You Can't Catch Me

by Cassie Mae

  “Not on your bed!” She shakes her head furiously, tossing her dirty blonde hair around. “I just meant, like, Marcus and me… we might make-out again.”

  My eyebrows kiss each other in the middle of my forehead. “Didn’t you just tell me it was a one-time whoopsie-daisy, and that you would rather kiss a cobra?”

  “A python. But yeah… I kinda…”

  “Lied to my face.”

  “No!” Her eyes widen, looking like one of those big-eyed TY stuffed animals. She turns toward me, facing me dead on. “I promise, I didn’t think it would go past the other night. But he… well, he asked me out.”

  “And the python was taken?”

  She blows out a breath, deflating her entire body with the action. “You know I like him. But I know that it makes you uncomfortable. So, if you don’t want me to say yes, I won’t.”

  “Uh, Tiff?” I swivel on the bed to face her. “I can’t make your love life decisions.”

  “I know that, but I don’t want to hear the ‘ugh’ or the ‘bleck’ or the ‘ewwwwww’ when I have to talk to you about relationship stuff. He’ll be my first boyfriend, and I’m gonna want to tell you pretty much everything.”

  My nose wrinkles up without me being able to stop it, and Tiff’s mouth pops open as she points dramatically at my face.

  “See! It’s already happening!”

  I bat her finger away with a laugh. “Look, I wouldn’t be your best friend if I told you to pick me over him. Um… please don’t make me do that. Also, I’d probably make those noises and this face”—I circle my hand around my nose—“no matter who you were dating.”

  She chuckles with a little snort. “So… does that mean…?”

  “Do what you want.” I pick at my comforter, pulling at a Walker’s hanging eyeball. “And at the risk of sounding like your mother, just be careful. Fartbuck—Marcus, he’s notorious for jumping ship after a few days.”

  She starts picking at the eyeball with me. “Thanks for the heads-up.” Tiff smiles, so I know she’s sincere about it. My stomach feels queasy, but maybe that’s because she put visuals of stuff that hasn’t even happened yet into my mind.

  We lie back on my bed, and she asks about the new coach. I blow out a raspberry and give her an overview on first impressions. I doubt I made a good one.

  “At least you have all year, right? No one runs their best right after summer vacation.”

  “I guess.” I tug at my shirt that’s hiding the Sharpies. Her eyes drift down to my fingers playing with the hem, and she gulps really loud.

  “Is… there anything else bugging you?”

  “Huh?”

  “Can’t help but notice the fashion statement.” She pointedly looks at my dad’s shirt, tilting the corner of her lip upward. “Just wondering if you’re hiding a tattoo or piercings.”

  I let out a laugh and roll onto my stomach. Maybe I should tell her my chest woes, but knowing Tiff, she’d ask why I wasn’t thrilled about them. It’s mostly why I haven’t confided in her yet. Her jaw would drop, her smile would grow wide, and she’d tell me how she wishes her perfectly-sized Bs would up a cup. That’s the thing though… while most girls wish something was different about their body in some way or another, I was content with my itty bitty Sharpies and lean and tall runner-made build. With all the extra fluff, I feel more like a stuffed bear than Ginger Silverman.

  I miss it.

  I want it back.

  Tiff’s smile fades the longer I take to answer her. After a heart-thumping few seconds, I shake it off and say, “I’m conducting an experiment. See if my friends stick around even when I dress like my dad.”

  She knows I’m lying. I can see it in her eyes, in the sadness in her expression. But she doesn’t push me.

  “Let’s watch some VD, and Damon will help you forget all your problems.”

  Relieved for the subject change, I grin and reach for my DVD collection. “Or Matt.”

  She rolls her eyes. Yeah, out of all the supernatural sexy guys on The Vampire Diaries, I’m a fan of the adorable human who always seems to get the shaft. Tiff pointed that out to me once—that I refuse to crush on the “popular” choice because I feel bad for the other guy. That may be true. Or maybe it’s because Matt has blue eyes and a cute voice, and when he takes his shirt off, it’s like a hallelujah chorus sings from the heavens.

