”
He said, “Huh.”
So I told him a bunch of funny Walter stories.
He listened and occasionally asked questions that showed it had never occurred to him that rats could be such great companions, but that now he understood. It felt so good to talk about my little dude. I missed him so much.
Then I told Miles how Walter had started to fail and I hadn’t noticed. When I had to tell the final part, I couldn’t keep running. I slowed to a walk.
After I finished talking, Miles put a hand on my shoulder and I couldn’t help it, I began to cry. I didn’t want him to know I was crying, so I started running again.
We were quiet for a while and then he said, “So that’s why you haven’t been around. I thought maybe you just didn’t like me.”
“No!” I said, too loud as usual.
I didn’t turn, but I could hear him chuckle behind me. I was glad we couldn’t see each other. I knew we were both smiling.
“There’s something else,” I said.
“Just so you know, I’m even more convinced of your awesomeness.”
“Maybe not when you hear this. Eight of the best colleges in the country think I’m a loser.”
I told him about my thwarted plans to go to Yale, and about being rejected from all the other schools. He listened without comment.
Then I told him about the e-mail from the Boston rat lady.
He let out a whoop and said, “If you don’t do this, you’re nuts.”
“Really?”
“Really. It sounds like the perfect thing for you. Who cares about dumb old Yale?”
I thought, I do.
And then I thought, no, I don’t.
“I’m pretty sure my parents would be okay with it. They have a bunch of friends in Boston. We’ve visited there a lot.”
“Yeah,” he said. He paused, and added in a soft voice, “And then, in the spring, you might want to try WWOOFing.”
I felt my heart pound, and not from running.
I thought, me? Travel around the world milking rabbits or shoveling bat poop or whatever people did on those farms? I couldn’t do that.
We had gotten nearly to the top and the path was starting to flatten out.
Could I? Could I go WWOOFing?
The trail opened into a clearing. You could see all over the valley. It felt like being on the roof of the world.
Miles took off his backpack and plopped down on a big flat rock.
I wasn’t ready to sit. I stood tall and noticed how green and full of life the forest was. The air smelled sharp and clean. I could hear birds messing around in the branches of trees and Potato snuffling after them. I held out my arms and twirled and sang as much as I could remember from Cat Stevens’s “On the Road to Find Out.”
Miles just watched me for a while, with a wide smile on his face. He poured some water into a cup for the spud, then he pulled out a loaf of crusty bread and a jar of something. He held the bread up to his ear and, quoting from Ratatouille, said that the crust sounded good. He showed me the jar.
“Nutella. Chocolate and hazelnut. From Harry. She said we should have something sweet today.”
He had talked about me to Harry!
I sat next to him and Potato came and lay down alongside my legs, the way Walter used to.
I watched as Miles smoothed a spoonful of the dark brown spread onto a hunk of bread. He handed it to me.
OMG, it was delicious. Nutty and chocolaty—well, enough said.
“You got some on your snoot.”
He leaned in close and rubbed the tip of my nose. Even though it now probably had a combo of Nutella, sweat, old makeup, and skin oil on it, he put his finger into his mouth.
I held my breath, wa
tching him, watching the finger.
He moved his hand from his mouth to my cheek.
To the back of my head.
He pulled me close and I could smell his shampoo again, and something else, something a little spicy, a little tart.
He whispered, “You wanna?”
I nodded.
He kissed me.
It was better than I could ever have imagined.
He pulled back, and when I finally opened my eyes, he was looking at me, looking at my face, and into my eyes in a way that made me squirm.
He said, “Woof.”
“Woof,” I said, and laughed.
Then we said together, “WOOF.”
And I kissed him again.
26
It wouldn’t be real until I told Jenni.
She was in the kitchen with Mom. I grabbed her skinny arm and was going to drag her to my room, but then I changed my mind.
Instead I sat at the table. Mom got up to go, but I said, “Stay. Please.” I told Jenni and Mom in slow-motion what had happened. I lingered over the details. I recounted every single thing Miles had said to me and how I responded. And then I told them about what now seemed like solid plans for next year.
I waited for Mom to comment, to start asking questions about who Miles was and how I’d met him or where I was going to live in Boston, but she didn’t. Her hands were clasped around her coffee cup and she watched me as I talked, occasionally nodding and smiling.
Jenni listened the way she always does, as if what I was saying was the secret to the meaning of life. She never interrupted, the way Mom and I often did. Or gave her opinion, the way Mom and I often did. When I was finally finished she said, “Oh Al, I’m so happy for you.”
Mom let go of her cup, leaned over, and took both of my hands in hers. She still hadn’t said a word, but her eyes were shiny. She kissed me on the top of my head the way she usually kissed Jenni.
I felt full, and my heart was light in a way it hadn’t been for a long time.
27
At graduation, in my valedictory (“bidding farewell”) speech, I said:
