by Becca Ann
Faster, faster, faster. The distance between us got larger. My mom soon became out of breath, and I… I was still okay. I was fantastic. She lobbed the balloon, and it fell short of my feet by a couple of inches.
She called me her gingerbread man.
I step over the finishing lap line, the warmth in my stomach dumping down into my feet. My legs start to feel like rubber, so I slow my pace, take it to a jog and then walk it down. I make it another lap before I plop my butt on the track. I can feel my heartbeat in my ears, my head, my chest, my legs, my arms, my everywhere, and I am in love. I am in love with running. And I don’t care if I beat my time just now or if I didn’t. What I felt I want to feel again. So I take a swig of water, wipe the residue off my upper lip, and hop back to my feet. I run until I see a car pull into the school lot.
Suddenly, I can feel the Sharpies. Like they weren’t there when I was alone, but now they are. I hurry over to my baggy shirt and throw it over my head. Guess I better take a shower anyway, get it out of the way before the first period gym students show up.
Once I’m un-stinkified, I make my way to English 10, where Rodney and Jamal are having what looks like a very deep discussion about nachos.
“Dude, Velveeta. And bacon bits.”
“No, that crap is fake cheese. Lying cheese. And it’ll plug up your butthole like a giant cork.”
Jamal swings his arms out. “Real cheese does that.”
“Only when you eat a pound or more,” I say, sliding into my desk. Jamal gives me a strained smile, but doesn’t do anything otherwise to acknowledge our fight yesterday, and I’m on too much of a running high to be bothered by it right now.
Rodney points at me. “See, she knows.”
“And nachos aren’t nachos unless they’re topped with jalapeños,” I tell them.
“And that’s why no one likes to eat at your place.” Jamal lets out a forced and awkward laugh, like he’s really trying to forget our previous conversation, and I exaggerate my gasp.
“Hey! Who’s the one always coming over to raid my fridge?”
They share a glance, then at the same time say, “Drake.”
Okay, okay, I’ll give them that one. I shake my head, hiding my smile behind Of Mice and Men, the book we’re supposed to read this month. I saw the movie, though. Think I got the gist.
“Oh, dude,” Rodney says, punching me in the arm. “Congrats on making the team.”
“Huh?”
“Saw Coach Fox put up the cross country list outside the gym a few minutes ago. Your name’s at the top.”
“Next to your killer time,” Jamal adds, twisting the sharpened point of his pencil between his thumb and forefinger. The lead stains his dark skin.
I flick my gaze to his, narrowing my eyes. He puts his hands up.
“Didn’t say anything. Promise.” He lets out a breath. “When I asked Coach, she said it was your time this morning that beat it.”
My time this morning? She had to have been hiding under the bleachers or something.
Oh my gosh. If she was watching… she saw me running in nothing but my bra.
“I… I…” My eyebrows connect together in the middle of my forehead, and I slam my palms on the desktop. “What?”
I push myself out of my desk; I have to talk to her, but I get two steps, and the minute bell rings. My butt slowly lowers back into my chair, heart pounding so hard I can feel it everywhere. Maybe she was just kidding. Maybe everyone gets in, and she was just trying to push us. Maybe I really was alone this morning.
But where did the time come from?
“All right,” my English teacher starts. “Get a pencil out. Quiz time.”
Jamal spins around, and Rodney makes a cow noise with his nose, and I am too thought preoccupied to laugh.
***
It’s the longest school day in the history of longest school days. The teachers must’ve set their clocks to take five minutes to tick only one minute. And apparently it’s “Talk to Ginger” day because everyone and their dog keeps coming up to me between classes to see what my weekend plans are—um… nothing. Like always—and to see if I’ve answered Drake’s fall formal invite yet. Crap, I’ve still got to do that. I’d only scheduled cemetery visits this weekend, so now I’ve got to add that in too.
Is it bad that I’m going to a dance with one guy while secretly rendezvousing with another? Well, if you’d call exchanging sticky notes in a graveyard a “rendezvous.”
