by Cassie Mae
My track turns to I Put a Spell on You. My sister thinks she’s a comedian.
6
Extra Extra Large
Okay… so it’s not only me who’s had a sprout of puberty over the summer. As I stand in the hallway at school—arms crossed firmly over my chest—I can’t help but notice all the… beards. Like, when did guys start growing beards? And even though they can, why would they want to?
Tiff finds me first, and she bounces through the crowded student union, schedule in hand, ignoring the full beard on Eddie Gosivick, who looked twelve last year and now looks thirty-five.
“We never compared!” she says, snatching my schedule and swapping it with hers. I glance over the classes, stomach sinking when I see that we have not a single one together.
“Ugh, this blows,” I say. “Hopefully we at least have lunch.”
“Maybe we can convince our parents to get us some transfers.”
“Yeah right.” Last year I begged my mom to get me out of second period gym. She gave me some speech about how we all have to do things we don’t want, and we need to use the hand dealt to us or some kind of metaphor I stopped paying attention to halfway through because all I could think about was how I needed a stronger deodorant.
“We should find Drake and Rodney. See what they have.”
“I already know Drake’s schedule,” I say, walking with her to where our lockers are this year. My neck heats up at the memory of last I saw Drake, and I make sure my shirt is baggy enough that no one can tell I grew a million sizes in three months. The necklace I always wear is stuck in my cleavage—because I have cleavage now—so I yank it out and drape it over my shirt.
“Hey Tiffany! Ginger!” someone calls from behind us. Jamal jogs up and without hesitating swings an arm over my shoulder. It throws me off, not because I’m not used to that—Drake is an over-the-shoulder type of guy—but Jamal is normally as hands off as I am. Something must’ve happened to him this summer too. “So where you headed first?” he asks.
“Biology,” Tiff answers with a subsequent mouth fart. “You?”
“English 10.”
“With Ginger.” Tiff frowns. “Yeah, I’m definitely asking to transfer.”
Jamal turns to me, his face closer than normal.
“I’ll walk with ya,” he says. Then he totally… Eskimo kisses me. A snort rumbles my nose, and I shove him away.
“Dude, personal bubble.” I laugh. He laughs too, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
Tiff raises an eyebrow at Jamal, and thank heavens she does because if I was the only one thinking he’s acting bizarre, I’d start to get a complex.
We turn the corner toward the Language Arts hallway, and I can feel my face falling. Even though I’m annoyed with Tiff on her make-out buddy of choice, I still wish she was walking into English 10 with me and Jamal.
“See you on the flip,” she says, and we fist bump. Jamal watches me watch her leave and then follows me into our homeroom for the year.
“Hey!” Rodney waves from the corner. Oh happy day! Having Rodney in first period will make it ten times more entertaining. The guy cannot help but run the commentary track during lectures. Last year I nearly peed myself in history when he sat behind me and made quiet fart noises every time the teacher said “Isn’t that fascinating?” It happened at least twice a day.
I hop over a desk and land in the spot next to him. Jamal takes the seat in front of me.
“Silvermaaaaan!” Rodney shouts like a wrestling announcer. He swings his large hand out and gives mine a loud smack. “How’s that silver medal?”
He’s making fun of me, even though silver is nothing to be ashamed of. All the football players heard how much I bragged about coming home with gold.
“It’s hanging out with your participation trophy.”
He starts smacking his shirt as if he’s on fire. “Oh, how it burns!”
I snort, and Jamal laughs, but he’s not laughing as hard as he usually does. In fact, he’s giving Rodney a look that should actually set him on fire.
My mouth opens, but the sound of the one minute bell cuts me off. The teacher at the back of the classroom grabs a clear Rubbermaid bin, and everyone who has made it into the room lets out a collective groan. I push up my overlarge tee and squeeze my phone from my pocket, making sure it’s notification free before I plop it into the bin. Welcome back to school.
