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.
12
The Running Bagel Analogy
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.
13
Ch…ch…cha…changes
When I get home I pull out all my homework and busy myself with it. Mom and Dad come home from work with dinner, and both ask me how my day was. I say, “Fine” even though it h
as been far from it.
My phone buzzes, and I’m half tempted to ignore it.
Hey. Can u come over?
I blow out a breath and text Jamal back. After dinner maybe. But not for long. Got somewhere to be.
With my assignment to go to the track tomorrow morning, I decided to skip the regular morning run and cemetery trip. It was a bigger decision than it should’ve been. I made a pros and cons list and everything. In the end, missing Oliver for one day just wasn’t that big of an argument. So I’m going tonight to see Cayenne, but I’ll leave a note for Oliver telling him why I’m not there when I said I would be. Hmm… I wonder if Dad has any Post-its lying around his “office.”
We’re done eating here, so come over whenever, Jamal texts back.
I look up at Mom and Dad eating their yummy gluten-filled pizza in front of the TV, watching The Middle and cracking up at “how true” it all is, while I stare at my barely touched salad because it’s missing the best part—the croutons. My history project is still splayed out across the kitchen table, barely touched as well. I haven’t told either of my parents my running woes, but I know Dad can tell something’s wrong. He keeps doing his coddling-eyes, and he asked me on a daddy daughter date. I took him up on it, and that seems to have pacified him for now.
My phone buzzes again.
See you soon. :)
Well, I may as well go now before it gets dark. I’m a tough girl, but no way, no way, no way am I walking through a cemetery past sunset.
I close my history book that was open to the WWII chapter and push from the table.
“Um, Dad?” I ask because I always go with Dad when I want something. He laughs at whatever joke was just told on their show and reaches over and holds Mom’s hand on the back of the couch.
I stick my phone into my back pocket and close up my salad to put in the fridge for a week before Mom tosses it. Then I grab my jacket, throw it over my arm, and stand next to my selective-hearing father.
“Dad?” I try again. He lets go of Mom’s hand to find the remote and pause the show.
“Mmm?”
I keep eye contact. It’s the most important thing. “You mind if I go to Jamal’s for a bit before I run tonight?”
His brows crinkle inward. “Did you finish your homework?”
No. “Sort of. It’s not due till next Monday.” He looks at Mom, and when she shrugs, I keep going. “And running is my homework, too.”
He looks at Mom one more time, and she gives him the whatever-you-decide nod. Dad turns back and eyes the shirt I borrowed from his closet. I told him it was a new style when he caught me rummaging the other day. He said to only take the ones that Grandma bought him. I’m pretty sure the giant baby blue polo with the ducks on the pocket qualifies.
“Okay,” he says. “Be home by nine.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I give him a one-armed hug and pull on my running shoes. Their show is back on, and they’re holding hands and laughing when I shut the door.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it. Jamal’s only a couple houses down, and it’s most likely him again. Tiff has been MIA today due to Fartbucket activities, and Drake just calls or comes over when he wants to talk. He’s called twice. I answered the last one, and after hearing him only talk about the fall formal for ten minutes, I cut the conversation short. Is it bad that I totally forgot about that?
I’m kind of dreading it, to be honest. Not because it’s Drake… We’re friends, and we can go as friends, and I’ll make sure to make that clear to him. But because every dress I’ve ever seen does nothing to hide Sharpies. They only enhance them. Heck, Hadley wore a bright yellow cupcake dress to prom last year, and those small things looked like they could’ve poked an eye out.
Maybe I can go in one of my dad’s shirts and tie it with a belt. I could be the start of a revolutionary fashion trend.
“Ginger!” Jamal calls from behind me on his porch. Apparently I’m so out of it that I walked right past his house. I shake my head and laugh at myself, reversing my tracks.
“That was fast,” he says when I step inside.
“Just finishing dinner when you texted.” His house sounds empty again. It doesn’t smell like boy though. I mean, that smell is still there, but it’s covered by something cheesy and spicy. I wonder what they had for dinner, if it’s gluten-free, and if they have any left over. “Your mom here?”
He shakes his head and then runs a hand over his short, curly hair. “I’m babysitting. Josh and Jesse are in the basement.” He gestures to the stairs that lead up to his room, and under normal circumstances, I think I’d be okay with that. I mean, it’s never been a problem before. But suddenly puberty and bigger woman parts coupled with the assumption that he has bigger man parts makes me detour to the living room and claim the only one-seater there: the recliner.
“So, what’s up?” I ask him.
He sinks into the loveseat, his knees angled toward me. “It’s crap, you know? Coach Fox not letting you on the team.”
