You Can't Catch Me (7 page)

He settles his last donut on Cayenne’s grave. The package crinkles in his hand as he scrunches it up and shoves it into his pocket. I get another wave, but I’m too shocked, too out of breath, too… enamored to wave back this time.

I almost forget that I was in a bad mood when I got here.

Pump, pump, pump
.

My legs know they can go faster, but I force them to take it easy. It’s only the start of the run. Wait a second, guys.

Pump, pump, pump
.

I’m alone, running against no one because I was one of three people who didn’t beat their times. The first two went already. They passed today.

Pump, pump, pump
.

I hear someone calling my name from the bleachers. “Ginger!” I don’t look over, just focus on the track, the wind, the sweat tumbling from my forehead.

“Ginger! Push!
Push
!”

It registers in my ears, my beating heart, and my legs pick up speed even though my brain says it’s still too early for them to do that.

My chest hurts. My back aches. I went with only one bra, very supportive, comfortable, locks them up tight… except when you run. Every slam of my foot on the track sends a 5.7 magnitude earthquake through my chest region.

“Five seconds!” Coach Fox yells. Five seconds is not enough. My legs know it, and they give up, right there on the last corner of the track.

“Silverman!” Drake calls from the sideline. “What are you doing?”

I let out a whoosh of air and plummet to the ground. My eyes prick, but I think I’ve run out of energy to even cry. Did I just give up? I’ve never done that. I’ve never felt like I had to, like it was hopeless.

“That’s it for practice today,” Coach Fox says. We’ve only been here for thirty minutes. The team doesn’t hesitate though. They trudge off the field, giving me worried glances over their shoulders. Drake takes the longest to leave.

“I’m sorry,” I say when Coach gets to me. She pulls in a long breath and plops down on the track by my hands. And then not a word, like she has no idea what to say to the pathetic, used-to-be-awesome runner who can’t run a few simple laps without dying.

“I was… trying to pace myself,” I mutter.

“I noticed.” A smile. “Are you even tired?”

My frizzy hair tickles my nose as I shake my head. Physically, I know I have more in me. So no, I’m not tired. Tired of failing, maybe.

“Let me go again,” I say, pushing on my knee. “My legs just gave out. I’m okay now.”

Coach reaches out like she wants to stop me, but abruptly changes directions, scratching her face instead. “The problem isn’t your legs, Ginger.”

I pause on my way to standing, which makes me wobble. My arm shoots out to catch myself before I topple over.

“Huh?”

She gives me a pointed look, still smiling that incredibly not-annoying smile. “I think the problem is a little higher than your legs.”

My eyeballs fall out of my head and roll along the track. It takes me a couple seconds to put them back in. “Um… I…” Does she notice all the bouncing? I bet no matter how loose my shirt is, the Sharpies are still incredibly obvious when I run. I cross my arms purposely over them, as if holding myself like this will suck them back in to wherever they came from.

“It’s all up here.” She presses a finger to her head, and I almost laugh with relief. “Don’t overthink this. You’re a runner. Trust your body’s natural instincts.”

Something that feels a lot like an anvil rests in the pit of my stomach. What would she say if I told her that the problem is north of my legs, but south of my head? Probably laugh, or get scared because of the whole teacher/student no talkie of the Sharpies, or think I’m being stupid.

Nope, if I can’t tell my best friend, I certainly am not gonna tell this brand new coach.

I plaster on a confident grin—or what I think a confident grin looks like.

“Okie dokie.”

She nods once, keeping that perma-sweet smile. “Try again tomorrow.”

We both get to our feet, and even though I’d normally jog back to the locker room, I take my sweet time.

“Trust my body?” I snort to myself when no one is within earshot. Probably sound advice, except my body and I aren’t getting along right now.

***

My house smells like bread again. Sweet, delectable, teasing bread. Must mean Aunt Heidi’s here.

“Ginger,” her voice says from the kitchen, and I jump because I thought I was being darn quiet. I turn the corner, and Aunt Heidi isn’t even looking at me, but a recipe book on the counter.

“What was that?” my mom asks, her head buried in the oven.

“Add a teaspoon of ginger,” she says, and I laugh, making her eyes drift up.

“I thought you were talking to me.” I skip over to the fridge, grabbing one of the cold waters and swigging half of it in record time. When I lower the bottle, Aunt Heidi’s grinning at me like she knows something I don’t. My eyes drift to Mom, and now that her head’s out of the oven, she gives me a similar grin as well before going to the boiling pot on the stove.

“What?” I say cautiously.

“There’s a boy in your room.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Huh?”

“A boy. In your room.” Aunt Heidi pops her gum inwardly, making the loudest
crack
to echo through the kitchen.

