You Can't Catch Me

by Becca Ann

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t disappear for too long. This is your party.”

  Yeah okay, Mom. Like anyone will even notice. She heads back to her designated hostess spot in the kitchen while I leap down the stairs two at a time.

  My dad’s office is kind of a stinkhole. I mean, it’s an office if you define “office” as the room where the computer is. But it’s mostly just a bunch of papers on a desk, burnt CDs from the old fogey days when people did that instead of iTunes, and all the junk Dad thought was “so cool” but Mom finds an “eyesore.”

  I move past the cardboard standup of Jabba the Hutt and thumb through the bills and magazines sitting on top of the beat-up filing cabinet.

  “Success!” I call out, holding up the envelope addressed to “The Parents of Ginger Silverman.” I rip into it before Dad gives me the spiel about how it’s technically his mail and not mine.

  The half sheet of paper maps out my sophomore year… which I forgot until now is going to be kind of crappy. I don’t get many electives, and I thought I’d be smart and get all the required stuff out of the way so that my senior year is cake. Only the super sucky thing is all the boring classes are mashed together. Like they are purposely trying to torture me because being sixteen with a whole new body isn’t hard enough.

  I do have gym last, praise the sweat gods. Gym is a lot like my warm-up for cross country, which is right after school.

  I crease the paper, folding it so it fits in my pocket, and then salute Jabba on my way out. The noise increases every step I make upstairs, and when I swing the basement door open, I nearly knock my buddy Drake on his butt.

  “Whoa!” He tips back, his mile-high legs wobbling, trying hard as they can to keep him upright. I grab his arm with a laugh and catch him before he tumbles into Uncle George.

  “I thought you were bailing!” I grin, pulling him in for a giant bear hug. Drake is about eight feet tall, so I have to jump a little to get my arms over his shoulders.

  Oy… my gosh. Hugs are certainly different now in a D cup. Good thing I’m not a huge hugger.

  “Heard the party from two blocks away,” he says after spitting out some of my hair that thwacked him in the face. His arms loosen, and he gives my hoodie a funny look before shaking his shaggy head and continuing. “And I smelled food.”

  “Free loader.” I sock him a good one in his bony arm. “But eat as much as you want.”

  “You got it.”

  He tosses an arm over my shoulder and leads me into my own kitchen.

  “Did you get your schedule?” I ask him as he dumps a blob of jelly onto one of Mom’s freshly baked rolls. His brown eyes don’t leave his plate as he answers.

  “Yeah. Got calculus first thing in the morning. What a bust.”

  “That’s what happens when you’re a genius.”

  His bushy eyebrow lifts, but he still doesn’t move his gaze from the parade of pastries resting on his plate. Algebra 2 is the highest math requirement, and thank heavens I’m done with it this year. But Drake, he’s a math super nerd, and he took Algebra 2 back in eighth. He didn’t have to take calc, but for some reason he likes math. Crazy pants.

  “What’s your first class?” he asks.

  “English 10.” Basic, boring English class every sophomore is required to take.

  “When do you have gym?” he asks, then pushes a piece of honey-glazed ham into his mouth with his thumb and forefinger. The guy eats like a lion devouring a wildebeest, yet he’s still the fastest runner in our grade—he did win the gold at State in the boys division. I secretly rub my hands together as I watch him eat and eat. Yes… fatten up, my pretty. Soon I shall outrun you and your insane legs.

  Well, once I stop eating so much myself.

  “Last period,” I answer. “I scored.”

  “Hey, we have that one together.”

  “Sweet.”

  We high-five, and he gets ham juice all over me. We both wrinkle our noses and wipe our hands off on our shirts.

  Drake gets an already-filled cup of juice and slides over to the crowded table. There are two seats open at the end because Mom and Frankie moved to the backyard to pass out ice cream sandwiches to the two-year-olds. Because they totally need more sugar.

  “So how was State for you?” Drake asks then stuffs his face. His hair’s gotten so long since I last saw him. Crazy what two months will do.

