You Can't Catch Me (15 page)

“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.

“Ginger?” Rodney says, and I blink and turn to him. His brows are raised expectantly, and I give him an apologetic look.

“Sorry, what?”

He laughs. “I was expressing some real deep, heartfelt emotions, and you don’t hear a thing.”

My mouth pulls in all-out skepticism. “Heartfelt?”

“Yes, I am capable.” He stops us before we head into English. “Now pay attention. Only gonna say it one more time.”

I straighten up, exaggerating eye contact. “Go.”

His expression hardens, going from teasing, playful, hilarious Rodney to a brother-like protector, and I feel my own smile slowly fade, and my ears perk up.

“I know you’re Ginger, and you don’t let crap get to you, but I gotta say this anyway in case there’s the slight chance that it’s bugging you.” He reaches out and pulls on my elbow to move me out of the way from the door as people pass. “Everyone has their ‘thing’ they’re dealing with, and some people just want to focus on other people’s ‘things’ so they don’t have to deal with their own.” His eyes flick over my shoulder as Jamal slides into the classroom. Jamal’s brow furrows over the quiet conversation I’m having with one of the least quiet people we know, but he doesn’t interrupt.

Rodney waits till he’s out of hearing distance, letting out a long breath and straightening up. “You’re my bro. I got your back, all right?”

A smile tugs on the corner of my lip, and a weight I didn’t know was there lifts slightly off my shoulders. I clasp Rodney’s hand and pull him in for a chest bump and back slap, because this is our thing, and it feels good to act like myself—a person I’m slowly remembering.

“I know,” I tell him when we pull back. I didn’t really know, but I do now. And I smile behind his back as we walk in, grateful that the whole time we were talking, he didn’t look down once.

Jamal twists in his desk when I sit behind him. “You run this morning?”

I nod as I pull out my book and a pencil. “Went early.”

His eyes drift to the stuff on my desk, and I can see his tongue move along the inside of his top lip. Rodney watches the short exchange with a questioning eyebrow and then rips a corner off the notebook paper he’s got out, crumples it, and chucks it at Jamal. It hits right between his eyes.

“What?” Jamal asks, searching for the paper, but it fell somewhere under his desk.

Rodney leans forward. “You know what.”

They have a stare off, and then Jamal says, “I’ll tell her later.”

“Tell me now,” I say, leaning back in my desk and crossing my arms. I quickly uncross them the second I notice cleavage peeking from the top of the shirt.

Jamal eyes Rodney once more before he grumbles something under his breath.

“Huh?” I prod.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, glaring at Rodney before going back to me. “I was going to apologize in
private
, but someone’s impatient.”

“Just making sure you followed through,” Rodney says, putting his hands up. He sits back and acts like he’s not listening anymore, even though we both know he is.

My eyes meet Jamal’s, his dark cheeks splashing red. “Sorry about what?”

Our teacher comes in and holds out the bin for our phones. Jamal turns in his seat, I think relieved that he doesn’t have to answer my question right now. I wonder if he’s apologizing for the boyfriend/girlfriend rumor—albeit reluctantly—and I kinda hope that he is. That’s one conversation I don’t want to have to bring up. I was perfectly fine ignoring it till it went away.

Halfway through our reading time, Jamal’s hand twists under my desk, a folded paper sitting in his palm. I’m careful to only touch the note as I pluck it from his hand, and I settle it in the binding of the boring required reading.

I was only trying to defend you on that thread. Didn’t realize I was making it worse.

I flip the paper around, brows pulling in when that side is blank. I didn’t even see Jamal comment on the photo, mostly because I was avoiding it like the plague. Now I’m itching to get my phone out of the bin so I can catch up to what he’s talking about.

I don’t write him back, not wanting to say “Don’t worry about it” when I have no clue what it is I’m telling him to not worry about. When the bell rings, Jamal races out of there pretty fast, and I open my Instagram, fire ants crawling through my gut as I scroll through the comments to find Jamal’s username.

I’m so focused I don’t notice Rodney until his booming laugh is heard over my head as he runs into some of his teammates. Looks like he’s taken it upon himself to be my official body guard in between classes.

SuperBridget
knew there was no way she was running that fast. Coach Fox must’ve seen this and empathized. #biggirlsunite