You Can't Catch Me

by Cassie Mae

  “Someone stole my clothes!” I blurt a little louder than I mean to. Her curious eyes transform to surprise so quickly if I’d have blinked, I would’ve missed it. She rolls her chair closer to her desk. Her chest covers nearly her entire desk calendar as she leans across it. The stopwatch from her neck doesn’t dangle, but drapes over her giant bosom, getting caught in her cleavage. It doesn’t bother her; she’s comfortable in her body, and an ache forms in my stomach, bringing a sting of jealousy with it.

  “Your uniform is missing?” she asks, sugar dusting the edges of her voice again.

  I nod. “I’m sorry. I called my friend to bring me some clothes, but…” I drift off, knowing that I probably should’ve ran right out after I got changed, but I stayed behind and talked about boys. About her son. My eyes drop to my lap, my shoulders unable to slouch without shooting pain up and down my ribs. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I admit. This isn’t the Ginger from last year. That Ginger worked her butt off. This Ginger is a stranger in an even stranger body.

  Coach scratches her bitten-down nails along her round cheek, frowning at me in a completely different way than when we walked in here. “Can you find something appropriate for next week?” she asks. “I’ll try to find where your clothes went.”

  I nod. She gives me a semi-smile.

  “I’ll be honest, you threw me off. I was about to give out my well-practiced lecture.”

  I let out a small laugh, look at my bare thigh sticking out of my running shorts and run a hand over it. Now even my thighs look like they’ve gotten soft, lost all the muscle that I worked so hard for.

  “Could you give it to me anyway?” I ask, flicking my gaze up. “I think I could use a little tough love.”

  “It wasn’t tough love, Silverman.” She sighs. “It was a coach who’s getting fed up with the girl she was told was the best on the team.”

  Ouch. “I know I’m not as fast as—”

  “It’s not about your speed.” She shakes her head. “You’ve dropped on the track, completely given up, ran out of practice, and not shown up. All within the first few weeks.”

  There’s a sick taste on the back of my tongue. “I know, and I promise I’ll be better. I promise. I meant what I said before. I’m here to prove to you that I can do it.”

  Her lips pull down. “This isn’t just about you. I’m not here to see you only care about what you can do and what you can’t do.” She pauses as if trying to make sure what she means comes across the right way. I sit poised on my chair, ready for something, anything that may help me figure out how to crawl out of this horrible funk.

  “You are part of a team,” she says. “When you put aside how you feel about your own performance and concentrate on getting everyone across the finish line, this sport becomes much easier to handle.”

  I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “That’s not how we’ve been coached, Coach.”

  “I know.” She leans back, a fire stirring in her expression. “But believe me, someone will have your back if you have theirs. This is true in any sport. You’re not the only one struggling, Ginger. Keep it in mind.”

  I nod, not sure what to say to that. I’d like to tell her that if I didn’t watch out for myself, no one would, especially after that conversation I overheard not forty-five minutes ago.

  Her hard-pressed expression turns soft and amused. “Regretting your decision to hear the lecture anyway?”

  I give her a laugh, though I’m not really feeling it. “No.” I stand. “Thanks, Coach.”

  She smiles and watches me leave. I’d make her a promise to be a better team player, but I’m not sure if I’ll be able to keep it.

  I pass Hadley on the way out. and she gives me a small smile before looking past me.

  “Coach? Can I talk to you for a second?” she asks. Coach Fox nods and invites her to sit.

  “Will you get the door, Silverman?” she asks politely. Curiosity pulls at me as I shut the two of them in. Is Hadley struggling, too? The words Coach just said to me hit home as I realize what a self-absorbed teammate I’ve been.

  I pull out my phone and send Tiff a text. Even though I’ll go through every shade of red, I’d rather talk about my boy problems than deal with the chance of State getting further and further away from my grasp.

  ***

  “This is the craziest thing you’ve ever thought of, and I just… I just… omigosh… Ginger! I’m so proud of you!”

  If she wasn’t sitting behind the wheel, I’m one hundred percent sure Tiff would be mauling me right now with hugs and forcing me to jump up and down on my toes. That reaction is more appropriate for cake than it is for this.

