by Becca Ann
Drake has had thousands of opportunities to “be interested.” Didn’t show a single shred of it until now, and I can’t help but think if he hadn’t seen me stuck in a door that my room would be bear-free.
“So, what do you think?” he asks, blissfully unaware that his gawking has caused a very rare case of Ginger Cry. I clear my throat, hoping that it doesn’t sound wet or snotty or gross.
“Aren’t I supposed to answer in a fun way?” I make up on the spot, just to buy some time. It makes me sick to my stomach though. Why am I not slapping him? Calling him out? Or just flat-out refusing? If it was a year ago and he stared like that, I totally would have. But I feel so off, so not myself, and I push my hair away from my face and ignore the extra weight that somehow seems to pulse red high beam lights right through my shirt.
“Sure. I guess you could do that.” He grins and finally brings his eyes up to mine. Whatever he sees, it makes his smile falter slightly before he pushes himself from the bed. “Catch you on the flippity flop.”
“Yep.”
“Oh, and I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to give your aunt and mom crap for failing at their one job.”
I have to force myself to laugh even though I know it’s genuinely funny. Shaking my head, I stand up and practically push him out the door. “’Kay leave. I stink. Shower time.”
And after I get him out of my room, instead of showering, I fall face-first into a scary bear, wishing I could just go back to this morning.
10
Disney Johnny Cash
Jamal runs past my house three times, staring up at my porch as he passes, completely oblivious to me peeking through the blinds. My heart’s doing this thumpity thump thump like when you’re lying in the dark in your bed and something makes a noise in the hallway waking you up, and you totally freeze and wait for the noise to happen again.
Jamal is hardly a crazy unknown noise in the dark, but the way he’s been acting since I got home this summer is a little off-putting. I need a guy to act normal around me because I can’t help but feel that they’re all looking at my blossomed bosom.
Adding on top of that madness, there’s Oliver. It’s not like I’ve developing a “thang” for him, but… I’m developing a something for him. Call it intrigue or curiosity or a breath of fresh air. The truth is, I’ve never met someone completely via sticky notes. It’s like texting, but so not like texting, because I get to see his handwriting, and when you see a guy’s handwriting, it just hits somewhere deep in Girl Stomach Zoo. Animals rattle their cages and start using their vocal chords in a low, deep tone. Just picturing his handwriting has my internal zookeepers sticking their hands out to keep the animals at bay.
I’ve had crushes before, but it’s been a while, so I’m unsure if that’s what this is. It can’t be, because I barely know the dude. Then again, I’ve got sweaty palms and dry mouth, and I am not digging on that. There is a tryout time I have to focus on!
“What are we looking at?” Mom whispers behind me, making me jump two feet into the air. The bowl of gluten-free Cheerios she has in her hand tips and spills a few Os and some milk. She laughs and sets it on the table.
“I was just watching Jamal,” I say, letting the blinds snap closed while Mom grabs a towel. “Don’t really feel like running with him this morning.”
“Did he ask you to the fall formal, too?”
A snort rumbles my nose. “No.”
Her eyebrow lifts in a questioning way, and then her top half disappears behind the kitchen table as she cleans the milk.
I play with the blind string, twisting it between my fingers. “Sometimes I like to run alone. To think and stuff.”
“What are you thinking about?” Her voice comes out somewhat strained since she’s bent over.
Boys. “Oh you know,” I say through a humorless laugh, “making a pros and cons list. Been thinking of drinking, smoking, getting a tattoo…”
She peeks over the edge of the table with narrowed eyes. “If you get a tattoo, you better bring me with you so we’ll match.”
“Way to ruin the fantasy, Mom.”
She hurries to the sink to dump the soggy rag and Cheerios. “Well, better hurry. You’re running late, and you’ll want to shower before school.”
I slide a blind up, looking out at the empty street. My luck, Jamal will pop out from a bush. But I zip over to the front door anyway.
“See you later!”
