The Museum of Us

by Tara Wilson Redd

  But she had to admit, it was still a pretty cool car.

  Not knowing exactly what to do, Sadie followed the spotty trail of girls down to the track. She could see twenty or so other kids—some just out of middle school, lots of high schoolers—sitting on the grass. She didn’t see anyone she’d had a class with, and she hadn’t expected to see any friends…even after two years, she didn’t really have any.

  She followed their example and sat down on the grass. More kids kept arriving until it seemed like there was no way all of them would fit on a single team. They looked more like a herd. Cross-country was the sport they asked you to do if you weren’t interested in anything else. It was okay to just show up to practice, and it got you out of gym class. That was the only reason she hadn’t put up a bigger fight: if she stayed quiet and trotted along behind the other girls, no one would bother her, and she wouldn’t have to face gym next year.

  Sadie spotted another girl who looked like she was new too. She was wearing a Quidditch T-shirt and bright orange running shorts. She was black and thin, and had bright blue nail polish. She had cool blue streaks in her hair, which she was busily putting into a puffy ponytail. Sadie rearranged her own ponytail and then performed what she hoped was an acceptable imitation of stretching.

  A woman was walking around getting their names on a clipboard. She stopped in front of the girl.

  “Lucille Washington?” she asked.

  “Lucie,” the girl corrected her. “Please don’t call me Lucille,” she said quietly.

  The woman smiled. She seemed nice.

  She turned to the group.

  “Okay, we’re going to start with introductions. I am Mrs. Vaughn, and I teach history at the high school. For those of you who are returning, you know the drill. We’re just going to get to know each other and take a jog around the neighborhood today, but for the rest of the summer, you’re going to train like warriors. We’ve got a strong group of young women here, and…”

  She kept talking, but Sadie couldn’t follow what she was saying. It sounded awful. There was a lot of talk of endurance and race speeds and percentages, as well as push-ups and gym time. This did not sound fun in the slightest. And what in the world was a fartlek run?

  “…and in our annual tradition,” said Mrs. Vaughn, “we will have our puppy run next week before it gets too hot.”

  “Puppy run?” asked Lucie. The younger girls looked at her. They didn’t know they were allowed to talk.

  “It’s exactly what it sounds like,” explained an older girl. “We take a bunch of shelter dogs on a run around the neighborhood.”

  “Oh. My. God. I love dogs,” said Lucie.

  “Well, great. Something to look forward to,” said Mrs. Vaughn. “Now we’ll go around and introduce ourselves. Do you want to start, Lucie?”

  “Sure!” She stood up and put her hands on her hips like Peter Pan. “Uh…what do I say?”

  “How about your name, your grade, and something you like.”

  “Cool. My name is Lucie Washington and I am going to be a ninth grader but I didn’t go to middle school here because I just moved from New Orleans and I love Harry Potter.” She pointed emphatically to her shirt. She sat down, but then sprang back up again. “Oh, and I love dogs. And running.”

  Then she sat down again. The older girls were laughing. Sadie couldn’t tell if they were laughing at her or with her. Her heart pounded, knowing her turn would come.

  “That’s great,” said Mrs. Vaughn. “How about you, Captain?”

  One of the older girls said: “Fine, but I’m not standing, Mrs. V. You’re not actually our commander.”

  “That’s right. You are.” Mrs. Vaughn saluted, and all the girls laughed.

  The other girls introduced themselves—they liked everything from anime to volunteering at the zoo—and eventually they wound their way to the back, where Sadie and a few other shy girls were sitting. Sadie mumbled into her shirt: “My name is Sadie—”

  “Louder, Sadie!” shouted Mrs. Vaughn.

  Sadie spoke up, but then she was too loud: “MY NAME IS SADIE AND I AM IN NINTH GRADE AND I LIKE…”

  She paused.

  “Yes?” asked Mrs. Vaughn.

  “Reading,” Sadie said finally.

