You Can't Catch Me (3 page)

I don’t think of myself as a particularly shy person, but when it comes to striking up a conversation, I kind of clam up. Of course, it could be because I’m in a cemetery, and when I’m chilling with Cayenne, I tend to like my privacy. I’m sure whoever this guy is wants the same. But he’s like two feet away, and it’s either make conversation with him, listen in on him chewing and chewing on his sandwich, or start running back.

I turn on my heel and wave a final goodbye to my sister. Only Mystery Dude thinks I’m waving at him, because he stops his chewing and stares at me blankly for a couple of seconds before waving back with his half of a sandwich.

Then in a creepy coincidence,
Are You Ready?
from
The Princess and the Frog
starts playing. I run like I’m going for the gold again as I get the heck out of there.

I run the whole way back then walk it off on my front lawn. Coach Juniper always said with a tone of a shrill cat lady, “Stay on your feet!” so I’ve always paced my way out of exhaustion—until she turned her back, and I’d collapse to the ground.

The front screen door squeaks open, and Dad comes out, swinging a very full white trash bag by his leg. He’s doing his best not to get garbage water all over his slacks.

“Have a good day, sweetie!” he calls out to me. I’m breathing too hard to form a sentence, so I just wave my arm at him and catch the door before it slams shut.

Mom’s bustling around the living room, probably searching for her keys. She always gives me crap for never being able to find my shoes because I don’t put them in their “designated shoe bin,” but she loses her keys every day because she doesn’t put them on the hook.

I slug up the stairs, legs starting to get that rubbery feel, and by the time I get to my room, I’m ready to slump on my bed. Problem is, there’s someone already on it.

“Back to the scene of the crime,” I say to Tiff, letting my iPod skate across my dresser. “You know I can’t even look Four in the face anymore.” I wave my hand at my
Divergent
comforter, and Tiff bites back a laugh. Her cheeks sprout pink.

“I’m sorry.”

“Betrayal,” I accuse.

“I know.” She holds up a bag with ribbons and sparkles and shakes it at me.

“Buying my forgiveness?” I sit on the bed and take the bag from her.

“Yes… and I forgot to give it to you at the party.”

She decided not to get the tissue paper and just tossed it in an old Walmart bag, which is totes fine, because I do the same thing.

“Isn’t it cuuute?” she says when I finally dig into the actual present. I hold up the bright green sport t-shirt that has a gingerbread man on the front, and on the back it says “GINGER.” I love it. It’s awesome and so me.

But it’s so…
small
.

“Are you really that mad at me?” she asks, her eyes frowning at my reaction. “Because I swear the whole Marcus thing won’t happen again if it bothers you. I’d rather kiss a python.”

I snort. “You like tongue?”

“Gross.” She shoves me, then looks at the shirt again. “Do you really not like it?”

I push the bags out from in between us and give her one of my rarely handed out hugs. “All is forgiven.”

***

Jamal lives in a boy house—and what I mean by that is there's about eighty types of smells one encounters as they walk from the front door down to the basement where all the Magic happens. And I mean Magic the card game, because Jamal and his brothers are über nerds.

But today is different. Every other time I stop by, I’m hit with whatever is cooking, dirty socks, boy sweat—which is
way
different than girl sweat—and cologne after cologne they use to cover it all up. The couch in the basement is usually a cottonbally smell with a hint of Febreeze.

No, not today. Today all I smell is whatever musky mall scent Jamal decided to bathe in.

“I can’t breathe,” I choke out when he opens the door. His dark cheeks redden a bit after he takes a whiff of his pit.

“Well, you should’ve smelled me before. It was way worse.”

“Doubtful,” I joke. He laughs and steps back to let me in, and I try to breathe through my mouth. Only now I can taste it.

After six years of living a couple houses down from each other, we’ve both gotten used to making ourselves at home. I immediately go for the snack drawer in the fridge where his mom keeps an abundance of gluten-free nibblers and spot the Febreeze sitting on the counter. I take it and douse Jamal and laugh when he acts as if I’m spraying him with acid.

The smell does not get any more familiar—or better—as we head downstairs to the man cave. I also expect to see two of his three brothers down here, but it’s empty.

“Where is everyone?” I ask, sinking into the worn couch Jamal and his brothers just found on the street. They shampooed and Lysoled the crap out of it so their mom would let it stay.

