They'll Never Catch Us

by Jessica Goodman

  “What did you say?” I ask, turning around so I’m facing Julia.

  “Oh, you didn’t know?” Julia asks, feigning surprise. “Oops.” But she doesn’t look sorry. She smiles wide and swipes a coat of lip gloss across her mouth. “Tamara told me that Mila’s having lunch with the Georgetown recruiter today. Thought you knew, since you guys are, like, friends or whatever.” Julia starts walking toward the school entrance. “Guess not.”

  I shake my head. This doesn’t make sense. Mila knows what Georgetown means to me. I fight back the rage building inside me.

  “Are you okay?” Ellie whispers beside me. She reaches for my arm, but I pull it away.

  “Whatever,” I say. Like it doesn’t hurt. Like I’m fine. Like I’m made of stone and metal, not flesh and bone. “Go ahead without me.”

  Ellie nods and walks quickly toward the door, glancing over her shoulder at me before she disappears into the building. I bury my hands in my jacket pockets to stop them from shaking. Then I grab my phone and begin texting, the words flying from my fingertips, fury appearing on the screen. I don’t even think before I hit send.

  Georgetown? Are you serious, Mila?

  I can’t believe you would backstab me like this.

  I trusted you and you betrayed me.

  I thought you were different. But you’re just like the others.

  You’re going to wish you hadn’t done this.

  * * *

  —

  The bus ride to Longshot is fizzy with anticipation. Per tradition, which I do not subscribe to, the captains are supposed to procure the alcohol and rally the troops, but no one even asked me about it. I assume Tamara and Noah took care of everything, which is just fine.

  “Here we are,” Coach says as we pull up to the first hill of the course. He turns. “What are you waiting for? Go!” The rest of the team cheers and he opens the door so we can head over to the makeshift starting line between two oak stumps.

  I shield my eyes from the autumn sun and look out over the terrain. It’s as wild as it ever was, steep and browning, with twisted roots crisscrossing along the ground, up the incline. That first hill is the hardest, the tallest. It’s what keeps the sound of the parties at bay. Coach gives his usual marching orders and I try to ignore the younger girls, the ones who wear pink face paint that looks like gashes along their cheeks. Mila never responded to my texts about Georgetown but I can hear her laugh floating above the group.

  “Huddle up!” Tamara calls. Everyone moves into place and Coach blows his whistle. We’re off.

  The first mile is a mess, everyone exploding with cheers. The boys gallop ahead, discarding their usual focus for fun, and the girls follow, cheering as we climb the first hill.

  “Run your heart out!” Noah calls.

  “Run your heart out!” the team responds.

  “Fear no one!” he screams.

  “Fear no one!”

  “Crush everyone!” Noah throws his fist into the air and charges ahead like we’re at war.

  “Crush everyone!”

  I tune them out and keep my own pace off to the side. They’ll all disappear if I just try hard enough. When we reach the top of the first hill, everyone descends like cars on a roller coaster, momentum and adrenaline pushing us down, down, down into the valley. It’s a rush like no other, the wind shoving me forward, my feet flying beneath me. A smile spreads across my face. I remember why I love this, why I run, why it’s worth it. I feel the others stop behind me, as they start to open secret containers of liquor and press play on a speaker. But I don’t turn around. I keep going.

  Another mile later, I listen for the silence, for the absence of people, of footsteps, of sneakers hitting the tough earth not meant for runners. But that’s when I realize there’s still one set of feet slapping the ground a little ways behind me. I turn my head just a bit and see Mila, her dark hair piled high into a ponytail and her brow just starting to sweat, flecks of glitter stuck to her eyelids.

  I train my eyes back to the course ahead of me, but she stays by my side. We run like that for another mile, and I keep waiting for her to turn and head back to the group. I’m not interested in making amends or hearing her excuse. But she runs next to me, keeping my pace. I feel her there, her arms pumping, the air pushing and pulling through her body.