  Her face was bright red. Why couldn’t she just say something clever for once in her life? She couldn’t come up with anything better? Of course not. All the things she really liked were done with George. Why couldn’t she be just reasonably acceptable as a human being for once in her life?

  Once the introductions were over, Mrs. Vaughn clapped her hands and, led by the older girls, the whole group set off on a path they all seemed to know already. Sadie was still lost in the spiral of her embarrassment.

  “Sadie? Right?”

  Sadie looked up and Mrs. Vaughn was standing over her. The other girls were already almost off the field. Sadie nodded.

  “Where are you supposed to be?”

  “Uhhhhhhhh…”

  “Uuuuuup and running,” Mrs. Vaughn said. “Go on!”

  Sadie charged after the other girls, because she didn’t want to get lost. She made her way to the mix of girls in the back of the pack. They’d spread out, naturally. Two of the veterans ran back and forth, encouraging them along like sheepdogs. Some of the new girls were chatting, but mostly they stayed a few feet apart, painfully trudging on.

  Sadie’s feet hurt because her dad had bought her brand-new shoes for the occasion. Her legs were sticky. She had sweat in her eyes.

  How long is this run supposed to be? she thought.

  “Just to the edge of the forest,” answered George. He pulled out his wand and cast a spell behind them. “We’ll be safe there.”

  “It’s never safe,” Sadie replied, the houses becoming thick, old-growth forest. Her robes surrounded her and magic took over.

  * * *

  The trees were insufficient cover, even with George’s protection spells. Sadie could still hear the dragon above as they raced through the forest, jumping over the huge roots of trees. Its great wings brushed the treetops as it searched for the stone they had stolen.

  “What is it?” Sadie asked breathlessly, holding the gemstone in her hand. They’d fought demons, ridden wolves, and run. Oh God, had they run.

  “A soul,” George wheezed, out of breath himself. “Trapped in a stone.” The dragon above screamed, and they changed directions just in time to avoid the fireball meant for them.

  “How did that happen?”

  “Sadie, is now really the time?” He vaulted a felled tree, glancing up into the canopy.

  “If I’m going to die for something you insisted we steal, I want to know what it is!”

  George groaned. He didn’t stop, but he raised his wand and fired away into the heavens, trying to distract the furious beast.

  “Sometimes,” he said breathlessly, “when a witch or a wizard is broken by an especially powerful spell, their soul splits up into pieces like jewels. This one is only one part of that soul. Their body may still be wandering around out there, empty.”

  “What do we do with it?”

  “Keep it safe. There’s nothing we can do to help right now.”

  Sadie held it to her ear as she zigzagged through the fallen trees. She thought she could hear screaming coming from inside.

  “Can’t we set the soul free?”

  “No,” George said sharply. “That would kill the person inside, whoever they are.”

  “It must feel so alone,” Sadie said.

  “We’ll have to find a way to put whoever this is back together,” George said. “But even if they’re alone, they’re safe in there. Just be careful with that stone.”

  The dragon screamed. Sadie lurched forward, almost dropping the jewel. She snatched it out of the air as she fell into step. The f
orest vanished, and she was off balance but still running.

  Oh my God, she thought. How long have I been with George?

  She was in the neighborhood near the high school. She had no clue how far they’d run.

  “Okay, Sadie?” asked one of the older girls.

  “Yeah, just tripped,” she managed to reply. She couldn’t remember any of the other girls’ names. She hadn’t been paying attention. As usual.

  As they rounded the corner, Sadie realized that all the other girls she recognized from school were well behind her. She was surrounded by lean, focused high schoolers. How had that happened?

  She slowed her stride, falling a little back. She didn’t want to bother the older girls. She hadn’t realized how hard she’d been running. Her head had started to hurt.

  As soon as she’d fallen a few paces back, she heard panting next to her. It was Lucie. She looked mad. She was running as hard as she could and her face showed it. She was fast, but she couldn’t catch up. All the new girls were tired. Lucie would sprint, then slow, charge, then slow. Sadie ran ahead of her, trying to stay out of her way. Lucie sped up. She couldn’t pass Sadie, but she was able to run right next to her. Sadie didn’t know what to do, so she just kept running.