  We watch three episodes before Mom calls us down for dinner. Tiff eats, then bails, tapping on her phone the second she steps off my porch. I know it was probably killing her waiting three Vampire Diary episodes and a long, loud Silverman dinner before she could tell Fartbucket she’ll go out with him.

  And I know he probably won’t respond to it, but I decide to send him a text anyway.

  Hey… don’t make me tell her about what happened on the Disneyland tea cups. So be nice, don’t hurt her, or the story is making the news.

  8

  Ten-Second Mood Killer

  I jog up to the field where practice is being held a little late because I have to wait to dress until everybody leaves. I wonder if locker rooms will change in the future. I have a dream that one day self-conscious teenagers will be able to dress in privacy.

  Coach Fox watches my approach, smiling that sweet grin when I step in line with everyone else.

  “Hi runners,” she starts off. My eyes fall to the stopwatch in her hand as she nervously fiddles with it. If I didn’t notice, I never would’ve thought she was worried at all. “I’m glad everyone could show up. I’ve got a bit of an announcement.”

  “They’ve finally ordered a coach uniform big enough,” Jamal guesses next to me, his eyes amused at Coach’s dressy attire. I grit my teeth and give one good hard elbow to his ribs. It’s not enough that most everyone on the team has completely judged Coach’s abilities because she’s a bit round in the middle, now my buds are joining in on it. A few snickers go through the team, and I figure more comments are being made. I mentally take note of everyone who isn’t laughing and add them to my “you’re all right” list.

  Coach Fox lets go of her stopwatch, letting it dangle back over her large chest. “I’ve watched you for the past few practices, and I’m impressed with your talent. But I think there is room for improvement.”

  Drake shoots his hand in the air, “Oh, I know! Run faster?”

  A wave of laughter goes over the team. Coach humors him by letting out a chuckle as well.

  “That’s the goal, yes. Anyone want to take a guess on how we do that?”

  “Jump on Drake or Silverman’s back and hitch a ride?” Hadley jokes, and I’m flattered for less than a second because then Bridget pipes up.

  “You’d be better off hitching a ride with me this year.” She laughs, and a few other girls agree with her. I agree, too—Bridget has been outrunning me so far—but that doesn’t mean it stings any less.

  My shoulders slump as I watch the girl’s team—them and their barely-there Sharpies, long legs, and flat stomachs. I used to feel like their queen, and now I don’t even feel like I belong in the same kingdom.

  Coach watches the joking around with thoughtful eyes. That is another thing that’s massively different than last year—Coach Juniper never let us talk. Coach Fox seems to prefer observing, like we’re a bunch of monkeys, and she’s Jane Goodall.

  “Let me ask you all a question,” she says, stepping into a pace in front of us. “Raise your hand if you think you’re the best in your particular event.”

  “In the state?” Drake asks, though his hand is already up in the air.

  Coach laughs, but shakes her head. “How about in Crest Hills? Based on the last few weeks, who thinks they could outrun everyone here?”

  Almost all hands go into the air. I look down the line, surprised at the response. In fact, slowly… the few hands that didn’t go up start to, almost as if they aren’t sure if this is a test or not. I feel the peer pressure, and though I know I can’t outrun anybody with these chest balloons, I end up sticking my hand in the ai
r as well.

  “Okay,” she says, continuing her pacing. “If I told you that you had to outrun someone to get on the team, who’d be willing to take that chance?”

  Silence replaces all our normal laughter and nonsense as everyone’s stomach—mine included—falls out of their butts and onto the hot track with a flump.

  “Huh?” Hadley says, her gum tumbling clean out of her mouth. I get it… we were all told that once you made it as a freshman, you were on the team for as long as you wanted.

  The coach smiles, just as sweetly and innocently as before. I try to hate it, but I can’t. She’s like Poison Ivy and her love spell lips.

  “Any takers?” she asks. I exchange glances with Bridget down the line, and after giving me a thorough examination, she sticks her hand in the air.

  Coach stops her pacing and ends up right in front of Bridget, her head on a tilt. “You’re willing to try out again?”

  Bridget nods. “I’ve got this.”

  “And what about the runner you go up against?”

