You Can't Catch Me (8 page)

In my freshman year, I remember jogging up to Coach Juniper and telling her that I was a born runner, and if I didn’t make the team, she’d regret it. She then made me run until I puked. And then she made me run more after that. I ran for so long I didn’t notice the sun going down, the lights turning up on the track, or the crowd that had gathered. I felt like Forrest Gump—just felt like running.

She stopped me when the time crept past curfew. I puked again, and Tiff rushed to get me water. Half the school was watching me; all of them cheered when I was done. Coach signed me up on the team right then, said that she expected dedication, but I’d already proven that to her. So I had to prove something else. I had to prove that I was in this for the long haul. That I wanted the gold, nothing less. That I wanted scholarships, collegiate status, that I wanted the Olympics. This wasn’t something I’d give up on, no matter how difficult or whatever obstacles got in my way.

I told her I wanted all of that. I told her I wouldn’t give up, that absolutely nothing would stop me.

She believed me.
I
believed me.

But my body… my body is stopping me.

“Push! Ginger, push!”

My legs pump with all they have left in them, my voice comes out in a growl, trying to urge me forward faster, more, just give me more speed.

I cross the finish line, taking another twenty yards to slow my pace. Everyone on the team is holding their breath. I’m the last one. The
only
one who hasn’t beaten their previous time. Coach Fox looks at her stopwatch and back at her clipboard. Back and forth between the two while I join the ranks, Drake slapping me on my very sweaty back then running his hand over to my shoulder and squeezing it.

“Coach?” I ask when I’ve caught my breath.

“Half a second,” she whispers. “Half a second behind.”

My hearing fuzzes as everyone’s disappointment bellows out from their held breaths. My eyes slam shut, forcing back tears and frustration and failure.

“Okay,” I say, pushing the word out through my heavy breathing. My teammates, the ones who just on Monday were all competing to be the best and would’ve gladly seen me go if they were the ones who sent me off, huddle around me and put their hands on my shoulders.

“You got this,” Hadley says. “Tomorrow, you’re going to beat it.”

“We’ll make sure you’re on the team.” Jamal squeezes my shoulder. Drake is on my other side, and I think I feel him nudge Jamal’s hand away.

“We got your back, Ginger.”

He doesn’t call me tortoise. I didn’t realize till just now how that nickname wasn’t doing me any favors.

I nod at my teammates, still calming my breathing and holding back every weakness I don’t want them to see. When they disperse, I glance up to Coach, that smile, and I’ve never seen it so bright. My brow furrows, sweat rolling down my nose. Does she want me to fail?

No… that’s not it. Her smile isn’t something villainous. It’s pride. But about what, I have no clue. My head is too fuzzy to concentrate.

She settles the whistle to her lips. “Time for a team run.” She blows the whistle and slowly, we all start to jog across the football field. Rodney nods to me as I pass him, his expression encouraging, and then the team heads off campus and out onto the street. I’m wiped, my body is rubbery and sweaty, and my chest and back hurt so much that I start falling behind. My stride can’t keep up with everyone else’s, and pretty soon I’m at the back of the bunch.

Annie, our normal caboose, glances over her shoulder, a sympathetic frown on her lips. There’s something eating at my heart, making it hard to keep myself together as she slows her pace to stay in line with me.

Annie and I don’t know each other really. Last year I was up front, leaving the pack in my smoke. Whenever I’d come in “not first,” I secretly always thought that at least I’m not last like that Annie girl. As my eyes meet hers and she smiles reassuringly at me, I not only hate who I am now, but I hate the person I used to be, too.

When we get back to the school, Coach Fox is there waiting for us, standing in her long, pink dress.

“This was a fantastic practice today,” she tells us. Everyone is out of breath, hunched over,
together
. In fact, Jamal’s arm is over Ronnie’s shoulder as he tries to catch his breathing. It feels like an anomaly—we’ve
never
been like this after a run. It’s always poking fun at those who come in behind, challenging those who came in first. Even though I’ve lost my speed, I feel collectively stronger as a team. For the first time this week, I feel a surge of excitement, which is quickly snuffed out. I’ve yet to be invited back onto the team.