***
Summer vacation has made my brain very rusty, because I completely forgot that gym requires you to undress in front of every same sex classmate who shares that period with you. Also, the locker room doesn’t just have the gym students, but the dance students and the volleyball students. After we’re assigned our lockers for the year, Coach Dicks (very unfortunate last name) makes us all test the combinations. Since it’s the first day, she doesn’t make us change. Today’s physical activity is all theoretical.
I spin the lock, eyeing my locker neighbors and trying not to be obvious about checking out their Sharpies. Daisy Silcox on my right probably has a decent B cup… the cup I wish I could fit into without exploding. And Janice Skinner on my left has a solid B too. I gaze down at my honkers and hope to high heavens I don’t end up taking someone’s eye out.
“Here,” Daisy says, waving a stack of yellow half sheets at me. “Take one, pass it on.”
Gym uniform order forms. I grab one, hand them off to Janice, then grab a click-pen from my pocket. I’ve had to fill out crap all day, and I’ve just been signing and signing without really caring, but this is the first form I have to think about.
Please circle your size:
XS
S
M
L
XL
Other
My teeth slide over the click part of my pen. Normally, I’m a small. Last year I circled that with no thought behind it. But the print at the top of the paper says that the shirts may shrink. I do remember my track shirt getting tighter, though that could’ve just been a gradual body change that’s led me here. I roll the pen between my two front teeth, flicking my tongue against the clip. A few spots down I see Kassie Powers doing the same thing, her eyes darting at her locker mates. The corners of her lips are turned down, and her expression looks absolutely… well, she looks like she’s about to burst into a river of tears. After a long look at the girl next to her, she lets out a shaky sigh and circles “other,” then writes down three Xs before an L. She folds the form quickly, hiding her size, and I shoot my gaze back to my own form before she notices I was staring.
I drop the pen down over the M, but I only get it halfway circled before I scribble it out. Shirts may shrink. Just imagining the material stretched over these things during physical activities makes me ill to my stomach. So I move the pen downward three spaces and circle other. I go for a double XL, knowing it’ll drown me. But I’d rather drown than suffocate.
Coach Dicks takes us out into the gym to meet up with the boys for the rest of the period. Drake sits next to me on the bleachers, his own half sheet still clutched in his hand. Gym goes by so slowly since we’re not doing anything, and I’m eager to run out my worries. Jamal has been tailing me all day—because he “really missed me”—and Drake non-so-subtly stares at my chest like it’s an anomaly. I finally slug him in his bony arm when Coach Dicks isn’t looking. His eyebrows turn in like he has no idea why, but I’m not gonna explain it to him.
Tiff texts me once the bell rings, asking if I’ll be home later—she wants to talk to me about Fartbucket. I groan and text her back a “KMN,” and she sends a selfie with her mommy pointer finger at the screen. I sigh and agree, hoping she has another present for me.
Drake slaps me on the back after I tuck my cell away. “See you out there, tortoise.”
“You know the tortoise won the race,” I tell him with a shove. See, this is the touching I’m okay with.
“But not the sprint.” He grins, bouncing on his legs backward toward the boy's locker room. I knock my arms together fro
m fists to elbows, doing the Friends flip off before heading to my own locker to change. Cocky gold medalist.
Luckily I’m the only one on the girls cross country team who has last period gym, so I can change super quickly before anyone gets here. I force the Sharpies into two sports bras, hoping that it will keep them more trapped than with just one.
I’m the first on the field, and I take a nice big breath of air, relishing in the slight wind. It’s going to be a hot practice today. Probably doubly hot since I’m two-piece-ing the bra situation and I’m wearing a shirt that isn’t exactly breathable. I bend at the waist and touch my toes, trying to get my limbs ready for whatever the new coach has in store for us today.
Slowly the field fills up, and not just with the runners but the football players too. Rodney flips my ponytail as he passes me. I pretend to kick him in his padded butt.
“Ugh,” Hadley Harper says as she sidles up next to me on the track. Her outfit is the polar opposite of mine, suctioning to every curve and lack of curve she owns. She sticks her arm out, holding it with the other to stretch. “I am so not ready for this.”