  As they charged back toward the track, Lucie pulled a little ahead. Seeing the goal seemed to fill her with energy. When Lucie sped up, it was easy for Sadie to speed up with her. It was like they were in sync.

  They ran faster and faster and faster until they were both sprinting as hard as they could. Sadie could hear the older girls cheering. The unspoken goal line—Mrs. Vaughn—was yards, then feet, away.

  They crossed it at exactly the same moment.

  * * *

  They both collapsed onto the grass. Sadie was too tired to think of anything but the green grass beneath her in strange, sharp focus. Her heart was pounding. Heatstroke, she thought.

  “Well done, ladies,” said Mrs. Vaughn. “But it’s a good idea to pace yourself too.”

  “Who won?” Lucie demanded, so winded she could barely speak.

  “No one won. It’s not a race,” said Mrs. Vaughn. “Remember, we’re not running against each other. We’re running with each other. We’re a team.”

  “You can’t run as a team. You’re not passing a ball or anything,” Lucie gasped out. Sadie nodded.

  “Well, everyone runs their own race, but we are stronger when we run that race together.”

  Lucie suddenly stood, shaky-kneed, and threw up.

  “Agreed,” said Sadie.

  Lucie fell back onto the grass and laughed and laughed.

  I’m sitting in a hospital bed, basically unable to move, but my heart is pounding like that feeling I get right before we have a race. It’s not a good or a bad feeling. It’s a combination of excitement and dread.

  Lucie is coming. So is Mrs. Vaughn.

  I can feel the moments ticking by. I used to feel that too on race day: the extreme strangeness of moments that are here and then gone. I get so nervous waiting for things to happen. When I’m alone and in my head, it’s almost unbearable.

  But not on race days anymore, because a team of girls who have spent all morning making French braids and eating peanut butter and spoiling Lucie’s foster dogs could drown out any introspection. Mostly I like to be alone, but sometimes it’s nice to be on a team.

  Team is such a funny word in cross-country. It’s not really a team sport, not like soccer or baseball. Mrs. Vaughn’s motto, “Everyone runs their own race, but we are stronger when we run that race together,” is such a bad motto that we all make fun of it every year. We even put it on our T-shirts ironically, which is fine because Mrs. Vaughn is in on the joke. One time she told me: “Yep. It’s super-corny. But the reason you guys love to hate it so much is because you know it’s true.”

  Our cross-country team is a weird cross section of people who weren’t good at anything but have to play a sport and real athletes who play a spring sport and need something to do in the fall. That’s my best friend, Lucie. She’s a soccer star all spring. And then there are people like me who are not even slightly interested but who are awfully fast anyway. It’s totally different than real sports because no one gets cut.

  We do a few cool things as a team. Pizza parties. Sleepovers. Running, of course. Every summer we take a bunch of shelter dogs on a run. I didn’t really like it at first: the summer before freshman year, the summer I met Lucie, I tried to fake sick but my parents made me go. I ran with a dog who kept trying to bite me. I’ve had bad luck on our annual puppy runs. Lucie loves it, though. Her parents have let her foster every dog she’s run with. We like to dress up her dogs as superheroes and take pictures of them and make Twitter accounts for them so they can talk to one another even after they get adopted. She has a house full of pets because she has to take home every stray she touches, if only to make sure that it finds its forever home.

  It’s kind of what makes her a good friend and a good leader: she doesn’t need a reason to like you, she just likes you out of the box. She’s a good person. She thinks everyone she meets is a good person too. Even me.

  I don’t want Lucie to see me like this.

  I don’t want anyone to see me like this.

  I close my notebook at five minutes to nine. I’ve been dreading this. But it’s here now. Time marches forward even if you wish it would stop.

  As predicted, Lucie and Mrs. Vaughn are outside my door the split second visitors are allowed. Mrs. Vaughn asks a lot of technical questions about my summer reading, which I definitely intend to complete, and Lucie tells me all about the practices I’m missing.