  “Sha-mazing.” Ah crap… Tiff. My eyes jump away from Drake’s ravenous eating and search the room for my BFF. “Did you see Tiff?” I ask him when I can’t spot her bright blue shirt anywhere. Drake holds his finger up as he swallows a huge mouthful of roll and ham.

  “She…” Gulp. “She went upstairs.”

  Probably had to pee. No one goes upstairs during these shindigs unless the main level lavatory is occupied.

  “Be right back,” I tell Drake before stealing his cupcake. He hollers after me, but it’s halfway into my mouth already. I give him a nice show of it on my tongue before turning the corner and pushing my way up the stairs.

  I get to my baby sister’s room… which is just a pink room full of boxes at the moment. Someone must’ve opened the door because it’s always closed. Except that one time Mom left it open, and I caught her silently crying as she held a small white and yellow stuffed lamb, rocking it back and forth and singing. Just seeing the room open like that, showing off one of the most painful memories for our family, makes my heart frown, so I reach forward and ease the door shut. I run a hand over the purple fading letters of my sister’s name, Cayenne, before dropping it and continuing my search for Tiff.

  I knock on the bathroom door, but it’s partly cracked so I bet she’s not peeing. Maybe she went to my room for some peace and quiet in the chaos. What a cheater! I have to endure the bazillion people; the least she could do is keep me company.

  Actually… I might join her for a bit.

  I turn the knob to my room and hip-check the door open and say, “You sneak!”

  A loud, juicy suction popping noise echoes through the room, and my brain registers what I’m seeing.

  “My eyes!” I shout, pushing my hand over my face before I see any more of the vomit-inducing display. But even with my vision cut off, I still see the tangled legs on my bed, Fartbucket’s hand slithering up Tiff’s shirt, and tongues…

  My free hand fumbles for the doorknob, and I try to push back gagging noises as I hurry out of the room. I hear Tiff right before I get the door shut.

  “Sorry!”

  The click sounds in my ears, and I drop my hand from my eyes, giving the hallway a look like I’m about to barf all over it.

  My shoulders shudder in disgust, and when I look up, Drake’s at the end of the hallway, watching me with slight amusement. But then his gaze goes directly to my chest, his mouth popping open. Apparently, my overlarge sweater is caught in the door, stretching itself nearly skin-tight against my torso.

  The Sharpies have made their debut among one of my friends. And by the looks of it, they are getting a standing—and drooling—ovation.

  3

  (Cute) Stranger Danger

  They’re getting bigger.

  I just know it.

  Aunt Heidi insisted after buying me the Stripper Ginger bra that I also needed sports bras that didn’t want to pop off me like a champagne cork. So now, as I lace up my pink sneakers to go for my morning run, I have to lean a little differently, or I get a Sharpie to the chin.

  I do a couple stretches then jog past Mom and Dad’s chorus of snores coming from their open bedroom door. They were up way late for “old” people. I think Dad fell asleep nose-first in the sweet onion dip Mom set out for dinner.

  “Ah…” I sigh as I step out onto our massive front deck. Finally August. The sweet smell of autumn will be upon me soon—just one more month of this wretched heat.

  September is the best time for running—the crunch of leaves, the perfect amount of wind to dry the sweat, and no patches of snow or ice to completely ruin
your ankles.

  I shove my earbuds in and set the track to Disney hits—there’s something relaxing about running to the beat of Kiss the Girl—then I take off down my good ol’ jogging path.

  Oy… my gosh. Yeah, it’s been a long while. I ran during summer vacation, but not for training. Mostly just in chasing situations. Playing on the beach. Yadda Yadda. Now that I’m actually running just to run, I think I’m going to die, and I haven’t reached the end of my driveway.

  I blame the bra—though my butt and thighs are a couple of other offenders—but this bra is going to take some getting used to. I feel like a couple sacks of volleyballs have been glued to my upper body, and they are determined to smack me in the nose with every step. It’s funny how just a few years ago, Tiff and I were talking about getting our first bras and how pointless it felt, but it was like “the thing to do” when you move into middle school. My first bra was a neon orange and blue print that my mom told me over and over that I should trade for one of the boring white ones. I didn’t listen—of course—and found out the hard way that I could only wear dark tops while most of my wardrobe was pretty pastel. Being a brilliant mother—her words—Mom bought a couple of white ones for backup after I finally caved and told her she was right.