“Who?” It has to be someone significant because I have so many guy friends that it’s hardly an issue to have a boy over. A small, very illogical part of me pictures Oliver up there, but I shoo the thought away because if he was, that means he followed me home. And that is not cute. That is creeperific.

“I don’t know,” she sings, handing my mom the ginger. Mom’s suddenly too busy biting her lip over her cooking to show any interest in the conversation. That’s when I wise up to the “boy in my room” not being a big deal at all. Aunt Heidi must be on something.

I take the steps two at a time, hoping that whoever is in my room is quick with their business, because I have to pee, and I smell like a mound of sweaty armpits from the run home.

My door is closed, which is not normal—I like to keep air flow going through there so I don’t stink up the place with my sweaty running attire—so I’m a bit cautious turning the knob.

“Give me a sec!” Drake says, voice muffled into the carpet because he’s bent in half, butt totally stuck in the air. “Almost done!”

There are bears… everywhere.

I am not a stuffed animal girl. They give me the creeps. One time Nana sent me a giant stuffed fish after I finished first in a school-wide race back when I was eight. She thought I was a swimmer—Mom and I just let that one slide. I put it in the corner of my room up on a shelf, and I swear, the thing came to life the second I fell asleep, and tried to swim over to me. Three times I woke up, and every time it was closer and closer to me.

Shiver
.

And now there are not one set of black glossy eyes looking at me, but over twenty. Maybe over fifty.

“Uh… did a teddy bear convention come to town? Or was the porridge just too hot, and they’re waiting for it to cool?”

Drake shoots upright, knocking his head on a shelf that he’d lined with bears of all sizes. They topple over, each pelting him on their way to the floor.

“Ah, shoot,” he curses, karate-chopping a purple bear as it falls. “They were supposed to keep you busy till I left.”

“Aunt Heidi has never been good at following directions, and I bet my mom wasn’t even listening.”

He grins. “She did seem pretty preoccupied with that cookbook.” Redness splashes his cheeks as he leans forward, grappling for a giant poster board on my bed. He holds it up, completely covering his ever-reddening face.

“I’d be beary honored if you’d go to the fall formal with me,” I read aloud. He refuses to come out of hiding.

“I’ll… uh… just let you think about it. Get back to me… you know…” He starts walking toward the door, keeping the sign up. I grab one of the freaky bears on the bed and chuck it at him.

“Whoa!”

“Don’t leave yet. I wanna talk.”

“I know it’s lame, but the guys said I needed to ask in a fun way.”

Or a creepy way
. I shove all the bears off my bed and plop down on the mattress. He slowly starts to peek from behind the sign.

“I just want to make sure you’re serious. Isn’t there a girl you’re actually interested in that you want to take?”

Drake could have his pick, and well, he
has
, if you know what I mean. He’s got that dorky, confident act going, and he’s funny as all heck, and girls flock to him from every which way. But with me, it’s always felt like I was his bro. A school dance seems like the perfect opportunity to capitalize on a
romantic
situation with a
romantic
interest. Not the girl you have farting contests with.

He sits on the bed next to me, letting the poster flop against his leg. “Well, I am.”

“What now?”

“I am asking someone I’m interested in.”

I’m so shocked that I can’t even hide my skepticism and accompanying snort. And that’s when I catch that he’s totally not looking at
me
. He’s looking at
them.

His eyes have drilled into my chest, staring at them with some kind of majestic glow that manifests their glory just hidden under the overlarge golf shirt I stole from my dad. I want to smack the look right off his doofy face, but my hand won’t move. I feel a prickly rise of water-like substance prod the back of my eyeballs, and I slam my arms across the Sharpies, turning away from him in all-out embarrassment.

Drake has had thousands of opportunities to “be interested.” Didn’t show a single shred of it until now, and I can’t help but think if he hadn’t seen me stuck in a door that my room would be bear-free.

“So, what do you think?” he asks, blissfully unaware that his gawking has caused a very rare case of Ginger Cry. I clear my throat, hoping that it doesn’t sound wet or snotty or gross.

“Aren’t I supposed to answer in a fun way?” I make up on the spot, just to buy some time. It makes me sick to my stomach though. Why am I not slapping him? Calling him out? Or just flat-out refusing? If it was a year ago and he stared like that, I totally would have. But I feel so off, so not myself, and I push my hair away from my face and ignore the extra weight that somehow seems to pulse red high beam lights right through my shirt.

“Sure. I guess you could do that.” He grins and finally brings his eyes up to mine. Whatever he sees, it makes his smile falter slightly before he pushes himself from the bed. “Catch you on the flippity flop.”

“Yep.”

“Oh, and I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to give your aunt and mom crap for failing at their
one
job.”

