You Can't Catch Me

by Cassie Mae

  I spent every morning that school week with Cayenne, Beckham, and Oliver. When I told him what I was doing for his mom, he pushed up off the grass and took me to the track. He became my official timer for the week. Can’t say that I was entirely cool with him watching me run in a tighter, breathable shirt, but I pushed past my insecurities and reminded myself that I’m still a runner, even if I’m a little bouncier than I used to be.

  It’s Friday morning when I squint across the track and see not Oliver, but Coach crossing the field. She’s in a flowy, baby doll dress that hits right below her knees, and a jean jacket that covers her shoulders. Her hair is pulled back, but the ponytail blows in the wind, loose strands catching in her lip gloss. She’s holding a bag from The Rolling Scones, and I can smell the baked goodness from here. When she catches my eye, she smiles—of course. Coach doesn’t know how to not smile, though I can tell from her stride, from the tension that suddenly fills the morning air, that this probably won’t be a casual visit.

  “Morning, Coach,” I tell her, dropping my foot from the stretch I was in.

  Her smile twitches in the corners of her mouth. “Good morning, Ginger.”

  “Are you timing me today?” I ask, knowing that she’s not substituting by coincidence. Her makeup-less eyes fall to my exposed ribs, her Coachy smile fading when she sees the remnants of my self-inflicted abuse.

  “I’m sorry,” she blurts, blinking up to my confused stare.

  “About…?”

  The wind picks up, whipping her dress around her. “For not reaching out sooner. You told me someone stole your clothes; I should’ve acted right then.”

  I shake my head and pull my other foot behind me to stretch. “That wasn’t your fault, Coach. Who would’ve thought they’d take a picture of my sweaty gym attire?”

  She humors me with a small laugh that quickly falls away. “Your positivity is encouraging.”

  “Well, you should’ve seen me a week ago.” I let my foot plummet to the track. “To be honest, what they said on that photo was no worse than anything I’ve thought myself.”

  Her eyes close as she flinches away, and I quickly clarify.

  “What they said about me. Not you, Coach.”

  The expression resting on her face is still pained, and she turns her gaze over to the school as the thirty minute bell rings. I wonder if she has more to say to me—she did come all the way out here. Is it just for an apology? Because I don’t need one from her.

  I blow out a long breath and take a running stance at the line.

  “Time me?” I ask over my shoulder. She seems to snap out of whatever trance she’s in and slowly shakes her head.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asks. I straighten from my “get ready” position.

  “Running?” A grin tugs on my lips. “I’m on the team still, right?”

  “Oliver says you want to prove to the board I didn’t lie about your qualifying time.”

  They must have great communication in their family. My parents have to yank things out of me.

  “Thought it would help,” I say. “I heard students could attend, and if I have a record of that time then maybe they’d drop this whole load of crap they’re putting you through.”

  Her expression softens. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the gesture, Ginger. It’s just… I don’t think it’ll work.”

  “But that’s their whole complaint. They think you’re showing favoritism or some bull swallop, and they’re worried about you faking times for big events—times you’re not even in charge of, I might add. If I can just prove to them I’m capable of kicking butt—”

  “Ginger. Trust me.” The corner of her mouth twitches. “That’s not why this is happening.”

  A wave of sympathy crashes over me, and I wish I could smack the people who started this. I wish I could go back, and instead of focusing on how people were looking at me, I’d back up Coach and everything she’s done for this team. I can’t be the only one who sees it.

  I set my chin, standing up as tall as I can. “I’m still gonna try, Coach. I can’t just do nothing.”

  “It won’t work,” she repeats, a light smile on her bright face. “You won’t be able to run that time.”

  Something drops hard and heavy into the pit of my stomach. I have to force myself to swallow, and as if Cayenne knows how betrayed I feel, the sun ducks behind a bundle of dark clouds.

  “You… you did make it up.”

  She’s still smiling. “I know what time you ran,” she says. “I remember watching you that morning.”

  “Okay…?”

  “Do you remember? What was it that made you run like that? What was your motivation?”

  I lift a single shoulder up, gaping at her. “Uh… I… You told me just to run. Running was my motivation.”

  “Why?”

  “Because… I love it. The rest of the world falls away. It’s just me and the track.” I grin at the memory of how it is to run like that. “It’s freaking amazing.”

  Her shoulders shake with her silent laughter. “If you ran for me, it wouldn’t be the same.”

  “Could be better…” I offer up with a half grin.

  “It won’t be. There’s too much pressure up here.” She taps her temple. “It starts to weigh you down.”

  My whole body jerks back with the sudden epiphany her words have jump-started. Metaphorical pressure is the killer of confidence.

  “So that was my real time.”

  She nods. “It was. And you can do it again, but not like this. Not for me.”

  The sun pops back out from its hiding place in a movie magic moment that rarely exists in real life. An uncontrollable chuckle grows from deep within me, and Coach raises a suspicious eyebrow.

  “Even when you’re off the clock,” I tell her, “you’re still coaching like a rockstar.”

  She pffts, but I can tell she appreciates the compliment. A fresh blush rises up her neck, and she reaches up to push her hair back, the bag from The Rolling Scones crinkling in her hand.