  I wait for the anger to build inside me, for something to snap so I can make her leave. But all I feel is the desire to go faster, to speed away, to challenge her to beat me one more time. I dare you. Just try it.

  When we reach the top of the second hill, she slows just a bit and stops. She interlaces her hands behind her head, catching her breath. “Hang on a sec,” she says.

  I don’t want to pause. I want us to keep pushing each other, to race until we’re faster than anyone else has ever been. But if I keep going, there will be no one left to beat. So I stop.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Uh, don’t you want to talk about those texts you sent me? About Georgetown?”

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” I say. “You’re just as fake as everyone else. Pretending to be my friend and then going after my dream. I never should have trusted you.”

  “This isn’t about you, Stella,” she says. “I have to get out of here too, you know. I don’t even want to go there. But I had to meet with them.”

  I shake my head, my braid flapping between my shoulder blades. “That was supposed to be my spot, my future.”

  “You’re being selfish,” she says, shaking her head.

  “Fine. I’m selfish. That’s who I am. So why are you even here, then? Why don’t you accept it and go chug a beer like everyone else?”

  Mila pauses and looks straight at me, like the answer’s obvious.

  “Because you’re the only person in this town who’s not full of shit.”

  Something bubbles inside my chest and I wonder what it might be like if we weren’t fighting for the same thing. If we could just be friends instead of competitors.

  But none of that matters because we are fighting for the same thing. Only one of us can come in first, and if she’s able to crack me right open, I’m afraid of what might leak out and who I might become. A loser.

  “This is all a game to you, isn’t it?” I say.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I see what you’re doing. You’re trying to get in my head. See how far you can bend Stella Steckler before she breaks. Is that right?”

  Mila laughs. “That’s ridiculous.” She crosses her arms. “Look, I’m just doing what I have to do to survive here. Just like you are. But I don’t hold grudges. I forgive you for those texts, okay? Come on, let’s just head back and join everyone else.”

  I turn away from her and look up into the trees.

  “Aren’t you sick of being alone all the time?” Mila says.

  I wish it were so easy to say yes, to shrug it all off and let her in. But . . . it’s not.

  “Being alone is better than wondering if you’re being used.”

  The words slice through the air and Mila takes a step back like I’ve just tried to hit her.

  Her eyes grow glossy and for a split second I think she actually might be for real. But before I can find out, she backs up even farther, turns around, and starts down the hill, toward the rest of the team, to the party she abandoned. I watch her disappear under a brush with crisp orange leaves, see her sidestep gnarled roots, and hop over logs. Instead of going after her, I spin around and run the other way.

  14

  STELLA

  When I wake up on Monday, I feel guilty as hell about Mila. Coach told me not to make any waves this year. To play nice. But I did the opposite. I roll over in bed and replay that final stretch of Longshot, how she did actually make me go faster. It was just like what happened at Foxfire Point. She runs like I do. Like she’s on fi
re. Maybe we could work together. Maybe today’s the day I learn to apologize.

  I’ve never really played the groveling bit with anyone except Ellie when I stepped on her phone by accident, smashing the screen into a million pieces, or when I told her Bethany was more interested in finding the right padded bra than being a good friend to her in the eighth grade. I never worried about Ellie not forgiving me. She had to. Blood is just like that.

  But when I slide into AP Calc just as the bell rings, Mila’s seat is empty. I look out the window, toward the parking lot, to search for stragglers. All I see are thick sheets of rain pummeling the asphalt.

  Mrs. Crayton shuts the door closed. “Shall we begin?” she says, a smile spreading across her wrinkled face.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket and check for any messages. Nothing.

  “She’s probably sick,” someone whispers behind me. I swivel in my seat and see Raven leaning forward in the desk behind me. Her strawberry-colored hair is tied sloppily in a topknot.

  “Who?” I say, letting the nonchalance drip from my voice. No need to give Vanilla Tannenbaum any reason to go running to Tamara and Julia, telling them I was being weird.

