PANDORA

by Rebecca Hamilton

  “Bummer,” he replies.

  I look at the back of Miranda’s blonde head and swallow. She’s in a deep discussion with Coach Ted, moving her hands in the animated way she does whenever she’s excited about something. I wonder what they’re talking about. I don’t know Miranda anymore, it seems. A few weeks ago I would have known exactly what she was talking about with the coach because I would still be part of her life, her thoughts, her worries. But now she seems almost like a stranger. It’s hard to believe that life can change so quickly, without warning. I wish I’d never told Miranda about my power.

  “Are you ready for the meet?” Jason asks.

  His eyes are something else. They’re dark and soft with just a hint of mischief in them, a sexy twinkle that could make a girl lose her mind. It’s not fair his eyelashes are longer than mine. But thank God for contact lenses, the universe’s gift to the world in the form of Jason Brackmeyer’s eyes. Now those perfect eyes are no longer hidden behind two inches of scratched glass and lopsided Aviator frames (before the fad became a fad again).

  Uh, where were we? Oh yeah, the meet.

  “I guess I’m ready. I’m running the 100 meter dash. How about you?” I ask in a nonchalant manner, pretending I don’t want to bury my nose in his neck and cover him with kisses. I would give anything to feel his strong arms around me. My body is practically crackling with electricity at his nearness.

  “I’m doing the 200 meter and the 400 relay,” he says. “I’m looking forward to it. I won some races at my old school. It’s a cool feeling.”

  “Where was your other school?” I ask.

  “San Diego. My parents moved there because of my dad’s job change, but then they split up and I moved back.”

  “Sorry,” I reply.

  He shrugs and looks away. “No biggie. It was a long time coming.”

  We sit in silence as the bus bounces along. There is a buzz of excitement as people around us chat and laugh. Anticipation crackles in the air as everyone readies themselves for the meet. For me, the meet is a distant thought. All I can think about is Jason Brackmeyer’s leg touching mine.

  “I’m glad I moved back, though,” Jason says. He’s fiddling with his phone, turning it over and over in his hands. I see a flash of the former awkward Stumblemeyer in his movements and, for a moment, I almost expect him to drop the phone. As if sensing my thoughts, Jason suddenly shoves the phone in his pocket.

  “Why are you glad to be back?” I ask. “It doesn’t seem like a particularly special school.”

  “It’s not necessarily the school that I was glad to see again but some of the people in it.” He looks at me pointedly, and my face gets hot.

  “I . . . um . . . but didn’t you hate some of the people too?” I stammer stupidly. “You know, because of the Stumblemeyer thing.”

  Jason’s jaw clenches briefly and he glances away. “Yeah, that sucked. People were really immature. But you were always one of the nice ones.”

  “I was? But I said no to the dance,” I blurt. Crap. Why did I say that?

  He meets my eyes. A tingle—no, a lightning bolt really—zaps my heart.

  “I expected it, actually. But a guy can hope, you know? I always had a crush on you.”

  My hands are clammy, my mouth dry. Those familiar butterflies do loop-di-loops in my stomach. “You did?” I ask, instantly mortified at the shrill hopeful tone in my voice.

  Jason gazes at me, that adorable half-smile on his face. His dimple slays me. “But you’re hard to get,” he says.

  “I don’t know what you mean by that.” Our eyes lock. I am lost in the brownness of his eyes, unable to speak another word. Just like in the damn movies, everything else fades away. I want to kiss him more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life, including getting back my friendship with Miranda or my boobs growing another cup size. But at the same time, I’m afraid. Terrified, in fact.

  I can’t kiss Jason. Not like this, not with this power.

  I sit frozen, unable to move. The air hangs thick between us.

  The moment passes and Jason looks away, breaking the spell. He pulls his phone out again.

  “I’m not hard to get,” I say quietly. I don’t know if Jason hears me or not. The bus has gotten noisier as we approach our destination, the chattering elevated to a mid-level roar. People are practically shouting to each other as they discuss the latest pop culture news and what events they’ll be competing in, in that order. I hear Billy call out to someone, “Dude, if we win, bong hits are on me! I’ve got Chronic, too—none of that crappy shit.”