  That was back when these gallon jugs were only pints.

  I pass Jamal’s house right at 6:45, and he sprints down his walkway, falling in line with me like he does every August when cross country starts back up. I bet he’s wondering why I’m taking it so slow.

  “Heya, second place,” he teases, and I pull out one of my earbuds so we can talk.

  “I kicked ultimate booty, and you know it.”

  “Then why you lagging today?” He grins, turning around so he can run backward, still keeping with my “leisurely” pace.

  I shove him. “Taking it easy. Had one too many cupcakes throughout the week.” Can anyone really blame me though? I rarely get cupcakes.

  I swear his eyes flick down to my bouncing bosom quick as lightning, but they’re back on my face before I can really tell if he was looking at them at all or if he just happened to blink.

  “Yeah…” He clears his throat and turns around so he’s running forward again. “Better run it out before the season starts. Who knows how hard our new coach’ll be.”

  He has a point. I force myself to pick up the pace, keeping my breathing as steady as I can as we round the corner and head toward the parkway that runs through our neighborhood.

  Coach Juniper, our last coach, transferred to another school at the end of track since her husband got a job farther south. She was amazeballs… always calling us out when we were slacking, but in an encouraging sort of way. She made me puke once. It was awesome.

  All I know about the new coach is that her last name is Fox, and she used to be a dance squad teacher. So I expect to see a woman dressed in a sparkly leotard with a whistle dangling from her glossy lips.

  Jamal accidentally bumps into me, and I move over on the path so he doesn’t do it again. I’m not a huge fan of physical contact. An occasional hug after not seeing someone for a while, and punching and wrestling and other very non-grazing type of things are okay with my guy friends. But other than that, I like my space.

  “So…” Jamal says through his hard breathing. “Drake… said… he had… a good time… last night.”

  My eyes narrow down at the path. There’s dog poop that I just barely miss.

  “He totally stuffed his face.” I breathe a few times. “You should’ve come.”

  “He said… you were… I mean… Tiffany and Marcus…”

  “Were exchanging saliva?” Few more breaths. “Um, yeah. And that description does not do the grossness of it justice.”

  He lets out a breathless laugh, his pace starting to slow. I’d give him crap about it, but I’m not up to my normal speed either. Man, I don’t run for a few days, and I go soft.

  Okay, a few weeks.

  Maybe months.

  I pick up speed again, just trying to prove something to myself.

  “So… you doing anything… later?” he asks, sweat starting to drip along his dark hairline.

  I shake my head. “Gonna go see Cayenne after our run, but then I’m pretty much open.” We cross the bridge over the small man-made river. “You wanna hang?”

  “Yeah!” he says a little too enthusiastically. “My house?”

  “Sounds good.” I race a little in front of him to the fork where we usually part ways—him to the basketball court and me to the cemetery. “See you later!”

  He nods, and his eyes definitely make contact with my chest when he starts heading down the opposite path. When he goes behind a tree, I force my legs to slow it down so I can examine the Sharpies and what exactly they’re doing to my mojo.

  I put my hands on my lower back, breathing out small wisps of air through the O of my lips. It’s probably all in my head—the way he was staring. I’m wearing a baggy shirt. The sports bra doesn’t hold me flat like the other ones, but it’s not like I’m in my stripper bra. I could be freaking over nothing.

  After another careful breath, I push my legs back into a run, sprinting once I get to the edge of the park. I smack the walk button to cross the street, jogging in place until the little walk man comes up. Even though they aren’t open, I can still smell the baking goods from The Rolling Scones just a couple of buildings over. Marcel, the bakery owner, always leaves my order next to the narrow mail slot near the bottom of the door because my long, bony arms can fit through it. Most of the time.

