You Can't Catch Me (5 page)

Drake positions himself, and I follow suit. He’s going to wipe the floor with me; I know it. I pray that I don’t let the Sharpies distract me like they did on my run with Jamal, feel a drop of sweat curl down my temple and drop off my chin, and hear the coach say, “Go!”

I push hard, fast, breathe, forget pacing myself because Drake’s stride is so much faster, and I want to keep up. Sweat collects under my bras, between my cleavage, places I didn’t worry about a year ago when I did this. Drake gives me a sideways glance, grinning before he widens the distance between us. I take every ounce of strength I have and shove it to my legs, propel my arms, lean my body forward. It’s so hard… why is it so hard? I’m a runner. I
enjoy
running. But I feel as if there are a million hippos sitting on my back, pulling me forward into the track, dragging me down, and I cannot seem to push them off.

Drake finishes the first lap five, six seconds ahead of me, which in running times, might as well be light years. He gets so far ahead that I can smell the stench of failure wafting out from under my pits. He does lap two in a nice paced time before he starts sprinting. He’s nearly lapping me, but I start my third lap seconds before he finishes his final. The coach calls out his time as he passes her. Panic settles in my belly, and my feet wobble under me. My chest hurts, and my back is
killing
me. I’ve never felt so out of shape in my life.

I look up and see Coach’s teeth slide over her bottom lip as she watches the time tick and tick on the stopwatch. My feet wobble again, and I lose control of them, tripping my way around the final corner and tumbling over the finish line. My knees skid across the track, slicing my skin. My hands go down to prevent my face from the same fate. No one is laughing, though it probably looks hilarious.

Drake puts an extremely warm hand on my shoulder. “Quite a finish,” he says, trying to keep humor in his voice. “You okay?”

I nod at the ground, beads of sweat melting into my scrapes. I have to hold back a hiss at the sting.

Another hand reaches for my other shoulder. “Are you okay, Silverman?”

I manage a laugh at myself and look up at Coach Fox. “Just trying to make a memorable impression on ya.”

I didn’t think it was possible, but the smile on her face just got sweeter. “Successful.”

She laughs and helps me to my feet. When Drake and I get back in line, the razzing starts. I can take it; I’ve handed it out a time or two. But something about the teasing gets to me this year. Like my insecurity is up on display even though it’s hiding underneath yards and yards of fabric.

Coach calls the next two up, and they take off. After a few rounds, I start watching her reaction to the team. Whoever comes in second out of each pair gets ragged on. And then there’s comparing the winners to each other. It’s normal for our team, what we’ve been doing for as long as we’ve been together. But as I watch Coach observe not just the timer, but us, my smile starts faltering along with hers. By the end of practice, I don’t think I’m the only one who is disappointed with the outcome of today’s run.

There’s a line across my side where the two bras cut off circulation. Maybe that’s why my legs feel like a newborn horse attempting to gallop at the same speed as its mother.

I blow out a sigh, making my frizzy hair float around my forehead. Tiff is gonna be here any minute, and I’m all for talking about her disgusting taste in boys over my disaster of a practice. So I stuff my face into one of my dad’s shirts, tucking part of the hem into my back pocket. She’ll make fun of me—Tiff always notices clothing. I’m not one of those people who can tell you what who was wearing that one time at the mall, but Tiff can probably accurately guess brand, size, and retail price, and remembers that crap for a lifetime.

I hide my giant D cup bras under my mattress when I hear the doorbell downstairs. A few seconds later, Tiff cautiously steps into my room, like it’s lined with land mines.

“Oh gosh, you make me feel like I’m your mother or something.”

Her lips tip up at the corners, and she swivels her bangle bracelet around her wrist. “So… I know that you’ve forgiven me for…”

“Defiling my sheets.” I laugh, making a point of sitting down on my brand new un-tainted Walking Dead ones. I dare her to make-out on top of these. “Continue.”

She lets out a sigh that’s mixed with a nervous laugh and takes a seat next to me. “Well, I wanted you to be the first to know that… it might happen again.”

