You Can't Catch Me

The weather is pretty nice for this late, but I still get a chill across my exposed shoulder when the wind picks up. The leaves at our feet start dancing across the sidewalk, and Oliver shrugs his hands into his pockets, blowing out a shaky breath.

  “Did I blow this?” he blurts, and I blink up at him to see if he’s kidding. His brows are turned in, concern and anxiousness resting in his hazel eyes. “I know that’s a pretty forward question, but it’s been bugging me, and I wasn’t gonna ask in front of them.” He nods in the direction of where Tiff and Marcus were parked, but they’re long gone now.

  I snort. “You far from blew it, Oliver.” Hmm… I like his name on my tongue. I may start finding excuses to say it more often.

  “Really? Because I practically punched your boob.”

  My head is thrown back as a fit of laughter explodes from my gut. He starts laughing with me, and all of a sudden he’s closing the gap between us as we walk. Good, because I need body heat.

  “It was almost as embarrassing as leaving the tag on my shirt.” He smirks.

  “But not as embarrassing as not knowing how to golf.” I point out.

  “Nah, that was cute.”

  My heart shoots to the stars. “So was the tag.”

  He groans, running a hand down his face. We turn the corner and find our path heading to our spot in the cemetery. I’ve never been to see Cayenne this late. Cemeteries at night freak me out. So in a moment of pure courageousness, I tuck my arm into his as we pass under the large, iron gate. If anything, it’ll keep me warm, because the small touch alone sends flames all up and down my spine.

  “Can I just say, thank heavens you do embarrassing things.” I kick a loose rock down the path. “You are my people.”

  He grins, eyes flicking to my arm tucked with his. “You like that? I have no shortage of embarrassing stories.”

  “Oh yes, do tell me more,” I say in a horrid English accent. His body shakes as he chuckles, giving me the good kind of chills to mask the not-so-fun ones that come with Montana in the fall.

  “All right.” He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “One time, I asked a girl out, and she told me she was gay. I caught her making out with another guy a few days later, and when she saw that I saw, she said she just didn’t want to hurt my feelings.”

  “Ouch,” I hiss through my teeth. If he tells me where I can find her, she better watch out. She’s in danger of some serious stink-eyes.

  “Yeah, and if that wasn’t enough, the whole exchange was recorded and put on someone’s YouTube channel they had just to post incriminating videos. Twenty thousand views.” He grins while I taste something very gross on the back of my tongue. “You’re looking at a fifteen-minutes-of-famer.”

  My hold on his arm loosens, not because I want to let him go, but because I’m so disgusted that I can barely concentrate on what I’m doing.

  “Is the video down?” I ask when I can find words.

  “Yeah. Easy to report that stuff when the uploader doesn’t have permission to use your face. And I’m lucky they were too lazy to blur me out.”

  Lucky? I scoff at the word, and he raises an eyebrow at me but doesn’t ask about it.

  “You owe me one now,” he says, turning to walk backward now that I don’t have a hold of him. The dark blue sunset light really makes the blue in his eyes pop. “Embarrassing Ginger moment?”

  I could tell him right now about that Instagram account. He could totally help; he’s dealt with this same thing before. But then he’ll see a shot of my bra, and that seems more embarrassing than the picture itself. And because I’m struggling to find something else to share, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

  “I know where you live.”

  He stops dead in his tracks. “Huh?”

  Oh no. “I… um… on Friday… you left the school, and I wanted to, I don’t know, see you or something, and so when Coach… your mom… left the school, Tiff and I, well, we followed her home.”

  He’s quiet. Oh crap, I’ve blown it. I can see the whole thing exploding between us, the rubble from my admission making me frantic, grasping at any words in my brain to explain myself out of it.

  “I just wanted to, you know, see if you lived close. Try to find a route on my jogging path that might go past your house.” I shake my head. Seriously, only making this worse. “Stupid.”

  He looks me up and down, and then a small smile cracks his lips. “And I was worried that I was the creeper.”

  I feel a worry line crease my forehead. “Did I just blow this?”