So after several hundred years, the bell rings for gym, and I book it through the halls so I’m not interrupted for the millionth time.
And yep, there I am. Right at the top of the list that has bright blue bubble letters saying CROSS COUNTRY TEAM.
My time. It’s a full second faster than my original.
Narrowing my eyes to thin slits, I reach up and rip the paper off the wall. I march straight past the lockers and down the hall of coach’s offices. Coach Fox’s door still doesn’t have a fancy name marker, so it’s just her name on a piece of paper that she must’ve put star stickers all over to make it look cute.
I pummel my fist into the wood, rattling the doorknob.
“Open sesame,” I say in my most sarcastic voice. Nothing happens for ten seconds, so I pound again.
“Seriously, Coach. Open it, or I’m barging in.”
Ten more seconds. I sigh and look down at the doorknob. Should I be all talk this time or actually see it through?
Then I remember that the time next to my name is total bull, and I slap my hand on the knob and throw the door open.
“Oy!” A deep grunt and a bang follows, and all I see is a shaggy head of hair flying back, a tendon-filled man hand flying up, and the door swinging back my way, slamming in my face.
Oh my gosh. Oh gosh, oh gosh… sweet mother of all embarrassing moments. My mouth drops clear open, and it takes a few seconds for me to realize I am not breathing. Warmth spreads up my neck, through my cheeks, and I reach out a shaking hand, nudging the door open with just two fingers.
Oliver is bent over, half his face covered by his palms. He’s breathing deep, in and out, in and out, like I would if I was running. His bloodshot eyes flick up to my very warm face.
“Oopsie.”
Yeah… I go with “oopsie.” The first word I actually say out loud to the guy, and I go with that because I’m so awesome.
I think he smiles. I mean I can’t tell because he’s still covering himself from nose to chin, but his eyes look amused. His shoulders move up and down as if he’s laughing.
I let the door swing shut behind me and crouch next to him, boldly putting my shaking and suddenly sweaty hand on his thick shoulder.
And no joke, the second I touch the guy, something unbelievable happens.
I mean, not like the floor splits open and a bunch of unicorns pop out shooting glitter from their bums, or like the entire locker room breaks out in a flash mob singing the best of Disney, or like Principal Turphy comes over the intercom and announces that school is cancelled, and everyone gets a 4.0 if they showed up today.
I mean like all those things happen inside my freaking stomach.
“Uh…”
The second word—or sound—I make at him. Uh. Apparently, the unbelievable things happening in my stomach are making me temporarily brain damaged.
“I-I’m sorry.” Phew, real words this time, even though they were totally stammered. “Are you okay?”
His eyes move from mine to the hand I have on his shoulder. I count to two and a half seconds before he nods at the floor.
“You make one heck of an entrance.” He drops his hands and gives me a small smile. Like a hot-dude half smile. And his voice is so much deeper than I expected. I know he’s older than me, but it’s the first time since meeting him that I am hyper aware that he is definitely older than me.
“In my defense, I gave fair warning.” My fingers slide from his shoulder, and a tingly fuzzy-socks-across-the-carpet feeling shoots through my palm, making me
wish I hadn’t let go of him at all. Crazy.
We both push off our knees to stand upright. Thank sweet baby jebus his nose looks okay. If I had broken it, I probably would've died of humiliation. Then died again from dying of humiliation.
“Sorry, my mom isn’t here,” he says, watery eyes slowly going back to their normal, sparkly selves. “She went to grab a few things for practice today.”
“Uh-oh,” I stutter, trying to laugh off the redness in my cheeks. “What am I in for?”
“Not sure. Must be big though. She’s been gone for a while.”
“Didn’t want to help her?” I tease. It’s my go-to when I’m trying to forget embarrassing things. Like slamming someone in the face with a door. “What a loving son.”
He snorts. “Girl’s locker room. I’m gonna stay put until school’s out so I don’t look like a perv.”