“Bye! Oh, and Ginger, don’t smoke anything. It’ll ruin your running time.”
I wave a hand at her and then head out the door. I pretend it’s the last ten yards in a marathon and sprint them at top speed. Luck is on my side today; Jamal isn’t in any nearby bushes.
My pace slows when I get past the fork where Jamal and I normally part ways. Marcel left a bag of sugar cookies outside of The Rolling Scones that smell so darn good I take one out before getting to the cemetery gates and stuff my face. I don’t know how he does it, but he makes the gluten-free stuff taste better than the gluten-filled.
Okay, maybe not better. But certainly edible and making me want more. I’d sneak half of Cayenne’s, but it’s probably better that I don’t add any more weight to my already foreign body. I only have two more chances at making the team, and if I don’t make the team…
I shiver. I can’t even think of what my life will become if that happens. I imagine some sort of comatose state.
The grass is wet. I must be so late that they’ve run the sprinklers already. Dang, that probably means Oliver’s gone by now. I should’ve just run with Jamal and risked the weirdness. After taking a deep breath, I jog up the path and see the vacant area we share. My lips pull down in a frown when I see the travel pack of Cinnamon Toast Crunch leaning against the headstone Oliver visits.
“Well… poo.” My shoulders slump, and I crouch down by Cayenne, not letting my butt touch the wet grass. “I hope you kept him company,” I tell her as I set the cookies down. “Talked me up. Told him I’m funny and weird, but like, in a good, awesome way.”
The wind pushes my bushy ponytail over my shoulder and strands tickle my nostrils. I love when Cayenne communicates via wind.
“Thanks. I love you too.” I brush my fingers across her name. It’s starting to fade, the texture wearing down smooth with weather and probably little kids jumping on it despite their parents telling them not to. I think Cayenne likes that, though. Kids playing, being kids. Or maybe she’d be annoyed. I don’t know, and my frown returns because I won’t ever know what she really would’ve been like.
A piece of crumpled paper rolls across her date of death, and I blink out of my daze and look up with curious eyes.
Oliver is sitting on a bench nearby—one that’s not decrepit and scary—under a tree that hides most of his body with overgrown branches and turning leaves. I think he smiles—he’s too far away to tell—and picks up his hand in a wave.
The meerkats in the Girl Stomach Zoo perk up, waiting to see what’s in that crumpled note. I peel it open, straightening from my crouch.
Attempt number 17
Huh? I turn it over, but there’s nothing on the back, then I hear him cough across the cemetery. When I look, he points at the ground spattered with crumpled up papers. I pick up the one nearest me, which says Attempt number 4. Well, he’s definitely not a basketball player.
His cough is the first sound other than his laugh that I’ve heard him make. And I look down, noticing that the darn thing gave me goose bumps. They scatter up and down my arms and the sensation shimmies up my spine, making me shiver.
Just from his cough.
After a large, shaky breath, I head to the bench and then plop down next to him, keeping space between our bodies. But I can feel heat radiating off of him, off of me, and they mix together making it feel like we are touching. I stuff my hands between my thighs so he doesn’t see me shaking so much.
I open my mouth, ready to say “Hi” out loud, but he cuts me off with a sticky note to my thigh. His thumb
smoothes the top of it, scorching my already heated skin. It was under two Mississippis. The perfect amount of time. Yet, I’m wondering why he withdrew so fast. Are my thighs squishier than he thought they would be for a runner? Or is this all just in my crazy head?
I pluck the Post-it from my leg and read, Good to see you. Finally ;)
He hands me a pen, and this time our fingers do touch a little, and the shock waves are freaking extraordinary, and I fly away up on a cloud and splat back down to earth all within a split second.
My handwriting is chicken scratch now as I scribble back.
Ate too much this morning. Stomach cramps and all that. Couldn’t run as fast.
I stare at the paper, blinking like I don’t remember writing that insane babble. He chuckles, reading my answer over my shoulder, and then pulls out a new sticky note. Okay… so I’m a flirt novice. Never felt the desire to put on the ol’ charm and woo someone into my den of awesome. The familiar blush creeps into my cheeks, and I pull my ponytail forward in an attempt to hide it.