  I slap my hands over my face, peeking through my fingers at the faculty parking lot so I don’t miss anything. “Don’t talk me out of it.”

  She gasps. “Never.” Now she’s bouncing again. “I hope we get a good look at him.”

  I shake my head so hard my hair loosens from its ponytail. If Oliver catches me stalking, I will keel over in a matter of seconds. But I can’t help but feel an excitement build inside of me over the thought of seeing him in our stakeout. I mean, this whole thing is because of him; getting a visual on him would be a butterfly-inducing bonus.

  I pull at the duct tape around my chest, wincing a little because I’ve sweated so hard just sitting out in the student parking lot, and it’s accumulating in very itchy ways. Now that the rain has let up, the humidity is hitting. It’s gonna hurt like a mother when I have to rip the tape off tonight to let the Sharpies breathe. I’m actually hoping they’ll suffocate back into their 32A selves.

  “Oh! We have a visual on the subject,” Tiff says, pointing out the speckled windshield to Coach Fox trudging out the main doors. She must’ve gotten changed in her office or something, because she’s wearing a full, flowy, floral skirt and a pink baby doll blouse. The outfit she wore earlier was a little longer and looser, but this one looks a little more… dressier. Her hair’s down, blowing with the slight breeze, and she’s rushing, but her shoes aren’t making it easy. I chuckle a little bit, because it looks like she has trouble in any other footwear that isn’t flat—like me. She looks good though. Like she’s ready for a hot date.

  I slap my hand on Tiff’s forearm, and she spits out a curse.

  “Sorry,” I rush out quick, taking my hand off her. “I think we should go.”

  “Yeah. We’re gonna follow her…” She hovers over the ignition.

  My head shakes back and forth slowly as I watch Coach cross the lot. “I… I’m not sure she’s going home.”

  “Only one way to find out, right?” Tiff prods. Coach fumbles around in her purse, pulling out her phone and putting it to her ear. She stops dead on the way to the car to listen to whoever’s on the line. Her mouth doesn’t move, so it’s probably a voicemail.

  My eyes drop to the clock on the dash. It’s nearly 6:00 already, and I’m losing the excitement I had when I first caught Tiff before she left the school, and I asked if she would help me find out where Oliver lives. Oh, Tiff’s enthusiasm hasn’t faltered in the slightest, but then again, if she follows Coach home, and Oliver spots her, there would be absolutely no significance in that. Well… at least until he meets her in person.

  My reasons for wanting to know where he lives are completely stalkerish—I’d like to make a new running route, and I know that if his house is part of the scenery, I’ll find a whole lot more motivation to work off the summertime flub.

  Tiff lets out a frustrated growl and then laughs. “She is the slowest cross country coach ever.”

  I look up, and Coach is still out there with the phone to her ear, the corners of her lips turned down. After a few more seconds, she drops her hand and tucks her phone away, heading to her car in a much slower and less harried pace than before. She opens the driver door, tosses her purse in, then disappears from my view. All I can see is her silhouette, and it’s really dark because of the tint on her windows.

  Tiff starts the car.

/>   And we sit.

  And wait.

  For freaking ever.

  “Ugh.” Tiff throws her head back, muttering her impatience at the ceiling. I squint and try to figure out what Coach is doing in there that’s making her take so long to even start her car. Sometimes Dad sits in the car for a good ten minutes just adjusting mirrors and seats and picking the right playlist, and we just tease him on delaying the inevitable work day.

  She doesn’t look like she’s moving at all though. Oh, sometimes Mom prays in the car, since she forgets before she leaves. I shoot my gaze elsewhere in case that is what Coach is doing, and even looking at her seems like I’m interrupting her time with God. There’s a Cool Ranch Doritos bag floating down the gutter stream near the drop-off lane, so I watch that until Tiff suddenly throws the car in drive and pulls out after Coach, who is finally leaving the parking lot.

  “Operation Oliver is in progress,” she teases me, and I laugh, but my stomach has fallen straight out my butt. Glad she can be excited about this. I’m going to lose the very little food I put in my belly today.