  “Do you want to time me?” I ask. “I promise I’ll only think of myself.”

  She laughs. “No keeping track this time. But I will sit and watch you while I eat this bagel from heaven.”

  “They’re amazing, right?”

  “Never thought I’d find another one that could compare to the last place, but…” She sticks her nose in the back and sucks in a giant breath.

  “Didn’t know you had such a cruel side, Coach,” I tease with a frown. Her expression immediately turns apologetic, and I have to convince her that I’m so used to not eating the good stuff. (AKA, bread.)

  She grabs a spot on the lower bleachers, and I take my position at the innermost lane. I know this won’t be the run because my thoughts are still on Coach and what I can do for her. The whole situation reminds me of when I was at regionals last year. All I could think about was Aunt Heidi in the crowd, how much she wanted to move on to State when she was a runner, but it never happened. I worried about both outcomes—if I made it, would it make her sad, or would not making it make her sadder. I stressed myself out so much that I blurted all my feelings on her minutes before the run.

  I don’t think I’ll forget the look on her face. Surprise and concern, hurt maybe that she somehow pressured me. I asked her a simple question: “What do you want me to do?”

  She hugged me tight and said over my shoulder, “Run.” Then she pulled back and smiled. “Run, run, run. As fast as you can.”

  I laughed, and the worry slipped away. “They can’t catch me.”

  Then Mom totally barged in our conversation with a very pumped up, “You’re our gingerbread man!”

  That run was one of the best ones of my life. And not because of the qualifying time.

  I glance at Coach smiling and enjoying her bagel. I’m supposed to conquer this myself, encourage myself, believe in myself, and do it all for me. Because right now, I don’t have a teammate to help me with it. Maybe that’s what
she was teaching—we push others so we can learn to push ourselves.

  I take a deep breath, focus on the track, and say low under my breath, “Run, run, run…”

  31

  When You Don’t Bring Notecards

  I let out one very shaky breath while waiting outside the auditorium doors. Oliver gives me a half grin from where he’s leaning, the constant twisting of his fingers around his blue diamond tie telling me he’s just as nervous as I am.

  Not a ton of people are here—Tiff caught the flu bug and sent me a text wishing me luck. Mom came to support me and hold my hair back if I vomit up my nerves. A few of the team parents are here, but the only members that showed up are Hadley, Jamal, and Drake. I’m betting Hadley would be the only one if I hadn’t coerced the other two. Then there’s Oliver and Coach Fox, of course.

  I smooth my hands down my blue dress—matching Oliver wasn’t intentional, but come on… aren’t we just meant to be?—and shift my weight onto my other foot. I have no idea what I’m going to say. I went over a thousand different things, but nothing felt right. I secretly plead for help from Cayenne while Mom fixes a stray curl from my ponytail.

  The auditorium doors make a loud clang as the horizontal metal handle is pushed down from the inside. Principal Turphy greets us with a forced smile and tells us to come on in.

  The crowd quietly shuffles down to the stage where a long table with a bunch of board members sit in business attire. They all look friendly, big smiles and kind eyes. But it doesn’t lessen their intimidation factor.

  Coach Fox is instructed to take a seat in the front, and Oliver plunks down next to her. Mom and I find a spot off to the side, getting a good view of all the board’s faces at once. I restlessly pull at my dress again.

  “Good evening, everyone,” the woman sitting in the middle of the table says into her microphone. “We’re here on the twenty-seventh day of September to fully inquire the complaints raised against a one Cassandra M. Fox, current cross country and track and field coach for Crest Hills High.”

  My eyebrows slowly rise. Wow. This all sounds super legit. My throat dries up like the Sahara, and I talk mentally to my sister again.

  The woman addressing us takes a pause to politely smile at Coach. She looks young for a school board member. Maybe in her forties? For some reason I thought it would be a bunch of old dudes—though there are a few of those too.

  “Ms. Fox, do you mind clarifying a few details for us?”

  Coach straightens in her seat. “Of course.”

  “How long have you been coaching?”

  “Fifteen years.” She pauses. “But this is the first in this sport.”

  A murmur goes over the very small crowd. I let my eyes skate across the faces, a few of them leaning over to whisper to each other. A jolt of nervous energy hits my legs, and I start bouncing them in my seat.

  “What was the interview process before you started at Crest Hills?”

  “Uh, I’d like to answer that, if I may,” Principal Turphy says, rising slightly from his seat, his finger in the air. The woman in the middle gestures for him to continue.

  “Coach Fox came highly recommended by a principal in Nebraska, where Coach Fox was previously. I got permission, from this very school board, to hire who I deemed fit.”

  There’s a snicker in the crowd, and Mom isn’t very quiet when she cusses them out.

  The board woman flips a page over from her stapled packet in front of her. “And you spoke with Ms. Fox before hiring her?”

  “I did.”

  “From her home in Nebraska?”

  Principal Turphy’s brow furrows slightly. “Her interview was held over the phone, yes.”

  “And what was the impression you got when you met her in person? Did you have any… qualms with her then?”