  Jason is busy checking emails. I’m stung, wondering what’s up. Then he glances at me for a brief instant, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth and an expression that says he heard.

  For a moment, I’m overcome with joy. Little bubbles float from my brain down to my chest. Then my heart sinks like a stone.

  I can’t kiss Jason.

  Not now. Not ever.

  It would ruin everything.

  ***

  The runners line up for the men’s 200 meter race, our team in maroon, the other wearing Westchester orange. They are like a group of poised, taut cheetahs, ready to pounce. The gun goes off, and Jason sprints down the track, his long tanned legs a blur of masculine energy. I cheer on the sidelines with the rest of the team. Kirby is right on Jason’s tail, a look of angry determination darkening his features. He’s not used to having anyone beat him, and his expression says that he sure isn’t going to let effing clumsy Stumblemeyer win the race, even if they are on the same team. Billy trails the pack, his face twisted in a grimace as he desperately tries to keep up.

  The guys, six of them in total, are a blur as they race around the half track toward the finish line. Jason’s arms are pumping like Ls next to his lean body, biceps flexed.

  He pulls out ahead. He is the picture of sheer gorgeousness. The girls on our team cheer shrilly like a bunch of groupies. There’s no way they’re cheering for anyone else but Jason with his Abercrombie good looks. He’s two heads taller than most of the other guys he’s running with and is out in front of the pack by several feet, his stride determined and confident.

  He’s clearly a natural athlete, graceful and strong at the same time. He has to win the race. It just wouldn’t seem right otherwise. Part of me prays the old Stumblemeyer won’t suddenly lose his footing over the finish line, but I shrug the thought away. Jason looks pretty damn sure-footed right now as he races toward the finish line. He’s going to get first place, and make it look easy.

  He does, by a huge margin. It’s almost as if there were two races: his, and everyone else’s. Our team rushes over to Jason, congratulating him with pats on the back, whoops and cheers. His head peeks over the crowd of people surrounding him. I want to push my way through the throng so I can be with him, looking up into his triumphant, proud face. Instead I hold back, not wanting to be seen as one of the groupie girls who are now clustered around him, giggling like a bunch of cheerfully-masked, blood-thirsty hyenas.

  Annika comes to stand next to me. “That was a great race.”

  Jason catches my eye amid the chaos and throws his hands up with a look that says, “Help!”

  I burst out laughing, just as Billy Timmons walks by muttering to himself.

  He glares at me. “Fuck off, Winter. You didn’t win your race, either.”

  I start to protest my innocence, but he hocks a loogie at my feet. I jump back but the slimy mucus wad hits my shoe with a nasty splat. Annika gasps.

  Billy glares from me to Annika. “Bitches.”

  “We weren’t laughing at you, Billy.” I wipe the spittle off my track shoe onto the grass. “You’re such a dick.”

  He storms off.

  “Wow,” says Annika. “He’s so angry. What is wrong with him?”

  “Some guys just hate losing, I guess. Especially losers.” I snort.

  Billy’s right, I didn’t win my own race, but it’s no big deal. I came in third. Annika came in first
, and Miranda second. I’d congratulated Annika, who was beaming with a luminous joy, by giving her a warm hug right after the race. When I’d gone to hug Miranda, she’d turned abruptly and stalked off.

  Now Miranda stands by the edge of the field drinking from her water bottle with an aloof air. I wonder what she’s thinking behind those dark shades. Does she miss our friendship at all? It doesn’t seem like it by the stiffness of her shoulders, the firm set of her jaw and the way her rosebud mouth turns down.

  She looks a touch plumper, like she’s eaten too many Krispy Kremes, and it hits me again that she’s pregnant. Growing a baby inside her. It’s too unsettling for words. I want to go talk to her, to warn her about sprinting while pregnant. I think twice when she catches me looking at her and shoots me another dagger-glare. She stalks off, to where I don’t know, but apparently as far away from me as she can. Billy intercepts her and gives her a high five and a hug, apparently to congratulate her on the race. I cringe as I watch Miranda hug him back. His face, with that grinning maw of his, gives me the heebies. I want to shout, “Run! But not in the races. Use those fast track shoes to run from Billy. Run for your life!”