“Mom and Josh are at the store, and Jesse and Jared are fishing with Dad.” Jamal flumps into the seat next to me, and when I say next to me, I mean
right
next to me. Our legs are touching, so I scoot over and hug the arm of the couch.

“You didn’t want to go with them?” I ask. “You know you can’t complain about not seeing your dad as much as you want if you’re the party pooper.”

“It was a last minute thing, and we”—he gestures to the two of us—“had plans.”

I give him a look, snorting as he clicks on the TV. “Oh yes. This never could have been rescheduled.”

He laughs, but it sounds off. Like he’s choking on his own tongue. When he finally ungags himself by clearing his throat, he asks in a somewhat shaky voice, “So… what do you wanna do?”

I rumble my lips, accidentally spraying my leg with the baby carrot in my mouth. “Gosh, there’s all this pressure now to make it worth your while.”

“I think you’re overestimating how fun fishing is.” He falls back into the couch, nestling all up in my space again. He reaches for some snacks, and I growl at him because he can eat the big bucket of Red Vines sitting right next to him, but he goes after one of three things in my diet. He fights me for the bag, and when I finally give in, his hand sort of… stays there. Like on top of mine.

I glance up at him, eyebrows pulled in because this is clearly something we
don’t
do. He grins at me, and it’s like he has no idea how to read facial expressions.

“I really missed you, Ginger.”

“Uh… ditto?” I stutter. His hand is still on mine, and I’m starting to sweat. There should be a time limit for touching. Like one Mississippi. Two tops. And we’re passing about ten Mississippis. I feel like I’m drowning in the river, and I wouldn’t touch him even if he was trying to pull me out.

“Let’s play Mortal Kombat!” I blurt, trying to come up with something to keep his hands occupied. I push myself out of the sinking couch and crouch by all the games stacked on the floor. A cold breeze hits the small of my back, so I reach around and pull my baggy shirt down in case I’m accidentally mooning the guy.

I find the case for Mortal Kombat, but another game is in it, and I sigh and play “scavenger hunt” for the right game. I finally find it in Forza Version 800 something.

Jamal grapples for the controllers and tosses me one after I put the game in. He settles right smack dab in the middle of the couch so whatever side I choose to sit on, we’ll be bumping into each other. He grins. Doesn’t move. I sit in the bean bag chair that smells like guy sweat. I’ll risk sitting in who knows what because I’ve about had my fill for the touching that seems much friendlier than I’m used to.

After about sixty million rounds of Mortal Kombat, I jetted out of Jamal’s basement with the excuse of being home for dinner. I don’t know if it was Jamal’s problem or mine, but last night was so super weird for us. I half expect him to not show for our morning run, but he jogs up right at 6:45 when I pass his house.

“Race this morning?” he asks with a giant grin. My stomach claps in relief that the air between us is relatively normal.

“Not really fair…” I pant. “You just started.”

“Excuses,” he says, then picks up his pace from a jog to a run. I force my legs to go faster.

The best thing about running—like
really
running—is that a lot of extra thoughts are lost because your body likes to take over. You count breaths, listen to your heart, find patterns in the way your shoes hit the pavement. This is the time I spend with the road or the track or trail. But something else is starting to take over my morning dates with the road.

Every step I take feels like my extra weight wants to pull me into the sidewalk. I probably look so incredibly top heavy that I’m running at a ninety degree angle. Jamal keeps looking over his shoulder, expecting me to blaze past him like I used to do, but I’m so self-conscious of these things that I slam my arms over my chest and try to run without arm momentum. It’s not going well—the distance between us gets wider and wider as he tags the post at the park
way
before I do.

“Still working off those cupcakes?” he teases when I reach him. But it’s not funny. In fact, it feels as if my entire body fills with a weight that’s ten times the amount I’m used to. There’s a sick taste in my mouth and heat at the back of my eyes.

Jamal hunches over, resting his hands on his knees, back rising and falling with his labored breathing.

“Maybe you’re getting faster,” I mumble.

He shakes his head. “You’re going soft.”

A frown pulls at my lips, and I look down at my crossed arms over the cushions that have sprouted over the summer, the handles on my hips, the kissing of my thighs. And I’m hit over the head with a bag full of regret.