Oliver pushes the next note on my thigh, and a thrill jolts through my stomach.
No music today?
When I flick my gaze up, he gestures to his own earbuds. I grin, thanking my lucky stars I’ve found someone who doesn’t want to run at the mention of cramps, and then pull out my iPod. Gulping, and feeling a bit bold from his smiles and adorable attention, I reach over and pluck the sticky pad from his hands.
Want to listen? My playlist is the shiznit.
He grins at my choice of adjective, then nods, offering one of his buds to me.
Same time? We’ll see if they mesh, he scribbles. I wonder how hard he’ll laugh once he hears Hercules with whatever he’s got going on.
I’m shaking again as I settle his earbud in, the warmth causing my own neck and ears to heat up, and I pray they aren’t as red as they feel. He grabs one of mine and puts it up to his, and our faces inch closer so we can reach the chords.
His breath smells like ginger. It’s a sign. Has to be.
We press the shuffle buttons at the same time, and in one ear plays Go the Distance while the other listens to an old school Johnny Cash song. They actually do mesh well.
Oliver gives me a half smile, one that guys give to girls when they are way into them, and I feel as if my heart cannot be contained, that if I were at home alone, I’d be dancing and booty shaking around my room. This doesn’t happen to me, and I’m slightly worried because I have yet to hear him speak, don’t know where he lives or if he’s still in school, or what. But his eyes are kind. His smile is intoxicating. My heebie jeebie detector isn’t pinging a warning to run.
He’s a kid, like me. Nervous and just as surprised that this is happening.
He starts writing again, and I reluctantly move my gaze from his smile to his hands.
Definitely the shiznit.
I laugh, letting the motion run through me and shake my shoulders. We listen to a couple more songs, shuffling them and laughing when they sound awful together, listening for a bit when they are a surprisingly good mix. Before I know it, I have to get running so I get in at least a wash up before school.
Gotta run. School. Blargh, I write, making a face when he reads it. He hands me back my earbud and then jots on a new sticky.
Me too. But I have a study hall first period, so it’s not a *huge* deal if I’m late.
He’s in school… a senior, most likely. It’s a welcome surprise, and when I stand, I watch him quickly write on another Post-it.
See you tomorrow?
Rockets take off somewhere in my midsection. Grinning like a major fool, I nod.
His smile widens, and he waves a goodbye before I take off down the path. I have to keep myself from looking over my shoulder every two seconds.
This is far worse than I expected. It is indeed a “thang” I’m developing for him.
11
Caging the Beasts
In my freshman year, I remember jogging up to Coach Juniper and telling her that I was a born runner, and if I didn’t make the team, she’d regret it. She then made me run until I puked. And then she made me run more after that. I ran for so long I didn’t notice the sun going down, the lights turning up on the track, or the crowd that had gathered. I felt like Forrest Gump—just felt like running.
She stopped me when the time crept past curfew. I puked again, and Tiff rushed to get me water. Half the school was watching me; all of them cheered when I was done. Coach signed me up on the team right then, said that she expected dedication, but I’d already proven that to her. So I had to prove something else. I had to prove that I was in this for the long haul. That I wanted the gold, nothing less. That I wanted scholarships, collegiate status, that I wanted the Olympics. This wasn’t something I’d give up on, no matter how difficult or whatever obstacles got in my way.
I told her I wanted all of that. I told her I wouldn’t give up, that absolutely nothing would stop me.
She believed me. I believed me.
But my body… my body is stopping me.
“Push! Ginger, push!”
My legs pump with all they have left in them, my voice comes out in a growl, trying to urge me forward faster, more, just give me more speed.