“Which part?” I ask.
“All of it. The heat, the exercise, new coach… blargh.”
I gaze up at the blazing sun that’s already making me sweat. “I echo your sentiment.”
She snorts, brushing her blonde bangs from her face. “Like you have anything to worry about, Miss Silver Medal.”
“The heat affects us all.”
She sticks her tongue out at me, then stretches her other arm out. It nearly whacks me in the nose. “At least there is something nice to look at during our practices.”
I follow her gaze out to the football field, particularly Rodney. Hadley eyed him last year, and it looks like nothing has changed in that regard. I’m so thankful someone is consistent.
The rest of the team starts jogging along the track for warm-up. Drake is whooping all our butts already because his darn legs are so long. I’d try to catch up to him, but I don’t want to wear myself out too early. Right when I get to the middle of my second lap, an overweight woman with massive Sharpies steps onto the field. She watches with a sweet smile as the joggers closest to her pass, and then she puts a whistle to her lips.
“Crest Hills High Cross Country! Finish your lap and line up on the number three lane!”
Drake, Jamal, and few of the other guys on the boy’s team decide to show off and sprint the last lap. I hate them for not being out of breath when I stop on the white painted number three.
“Those who can’t do, teach, amiright?” Drake whispers in my ear, eyeing the coach’s belly. The comment stings me more than it probably should, and I give him a good elbow to his hip bone.
“Be nice.”
Our new coach doesn’t stop smiling, already a 180 from Coach Juniper. I can’t imagine this woman ever pushing us until we puke. She swipes one finger across her forehead, moving a stray piece of her highlighted hair out of her eyes.
“So… I have some of the best runners in the state standing in front of me,” she says. Her voice is so sweet. Like if a bag of cotton candy married a Sugar Daddy and had babies. “Who is Drake Howland?”
“Present!” Drake says, then takes a bow. I can actually feel the arrogance roll off his tongue and hit the back of my head.
“First place in the 100m dash. Congratulations.”
Coach Fox starts clapping, and a lot of the guys whoop and holler for him. I give him a mock clap, which he finds hilarious.
“And Ginger Silverman?”
“Huh, what?” I say because I wasn’t really paying attention. I get several laughs, including that of our new coach. Her laugh is so opposite from her soft and sweet voice. It’s a jerking, donkey-esk hee-haw.
“Silver in girls 3000m.” She grins at her clipboard. “Does it come with the last name?”
I swing my arm and snap. “Too bad my mom didn’t marry a ‘Goldman.’”
Drake chuckles next to me and drapes his arm over my shoulder. “This year is yours, tortoise.” His eyes drift down and blatantly stare at my trapped and hidden Sharpies. People whoop and holler again, and I shove him off me because it’s a million degrees outside, and I’m not sure if he was talking to me or… them.
“Well, I hope so Howland,” the coach says, pulling our very distracted attentions back to her. “I’ve heard all of you have done well. I’d like to time you today, three laps around the track just to see where you all are. We’ll go off-road another time?”
It’s like she’s asking us permission. Yeah, never had a coach do that for us. I look over at Jamal, who’s tilting his head to the side, intrigued, but I can tell he hasn’t yet formed an opinion of her.
“Coach?” Hadley asks, raising her hand slightly. “We usually ran in groups of two or three. Tried to outrun each other.”
There’s a competitive murmur across the group, and I watch Coach Fox’s eyebrows rise.
“Okay,” she says with a glance at her clipboard. “Let’s start with our state champs.”
My gut rolls as I realize that’s me and Drake. Great, I have to go first, try to impress this woman—and everyone else—and I’m not sure if my body is up for it yet. Coach pulls out her stopwatch, and Drake and I trudge to the starting line. I knot up the hem of my loose shirt to keep it from whacking me in the knees as I run, and my heart feels like it’s taken off already and it’s halfway down the track.
