I gulp and scratch an imaginary itch on my elbow. Do I have to let go of who I was to become this person I don’t even like?
“Well, I know my teammates think I’m ‘unworthy,’” I mutter to the iPad. Though the other day it seemed they were on my side, more comments keep popping up, and it’s like our unified practices weren’t anything but a show.
Aunt Heidi tilts an eyebrow up. “What do you think?”
“That they’re right.” I move my gaze to my open drawers, concentrating on the clothing hanging out. It makes it easier to admit the things I’ve kept close to the chest—no pun intended. “I think… I feel like people are treating me different. It makes me feel different.”
“They treat you differently because of the picture?”
I flinch at the thought of Aunt Heidi scrolling through the comments. “Even before then. Drake never would’ve asked me to a school dance. Jamal’s acting as if we haven’t been neighbors all our lives. The team thinks I can’t run a decent time because I’ve got such big”—I hold my arms out in front of my chest—“holding me back.”
Her brows furrow. “Are you sure that’s the reason? Or are you worried that’s the reason?”
“That picture pretty much sums it up.” I settle my chin in my hand. “I’m the butt of the joke. Or the boob of it.”
She lets out a small laugh and twists on the bed to face me right on. “Everyone is going to think what they think and do what they do and treat you how they feel like treating you.”
“That’s super encouraging, Aunt Heidi,” I lilt, dropping my hand away from my chin. “I’ve been ignoring them. Don’t know what else I can do.”
She shakes her head. “Forget everyone else for a minute. Forget the picture, the team, even what I think about all this. Are you treating yourself differently?”
I know the answer is yes, but it’s not so easy to admit. There are so many things I do now that I didn’t pre-Sharpie. I analyze them in the mirror, I blame them for all my shortcomings, I worry over people looking down, and I adjust my wardrobe so I’m drowning in fabric.
I tape.
I tape so hard I end up like this—hurt and confused and wishing I was someone else.
“Maybe,” I say in just over a whisper. Aunt Heidi pointedly looks at the rash hidden beneath my father’s shirt.
“I’d say obviously.” Her smart grin fades quickly, and her eyes grow distant, deep in thought. She brings her hand up to her neck, rubbing a birthstone necklace similar to the one I’m currently donning. “Don’t let go of who you are, Gee.”
“But…” I start, bringing my own hand up to play with the jewelry around my neck. “I don’t even know who that is anymore.”
“Yes, you do,” she says, turning because Mom’s coming back into the room. She’s pulling her hair out from her jacket and nodding to me.
“Shoes and socks, hon.” She shares a look with my aunt before heading back out. I push off my bed and dig around in my laundry basket for okay-smelling socks. I’m hopping into one of my sneakers when Aunt Heidi finally starts talking again.
“Do you like your new coach?”
“Coach Fox?” My foot falls to the floor. “Yeah. She’s good.”
She nods, pressing her lips together but not saying anything. Then Mom calls from downstairs, and I pause before leaving my bedroom.
“Do you miss it?” I ask my aunt. “Running?”
“Not as much anymore.” Her mouth twitches. “But I’m not the Gingerbread Man.”
A light laugh escapes my mouth. It’s been a while since I’ve heard that nickname. It almost feels like maybe that version of me is still around somewhere. I just have to find her.
28
Mind over Body
I lie face up in bed, an unusual sleeping position for me, trying not to touch the ooey gooeyness of my torso. Doctor Great Hair said I’d need to lather this ointment on every night and let it work its magic. So far all it’s done is make me feel like I squeezed an entire tube of toothpaste over my ribs.
I blow out a sigh at the dark ceiling, catching the alarm clock ticking over to just after midnight in my peripheral. Aunt Heidi brought Mom and Dad up to speed about the Instagram photo, and when Dad said he didn’t get it, I told him, “They’re making fun of my boobs, Dad.” And he went bright tomato red and looked at Mom like he was so grateful she was there.