I have to force myself to laugh even though I know it’s genuinely funny. Shaking my head, I stand up and practically push him out the door. “’Kay leave. I stink. Shower time.”

And after I get him out of my room, instead of showering, I fall face-first into a scary bear, wishing I could just go back to this morning.

Jamal runs past my house three times, staring up at my porch as he passes, completely oblivious to me peeking through the blinds. My heart’s doing this
thumpity thump thump
like when you’re lying in the dark in your bed and something makes a noise in the hallway waking you up, and you totally freeze and wait for the noise to happen again.

Jamal is hardly a crazy unknown noise in the dark, but the way he’s been acting since I got home this summer is a little off-putting. I need a guy to act normal around me because I can’t help but feel that they’re all looking at my blossomed bosom.

Adding on top of that madness, there’s Oliver. It’s not like I’ve developing a “thang” for him, but… I’m developing a
something
for him. Call it intrigue or curiosity or a breath of fresh air. The truth is, I’ve never met someone completely via sticky notes. It’s like texting, but so not like texting, because I get to see his handwriting, and when you see a guy’s handwriting, it just hits somewhere deep in Girl Stomach Zoo. Animals rattle their cages and start using their vocal chords in a low, deep tone. Just picturing his handwriting has my internal zookeepers sticking their hands out to keep the animals at bay.

I’ve had crushes before, but it’s been a while, so I’m unsure if that’s what this is. It can’t be, because I barely know the dude. Then again, I’ve got sweaty palms and dry mouth, and I am not digging on that. There is a tryout time I have to focus on!

“What are we looking at?” Mom whispers behind me, making me jump two feet into the air. The bowl of gluten-free Cheerios she has in her hand tips and spills a few Os and some milk. She laughs and sets it on the table.

“I was just watching Jamal,” I say, letting the blinds snap closed while Mom grabs a towel. “Don’t really feel like running with him this morning.”

“Did he ask you to the fall formal, too?”

A snort rumbles my nose. “No.”

Her eyebrow lifts in a questioning way, and then her top half disappears behind the kitchen table as she cleans the milk.

I play with the blind string, twisting it between my fingers. “Sometimes I like to run alone. To think and stuff.”

“What are you thinking about?” Her voice comes out somewhat strained since she’s bent over.

Boys
. “Oh you know,” I say through a humorless laugh, “making a pros and cons list. Been thinking of drinking, smoking, getting a tattoo…”

She peeks over the edge of the table with narrowed eyes. “If you get a tattoo, you better bring me with you so we’ll match.”

“Way to ruin the fantasy, Mom.”

She hurries to the sink to dump the soggy rag and Cheerios. “Well, better hurry. You’re running late, and you’ll want to shower before school.”

I slide a blind up, looking out at the empty street. My luck, Jamal will pop out from a bush. But I zip over to the front door anyway.

“See you later!”

“Bye! Oh, and Ginger, don’t smoke anything. It’ll ruin your running time.”

I wave a hand at her and then head out the door. I pretend it’s the last ten yards in a marathon and sprint them at top speed. Luck is on my side today; Jamal isn’t in any nearby bushes.

My pace slows when I get past the fork where Jamal and I normally part ways. Marcel left a bag of sugar cookies outside of The Rolling Scones that smell so darn good I take one out before getting to the cemetery gates and stuff my face. I don’t know how he does it, but he makes the gluten-free stuff taste better than the gluten-filled.

Okay, maybe not
better
. But certainly edible and making me want more. I’d sneak half of Cayenne’s, but it’s probably better that I don’t add any more weight to my already foreign body. I only have two more chances at making the team, and if I don’t make the team…

I shiver. I can’t even
think
of what my life will become if that happens. I imagine some sort of comatose state.

The grass is wet. I must be so late that they’ve run the sprinklers already. Dang, that probably means Oliver’s gone by now. I should’ve just run with Jamal and risked the weirdness. After taking a deep breath, I jog up the path and see the vacant area we share. My lips pull down in a frown when I see the travel pack of Cinnamon Toast Crunch leaning against the headstone Oliver visits.

“Well… poo.” My shoulders slump, and I crouch down by Cayenne, not letting my butt touch the wet grass. “I hope you kept him company,” I tell her as I set the cookies down. “Talked me up. Told him I’m funny and weird, but like, in a good, awesome way.”

The wind pushes my bushy ponytail over my shoulder and strands tickle my nostrils. I love when Cayenne communicates via wind.

“Thanks. I love you too.” I brush my fingers across her name. It’s starting to fade, the texture wearing down smooth with weather and probably little kids jumping on it despite their parents telling them not to. I think Cayenne likes that, though. Kids playing, being kids. Or maybe she’d be annoyed. I don’t know, and my frown returns because I won’t ever know what she really would’ve been like.