“Say
what
?”

“Not on your bed!” She shakes her head furiously, tossing her dirty blonde hair around. “I just meant, like, Marcus and me… we might make-out again.”

My eyebrows kiss each other in the middle of my forehead. “Didn’t you
just
tell me it was a one-time whoopsie-daisy, and that you would rather kiss a cobra?”

“A python. But yeah… I kinda…”

“Lied to my face.”

“No!” Her eyes widen, looking like one of those big-eyed TY stuffed animals. She turns toward me, facing me dead on. “I promise, I didn’t think it would go past the other night. But he… well, he asked me out.”

“And the python was taken?”

She blows out a breath, deflating her entire body with the action. “You know I like him. But
I
know that it makes you uncomfortable. So, if you don’t want me to say yes, I won’t.”

“Uh, Tiff?” I swivel on the bed to face her. “I can’t make your love life decisions.”

“I know that, but I don’t want to hear the ‘ugh’ or the ‘bleck’ or the ‘ewwwwww’ when I have to talk to you about relationship stuff. He’ll be my first boyfriend, and I’m gonna want to tell you pretty much everything.”

My nose wrinkles up without me being able to stop it, and Tiff’s mouth pops open as she points dramatically at my face.

“See! It’s already happening!”

I bat her finger away with a laugh. “Look, I wouldn’t be your best friend if I told you to pick me over him. Um…
please
don’t make me do that. Also, I’d probably make those noises and this face”—I circle my hand around my nose—“no matter who you were dating.”

She chuckles with a little snort. “So… does that mean…?”

“Do what you want.” I pick at my comforter, pulling at a Walker’s hanging eyeball. “And at the risk of sounding like your mother, just be careful. Fartbuck—Marcus, he’s notorious for jumping ship after a few days.”

She starts picking at the eyeball with me. “Thanks for the heads-up.” Tiff smiles, so I know she’s sincere about it. My stomach feels queasy, but maybe that’s because she put visuals of stuff that hasn’t even happened yet into my mind.

We lie back on my bed, and she asks about the new coach. I blow out a raspberry and give her an overview on first impressions. I doubt I made a good one.

“At least you have all year, right? No one runs their best right after summer vacation.”

“I guess.” I tug at my shirt that’s hiding the Sharpies. Her eyes drift down to my fingers playing with the hem, and she gulps really loud.

“Is… there anything else bugging you?”

“Huh?”

“Can’t help but notice the fashion statement.” She pointedly looks at my dad’s shirt, tilting the corner of her lip upward. “Just wondering if you’re hiding a tattoo or piercings.”

I let out a laugh and roll onto my stomach. Maybe I should tell her my chest woes, but knowing Tiff, she’d ask why I wasn’t thrilled about them. It’s mostly why I haven’t confided in her yet. Her jaw would drop, her smile would grow wide, and she’d tell me how she wishes her perfectly-sized Bs would up a cup. That’s the thing though… while most girls wish something was different about their body in some way or another, I was content with my itty bitty Sharpies and lean and tall runner-made build. With all the extra fluff, I feel more like a stuffed bear than Ginger Silverman.

I miss it.

I want it back.

Tiff’s smile fades the longer I take to answer her. After a heart-thumping few seconds, I shake it off and say, “I’m conducting an experiment. See if my friends stick around even when I dress like my dad.”

She knows I’m lying. I can see it in her eyes, in the sadness in her expression. But she doesn’t push me.

“Let’s watch some VD, and Damon will help you forget all your problems.”

Relieved for the subject change, I grin and reach for my DVD collection. “Or Matt.”

She rolls her eyes. Yeah, out of all the supernatural sexy guys on
The Vampire Diaries
, I’m a fan of the adorable human who always seems to get the shaft. Tiff pointed that out to me once—that I refuse to crush on the “popular” choice because I feel bad for the other guy. That may be true. Or maybe it’s because Matt has blue eyes and a cute voice, and when he takes his shirt off, it’s like a hallelujah chorus sings from the heavens.