So yeah, it was a long night, and I wish I could say that I womaned up and expressed every ounce of anxiety and insecurity that I’ve been feeling, but I mostly just sat there and reassured my parents that I’d be fine. This too shall pass, and all that.
My dress stares at me from my open closet. The formal’s tomorrow night, or if I want to be technical, tonight. The thought of walking in the school gym with nothing hiding or suffocating the Sharpies starts a wave of nervous shakes that I can’t seem to shut down. I blow out a broken breath, regretting all the decisions I’ve made up until this point. Would people have made such a big deal over them if I didn’t try so hard to pretend they didn’t exist?
I ease to a sitting position, surprised that the movement didn’t sting at all. My mind is so full that there’s no chance of sleep, and I’m tempted to text Oliver, see if he’s awake too. I think, even more than my own embarrassment, I’m more upset over the comments regarding Coach. Her job’s on the line, and I feel mostly responsible. I’ve yet to get any calls from the school board, but that doesn’t stop me from thinking that every time our house phone rings it’s them. I wouldn’t even know what to say. I’m not capable of the time she put next to my name. At least, not anymore. I’d make things worse.
I glance down at my body—I’m completely topless so I can “air out” my rash—and I feel so foreign, so inept, so frustrated and helpless. I just want it all to go away. Go away, go away, go away.
A tear drop rolls across my nose, drops off the tip, and splashes onto my chest. More follow, and more after that, until I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t get a grip on who I am.
Who I am.
Is this me? Crying over my body because it’s not perfect? Because it’s not what I want it to be? Because I can’t seem to change it without hurting myself even more?
I don’t want to be this person. And I realize it’s not my body I hate. It’s me. It’s my thoughts and my internal commentary and the way I shoot myself down every chance I get. Old Ginger isn’t my flat-chested self—she’s the strong runner I’ve shoved away.
Oliver saw that version of me though. He saw it while I was in this body because I allowed it to come out when I was with him.
I reach up and tug on my frizzy bedhead, realizing that Coach was right—it’s not my legs or my boobs or anything else that’s the problem. It’s up here. My brain, my self-deprecation. I throw my bed sheets off of me and flick the overhead light on.
“Okay,” I say to myself, stepping in front of the full-length mirror I’ve been avoiding. “Only positive things. Only things I could love.”
I start easy, flicking my gaze directly to the birthstone necklace. It’s not “me” exactly, but it’s a part of me as much as anything else.
“It’s pretty. Simple. People always look at it and like it,” I say out loud, reaching up to the stone. “They might even be looking at this and not… those.”
My eyes drift lower to my topless half, the ointment all over my reddened skin making it look wet and slippery. I won’t compliment my rash; that’d only be rewarding stupidity and insecurity. Since I’m not ready to talk happy about any of my lower body, I move up to my face.
“No zits the night before a dance. That’s gotta be good,” I tell myself with an attempted smile. Why is it so hard to look in the mirror and point out the good stuff? I feel like I should apologize for somewhat bragging, but no one’s here. I’m only trying to convince myself, to find that version of me who didn’t think about the frizz in her hair or the way her thighs touch or how when she sits down, horizontal lines sprout up along her stomach.
> I straighten my shoulders and take a deep breath. “Beautiful eyes.” My voice is quiet, almost as if admitting that something about me is beautiful is a crime. “Dark lashes and they smile when I do.”
I drop my beautiful eyes to my lips. “Happy teeth.” They may not be perfectly straight, and I may forget to brush them a time or two, but you can see them all when I laugh hard enough. “Cool looking scar,” I say, pointing out the tiny indent near the corner of my mouth where I split it trying to fit as many s’mores as I could at our last camping trip.
I’m still too nervous to talk about my torso so I start at my feet. “Cute toes. Soft legs. Pinchable thighs.” I twist around to my flat butt. “Perfect candidate for fun belts.”
After a good laugh at my wit, I add that in too. “Funny. Creative. Spunky.”