  He shakes his head. “You far from blew it.” His brows pull down. “I am a little concerned about your social life, though. Didn’t you have anything better to do on a Friday night?”

  I wrinkle my nose at him. “Well, didn’t you? During my judgment brain fart, I saw you going out with your mom.”

  “Uh huh.”

  I love that he doesn’t think it’s unusual. But I’m still curious, and since I doubt the subject will be breached again, I go for it. “Is she… I mean, she seemed upset. Is she okay?”

  He nods, his eyes drifting a little to his left at the headstones there. “She had last second cancelled dinner plans. Nothing major.” He looks over at me. “You really care? Or just trying to have small talk here?”

  “I thought we got the small talk out of the way already.”

  The corner of his mouth twitches, and he takes a deep breath. He looks at me with that look, like he’s not sure if he can trust me with the information he’s about to give. I don’t drop his gaze, letting him know that he can share or not, whatever he feels like doing. I mean, I do that with him.

  “My mom’s date cancelled on her once he saw her profile picture.”

  “What?” I go from nonchalant to fuming in .02 seconds. “What a jerk-monkey,” I say, using Tiff’s choice of words.

  “I wish I could say it was the first time.”

  I straighten my stance. “Point me in the direction of this butthole, and I shall punch him in the boob.”

  Oliver chuckles, giving me a look that I have yet to see from a guy. It sinks down to my very core, creating giggling butterflies and warm waterfalls under my skin. He looks at me like I’m the only girl on the planet, and I’m the queen of this new world we’re in.

  Oh. My. Gosh. That’s what Tiff was talking about.

  “As much as I’d appreciate that, my mom is more of the peacemaker. It’d only make her feel worse.”

  “Your mom is a peacemaker,” I tell him. “I bet she smiles during a rainstorm.”

  He laughs. “You’re correct in that assumption. She loves the rain.”

  “Friday would’ve been the perfect time to be around her,” I say, remembering the remnants of rain on the windshield as Tiff and I staked out Oliver’s house. “What’s wrong with people?” I shake my head at the ground, ignoring the fact that I can’t see my feet anymore without bending forward. How come it’s so much easier to see the awesome in other people, but when it comes to yourself, all you can see is what you hate?

  I picture Coach pulling into her drive, the whole scene different now that it’s not masked by confusion. She’s doing her not-cry in the car, the McDonald’s bag sitting next to her. She’s probably cursing herself for giving in and buying it in the first place, but she’s also comforted by the scent of the fries and the lure of the large Coke in her cup holder. She’s telling herself over and over that he wasn’t worth it; if he can’t give her a chance because of how she looks, then screw him. But there’s also that doubt that creeps to the surface of her mind, telling her that if she was more in shape, she’d be treated differently.

  And I don’t know this because that’s how I see her or how I assume that’s what it’s like to be a bigger person. I know it because I’m right there with her, thinking things about myself that when other people say out loud, it just validates every evil thing that’s run through my mind. Every time I look down, every time I run, every time I have to acknowledge the existence of
the Sharpies, I hate myself a little bit more.

  I can’t help but feel that everyone else hates me, too.

  My eyes drift up to Oliver, and I see him going out to his mom’s car, taking the food into the house, and then coming back out…

  “You took her to dinner, didn’t you?” I ask, and his eyes widen. “When I was in total stalker mode, I saw you. She came home, and you took her somewhere.”

  “Wow,” he says with a teasing smile. “Do I need to call the cops? Or are you already on the force?”

  Before I even know what I’m doing, I barrel into him. My torso slams up against his, closing even the most minute gaps between us. I can’t quite get my arms around him, so I run my hands up his back and hold onto his massive shoulders. I’m there for much longer than two Mississippis, tucking into his warmth, never knowing how much I needed to hug someone so good. He stands stiff and immobile, probably at a total loss at why I’ve clung onto him. I’m a little confused at my sudden desire to show affection. I just wanted to show him that I know he’s truly a good person, that I appreciate it, and that maybe… I really, really like him.