A laugh jerks through me, and I temporarily forget why I was in here in the first place. “Probably a good plan.”
He smiles. I like it so much that I could marry it. I want to delve into his secrets, hang out in my spare time, not just my cemetery time, and find excuses to ask just any old question I want to so I can really get to know him.
“I’m actually glad I ran into you,” he says, interrupting my obsessive train of thought. “Or, more accurately, that you ran into me.”
I give him a little hardy-har-har very unladylike chuckle, which he seems to find hilarious. He reaches into the front pocket of his backpack and pulls out his pad of stickies. He pulls the top one off and holds it out to me.
“You weren’t at the cemetery this morning, but I was gonna… try to lead off with this.”
Any weekend plans?
“Not you too.” I laugh, and he gives me a puzzled look that is so cute my feet melt into the floor. “I just meant… never mind. I don’t have any plans this weekend.”
He pulls off the next sticky note.
How are you at mini-golf?
Something bubbles at the bottom of my heart, almost as if it’s been doused in vinegar and baking soda, and if he really is asking me out, then it’ll skyrocket out of my chest and onto the floor for the whole world to see.
“I’m not bad,” I tell him with a playful smile. I’m lying. I’ve never golfed in my life.
“You… you want to prove it to me?” He sets down the notepad and flips the edges. I notice an animated bee buzzing around the pages. “Saturday? Noonish? I’ll feed you too if you want.”
“Ooh, just like a dog,” I tease.
“Nah, like a cheetah.”
“You feed cheetahs?”
His brow furrows. “I meant ‘cause cheetahs are fast, and you’re a runner… it worked out so much better in my head.”
I laugh. “So, food and an activity. This sounds like a date.”
“Good,” he says. “I… I wanted it to sound that way.”
Kaboom! My vinegar and baking soda rocket heart just lifted off, but instead of flying out of my chest, it flattens against my ribcage, and all the jagged pieces fall into my stomach.
“I want to… but… okay, here’s the thing. I’ve been asked to a dance, which is a week from tomorrow, and I just feel weird going with someone else and then going out with you on the side. Not that it’ll be more than the one date, but I feel like I should disclose this to you in case it’s a problem. And I’ll probably have to tell Drake—he’s the guy I’m going with. Just friends, promise—that I’m not exclusive with him, or anything with him, and then it’ll be awkward, and I just want to get through my sophomore year without boy drama because I’ve pretty much done my entire life boy-drama free. Does that even make sense? Because I’m not saying no. Just letting you know in case you want to take it all back.”
Then I smile widely at him, because I sure as heck don’t want him to take it all back. But I catch my smile in the mirror behind Coach’s desk, and if anything, that smile will only hinder me.
Oliver lets out a tiny breathless laugh, and his shoulders, which were up and tense, have fallen in a sweet relaxed pose.
“Thank you.”
“Hermph?”
“For being as weird as I am.”
I wrinkle my nose and give him a good sock in his bulky upper arm, but it’s a flirting punch. Not one of the punches I give to my other guy friends who need a bruise for whatever they’ve opened their mouths about.
“I think you knew that when you caught me talking to myself at the cemetery.”
He shakes his head. “You weren’t talking to yourself.”
Okay, I am totally into this guy. Totally. And with Cayenne haunting me, I think she approves, because after he says that sweet and understanding thing, the door behind me is pushed open, slams into my butt, and tosses me forward so I’m actually into him.
My hands slap his forearms, my face bumps into his belly, and he catches my elbows and looks down at me with a grin. It’s two seconds of awesome and scorched skin before he glances up and says, “Hey, Mom.”
I turn my head over my shoulder and Coach Fox’s eyebrows are sky high, but she’s still got that sugary smile on her face. Good smiles run in the family, I conclude.
“Hi,” she says and then shuts the door. I quickly let go of her son. “I’m so sorry, Silverman.”
I let out a weird laugh and glance at Oliver. “Yeah. I think your door needs a window.”
Oliver gives me an amused look as Coach Fox takes a seat behind her desk.