It’s working. My shoulders feel lighter, and my smile is real, and I find my voice growing from its soft whisper into something confident and strong. I spin back around, eyes on my belly button. My stomach dips, as if it knows I’m about to talk about it, and it’s scared that there will be nothing good I’ll have to say.
I look at it for a long time, noticing the softness there, the lack of hipbones poking out. I thought that to be a runner you had to have a runner's body. But maybe it’s not about that. Maybe it’s about having a runner mind.
“Full,” I say after a long minute. “Full of food and comfort and love and every other feeling I can have.” I feel everything in my stomach. I feel butterflies and nerves and determination and excitement. My tummy moves as I let out a small chuckle, and I like how it bounces, how it punctuates my laughter as something real.
I smile, knowing I could stop now, that Old Ginger is back, but I’m not sure anymore if I just want to be the old version of myself. I think I want to be someone even better. So I bring my gaze up to the part I’ve blamed, the part I couldn’t possibly find a positive about, and I find myself whispering, “Lucky.”
Not lucky to have breasts, or big ones at that, but lucky to be growing. Lucky to have the chance to be a woman, be who I am, and to try to be someone I want to be.
Something wet plops onto my chest again, and I grin, wiping the tear track off of my face. “Lucky,” I say again, and I can feel the sincerity, the genuine compliment I’ve given myself. It feels like more than anyone could’ve ever given, not Mom or Dad, Aunt Heidi or Tiff. Not even Oliver. I carefully wrap my arms around my torso, flinching a little at the contact I have with the rash.
This body is a good one because it’s mine.
I spend a few minutes hugging myself, laughing at how ridiculous I am and how ridiculous I have been. My eyes drift up to the tape I have sitting on my dresser, and I drop my arms and walk over to it. I just bought it, but it’s almost gone because I’ve used so much of it already. I shake my head and toss it in the trash. Then I run to my closet and pull out my gym shorts. I’m capable of anything. And I’m going to prove it to everyone.
29
Fall Formal Throw Down
I’ve been to one other school dance. Rodney, Jamal, Drake, Tiff, and I all went as a group and had a blast. Tiff and I danced mostly together while the guys would dance around us, and we made fools of ourselves and relaxed and had no drama. It was a great night.
I take a deep breath, reminding myself of the pep talk I had with the mirror before Drake picked me up. The dress is pretty, and I look pretty in it. And what I think is all that matters.
I repeat the mantra as we walk into the gym.
The place is decorated, but not a whole lot. Balloons and lights, DJ set up in the corner. I’ve heard our student government likes to hold onto the dance funds until prom so they can go all out with that. My mind drifts to that night, and I wonder if Oliver would be willing to take a weirdo to another school’s dance. Or maybe we can just have one of our own at the cemetery. Seems fitting.
Drake coughs next to me, and I step toward the dance floor, thinking that’s where he wants to go. But he grabs hold of my wrist and gently tugs me back.
“You gonna dance with Jamal tonight?”
The question knocks me off my heels. “What?”
He nods over my shoulder, and I follow his gaze. Jamal’s hanging on the outside of the dancing bodies in his gray jacket and tie, eyeing us with a curious and defeated tilt of his lips. Oh… I guess I was heading right for him. Didn’t even realize.
“Ugh, are you guys still fighting?” I say, noting the click in Drake’s jaw when I turn back to him. “Did you forget that you’re friends?”
Drake waves his arm out. “He’s the one who pissed a fit when I asked you out.”
“Garrr!” I growl, snatching Drake’s jacket and tugging him toward Jamal. I’m setting things straight right now. I miss my friends, and now that I’m back and feeling a lot more like myself, I’m not going to just stand around and analyze why everyone’s gaze seems locked on my chest.
Jamal’s eyebrows go up, and he straightens as we get to him. Drake’s got a good five inches on him, but they look equally ridiculous in their standoff.
“Tell me what’s going on,” I say to both of them. “I’ve heard things, and I don’t want to assume the worst of my friends, but I swear to holy heavens I will punch the truth out of you if I have to.”