  But I don’t. Instead, I can only watch helplessly as Billy pretends in his fake-chivalrous way to care about Miranda. He strokes her hair while gazing at her with a faux-tenderness in his red-rimmed smoker’s eyes. She’s eating it up like she always does. I desperately hope she won’t start blowing Victor off again for this jerk-wad.

  “What does she see in that guy?” Annika asks. I shake my head in frustration, about to give her an earful, but Kirby Cahill walks up. He wraps his stocky arms around Annika from behind.

  “Awesome job,” he says. “Can I get a congratulations hug? Maybe a kiss?” His hands linger a little too close to her breasts as he hugs her.

  Annika yanks away. “No thanks,” she snaps. “You are not my type.”

  Kirby gives a harsh laugh. “I’m everyone’s type. Unless you’re a lesbian prude.”

  “Come on, Annika,” I say, pulling her toward the hydration booth. I hand her a Gatorade, and she takes it with her thin, pale hands. I notice they’re shaking.

  Coach Ted stands nearby embroiled in a heated conversation with a large, unattractive woman with a hairy face and a scowl.

  “Don’t deny it,” the woman is saying, pointing a finger close to his face. She stops when she sees us.

  Coach Ted plasters on a grin and holds up a plastic bottle of green-yellow liquid, toasting us. “Nice job on the race, ladies.”

  “Thanks,” I say. Annika manages a smile, and Ted nods approvingly at her.

  “First place, Miss Annika. Well done.”

  The hairy lady—parent or administrator?—huffs loudly, presumably in annoyance at having her conversation interrupted. She turns on her heel and waddles away.

  Kirby strolls up and approaches Coach Ted, asking something about the next race. Ted looks at the clipboard in his hand. They walk off together. Kirby winks over his shoulder, tauntingly, at Annika.

  Prick.

  Annika holds her water between clenched hands. She seems small and hunched. Familiar protectiveness surges through me.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “I don’t know why guys like Kirby always seek me out,” she says in a trembling voice. “Do I have the word ‘target’ stamped on my head? I just don’t understand it.” Tears fill her eyes.

  I don’t know what to say. I pat her awkwardly on the shoulder, not knowing whether I should hug her or not. She twists at the plastic bottle cap.

  “Here, let me open that for you,” I say, taking it from her and unscrewing the lid.

  She smiles wanly. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t worry about Kirby,” I say. “He’s just a jerk. It’s not you. He does that kind of stuff to everyone.”

  “But he keeps pestering me,” she says. “He won’t leave me alone.”

  “Maybe you should tell Coach Ted.”

  She shakes her head. “No, he and Kirby are buddies, you know? And do you see how Coach Ted leers at the girls? He is a coach. He shouldn’t be doing that. It is gross and creepy.”

  I haven’t noticed Coach Ted leering, but then, I’ve been too involved with my own concerns to pay much attention to the rest of the team.

  “I’m going to the bathroom to clean up and get myself together,” Annika says. “When is the next race?”

  “Any minute. It’s the men’s relay. Jason’s running in it.”

  Annika’s face lights up. “Oh good, I want to see him run again.”

  As I watch her rush off toward the locker room, she strikes me as skinny and rabbit-like. Maybe that’s why she appears easy to victimize. She seems so vulnerable.

  The race is announced over the loud speaker, and I push my way through the masses of people crowding the field. Crowds of athletes, parents, administrators, and bystanders all mill around, making it hard to get across the grass. I weave around people, pushing toward the starting block area, but it’s too late. The gun goes off and the crowd begins cheering. I crane my neck past the bodies but can’t get a good view of the track.

  I figure if I can’t see the start of the race, then maybe I can see the finish. I make my way to the other side of the track, but again, the crowds make it difficult. I push and jostle my way through the people until I’m at the finish line. Luckily, it’s the best view of the track.