  It becomes clear that none of us are going to talk about the fact that I’m in a hospital. Mrs. Vaughn is sporting her worried parent look, and Lucie is cool enough to know what you do and do not say in mixed company. We are at a standoff: Mrs. Vaughn won’t ask parent-y questions in front of Lucie, and Lucie won’t ask friend questions in front of Mrs. Vaughn. Result: awkward, stilted silence.

  “I bet this will cheer you up. Henry sent you a present,” Lucie says. She withdraws a small box wrapped in blue paper with Scotch tape coming undone on all sides. A classic Lucie job. She plays bass, which is good for her “gross club fingers,” as she calls them.

  I rip the paper right in front of them. I’m usually much more secretive—that’s my family’s favorite word—but I want to know. I want to somehow find out what Henry knows…if he knows about George. I love Henry more than any other real person alive. He’s the only real person I’ve ever been in love with. If he ever finds out about George, it will kill him, and that will kill me.

  It’s a little blue iPod shuffle. The clippy kind.

  “Since I had to put the songs he picked on it and I had to wrap it, it’s basically from both of us,” Lucie says. “Unless you don’t like it. In which case it is strictly from Henry.”

  “I love it,” I say.

  With a boy like Henry, the ultimate show of trust is plugging your phone into the speakers on random. I only have cool music on my phone. He’d never say it, but someday he’ll see me for what I really am, and he’ll realize that he doesn’t love me, he just feels obligated.

  “Can you tell him thank you?” I ask, cradling the little iPod in my hands like a broken robin’s egg.

  “He’ll be home in a few days. You can tell him yourself,” Lucie says. I must look mortified because she continues: “You look totally fine. Really. Maybe you could call him. He’s been trying to reach you. He’s been texting me like crazy.”

  She flashes her phone at me. I can’t read it that quickly, but I see my name over and over on the screen.

  “I don’t have a phone,” I tell her, but I know he’s been calling the hospital. The nurses say, “There’s a young beau calling for Miss Sadie,” and I always say I’m asleep and I’ll call back later. I’m afraid to talk to
him. I can’t give anything away. He’s too good a guesser.

  Like this: I love mixtapes. I’ve never told Henry. But he knows because he watches. It’s the difference between someone who can remember facts about you and someone who is in tune with you.

  When I was little, my parents made a mixtape for road trips on a real cassette tape. We would be in the car for ages, and I made them play it so many times that it didn’t even have a title, it was just The Tape. When they would get tired of it and turn it off, I would get so mad. I threw epic temper tantrums. I never get mad like that anymore. I just fade to black.

  It was a Beatles mix because back in the day, my mom was a Beatles superfan proto-fangirl, pre-Internet style. I kind of think my dad slipped in on a vague resemblance to Ringo Starr and a Polaroid of him holding two drumsticks midbeat in his high school band. (I’ve seen it. He looks one hundred percent as lame as you are picturing.) He liked the Beatles too, and that’s how Mom and Dad got into doing these local radio shows about cars and music. They’re such nerds. You should hear my parents talk about the merits of two basically identical Mustangs, or make a top-ten Beatles list.

  I always count myself extremely lucky that Dad’s rational, mechanical approach to life nixed such baby names as Prudence and Jojo. That’s right: Mom almost named me Prudence, and I would never have forgiven her, and Dad will still never let her live it down. Sadie was a compromise. Though honestly, I think Sadie is pretty much unacceptable. Sadie is a good name for an obedient golden retriever.

  Sometimes I like to imagine what my life would have been like as a Lucy. That’s my favorite Beatles name. And yes, my best friend’s name is Lucie. No one would ever call her Lucille. But Sadie doesn’t shorten to anything good.

  Lucy is such a cool name. I can imagine who Lucy Black would have been so easily. Lucy’s hobby is horseback archery. Lucy paints detailed portraits of Humane Society dogs. Lucy is in calculus this year instead of precalc, and plays electric violin.