  That gets a slight sweat out of Bridget. Her eyes flick down the line again at the rest of the team, then return to Coach. “If… if it’ll make the team stronger, then I guess it’d be okay to lose a few of the… stragglers.”

  Coach pauses, contemplating Bridget’s answer. After a long, silent moment, she nods. “Excellent point.” She starts pacing again, addressing the entire team now. “As of right now, your spot on the team is no longer permanent.”

  I can feel the collective stomach crumpling and bated breath as the entire team processes. My heart’s pounding a mile a minute, and I eye each and every girl, wondering which one of them will take me out—which one will take my spot away from me.

  “You serious?” Drake asks, his eyebrow sky high. “You’ve got some of the best runners in the state on this team.”

  Coach scratches her neck with her mechanical pencil. “I do.”

  “You gonna risk getting rid of us?” Jamal asks. “No matter how this goes, not all of us are staying.”

  Coach takes a second to answer. I put a hand over my heart to try to calm it down, but it’s no use. Coach walks back over to Bridget, who, by the look on her face, is regretting her previous answer.

  “Mind going first?”

  Bridget straightens her shoulders. “Against who?”

  The corner of Coach’s mouth tilts up. “Against yourself.”

  This entire practice is full of confusion, and I don’t think my brain can take it. I clear my throat and ask, “Coach? Are you saying we need to beat our own times?”

  A flicker of surprise runs over her expression. “Yes, Silverman, that’s exactly what I’d like you to do.” She brings up her clipboard. “If you beat your original tryout time, welcome to the team. If not, you have until the end of this week.”

  Ah crap—this does not help my already pounding anxiety. My original tryout time was amazing. In fact, it’s better than everyone else’s on the team, including some of the boys.

  I pull at my doubled-up bras and chew on the inside of my bottom lip. Even Drake looks nervous, frowning at the track, probably wishing he didn’t show off so much over the past few practices.

  Bridget, however, looks incredibly at ease. She marches right past Coach to the start line. “Ready when you are, Coach.” She emphasizes the word like Coach Fox hasn’t yet earned it.

  Coach’s bright round eyes meet mine. “Let’s do two or three at a time, okay? Speed this up. Silverman and Harper, go ahead and take spots two and three.”

  Hadley and I step up to our lines next to Bridget. Sweat is already forming along my brow in a panic—sure, I know I’m not going to be the fastest anything on the team, at least not yet. But I didn’t expect to not be on it at all. The reality that I may actually lose the chance at State again catches up to me in one big wave. So much so that I don’t even hear Coach say “Go!” and I take off two, three seconds behind Hadley and Bridget.

  I don’t catch up to them. My legs are lead, and my head is full, and my chest is pulling me into the pavement. I can’t think, not even about running or the road, and I can’t go to that place that I love. All that I know is that my whole life feels like someone else’s, and it’s all this stupid body’s fault.

  Bridget crosses the line, Hadley shortly after. I take too long to get there, already knowing I failed because my times were far better than theirs. I’m thinking that outrunning myself isn’t going to be any easier than outrunning any one of them.

  I finally run past Coach, and my knees lock, and I immediately fall to the track.

  “You okay, Silverman?” she asks, her eyes softening, and even though I don’t know her from Adam, I can tell that I just kissed my guaranteed spot away.

  “I’m good.” I’m not. “What was my time?”

  That sweet smile twitches at the corner of her mouth. “Ten seconds off.”

  Something curls in my belly, making me taste acid on the back of my tongue. Ten seconds is a lifetime. Silver Medalist Ginger Silverman doesn’t make the cross country team: I’ll give you two big reasons why. It’s the lead story on the Crest Hills Facebook page.

  “Don’t worry,” Coach says as she and Hadley help me to my feet, “you have all week.”

  I nod like she totally made me feel better. But when I glance down to get a good look at the track and can’t see it because two giant chest balloons are in my way, I think I’ll need more than a week to beat my time with these things.

  9

  Cheers to the Inventor of Post-Its

  Water. Why did I forget to bring water?