I can feel my failure rise up in my stomach again. I can’t wait for Coach to dismiss us. My body feels trapped in this cage, and my breathing won’t even out. I can’t help but look at everyone else in their perfect runner bodies and feel so out of place, like I don’t belong here anymore. I’m barely noticing Coach talking to Ronnie, leaning down and saying something. Hadley tilts her head in my direction, her eyes wide, and mouths, “You okay?”

No. No, no, no, I’m not okay. I push my way through the team, ignoring the surprised look on Coach’s face as I take off before her dismissal. Even though I’m spent, I sprint back into the school, straight to the locker room. I fumble to get my combo lock open and swing the door till it
clangs
against the locker next to it. Sweeping my clothes into my arms, I force my tears back as much as I can until I can get to the bathroom. I can’t change in here. I can’t stay in here. They’ll come find me, try to talk me into feeling better; some will give me suggestions or strategy techniques, and I can’t hear any of that right now because none of them know.

They don’t know what this feels like.

I don’t bother closing my locker in my haste to get somewhere private. I find the farthest bathroom from the track field and whistle into the boy’s room before going in. They won’t look in there for me.

I toss my clothes down in one of the sinks, grasping onto the edge of it for balance. Breathe, breathe, breathe… but I look up, and as I’m breathing, I can see…
them
, pushing against my sweaty shirt.

“Go away,” I growl at the mirror. “Just go away.”

My hands tumble over my clothing, searching for my bag, knowing that I have a bright yellow duct tape roll I used to make book covers for my textbooks. I toss things to the floor, digging and digging like I’m uncovering a never-before-seen fossil. A humorless laugh drops from my lips when the yellow peeks through everything else. I pull the tape out and hold it in my mouth as I rip my shirt off.

“Go away,” I say again, stretching out a long piece, the rumbling noise of duct tape echoing around the bathroom. I slap an end on my bra under my armpit and pull the tape so tight that my nipples feel like they might invert. I swivel it around and around and around the Sharpies until I’m out of tape, until I’m out of breath. My eyes meet my reflection, sweat and frustration mixing on my cheeks, chest so much flatter, but painful. The skin around the tape bulges out and reddens, and I can’t even bend over to use the sink for support anymore. So I stand up tall, wipe under my eyes, and nod once in the mirror.

“There,” I say to Reflection Ginger, “that’s better.”

Then I slump to the disgusting bathroom floor.

I won’t cry over this.

I won’t.

I grit my teeth. “I hate you,” I say to my failure of a body, then bury my face in my knees.

Every girl has a breakdown at least once in high school. Life’s been pretty awesome up until this point, so I’m telling myself that hey, it was bound to happen.

I didn’t cry (much), so that’s a plus. But I can’t really walk straight, and my ribs are killing me where the duct tape is strapped so tight that I’m bulging. I’ll get used to it.

It’s so bright outside that I have to put my hand on my forehead to block out the sun while my eyes adjust. Since I left practice early, there are still a few stragglers in the parking lot, chatting and lazing around before heading home. I round the corner, searching for Tiff, who usually waits for me, but when I find her, she’s glued to Fartbucket via lips. A little vomit ends up in my mouth.

“Bleck,” I say to myself. At least they aren’t on my sheets this time. I turn on my heel to go back the way I came, only I run straight into a smiling Coach Fox with a clipboard, stopwatch, and a bag of gym t-shirts.

“Silverman,” she says like she didn’t just see me run from the track field twenty minutes ago. “Help me to my car?”

Instead of handing me the big bag of shirts, she settles the stopwatch in my hand.

“Uh… Coach? Sorry about—”

“Do you know of a good bagel place around here?” she asks, swinging the bag over her shoulder and walking toward the faculty parking lot.

“Bagels?”

She nods. “I’m a bagel fan.
Need
my morning bagel.”