  “Going stealth mode,” I say, playing along to ease the chaos going on in my insides. I drop the seat back and cover my face with my backpack. “I request commentary.”

  I see Tiff’s arms shake as she laughs—I’m too hidden to see her face anymore—and she reaches down for her Rockstar.

  “Subject is heading… uh… whatever direction this is… we’re on the road that leads to the fast food smorgasbord.”

  My nervous stomach instinctively grumbles, knowing that the smell of fries and bread and pizza are all going to mix and mate in my nostrils as soon as we’re on that street. We’ll be stuck in traffic forever; I know it already, since it’s 6:00 on a Friday.

  “Is she grabbing food?” I say in a panic. “We can’t follow her in a drive-thru!”

  “Trust me, worry wart.” Tiff’s arms move, and the car swings to the left. I grab my seatbelt above me, thankful that Aunt Heidi isn’t driving. If she were, there wouldn’t be a chance of me laying my seat back.

  “Are we stopped?” I ask, peeking out from my backpack. Tiff puts her hand on it and presses it back into my nose. Oy, I should’ve taken out my biology book before doing this.

  “Subject is parked in front of Mickey Ds,” she commentates. “Subject must have a craving for a Big Mac.”

  My stomach grumbles. “She ain’t the only one.”

  Tiff laughs. “You can’t eat those. Your bowels can’t handle it.”

  “True, but really… can anyone’s bowels handle McDonalds?”

  She laughs again, not answering because I’m so totally right, and after ten minutes or so while my stomach talks and my butt gets sore, Tiff starts the car back up, and we pull out again.

  “Subject had a big bag of food. Food for two, I’d say,” she continues as my biology book crushes my cheek. “I believe this could mean our Person of Interest is at home.”

  I shake my head, loving her for doing this, and loving her more for making it fun. I’ve boarded the crazy train, and she just comes along with me. Insanity is better with a friend.

  If I was a person who could express feelings out loud without fumbling around the words, I’d probably tell her what a relief it is to have someone treat me like I haven’t changed at all, even though I know she knows that something’s different.

  This duct tape is going to kill me.

  “Oh, looks like we’re slowing into a neighborhood.”

  “What’s the street name?”

  “Uh, I missed it. Hang on, let me see if I can find…” She tapers off, and her back straightens. I wait a good three Mississippis before she says, “Okay, she pulled into a driveway. I’ll whip around, and we can get the address.”

  “Be cool about it!” I hiss, and she relaxes in the seat like she’s riding low, and I roll my eyes at the material over my face.

  I turn and lift up out of my seat, hoping to get at least a peek at the neighborhood. I thought I had a pretty good idea of where we are, but from the looks of it, I am way off.

  He definitely goes to another school, because we’re now on the north side of Food Row, and the school and the border lines run along the south side. The cemetery isn’t exactly walking distance from here either, so I start wondering if he parks somewhere else and then just walks through the gravesites. Seems a little out of his way just to bring someone food, but I guess I’d do it for Cayenne if I had a car—or if I felt like running ten plus miles.

  Tiff puts the car in park, and I peek out the windshield. She points a couple houses down.

  “She must have a great car freshener,” she jokes, noting that Coach is still sitting in her car. I can see her now through the side window, and my heart just stops right then and there.

  She’s crying.

  It’s not like actual tears crying, but it’s crying. I know it, because I watched my face go through that exact expression during my bathroom breakdown.

  “What do you think she’s doing?” Tiff asks, tilting her head and studying my new coach. For whatever reason, I don’t tell her what I really think. Honestly, I’m pretty sure my voice will come out wobbly and weird.

  Something catches my eye at the front of the house—the door opening and Oliver bounding down the steps. My lips skyrocket upward—I can’t stop them. Tiff knows it’s him just by the look on my face, and she can’t help but squeal, even though she desperately tries to stifle it.

  “Shhh, oh my heck,” I say through a laugh.

  “You’re smiling so big, and it’s adorable.”

  “Stop it.”