  But since he’s not really responding, I start to jerk back, an apology on my lips in case I’ve overstepped. I don’t get three inches before he’s pulling me back in, his arms wrapping around my waist. I push up on my tiptoes to circle my arms around his neck.

  And I explode into a billion tiny cut-out hearts.

  “Sorry,” he says next to my very warm cheek. “I’m not ready to let go just yet.”

  I have to bite my smile away before it reaches the sky.

  “That is fine by me.”

  22

  Insta-wham

  “Hello, road,” I whisper to the asphalt beneath my feet. “Let’s get along today, okay?”

  The brown dried leaves toss around, tickling my ankles as they blow past. I’m early today, rising before the sun for many reasons. I didn’t sleep much last night, smiling into my pillow and feeling Oliver’s arms around me like he suddenly became a ghost and decided to haunt me. Also, I got a text from Rodney at around 11:00, asking if I was doing okay—he is the only one of my guy friends to acknowledge the picture and the rumors floating in the comments. I shot a text back saying I was fine, but truth be told, I was doing fabulous until he reminded me of it.

  When I rolled over at 5:00 this morning, waking to the sound of my own snoring, I decided I wanted to go out and run without Jamal.

  And without my duct tape.

  I inhale deep, letting the morning breeze fill my lungs and energize my bunny. The slight chill in the air creates a pattern of goose bumps up and down my exposed torso.

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous; I have the constant urge to check my neighbors’ windows to make sure no one is peeking through the blinds. After a few more pulls of the wonderful, dewy air, I blow it all out and start running.

  Pound, pound, pound, my feet sing against the concrete, and instead of starting my iPod, I listen to the song of my run. My legs have already started to burn—I should’ve stretched a bit more before I took off—but I know if I push through it, I’ll get to the zone. The part of a run when you don’t feel, see, or hear anything around you. It’s all internal and beautiful, and it’s the reason I love running in the first place.

  I even my breathing, adding a backbeat to the melody of my feet. I remember my dreams of competing in not just State, but Nationals. I see the medal hanging around my neck, the smiles on Mom and Dad’s faces, Aunt Heidi bellowing in her loud, excited cheer. My memory drifts into fantasy as my silver medal turns to gold. In the crowd with my parents and aunt are Coach Fox and Oliver.

  It’s hanging around my neck, the gold glinting close to my navel.

  My chest is 32A. Because even my fantasy knows that winning with this much weight is impossible.

  I zap back into reality, my zone completely lost, and I lose my footing. I tumble to the ground, slamming hard against the concrete. There’s the sting of fresh scrapes on my palms, and the shooting pain of reopening wounds on my knees. A drop of sweat from my brow falls onto the sidewalk, and I hang my head, getting an eyeful of what’s hidden beneath my shirt.

  “Get up,” I growl to myself. I press my eyes shut and push to my feet. My hands and knees throb, but I shake them out, jogging in place until I open my eyes and continue down the road.

  It’s gonna take more than one fall this time to make me give up.

  ***

  I make it back home at 6:30, missing my usual morning with Oliver, but I’m rank and sweaty, and I’m definitely not confident enough to show up in a sweat-soaked, tight shirt. I text him as soon as I walk into my room.

  Won’t be there this morning. I’m visiting my girl’s grave tonight instead… in case you feel like dropping by. I’ll bring the sticky notes this time ;)

  He doesn’t respond right away, so I rip off my bra and jogging shorts and hop into a nice, cool shower. I’m still not used to lifting the Sharpies to wash underneath them, so I rush through that part because it reminds me of that picture on Instagram, then I try to fantasize about Oliver to take my mind off it.

  “Oh this?” I say to the shower wall, holding out the necklace that stays around my neck even in the shower. “It’s a birthstone for my sister.”

  I lower my voice to sound like a guy, “I like it. It’s the color of your eyes.”

  I snort at Pretend Oliver. “No it’s not.”

  “You’re right. I just wanted to say something cool.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t.” I step out of the shower stream to get closer to my imaginary Oliver. “You’re so much cuter when you’re utterly awkward.”