  Jason is racing home with the baton in his fist. As he comes barreling down the track, dust kicking up behind him and the crowd going wild, time slows for me like some dang romantic movie. All I see is his body glistening in the sun, his gorgeous face set in fierce determination, and his strong legs. Oh, those legs. They’re carrying the most amazing guy I’ve ever seen closer to me, and my blood surges so hot in my veins that I become dizzy. I could seriously pass out right here on the field.

  He crosses the finish line and the noise is wild around me. Someone shouts that he’s broken the record. I’m jostled closer to him as he crouches, bent over and winded, trying to catch his breath. Teammates slap him on the back, chanting his name above the fray.

  He looks up, grinning and triumphant. His eyes are dancing with excitement and victory as people shout above each other to catch his attention. He looks straight at me, into my very soul. I smile, overcome with shyness, and look away. When I look back, he’s staring at me in a way that stops my breath. He did it for me, I realize. He won that race for me. I don’t know how I know this, but I do.

  As I wait for the hoopla surrounding Jason to die down, I look around for Annika. I want to share in the excitement with her. She is nowhere to be seen, though, probably lost in the crowd somewhere. After a few minutes, the “fan club” around Jason starts to disperse, and I make my way over to him.

  He’s busy wiping his face off with a towel. His shoulders glisten with sweat as he towels off his damp hair. I touch his arm. Again, there’s that electric crackle between us.

  “Hey,” he says. We look at each other for a long minute, smiling.

  “You did great,” I say.

  “Come on, let’s go somewhere less hectic.” He grabs my hand and leads me off the track. People clap him on the back, congratulating him as we go. We find a quiet place at the far end of the field, next to a chain link fence and some flowering bushes.

  “It’s quieter here,” he says, leaning against the fence and pushing his damp hair back from his face. That gesture always slays me.

  His eyes meet mine, and I’m tongue-tied, the butterflies flipping all the way up into my throat. He reaches down and picks a sunshine-colored daisy from a nearby bush. He hands it to me with a shy look that makes my insides melt. I take the flower, and my heart clenches in nervous excitement. The first flower a guy has ever given me! A simple, perfect daisy. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.

  “How about a congratulatory hug?” he asks, and before I know it, his strong arms encircle me, pulling me close. The world drops away as it always does when I’m with h
im. I lean into him, his body pressing close to mine, and I breathe in his scent. I’m about to let myself become completely enveloped in him, but something stops me. Reluctantly, I pull away. The moment somehow doesn’t feel right, and it’s not because I can’t let him kiss me.

  An uneasiness has been creeping into my heart, and I can’t shake it.

  Annika.

  I haven’t seen her since she went to the bathroom before the race. She wasn’t cheering for Jason with the rest of the team, which is strange because I know how much she’d wanted to see him run. Maybe she’s still in the bathroom, upset?

  “I’m worried about Annika,” I blurt out. “Have you seen her?” I know I’m killing the moment, but I’m unable to stop myself.

  A flash of disappointment crosses Jason’s face. He shakes his head. “I haven’t seen her since her race. I’ve wanted to congratulate her on her win.”

  “She went to the bathroom a while ago.” Has she been in there all this time? Maybe she’s hanging out there, sitting on the benches nearby? I squint toward the large, gray locker room, hoping to catch sight of her. I don’t see her. I stand on my tiptoes and shade my eyes against the sun, trying to catch glimpse of her on the crowded field. She’s usually not hard to miss with her white-blonde hair and cute gait.

  “I hope she’s okay,” I murmur.

  “Why wouldn’t she be?”

  “She was upset about something Kirby Cahill did.”

  Jason’s jaw clenches. He, like me, clearly feels protective of Annika.

  A niggling worry is building in my chest. “I think I should go check on her,” I say.

  “I’ll go with you.”

  We stride toward the locker rooms at the opposite end of campus. I have visions of Annika alone and crying herself sick on the toilet, or worse. I worry that after the way Kirby roughly touched her, all of her demons might surface. Maybe he triggered something and she’s in a terrible emotional state right now, unable to leave the bathroom. I vow to help her, to be a good friend, even if it means letting her unburden herself about her past. I decide then and there to help her with her troubles, even though it scares me and feels overwhelming. I need to be there for her no matter what: a shoulder to cry on, an understanding ear, whatever she needs.