  “Mila,” she says. Raven turns her head back down to her spiral notebook. “My mom said mono’s going around. She got like three doctors’ notes today.”

  I turn back around and try my best to ignore Mila’s empty seat for the remainder of class—and the sinking feeling in my stomach. The rain is loud against the window and I can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t quite right.

  At practice, Coach scans the lineup in the weight room. “Where’s Keene?” he barks.

  “She didn’t call in sick?” Tamara asks, concerned.

  “Nope,” Coach grumbles and looks to the window. Big drops of rain continue to fall, plunking down on the earth. “Eight-hundreds,” he yells. “All of you. Now.”

  Everyone groans but follows orders, heading outside. We’re all drenched within a minute and mud splatters everywhere as we pound the wet earth. Pretty soon I’m breathing heavy and my muscles are working like they should. But I keep turning toward the parking lot, expecting to see Mila appear with an explanation for her absence. She must have one. But Coach seemed just as surprised as I was that she didn’t show up.

  What if . . .

  I don’t let myself finish the thought. No one’s been missing in Edgewater for years. No one’s been found dead. Monty Fitzwater was responsible for the cold cases. Everyone knows that. And he’s dead. Monty is dead. His brother Kendall, though . . . He’s alive.

  But no. It’s just not possible. Edgewater will never become Deadwater again. We all know that. People get sick and forget to call the school all the time.

  After practice, I check my phone for the millionth time, but the screen is blank. I type out a text as I walk to the car, shielding the screen under my windbreaker.

  I know things are kind of weird right now, but are you okay? Can we talk?

  I hit send and wait for the message to be delivered, for my text bubble to turn blue. It doesn’t, though. It stays green, indicating Mila’s phone is turned off. Weird. Probably nothing. But . . . weird.

  When I get home, I head straight for my room, but Mom catches me by the door.

  “Salmon, broccoli, and brown rice?” she asks. “That’s what you want for dinner, right? Training food?”

  “Yep,” I say.

  “Nothing extra? No pizza just for fun?

  “Nope,” I say, trying to shut down the conversation.

  “Sometimes I think I’ll never understand you, Stell,” Mom says, pulling a bag of orange fish filets out of the freezer. “But I will always love you.”

  In another world, I’d be able to talk to her about everything, how I was a total asshole to Mila when she didn’t deserve it and how shame is buried in my chest for how I acted. I’d be able to tell her that I’m worried about where Mila is now.

  But in this world, we’re not like that. She doesn’t understand me and I don’t want her to. How could I ever explain that my desire to win, to be the best, comes from her? All she wants is for Steckler Homes to be synonymous with “Yuppies, come buy your second house and raise all of our taxes with your expensive renovations!” That’s winning in its own way, too.

  She and Dad were both so fragile for a while after the Dark Years, like any mistake or misstep might push her back to the bottle. And then when Mom relapsed, I spent weeks wondering if it was because of something I did. If only I had won the Spring Invitational that year. If only I made life easier for them. If only I didn’t tell them about the little moments of middle school drama, like how I pushed Bader into the stone wall behind the playground for calling me a dumb bitch, or how everyone on the middle school track team rolled their eyes at me when I tried to lead stretches. But they always worried when I told them these things. And worrying made her drink. At least that’s what I thought since Mom went to the wedding only a few days after I made the mistake of telling her about the Bader thing. Since then, I found it best to just detach, disassociate, fend for myself.

  “Any word from the guidance counselor? The scouts?” Mom asks, her voice steady.

  I shake my head. “Not yet. It’s only mid-October.”

  “I know, I just thought maybe they’d wanna lock you in, you know?”

  No one wants me, I want to yell. There’s no way the Georgetown scout will pay attention to me. Not when he’s obsessed with Mila. There’s only one alternative. Break my PR by a full minute. Then he’ll have to. That’s what Coach said. And I only have ten more seconds to shave off. I just have to do it at regionals, which is only a few weeks away.