Drake positions himself, and I follow suit. He’s going to wipe the floor with me; I know it. I pray that I don’t let the Sharpies distract me like they did on my run with Jamal, feel a drop of sweat curl down my temple and drop off my chin, and hear the coach say, “Go!”
I push hard, fast, breathe, forget pacing myself because Drake’s stride is so much faster, and I want to keep up. Sweat collects under my bras, between my cleavage, places I didn’t worry about a year ago when I did this. Drake gives me a sideways glance, grinning before he widens the distance between us. I take every ounce of strength I have and shove it to my legs, propel my arms, lean my body forward. It’s so hard… why is it so hard? I’m a runner. I enjoy running. But I feel as if there are a million hippos sitting on my back, pulling me forward into the track, dragging me down, and I cannot seem to push them off.
Drake finishes the first lap five, six seconds ahead of me, which in running times, might as well be light years. He gets so far ahead that I can smell the stench of failure wafting out from under my pits. He does lap two in a nice paced time before he starts sprinting. He’s nearly lapping me, but I start my third lap seconds before he finishes his final. The coach calls out his time as he passes her. Panic settles in my belly, and my feet wobble under me. My chest hurts, and my back is killing me. I’ve never felt so out of shape in my life.
I look up and see Coach’s teeth slide over her bottom lip as she watches the time tick and tick on the stopwatch. My feet wobble again, and I lose control of them, tripping my way around the final corner and tumbling over the finish line. My knees skid across the track, slicing my skin. My hands go down to prevent my face from the same fate. No one is laughing, though it probably looks hilarious.
Drake puts an extremely warm hand on my shoulder. “Quite a finish,” he says, trying to keep humor in his voice. “You okay?”
I nod at the ground, beads of sweat melting into my scrapes. I have to hold back a hiss at the sting.
Another hand reaches for my other shoulder. “Are you okay, Silverman?”
I manage a laugh at myself and look up at Coach Fox. “Just trying to make a memorable impression on ya.”
I didn’t think it was possible, but the smile on her face just got sweeter. “Successful.”
She laughs and helps me to my feet. When Drake and I get back in line, the razzing starts. I can take it; I’ve handed it out a time or two. But something about the teasing gets to me this year. Like my insecurity is up on display even though it’s hiding underneath yards and yards of fabric.
Coa
ch calls the next two up, and they take off. After a few rounds, I start watching her reaction to the team. Whoever comes in second out of each pair gets ragged on. And then there’s comparing the winners to each other. It’s normal for our team, what we’ve been doing for as long as we’ve been together. But as I watch Coach observe not just the timer, but us, my smile starts faltering along with hers. By the end of practice, I don’t think I’m the only one who is disappointed with the outcome of today’s run.
7
Stuffed
There’s a line across my side where the two bras cut off circulation. Maybe that’s why my legs feel like a newborn horse attempting to gallop at the same speed as its mother.
I blow out a sigh, making my frizzy hair float around my forehead. Tiff is gonna be here any minute, and I’m all for talking about her disgusting taste in boys over my disaster of a practice. So I stuff my face into one of my dad’s shirts, tucking part of the hem into my back pocket. She’ll make fun of me—Tiff always notices clothing. I’m not one of those people who can tell you what who was wearing that one time at the mall, but Tiff can probably accurately guess brand, size, and retail price, and remembers that crap for a lifetime.
I hide my giant D cup bras under my mattress when I hear the doorbell downstairs. A few seconds later, Tiff cautiously steps into my room, like it’s lined with land mines.
“Oh gosh, you make me feel like I’m your mother or something.”
Her lips tip up at the corners, and she swivels her bangle bracelet around her wrist. “So… I know that you’ve forgiven me for…”
“Defiling my sheets.” I laugh, making a point of sitting down on my brand new un-tainted Walking Dead ones. I dare her to make-out on top of these. “Continue.”
She lets out a sigh that’s mixed with a nervous laugh and takes a seat next to me. “Well, I wanted you to be the first to know that… it might happen again.”
“Say what?”