A piece of crumpled paper rolls across her date of death, and I blink out of my daze and look up with curious eyes.

Oliver is sitting on a bench nearby—one that’s not decrepit and scary—under a tree that hides most of his body with overgrown branches and turning leaves. I think he smiles—he’s too far away to tell—and picks up his hand in a wave.

The meerkats in the Girl Stomach Zoo perk up, waiting to see what’s in that crumpled note. I peel it open, straightening from my crouch.

Attempt number 17

Huh? I turn it over, but there’s nothing on the back, then I hear him cough across the cemetery. When I look, he points at the ground spattered with crumpled up papers. I pick up the one nearest me, which says
Attempt number 4.
Well, he’s definitely not a basketball player.

His cough is the first sound other than his laugh that I’ve heard him make. And I look down, noticing that the darn thing gave me goose bumps. They scatter up and down my arms and the sensation shimmies up my spine, making me shiver.

Just from his cough.

After a large, shaky breath, I head to the bench and then plop down next to him, keeping space between our bodies. But I can feel heat radiating off of him, off of me, and they mix together making it feel like we
are
touching. I stuff my hands between my thighs so he doesn’t see me shaking so much.

I open my mouth, ready to say “Hi” out loud, but he cuts me off with a sticky note to my thigh. His thumb smoothes the top of it, scorching my already heated skin. It was under two Mississippis. The perfect amount of time. Yet, I’m wondering why he withdrew so fast. Are my thighs squishier than he thought they would be for a runner? Or is this all just in my crazy head?

I pluck the Post-it from my leg and read,
Good to see you. Finally ;)

He hands me a pen, and this time our fingers do touch a little, and the shock waves are freaking extraordinary, and I fly away up on a cloud and splat back down to earth all within a split second.

My handwriting is chicken scratch now as I scribble back.

Ate too much this morning. Stomach cramps and all that. Couldn’t run as fast.

I stare at the paper, blinking like I don’t remember writing that insane babble. He chuckles, reading my answer over my shoulder, and then pulls out a new sticky note. Okay… so I’m a flirt novice. Never felt the desire to put on the ol’ charm and woo someone into my den of awesome. The familiar blush creeps into my cheeks, and I pull my ponytail forward in an attempt to hide it.

Oliver pushes the next note on my thigh, and a thrill jolts through my stomach.

No music today?

When I flick my gaze up, he gestures to his own earbuds. I grin, thanking my lucky stars I’ve found someone who doesn’t want to run at the mention of cramps, and then pull out my iPod. Gulping, and feeling a bit bold from his smiles and adorable attention, I reach over and pluck the sticky pad from his hands.

Want to listen? My playlist is the shiznit.

He grins at my choice of adjective, then nods, offering one of his buds to me.

Same time? We’ll see if they mesh,
he scribbles. I wonder how hard he’ll laugh once he hears Hercules with whatever he’s got going on.

I’m shaking again as I settle his earbud in, the warmth causing my own neck and ears to heat up, and I pray they aren’t as red as they feel. He grabs one of mine and puts it up to his, and our faces inch closer so we can reach the chords.

His breath smells like ginger. It’s a sign. Has to be.

We press the shuffle buttons at the same time, and in one ear plays
Go the Distance
while the other listens to an old school Johnny Cash song. They actually
do
mesh well.

Oliver gives me a half smile, one that guys give to girls when they are way into them, and I feel as if my heart cannot be contained, that if I were at home alone, I’d be dancing and booty shaking around my room. This doesn’t happen to me, and I’m slightly worried because I have yet to hear him speak, don’t know where he lives or if he’s still in school, or what. But his eyes are kind. His smile is intoxicating. My heebie jeebie detector isn’t pinging a warning to run.

He’s a kid, like me. Nervous and just as surprised that this is happening.

He starts writing again, and I reluctantly move my gaze from his smile to his hands.

Definitely the shiznit
.

I laugh, letting the motion run through me and shake my shoulders. We listen to a couple more songs, shuffling them and laughing when they sound awful together, listening for a bit when they are a surprisingly good mix. Before I know it, I have to get running so I get in at least a wash up before school.

Gotta run. School. Blargh,
I write, making a face when he reads it. He hands me back my earbud and then jots on a new sticky.

Me too. But I have a study hall first period, so it’s not a *huge* deal if I’m late.

He’s in school… a senior, most likely. It’s a welcome surprise, and when I stand, I watch him quickly write on another Post-it.

See you tomorrow?

Rockets take off somewhere in my midsection. Grinning like a major fool, I nod.

His smile widens, and he waves a goodbye before I take off down the path. I have to keep myself from looking over my shoulder every two seconds.

This is far worse than I expected. It is indeed a “thang” I’m developing for him.