I shrug and look down to make sure I’m still well-hidden. “I can’t beat my time. I wouldn’t let me on the team either.”
His eyes narrow. “She even has you doubting yourself.”
“It’s not that. You said it first—I’m getting soft.”
“I was just messing with you.” He shakes his head, brushing it off. I get that; we rag on each other all the time. Well, less lately. Ever since I got back this summer, things seemed to have shifted. Everything feels different now.
Or maybe it’s because I’m different.
I’m about to blurt that out. Ask him if he feels it too, but he cuts me off.
“I… I mean the team and I… we’re gonna take care of it.”
“Huh?”
“Go to the principal. Tell him that Coach Fox is going to cut the fastest girl we have on the team.” He lets out a laugh. “I mean, what does she know about coaching a cross country team anyway?”
My stomach squirms, making my butt wiggle in my seat. “Coach Fox? Hasn’t she been coaching for years?”
“Yeah, but…” He gives me a grin and a look like I should get what he’s implying. When I shrug at him, he continues, “She’s not exactly a runner, you know? I mean… you can tell she isn’t a runner.”
My squirming insides tighten and tangle up. I don’t know what feels worse, the entire team thinking that I can’t outrun my own score, or that they’re all looking at Coach Fox like she’s some sort of hippo that doesn’t know what she’s doing. Sure, I’m pissed that I might get cut from the team, from the only thing that I love, but I’m not mad at her. I’m mad at me. At my summer eating choices and the bloating results.
“I can’t tell if you’re joking around with me or if you turned into a class A jerk over the season,” I tell him. He sits back in surprise.
“What?”
“You’re saying Coach Fox is too fat to coach us.”
“Well, I just meant—”
“And that you don’t think I can beat my time.”
“I was just trying to reassure you in case you don’t.”
I push myself out of the recliner. “Well, don’t. I don’t need reassurance.”
“Ginger…”
He follows me to the front door, but I don’t want him to follow me. I don’t want him around me right now. This day has been a pile of crap, and this is the fly that births maggots on top of it.
“This isn’t Coach’s fault. It’s mine. And you won’t ever understand what it’s like, so just shut up and leave it alone.”
I open his front door, but he puts his hand up and closes it. “I didn’t mean to make you mad.”
His eyes are wide, like he has no idea why I’m upset. It hurts deep in the pit of my belly because I’ve never been mad with him. I’ve never had a reason to be, and maybe I don’t have one now either, and I’m just taking all my feelings about myself out on him.
Then his eyes drift down, just for three seconds that feel like three years, and
I get a painful prick in the corner of my eyes. He’s staring at them like he knows they’re there, but how could he? I’m in a humongous shirt, and I’m double-taped. I can barely breathe, barely walk, and yet he stares.
“Well…” I say, and his eyes flick back up. “You did.”
I yank the door open and trip on my way out. I pretend I totally meant to and continue down the street toward the cemetery. When I get there, I lay my cheek down on Cayenne’s name, grateful for once this week that I am actually alone.
“I don’t get what’s happening,” I tell her. “Is everyone else changing? Or is it just me?”
14
Run-in with a Fox
Don’t think. Just run.
I inhale deep, letting the morning air fill my lungs up to giant balloons. When I feel like they might burst, I let the breath out slowly, opening my eyes to the track line in front of my pink shoes. No one’s here. Just me and the track and my feet and my legs and my heart that’s pounding pounding pounding.
I take another long breath, in and out, while I look around to make sure I really am alone. My shirt isn’t baggy today—well, not yet. This won’t be the one I’m walking around in once the school bell rings. But when I saw that I was the only one out here, I pulled that one off and ran like I used to—just the sports bra and me. The baggy Daddy shirt is sitting in a heap by my water bottle and backpack.
Don’t think. Just run.
I’m thinking. Thinking way too much. So I shut my mind off of what I’m wearing and why it’s so hard for me to wear it, take another deep and long breath, then just… run.
Warmth immediately rises up from somewhere in my gut. It’s a good warmth. I remember this. When I was six, we were cleaning up from one of our huge family parties, and Mom found a cooler of water balloons that had somehow survived the festivities. She grabbed a green one, gave it a tiny squeeze, and turned to me with a wicked eye. I shrieked and took off. And I felt it… this… that undeniable urge to run as fast as I possibly can.
It travels through my legs and arms now just as it did back then. Mom was fast. She’d been running the treadmill every time she thought about Cayenne, and when I was six, that was pretty much every day. Sometimes twice a day. I saw her gaining on me, balloon in hand, and I pushed back my giddy laughter and forced my legs faster.