We watch three episodes before Mom calls us down for dinner. Tiff eats, then bails, tapping on her phone the second she steps off my porch. I know it was probably killing her waiting three Vampire Diary episodes and a long, loud Silverman dinner before she could tell Fartbucket she’ll go out with him.

And I know he probably won’t respond to it, but I decide to send him a text anyway.

Hey… don’t make me tell her about what happened on the Disneyland tea cups. So be nice, don’t hurt her, or the story is making the news.

I jog up to the field where practice is being held a little late because I have to wait to dress until everybody leaves. I wonder if locker rooms will change in the future. I have a dream that one day self-conscious teenagers will be able to dress in privacy.

Coach Fox watches my approach, smiling that sweet grin when I step in line with everyone else.

“Hi runners,” she starts off. My eyes fall to the stopwatch in her hand as she nervously fiddles with it. If I didn’t notice, I never would’ve thought she was worried at all. “I’m glad everyone could show up. I’ve got a bit of an announcement.”

“They’ve finally ordered a coach uniform big enough,” Jamal guesses next to me, his eyes amused at Coach’s dressy attire. I grit my teeth and give one good hard elbow to his ribs. It’s not enough that most everyone on the team has completely judged Coach’s abilities because she’s a bit round in the middle, now my buds are joining in on it. A few snickers go through the team, and I figure more comments are being made. I mentally take note of everyone who isn’t laughing and add them to my “you’re all right” list.

Coach Fox lets go of her stopwatch, letting it dangle back over her large chest. “I’ve watched you for the past few practices, and I’m impressed with your talent. But I think there is room for improvement.”

Drake shoots his hand in the air, “Oh, I know! Run faster?”

A wave of laughter goes over the team. Coach humors him by letting out a chuckle as well.

“That’s the goal, yes. Anyone want to take a guess on how we do that?”

“Jump on Drake or Silverman’s back and hitch a ride?” Hadley jokes, and I’m flattered for less than a second because then Bridget pipes up.

“You’d be better off hitching a ride with
me
this year.” She laughs, and a few other girls agree with her. I agree, too—Bridget has been outrunning me so far—but that doesn’t mean it stings any less.

My shoulders slump as I watch the girl’s team—them and their barely-there Sharpies, long legs, and flat stomachs. I used to feel like their queen, and now I don’t even feel like I belong in the same kingdom.

Coach watches the joking around with thoughtful eyes. That is another thing that’s massively different than last year—Coach Juniper never let us talk. Coach Fox seems to prefer observing, like we’re a bunch of monkeys, and she’s Jane Goodall.

“Let me ask you all a question,” she says, stepping into a pace in front of us. “Raise your hand if you think you’re the best in your particular event.”

“In the state?” Drake asks, though his hand is already up in the air.

Coach laughs, but shakes her head. “How about in Crest Hills? Based on the last few weeks, who thinks they could outrun everyone here?”

Almost all hands go into the air. I look down the line, surprised at the response. In fact, slowly… the few hands that didn’t go up start to, almost as if they aren’t sure if this is a test or not. I feel the peer pressure, and though I know I can’t outrun anybody with these chest balloons, I end up sticking my hand in the air as well.

“Okay,” she says, continuing her pacing. “If I told you that you had to outrun someone to get on the team, who’d be willing to take that chance?”

Silence replaces all our normal laughter and nonsense as everyone’s stomach—mine included—falls out of their butts and onto the hot track with a
flump.

“Huh?” Hadley says, her gum tumbling clean out of her mouth. I get it… we were all told that once you made it as a freshman, you were on the team for as long as you wanted.

The coach smiles, just as sweetly and innocently as before. I try to hate it, but I can’t. She’s like Poison Ivy and her love spell lips.

“Any takers?” she asks. I exchange glances with Bridget down the line, and after giving me a thorough examination, she sticks her hand in the air.

Coach stops her pacing and ends up right in front of Bridget, her head on a tilt. “You’re willing to try out again?”