I cross the finish line, taking another twenty yards to slow my pace. Everyone on the team is holding their breath. I’m the last one. The only one who hasn’t beaten their previous time. Coach Fox looks at her stopwatch and back at her clipboard. Back and forth between the two while I join the ranks, Drake slapping me on my very sweaty back then running his hand over to my shoulder and squeezing it.
“Coach?” I ask when I’ve caught my breath.
“Half a second,” she whispers. “Half a second behind.”
My hearing fuzzes as everyone’s disappointment bellows out from their held breaths. My eyes slam shut, forcing back tears and frustration and failure.
“Okay,” I say, pushing the word out through my heavy breathing. My teammates, the ones who just on Monday were all competing to be the best and would’ve gladly seen me go if they were the ones who sent me off, huddle around me and put their hands on my shoulders.
“You got this,” Hadley says. “Tomorrow, you’re going to beat it.”
“We’ll make sure you’re on the team.” Jamal squeezes my shoulder. Drake is on my other side, and I think I feel him nudge Jamal’s hand away.
“We got your back, Ginger.”
He doesn’t call me tortoise. I didn’t realize till just now how that nickname wasn’t doing me any favors.
I nod at my teammates, still calming my breathing and holding back every weakness I don’t want them to see. When they disperse, I glance up to Coach, that smile, and I’ve never seen it so bright. My brow furrows, sweat rolling down my nose. Does she want me to fail?
No… that’s not it. Her smile isn’t something villainous. It’s pride. But about what, I have no clue. My head is too fuzzy to concentrate.
She settles the whistle to her lips. “Time for a team run.” She blows the whistle and slowly, we all start to jog across the football field. Rodney nods to me as I pass him, his expression encouraging, and then the team heads off campus and out onto the street. I’m wiped, my body is rubbery and sweaty, and my chest and back hurt so much that I start falling behind. My stride can’t keep up with everyone else’s, and pretty soon I’m at the back of the bunch.
Annie, our normal caboose, glances over her shoulder, a sympathetic frown on her lips. There’s something eating at my heart, making it hard to keep myself together as she slows her pace to stay in line with me.
Annie and I don’t know each other really. Last year I was up front, leaving the pack in my smoke. Whenever I’d come in “not first,” I secretly always thought that at least I’m not last like that Annie girl. As my eyes meet hers and she smiles reassuringly at me, I not only hate who I am now, but I hate the person I used to be, too.
When we get back to the school, Coach Fox is there waiting for us,
standing in her long, pink dress.
“This was a fantastic practice today,” she tells us. Everyone is out of breath, hunched over, together. In fact, Jamal’s arm is over Ronnie’s shoulder as he tries to catch his breathing. It feels like an anomaly—we’ve never been like this after a run. It’s always poking fun at those who come in behind, challenging those who came in first. Even though I’ve lost my speed, I feel collectively stronger as a team. For the first time this week, I feel a surge of excitement, which is quickly snuffed out. I’ve yet to be invited back onto the team.
I can feel my failure rise up in my stomach again. I can’t wait for Coach to dismiss us. My body feels trapped in this cage, and my breathing won’t even out. I can’t help but look at everyone else in their perfect runner bodies and feel so out of place, like I don’t belong here anymore. I’m barely noticing Coach talking to Ronnie, leaning down and saying something. Hadley tilts her head in my direction, her eyes wide, and mouths, “You okay?”
No. No, no, no, I’m not okay. I push my way through the team, ignoring the surprised look on Coach’s face as I take off before her dismissal. Even though I’m spent, I sprint back into the school, straight to the locker room. I fumble to get my combo lock open and swing the door till it clangs against the locker next to it. Sweeping my clothes into my arms, I force my tears back as much as I can until I can get to the bathroom. I can’t change in here. I can’t stay in here. They’ll come find me, try to talk me into feeling better; some will give me suggestions or strategy techniques, and I can’t hear any of that right now because none of them know.
They don’t know what this feels like.
I don’t bother closing my locker in my haste to get somewhere private. I find the farthest bathroom from the track field and whistle into the boy’s room before going in. They won’t look in there for me.