My eyes drift over her body, and my brain wishes I was that comfortable in mine—that I could eat carbs without worrying if they’ll balloon yet another body part. Coach seems to be unwaveringly cheery, despite the fact that she carries so much weight.

“I haven’t found a place I like yet,” she goes on when I don’t say anything. “New to the area and all.”

“The Rolling Scones is the best,” I tell her. “I mean, I only eat the gluten-free stuff, but if they can make a gluten-free bagel taste like heaven, I can’t even imagine what the gluten-filled ones would taste like. Probably heaven on crack.”

“Oh, that place on Seventh and Main? My son told me to try them out, but I was reluctant because he hasn’t actually had any of their food. It’s supposedly this girl he’s met that I’ve never seen.” She gives me a look like maybe her son has developed an imaginary girlfriend, and she’s a little concerned and amused by it. “Maybe I should’ve listened to him.”

“But then we wouldn’t have had this obvious subtext-filled conversation.”

She stops mid-parking lot, an entertained glint in her eyes as she drops the bag from her shoulder. I cross my arms—or try to, but can’t do it with finesse because of all that duct tape—so instead I play with the string on the stopwatch.

“I’m really not up for a pep talk, Coach. Even if you’re somehow going to compare running to delicious bagels.”

She laughs. “I could try. For instance there was this bagel place back home that was
amazing
. I once ordered an asiago cheese, and it was the best bagel I’ve ever had. And then we moved, and I’ve been trying to find a bagel as good as that one.”

“Let me guess… even though you haven’t found one, you’re not going to give up. Or it’s all in your head. Or you remember it being better than it probably was.”

“Oh no,” she says, sighing with a sad nostalgia. “Nothing will beat that bagel.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you kind of stink with the pep talks?”

“You said you didn’t want a pep talk.” She smiles, and I sigh because she’s always smiling, and it’s becoming exhausting. Coach Juniper hardly ever smiled. I wonder if Principal Turphy is trying to compensate for it now with Coach Fox.

She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Your time from last year, Silverman? It was unbeatable.”

“Is that supposed to… cheer me up?”

“If this wasn’t hard for you, I’d think you were a superhero of sorts.” She drops her hand from my shoulder. “I know you think you’re not, but you’re still outrunning more than half of the team.”

“Wait… does this mean that even if I don’t beat it tomorrow, I can still be on the team?”

Her smile falters for the first time during our conversation. “Can you do something for me?”

“Depends.”

“Tomorrow I want you to go to the track by yourself. No one will be here.”

“Okay… and do what?”

“Run. Run as fast as you can. No timer. And when you’re finished, know that you beat your original tryout time.”

“What if I don't?”

“You will.”

“But how will I
know
?”

“Ginger…”

I let out an exasperated sigh. “Okay, Coach.”

She puts back on that annoyingly un-annoying smile and hoists the bag up on her shoulder. “Thank you.” She sticks her hand out for the stopwatch. “I think I can make it from here. My son’s waiting for me by the car anyway.”

I slap the timer in her hand—gladly; I can’t wait to get away from this conversation—and turn my gaze in the direction she’s waving at. If this was a cartoon, my jaw would have hit the asphalt, and my tongue would have rolled and rolled until it hit her son’s foot.

Or as I know him, Oliver the Cemetery Dude.

Our eyes connect, and his lips slightly part as well, probably doing the real-life version of the cartoon jaw drop, too. After a couple of beats, he shakes it off and gives me a friendly wave.

I wave back, but stop when I realize that maybe he’s just waving to his mom. My hand sort of just flops around in the air, and I pretend I’m just fixing my hair or something. I see him shake with silent laughter. I have a small panic moment that he can see my duct taped bra.

“Tomorrow, Silverman,” Coach Fox calls out, and I jump two feet because I completely forgot she was there. I nod, not because I agree, but because I think I’m on autopilot or something.

She waves, and Oliver opens her door—omergosh, that is the hottest effing thing I’ve ever seen—and then he grins at me before climbing in. They drive off, and it takes me forty seconds or forty years to pluck my feet from the ground.

I jog home, even though the Sharpies hurt like heck.