Bridget nods. “I’ve got this.”

“And what about the runner you go up against?”

That gets a slight sweat out of Bridget. Her eyes flick down the line again at the rest of the team, then return to Coach. “If… if it’ll make the team stronger, then I guess it’d be okay to lose a few of the… stragglers.”

Coach pauses, contemplating Bridget’s answer. After a long, silent moment, she nods. “Excellent point.” She starts pacing again, addressing the entire team now. “As of right now, your spot on the team is no longer permanent.”

I can feel the collective stomach crumpling and bated breath as the entire team processes. My heart’s pounding a mile a minute, and I eye each and every girl, wondering which one of them will take me out—which one will take my spot away from me.

“You serious?” Drake asks, his eyebrow sky high. “You’ve got some of the best runners in the state on this team.”

Coach scratches her neck with her mechanical pencil. “I do.”

“You gonna risk getting rid of us?” Jamal asks. “No matter how this goes, not all of us are staying.”

Coach takes a second to answer. I put a hand over my heart to try to calm it down, but it’s no use. Coach walks back over to Bridget, who, by the look on her face, is regretting her previous answer.

“Mind going first?”

Bridget straightens her shoulders. “Against who?”

The corner of Coach’s mouth tilts up. “Against yourself.”

This entire practice is full of confusion, and I don’t think my brain can take it. I clear my throat and ask, “Coach? Are you saying we need to beat our own times?”

A flicker of surprise runs over her expression. “Yes, Silverman, that’s exactly what I’d like you to do.” She brings up her clipboard. “If you beat your original tryout time, welcome to the team. If not, you have until the end of this week.”

Ah crap—this does not help my already pounding anxiety. My original tryout time was
amazing
. In fact, it’s better than everyone else’s on the team, including some of the boys.

I pull at my doubled-up bras and chew on the inside of my bottom lip. Even Drake looks nervous, frowning at the track, probably wishing he didn’t show off so much over the past few practices.

Bridget, however, looks incredibly at ease. She marches right past Coach to the start line. “Ready when you are,
Coach
.” She emphasizes the word like Coach Fox hasn’t yet earned it.

Coach’s bright round eyes meet mine. “Let’s do two or three at a time, okay? Speed this up. Silverman and Harper, go ahead and take spots two and three.”

Hadley and I step up to our lines next to Bridget. Sweat is already forming along my brow in a panic—sure, I know I’m not going to be the fastest anything on the team, at least not yet. But I didn’t expect to not be on it at all. The reality that I may actually lose the chance at State again catches up to me in one big wave. So much so that I don’t even hear Coach say “Go!” and I take off two, three seconds behind Hadley and Bridget.

I don’t catch up to them. My legs are lead, and my head is full, and my chest is pulling me into the pavement. I can’t think, not even about running or the road, and I can’t go to that place that I love. All that I know is that my whole life feels like someone else’s, and it’s all this stupid body’s fault.

Bridget crosses the line, Hadley shortly after. I take too long to get there, already knowing I failed because my times were far better than theirs. I’m thinking that outrunning myself isn’t going to be any easier than outrunning any one of them.

I finally run past Coach, and my knees lock, and I immediately fall to the track.

“You okay, Silverman?” she asks, her eyes softening, and even though I don’t know her from Adam, I can tell that I just kissed my guaranteed spot away.

“I’m good.” I’m not. “What was my time?”

That sweet smile twitches at the corner of her mouth. “Ten seconds off.”

Something curls in my belly, making me taste acid on the back of my tongue.
Ten seconds
is a lifetime. Silver Medalist Ginger Silverman doesn’t make the cross country team: I’ll give you two big reasons why. It’s the lead story on the Crest Hills Facebook page.

“Don’t worry,” Coach says as she and Hadley help me to my feet, “you have all week.”

I nod like she totally made me feel better. But when I glance down to get a good look at the track and can’t see it because two giant chest balloons are in my way, I think I’ll need more than a week to beat my time with these things.