  I push my hands on the cold tile, and if Mom hadn’t opened the door to warn me about the time, I totally would’ve made out with the wall.

  After drying off, I step back into my room and rummage through my closet. Only Tiff and Marcus would know if I wore the same thing two days in a row, and I really liked the off-the-shoulder loose tee. They hid the Sharpies so well, and I’m not parading about in Dad’s old polos. So I pluck it up from the floor and put it on.

  My phone’s going off, but when I see it’s Drake, not Oliver, a tiny frown hits my lips.

  “Hey,” I say, sniffing one of my socks to make sure it’s clean.

  “Hey, what color’s your dress?”

  “Huh?”

  “The dance, Ginger. I’m grabbing a tie today, and my mom said it has to match.”

  “Oh right!” I hop on one foot to try to get my sock on. “I’m totally prepared with a dress and everything.”

  He playfully huffs into the phone. “I should’ve known. You become internet famous and completely forget about your friends.”

  My foot falls to the floor; my sock only made it to the arch. “You saw that?”

  “I’m not sure who didn’t see it.”

  I plunk down onto my bed, squishing one of the bears he gave me under my butt. “And you have no thoughts?” I ask.

  He lets out a small laugh. “I guess it’s a little funny.”

  “Funny?” My voice lowers to an almost growl-like tone. “How so?”

  “I dunno.” He coughs. “So… get on that dress, yeah? The formal is Saturday.”

  I’m so stuck in disbelief that I can only mutter out a small, “Okay” before he says he’ll see me at school and clicks off. I stare dumbfounded at the blank screen, unsure of how to process his reaction—or more accurately, lack thereof. Does he really think it’s funny? Or does he just not think it’s a big deal? I suppose it’s not. I mean, it was just my bra. To anyone who isn’t me, it probably wouldn’t seem so bad.

  But whoever stole them and posted them… I mean, did they know how hard I’ve struggled with this? What exactly was the point of it all if not to humiliate or tease me?

  I let out a breath, chucking my phone onto my mattress. I’m not sure if I want to go to school anymore. But what Coach said to me last Friday about being part of the team and showing
up and supporting people replays in my brain, and I really don’t want to let her down.

  So I get my socks on and head out, nervously checking my chest to be sure it’s still hidden. I better put tape in my bag just in case.

  ***

  I should’ve known that school was going to be a bust. I’m not even two steps in the front doors before a spotlight shines on the Sharpies, and every pair of eyes within ten feet of me zoom in on it. Okay, so it’s a metaphorical spotlight, but I am not exaggerating on the staring.

  My eyes narrow, and I set my hands on my hips. “Geez, why don’t you just take a picture?”

  No one in my school understands sarcasm as several phones are brought up and snapped. I’m a million times grateful for Tiff’s fashion expertise as I look down to make sure there are no obvious bumps.

  Then a pair of massive football shoulders blocks my view.

  “Does this shirt make my boobs look big?” Rodney says, pulling the Beast Mode tee tight around his torso. He flexes his pecs—or tries to; they don’t move much—and he waggles his eyebrows at me.

  I give him one good hook to his gut, and he crumples in half. “Too soon?” he croaks.

  I shake my head, trying to keep my grin under control. “Let’s go to class, doofus. And walk in front of me so people look at your Sharpies, not mine.”

  “My wha…?”

  A small bubble of laughter flits from my lips, and I grab at his hem and drag him down the judgmental hallway. He adjusts his backpack on his shoulder, then runs a hand over his abs. My knuckles kind of hurt—he’s been working out over the summer, changing like the rest of us. Only I’m sure he’s probably reaping the positive benefits of it. Hadley’s affections sure have doubled this year.

  My stomach dips at the thought of practice today. Honestly, if Coach Fox hadn’t given me the lecture, I’d probably skip it. Run at home or something. Everything my “teammates” said last Friday in the locker room keeps echoing in my head. I had a nice break from their scrutinizing voices this weekend, what with being super distracted and all, but now the echoes seem to be growing, infesting every corner of my mind.