  I take a little breather before crouching in front of the glass door, pushing my hand through the flap and feeling around until the crinkle of the cellophane bag reaches my ears. My fingers close around ribbon, and I reel it toward me. A bright pink pastry with yellow frosting sits inside, and the note around the top says, “Gluten-free raspberry lemonade.”

  A smile hits my lips, and I ignore the sore muscles as I stretch up on my legs. I just have about another half mile to go, then the jog home. Not bad, but my back kind of hurts. I think I need some Icy Hot or something, even though that stuff reminds me of my ancient grandpa who constantly smells like peppermint butthole.

  I stick my earbud back in my ear, skipping the You’ll be in my Heart track since the slow tempo doesn’t help my pace, and go to I Just Can’t Wait to be King. Sweat starts to form along my brow as the sun gets higher in the sky. It’s still freaking gorgeous and is perfect running weather with the early morning breeze. I almost run right past the cemetery I’m so in the zone.

  Cayenne is buried next to a white concrete bench that looks like any weight on it will make it crumble to dust. My sister was only six days old when she died. I’m fuzzy on the details of how and why, but I do remember being there when we all took the pictures with her. I was four and didn’t understand what was going on, and my mom kept trying to explain to me that Cayenne was already so perfect that she got her angel wings early. At four years old, I pictured tiny chicken wings. Now I picture the wrinkly and adorable six-day-old with bright pink dove wings.

  I make my way to Cayenne’s spot—nothing special about it really, other than it’s my sister’s. No big tree or statue or flower garden or anything, just that decrepit looking bench. The headstone isn’t a traditional headstone either, but the one that lies flat in the grass. I used to search for a few minutes before I found her, but I know exactly which one she is now. I sit next to my sister and set the pastry down against the vase thing they keep near the grave for flowers.

  “So Mom made about a gazillion cupcakes the other day, and our giant family ate all of them.” I shake my head and lean back. “But I got you covered.”

  I have no idea if Cayenne would’ve liked cupcakes, or if she would’ve been gluten intolerant like me. I don’t know what color of hair she would’ve had since she was almost bald when Mom delivered her. I don’t know anything really, but I’ve painted a picture of her in my head. I like to think that we’d share our woes of not
being able to eat bread or Red Vines or pizza or cake or anything that tastes so wonderful but ends up attacking your innards with a million rapiers. I imagine her with straight as a board blonde hair, which is totally the opposite of my brown unruly curls, and she’d be jealous of mine, I’d be jealous of hers. I imagine us running… running as fast as we can… to escape things, to embrace things, just doing it together.

  Mom would probably say that she’s already doing all that with me, just quietly. But I don’t tell her what I imagine. It feels like it’s my version of her, and I don’t want it compromised by others’ opinions. Also, I’m not sure if Mom doesn’t like to talk about her or if she just doesn’t talk about her. But I’m not going to ask.

  I stretch on the grass, letting my muscles relax, but not too much since I’ve got to run back, and I catch a movement from the corner of my eye. My calm and cool reflecting heart sputters up to my throat, making a tiny gasp slip out of my mouth and my hand fly to my chest.

  I’m usually the only person here at seven something in the morning, but there’s a guy walking up the cemetery sidewalk… right toward me.

  He’s more legs than torso, so even with his stocky build, his strides are coming in at a pretty fast pace. He looks ready to talk to me. His round face is friendly, his eyes far away though as if deep in thought. I think I’d find him cute if he wasn’t walking straight at me.

  I poise myself to flee. I’m not a fight girl; I’m a complete fleer. Meeting someone in a cemetery is creepy, even though they totally pull that off in The Vampire Diaries.

  He gets closer, and I whisper a “see you tomorrow” to my sister before pushing to my feet. He’s got a brown paper sack in his hand. Maybe he’s an alcoholic.

  I’m about to dash the other direction, but his lips turn up into an awkward grin. And it’s so awkward and so unsure and so… gosh, I don’t even know the word, but I’m not freaked out anymore. He seems so harmless even though his height is kind of intimidating. When he passes, I have to look up a foot in order to keep his gaze. Who knows why I’m staring, especially after he’s done looking at me and finds the cracks in the sidewalk way more entertaining.