  His brow is so deeply furrowed now I’m surprised he can see from under those bushy things. “No. She was very pleasant.”

  “But you had not been witness to her abilities as a coach?”

  Everyone turns their heads to our principal, and he slowly—and disappointingly—says, “Not at that time.” He rubs his chin. “I trusted the referral.”

  The board woman nods, glancing down at her papers. The man next to her clears his throat and directs his question to Coach Fox.

  “Do you remember your first practice, Ms. Fox?”

  Coach reaches up and tugs on her earring. “Yes.”

  “Can you give us a summary of that day?”

  She puts her hand down, twisting it with the other in her lap. “I introduced myself, then acknowledged the amazing talent present on the team. Then I watched them run.”

  “Was there a tryout process?” he prods, obviously knowing the answer already. They just want to get to that part of it.

  “Yes. After a few practices, I felt the team needed some improvement.” Coach’s eyes move to Oliver, and I catch the encouraging and supportive smile he gives her before she turns back to the dude at the front. “I had a list of times next to each name. I told the team if they wanted to stay on it, they would need to beat their time.”

  Another low murmur runs over the attendees.

  “Explain this method to us who are unfamiliar with it, please.”

  Coach takes in a deep breath. “I wanted to teach them to be competitive not with each other, but with themselves.”

  “And this is an effective way of teaching a growing mind? To beat on themselves?”

  “To show them their value, which no one can find if they are constantly comparing their worth to the success of others.”

  The quiet in the room just proves how awesome Coach is. How her words and the way she teaches them can leave a person completely speechless.

  A woman at the far end of the table is the first to break the silence. “What was your plan if none of the students beat their previous qualifying times?”

  “I didn’t have one,” Coach says, turning to her. “I had every belief that they would all make it.”

  “But say one of them didn’t,” the woman on the end continues. “Would you have followed through in disqualifying him or her from the team?”

  It takes Coach a long second to answer, and I can tell she wants to turn and look at me, apologize with her eyes or something. But she keeps her eyes on the board.

  “No. It was never about beating their times.”

  There’s a shuffling of a few papers, and the attendees get a little restless. I turn to Mom, who offers up a hand to hold. I cling onto it, even though I’m a little embarrassed at how sweaty my palms are.

  “Will you tell the board your first impression of Ginger Silverman?” the woman in the middle asks, and butterflies parade in my throat at the mention on my name.

  “My first impression?” Coach asks, then takes a moment to think on it. “I could see her talent. Perhaps a little bit of ego. She seemed relaxed around her friends.”

  “And what of your impression over the course of the tryouts?”

  There’s a definite pause here, and Coach lets her gaze drift to me as she answers. “She seemed… afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?” the board woman asks.

  “To be herself.”

  I bite my trembling lip, terrified it’ll give away the wetness I feel creeping up into my eyes. Mom squeezes my hand, and I can hear her crying, which doesn’t help at all.

  “Did it worry you?” the woman asks.

  Coach turns back to the board members. “Yes. I worried about her.”

  They take a moment to sift through their papers and write things down, even though there’s someone typing the entire thing next to Principal Turphy.

  “Was there a deadline for the cross country members to make the team?” the woman in the middle asks.

  “Yes.”

  “And what was that deadline?”

  “They had a week.”

  The board woman lifts her eyes from her papers. “And it was on that last day that Ginger Silverman ran the time indicated here?
” She holds up the cross country qualifying list. Coach Fox nods.

  “Yes.”

  “Tell the board about that run.”

  Coach adjusts in her seat. “She was… phenomenal. I’d never seen a runner like that.”

  “And you were timing her from the track?”

  Coach’s shoulders fall. “No.”

  “Off-road?”

  “No.”

  “So someone else was timing her?”

  “No.”

  “Where were you located, then?”

  “I’d just finished training in the commentator’s box with Coach Ferguson.”

  The woman’s eyebrows lift. “Did Coach Ferguson witness this?”

  “No,” Coach says on a sigh. “I was alone.”

  “As was Ms. Silverman?”

  “From where I stood, yes.”

  There’s another pause while the board members write their little notes and the attendees whisper to each other. I watch Oliver’s hand squeeze his mom’s before he looks back to me with a small frown. Yeah… I don’t think this is going too well either.

  “Is a Mr. Varner here?” one of the men on the close side of the table asks the group. A man around Dad’s age raises his hand and stands from his seat.

  “Yep, that’s me.”

  “You had something to say, correct?”

  Mr. Varner nods, and I stiffen under Mom’s hand. Was I supposed to tell somebody I wanted to speak on Coach’s behalf?

  “I’d like to present a list of names, gathered by my daughter, that are against a Coach who doesn’t look like she knows what she's doing,” he says, and I drop my jaw in horror.

  He folds the paper up, and my face is steaming red, feeling so much embarrassment for Coach right now. Looks like they know what they’re doing. How is that even a contributing factor?

  The middle board member sticks her hand out and collects it. “Thank you, Mr. Varner,” she says, and he takes his seat. The guy next to him pats him on the shoulder. I want to go punch each of them in the face.