“So, what can I do for you?” she asks. I have to blink and reset my mood to back when I was pounding on her door. Crap, I was all ready to go gungho on her for faking my time, but now with Oliver here I’m not sure if I want to lose it just in front of him. I mean, he already thinks—okay, he knows—that I’m weird.
Then Coach’s eyes brighten at me, and yup, I lose it.
“I am not a cheater.”
Oliver jerks back, but Coach just sits there like she has no remorse for what she did.
“I don’t cheat,” I continue, setting my arms on the edge of her desk. “I work hard to get where I want, and I don’t need handouts. If I can’t do it, I can’t do it, but I will do it until I can. It may be next week, next year, or ten years from now, but I don’t give up. I know it looks like I’m unfocused out there, but I thought you saw that all I needed was to relax. You told me to just relax, and this morning, I finally did. I was ready to go out during practice today and beat my time, but you took that away from me. Did you think I couldn’t do it? Because if you are a good coach, then you would’ve been upfront about that. And I would’ve turned around and proven you wrong. I would’ve proved you wrong.”
Coach and Oliver share a look, and what the freaking heck is that about? I basically just yelled at her, and she looks at her son like I’m a two-year-old having a tantrum.
“I don’t cheat either, Silverman.”
“Well, you better change… wait… huh?”
She lets out a small, barely-there laugh and slides her cell phone toward me. “I don’t cheat. I was timing you this morning.”
My brow crinkles, and I gaze down at the saved time on her phone. There it is… my two-seconds-faster time recorded at 6:43 this morning.
“From where?” I ask, my heart beating fast.
“The announcer box up in the stadium. And before you get too mad, I didn’t set you up. I wasn’t intending on tricking you to run alone, then hide out and time you. I was up there training with Coach Ferguson so I could familiarize myself with the equipment, and I saw you arrive. You had a few good practice laps, and when you got ready for your final, curiosity got the better of me.”
“You saw me.”
She nods. Smiles. Doesn’t get how embarrassing this is.
“You… saw me,” I more or less whisper to myself. Nononono. I back up to the door, grasp the door handle, Coach’s brow furrows, and Oliver straightens up like he doesn’t want me to leave, but the walls feel like they want to crumple in on me, fold into smaller sizes, and keep me captive h
ere in the room with the coach who saw me not hiding anything, and the boy who I’d really like to go out with.
“Yes…” she says, eyebrows still buried inward. “So you see? No cheating. You’ve made the team.”
“Yeah…” I breathe out, and my hand slips on the doorknob. “Yeah. Great.” I attempt a smile. “One less thing to worry about.”
Coach mimics my attempted smile. “Congratulations, Silverman.”
“Th-thank you.”
I should be grateful. Heck, I should be flying out of my shoes! I’ve made the team, but I still feel the walls coming in on me, and I just want to get out, breathe, maybe think straight again.
I finally get the door open, and I step out into the locker room. I give Oliver one last glance, hoping my face isn’t lobster red. He waves, sending a flurry of wings through my stomach, and then I head out to get changed. Luckily my gym uniform came yesterday, so for now at least, my Sharpie secret is between me and Coach Fox.
And Drake…
Dang, I hope the list doesn’t get any bigger.
15
Pop a Squat
The weight room can suck it. Normally gym in the fall is an hour and a half of running the track and doing stretches on the football field. But around noon today, the cloud people decided to relieve themselves in the form of a massive downpour. So the weight room it is.
Though, it’s not a bad view from the stationary bike with Benji Romans doing pull ups in front of me. I’ve never seen such a tight butt on someone who is not Chris Evans.
“Finish up your sets!” Coach Dicks says. I hop off the bike and wipe my butt sweat off the seat. Drake’s eyes catch mine from across the room, and he tilts his eyebrow and starts pumping the fifteen pound weights in his hands like they are feather-light.
“Careful,” I tell him as I pass. “Gotta make sure your head fits through the door.”