  “Why don’t you go wash up?” Mom says when I don’t respond. “I’ll call you girls when it’s ready.”

  When I get to my room, I close the door behind me and flop down on the faded yellow gingham duvet, even though I usually have a strict no-outdoor-clothes-on-the-bed rule. I kick my sneakers off and grab my phone, tapping over to Instagram. I pull up Mila’s feed. She hasn’t posted a Story in the past twenty-four hours, nothing about being sick and marathoning The Great British Baking Show, or a post about visiting her dad in Connecticut. The nothingness is somewhat jarring. The lack of Mila. It’s everywhere, and for some reason I feel like it will only keep expanding.

  The last photo she posted on her feed was from the meet where she won. Where she beat me. I bring the screen closer to my face and zoom in on Mila’s smile. In the picture, her wavy hair is sweaty, slicked back over her skull, and her eyes are bright and wide. The first-place medal hangs around her neck from a bright blue ribbon, and she’s holding the gold circle in her right hand, up close by her face.

  First meet down. A million go to. #EdgewaterXC #newteamsameme, she wrote.

  I scroll down and tap to expand the comments. Ellie’s is first. Hate that you beat me but ILU! I roll my eyes. As if Ellie had stood a chance at that meet. For reasons she still won’t get into, she practically ended up in last place.

  Tamara had pasted a string of runner-girl emojis, and Julia had written a hashtag: #fastbitch. Even Raven had posted too: Queen!!

  The rest of the comments come from names I don’t recognize, with no connection to Edgewater. Then I see one that sounds familiar. @NaomiRuns, just like Mila’s best friend she mentioned in the car after the cross country formal. That’s my girl! Naomi had written.

  I tap over to her feed, more out of curiosity than anything. I click on the first photo, which was posted last week, to find an Asian girl with a short angled bob and deep brown eyes rimmed with bright blue eyeliner. She’s standing with three guys around our age in front of a stark-white brick wall, and wearing a chic pink boilersuit and gold platform sandals. Gold hoops dangle from her ears and she’s caught mid-laugh, like whoever was behind the camera just made a joke. She looks happy and calm, like a hug from her could wash awa
y just about anything. Nothing like a visit from your cousins to make your month, she wrote.

  I keep scrolling, half looking for hints of Mila, half looking for more glimpses into what Naomi’s really like. There’s a smattering of race pics, a throwback photo to a Lunar New Year celebration where she’s a kid wearing a yellow-and-white hanbok, and a post at the Stamford Pride Parade, where Naomi poses in rainbow-colored overalls and sticks her tongue out at the camera. Further down, there are group team shots and purple-and-white spandex uniforms. Hadbury colors, Mila’s old team.

  I stop when I get to a photo of Mila and Naomi sitting on the bleachers, leaning toward each other in matching uniforms. Their foreheads touch and their legs are crossed toward each other. But they’re not looking at the camera. They’re smiling, stifling laughs, like no one else would ever get their jokes. I check the date, and it was only posted a few months ago, in May. Right at the end of the school year.

  Gonna miss this girl more than words, the caption reads. I sit up, hinging at my waist.

  Don’t go, Mila! someone had written below the post.

  BFF goals.

  This suuuccckksss.

  I scroll further down to the last comment. It’s only a few hours old, according to the time stamp, and it’s from a user with garbled mush for a username. Just a string of random letters and numbers. Come home, Mila. Come home to me.

  My heart beats fast as I tap that handle. There’s something so strange about the comment. Something off. But the profile is bare, with zero posts and zero follows; no tagged photos either. There’s not even a name attached. I pull down to refresh, but nothing’s there, so I tap back to Naomi’s profile.

  It has to be from her dad. Mila did say he was intense, that he had tried to come visit her. I refresh again to see if anyone else has replied.

  But when the photo loads again, the comment is gone, a bare slice of screen in its place.

  * * *

  —