  “He’s so… tall,” she mutters, and all I can find myself doing is nodding and ogling as he comes around to the driver side door. He looks so… nice. His jeans are fresh and crisp, and he’s wearing a collared, black button-down with a white long-sleeved shirt underneath. His hair is swept across his forehead, and he opens the door for his mother—still the hottest effing thing in the world—and when she pulls the food out, he takes it and shakes his head. The words out of his mouth, though totally inaudible, look serious and important. Commanding almost, but concerned too with the adorable and loving look in his eyes. I’m melting in the seat, expecting to be a pile of duct tape and goo that Tiff will have to clean up when we get to her house.

  Coach Fox smiles, but it’s sad and lackluster, and I feel so many things already for this family, including guilt since I’m spying on them, but I can’t ask Tiff to drive past right now without them seeing us.

  After a bit of a back and forth, Oliver goes around the car and opens the passenger door for his mom, runs the fast food inside, and then comes out, jamming his wallet into his back pocket. He climbs into the driver's side, and they pull out, and when Tiff raises an eyebrow, silently asking me if she should follow, I shake my head.

  “Let me just type in the address,” I say quietly, and I only do it because I don’t want to make Tiff feel like we did all these shenanigans for nothing.

  “He’s cute,” she says after a minute. “We’re having a girls’ night tonight.”

  “I figured.” I laugh, tucking my phone in my bag. It takes me three tries to bend over. I catch Tiff watching me struggle, and her lips turn into a stern line.

  “And you’re going to be the one talking this time.”

  Guess it’ll be the night I finally confide in my friend.

  17

  Completely Crushed

  Mom and Dad are a little too excited for me to be out of the house— I swear they did those kissy faces at each other just to gross me out as I head out the door—but I’m grateful they allow the impromptu plans because I could really use a night that doesn’t involve me examining every single flaw in this foreign body that my mind is inhabiting. Tiff’s a good distraction, especially since she hasn’t let up about Oliver ever since she caught a glimpse of him.

  “How’d you meet? How old is he? Does he like you a lot? Do you like him a lot? What’s his sign? What’s he into? Like, d
oes he play a sport? I bet he’s a wrestler or something. Or is he a nerd? I know you have a thing for the quiet smart guys. Is he hilarious? He looks like he’s funny. Guys who make you laugh are the. Best. Marcus has made me nearly pee my pants with some of the stuff he says. Stop giving me that look, Ginger, you promised.”

  I quickly unwrinkle my nose, not even realizing I'm doing it.

  Tiff rolls off her full-size bed that’s covered right now in old denim squares she’s cutting out for her mom to quilt together. When we got here, she waved a pair of scissors at me and silently begged for help, so while I’ve been drowning in her questions, we’ve snipped away at a pile of jeans that no longer fit.

  “So, we’re doubling tomorrow?” she asks, flipping the overhead light on now that it’s gotten too dark to really see what we’re doing.

  “He said this weekend… so I’m not sure.” I look at my phone, cursing myself for not thinking to get his number earlier in his mom’s office. What if he meant tonight? No, he would’ve said, “What are your plans later?” right? Now I’m over-thinking and am having a small stroke as I consider having Tiff take me back to his house just so I can ask him.

  “You know what?” she asks, settling back on the mattress, a few squares getting squished by her butt. I’m trying to get the darn scissors through a thick seam.

  “Hmm?” My thumbs are starting to cramp. I get to pick the next activity. Tiff’s too quiet, and after I finally get the scissors over the seam, I look up to her gnawing at her bottom lip.

  “Never mind,” she says, shaking her head and tossing her bangs with the movement.

  I put the scissors down and wiggle out my fingers. “Tease.”

  “It was nothing important.”

  “Then tell me.”

  Her lips purse, and she shakes her head wildly again. “I don’t want it to come out the wrong way.”

  I can feel my eyes widening, itching to glance down at my chest but refusing in case that draws more attention there. This feeling stinks to high heaven; I was so comfortable a second ago with her because Tiff makes me feel like the old Ginger. But I realize that even my best friend can’t shake me out of my self-consciousness.