  I slump over, my nose touching my knees, my fingers dragging across the dewy grass at the cemetery. I pushed it today. Woke up an hour earlier to get more time in. Stretched. Jogged. Sprinted. Practiced on the track, on the grass, on the concrete… and now I’m dead. So I suppose the cemetery is the appropriate place for me right now.

  When I ran past The Rolling Scones, it was too early for Marcel, so I don’t have anything for Cayenne.

  “Sorry… Sis…” I tell her through labored breathing, slowly lowering into the grassy spot. Cemetery Guy isn’t here, and I’m more relieved than I am disappointed—obviously… I mean, I don’t know the dude—but I am surprised that I’m a teensy tiny itty witty bit disappointed. I could use a distraction, and honestly, I’ve gotten used to the morning company. We’ve yet to say anything to each other—seems like we’re both content in the quiet.

  Since I’m alone, I pause my music and start talking to my sister. There’s a roly poly crawling across Cayenne’s name so I pluck him up and set him in the grass.

  “My time was awful yesterday,” I tell her. “Well, not awful. I still outran a few people who are on the team now because they beat their own original tryout times, which is completely unfair, but whatever. Coach finally explained that this helps us cheer on each other instead of wishing that someone ends up with a slower time than what we did. So the only person we can be mad at, or superior over, is ourselves. Something about building us up as a team and not so much individually.” I snort and shake my head at the roly poly, who is determined to get back to Cayenne’s stone. “She was definitely a dance teacher before. ‘Teamwork! Unity! Rah Rah Rah!’”

  Running has been such an individual sport for Crest Hills, unless we do the relay. We’ve always been competitive against each other, always wanting the top spot, always fighting not just other schools, but everyone so we could make it to State. Coach is determined it seems, to make us lean on each other.

  I lie flat on my back and look at a cloud that resembles a burger with teeth. “It was cool when Annie ran her lap though,” I continue. “She was so close… and we could all tell she was slowing down near the end. She made the mistake of running with all she had right at the beginning. So she was coming down after the final turn. Coach said she had ten seconds left, and Ronnie took off down the track, met up with her, and said, ‘Push! Push! You can do this!’ And Annie pushed. She made it with a se
cond to spare.”

  It was the first time our team had been, well, a team. We all clapped and whooped for her when she collapsed on the track, tears and sweat mating on her cheeks. Even though I completely crapped out on my run, I felt genuine joy for her. Also, I had no real opinion of Ronnie before, other than he was the quiet guy who was an average runner—never first, never last. Now I want to be his friend. Invite him to hang with Drake and Jamal and Tiff and Rodney. I chuckle a little bit with the image of the shy Ronnie hanging out with the very loud Rodney.

  “I have to run again today,” I tell my sister, watching the burger cloud morph into a Playstation controller. “And I’m afraid there won’t be anyone who will want to push me.”

  A breeze blows past my face, almost as if Cayenne is telling me that she’ll be there. At least, I like to think that’s what she’s saying. I smile and say, “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

  Something crunches, lurching my stomach. I sit upright and clutch at my chest as Cemetery Guy takes a spot across from me. The corner of his mouth twitches up, and I thank the heavens for the earphones dangling from his ears down to the pocket of his very blue jeans. He’s wearing a t-shirt today—I’ve only seen him in hoodies—and it accentuates the muscle of his arms, but it hangs shapeless over the rest of him. Kind of like my dad’s t-shirt on me. I bet they wear the same size. He waves. I wave. Then I reach into my pocket and crank up the music.

  He has a green backpack today, and I wonder what school he goes to. I haven’t seen him at Crest Hills, but my house is right on the border, so I’m used to seeing a lot of people my age who aren’t in my class. He adjusts his blue earphone chords so they aren’t in the way and pulls the backpack on his lap. His ears are a little red as he digs around and takes out different objects. A pack of mini powdered donuts, like the ones you get from a vending machine, a pen, a textbook—can’t see what one it is—and it takes him a while, but he finally locates a pad of sticky notes and then sets it on top of his book. His eyes meet mine when he’s done, and I immediately force my gaze to the clouds, ignoring the fact that he’s returning the “stare at the stranger” favor.