A lot of incoherent babbling happens after that, and I finally huff and look directly at Jamal and tilt a questioning eyebrow.
“Look, Drake said he saw…” His eyes drift down, and I try not to flush red. “Well, and I didn’t like him talking about you like that, so I—”
“What a load!” Drake says, shoving his way forward. “You were just as bad. Then I ask her out, and you say you’re practically dating, and I only want her now ‘cause of…” He drifts off too, but his gaze flicks down as well. Guess I’m not the only one afraid to call them what they are.
So it wasn’t in my head, or at least all of it wasn’t. I resist the urge to cover myself and run. I shouldn’t have to.
“What’d you guys comment on that picture?” I ask in the calmest voice I can muster. We’ve drawn the attention of those closest around us, but not enough to create a huge crowd around our squabble.
Drake meets my gaze. “You didn’t read it?”
“Didn’t really feel like reading an entire thread dedicated around the flaws in my body.”
They look at each other, but don’t say anything. I raise my fist because I meant what I said—I will punch it out of them.
“Drake knew the clothes were yours,” Jamal blurts. Drake’s eyes narrow, and he clenches his jaw, but he doesn’t refute anything. “And he said that’s probably why you’re slowing down.”
Heat rises in my cheeks, humiliated that what I’ve tried to hide was in fact never hidden at all. I turn to Drake, and he continues to eye Jamal down.
“Then Jamal threw Coach Fox under the bus. Said that you’re slower because of her coaching style.”
“We fought a bit after that,” Jamal admits. “A lot about the team, a little bit over you. I may have said that you deserve better friends.”
“You think?” I let out a derisive snort. “Did either of you consider that I actually did run that time?”
Slowly, they both shake their heads.
“Sorry, Silverman,” Drake says. “That time is… well, it’s not just impossible, it’s implausible. We don’t get why Coach would set a rule and then break it just for you.”
I stick out my chin. Twenty-four hours ago, I may have agreed with them. Heck, I’m no innocent here. I saw that time go up and stormed right into Fox’s office and ranted. But knowing what I know of her, and knowing what I know of me, I think maybe I did run that time. And I think I can do it again.
“What if I proved it?” I tell them, crossing my arms as the song changes around us.
“Huh?” Jamal stutters.
“If I run that time, will you withdraw all your complaints at Coach Fox’s school board meeting?”
Drake raises an eyebrow. “You really think
she’s the coach we need?”
“How fast are you running, Drake? Are you any slower? Is the team?” I flick my gaze to Jamal. “Remember actually cheering each other on instead of throwing a fit whenever someone outran you?” I shake my head. “I may be running slower, but it’s not because of Coach.”
They’re quiet. The background beat of the song thumps through my feet, and I itch to leave this fight and go party like we did at the last dance. But then I see Jamal’s mouth moving, and I can barely catch the words coming from it.
“Her son making you think that?”
My eyes bulge, and I’m beyond words. “What did you say?”
He stays silent, which is an answer all in itself. I put my hands up and start backing away from the both of them. “I’m going to run it,” I say. “And when I do, you’re going to eat your words at that meeting.”
Then I turn around and go off in search of Tiff and Marcus. Gosh, I know things are bad when I’d rather hang out with Fartbucket than the guy who brought me here.
30
Run, Run, Run…
The next week goes by in a blur of sweat and disappointing numbers. The dance had gone a lot better after Drake promised he wouldn’t bring up running or Jamal, and we just goofed off. I came home and changed right into my running clothes. Aunt Heidi was over and was happy to time me while I ran. It was the first time since my record score that I went without tape or a baggy shirt. I didn’t beat it, but it felt so good to run like that again.
Dad helped me on Sunday. He drove me to the rec center and timed me for a good half of the day. We only stopped when the sting from my rash got to be too much for me, and I spent the next twenty minutes in the bathroom bathing in ointment. Then he took me to dinner and miniature golfing—at my request—and I was very relieved that it wasn’t naivety that made me play so badly with Oliver; it was genetics. Dad did even worse than I did.