He straightens, jogging in place so he doesn’t tighten up. “You ready to go more? I’ll slow it down for you.” He grins, winks, and my neck gets hot, and my arms flex over my chest.

“Um… I think I forgot to hydrate,” I lie and jut a thumb over my shoulder. “So I’m gonna head back before I puke.”

He laughs. “Whatever you say.” Then he totally shows off by sprinting like a mad man through the playground and swinging himself through the jungle gym before landing on the opposite sidewalk. I wait till he’s out of sight before speed walking to The Rolling Scones.

Marcel leaves some chocolate covered strawberries that I’m tempted to keep all for myself, even though I know stress eating isn’t the answer. I sneak in some money and a thank you note for the previous snacks and then make my way to the cemetery.

Cayenne would’ve been twelve years old this year. Seems like if she were here, she’d be the one learning about her growing body, not me. I’d like to think I could talk to Cayenne about this… I think she is the
only
person I feel comfortable talking about this with. Though Mom told me I could talk to God about anything I wanted, I’m pretty sure God never had breasts.

I clutch at the strawberries in my hand and hurry up the path to where Cayenne is, but when I come up over the small hill, I notice someone sitting against one of the headstones a few spaces over. It makes me pause in my tracks, stomach dropping in disappointment. I really wanted some alone time.

Cemetery Guy has brought coffee and scones that smell so freaking delectable I have to remind myself of those intestinal swordfish so I don’t cave and buy some on the way back home.

Making sure my earbuds are snug in my ears, I ease down on the grass in between Cayenne and her “neighbor” and open the bag of strawberries. I place one on her grave then keep the rest for myself. I can feel Cemetery Guy watching me, and I wish I could close a privacy curtain or something. Not just for me, but for him too. I feel like I’m encroaching on some personal time, but I don’t want to start the morning without visiting Cayenne. And well, he disrupted my time yesterday.

My Disney track moves to
Strangers Like Me,
which makes me laugh a little at the irony. I wonder if Cayenne is haunting my iPod, because I know I’d totally be doing that if I was her.

He shifts, and when I meet his stare, he smiles at me. I think I smile back, but I’ve got a mouthful of strawberry, so it probably doesn’t look all that pretty. I was hoping that he was on the move to get up, but he’s reaching into his backpack. He pulls out a blue notebook and a click-pen and starts scratching on the lined paper. Oh great, now
I’m
the one staring. It’s not my fault though—we’re two feet apart, sitting across from one another, and I bet if he stretched out his legs, he’d be touching mine.

I adjust the volume on my iPod and try to have a telepathic convo with my sister.

Can you believe this guy?
I say in a mock annoyed tone. I don’t own the cemetery, so I know people are free to pay respects—or bring food—whenever they feel like it. And at least he’s not trying to talk to me. Some people feel the need to talk about their entire lives to people they just met. It’s why I like to keep my earbuds firmly in place when I’m on the bus.

Right when I’m finally feeling a little more comfortable with a stranger sharing my cemetery time, a bird decides to dive bomb straight out of freaking nowhere and lands inches away from Cayenne’s strawberry.

“No!” I shout, jolting the pen out of Cemetery Guy’s hand. I try to shoo the bird away, but it nips at me.
Nips at me!
Is this thing a bird or a mutant? Fowl bred with alligator. After its blazing eyes burn my very soul for daring to keep it from its meal, it snaps at the strawberry again.

“It is not nice to steal food!” I scream at it, because after the look I just got, I wouldn’t be surprised if it understood English. Instead of risking losing a finger, I swing my iPod around like a lasso, ready to whip it at the thing if it takes off with Cayenne’s breakfast. Its eyes watch me curiously, making me feel like an idiot who is not the least bit threatening. Then slowly it lowers its head, opening its beak and spreading its wings. I ready my precious iPod, only slightly aware that its worth is way more than that of the strawberry—and that the strawberry will probably be eaten later by some other animal. We’re at a standoff, me and the mutant bird, and just as I’m about to make my move, a bit of bread flops in the grass by the bird’s feet.

It tilts its head, and I tilt mine too, and then it gobbles the bread up in one bite. Before it can go back to the strawberry, another piece flumps a little farther away from Cayenne. The bird bounces across the grass after it.

I let my iPod drop to my side and watch Cemetery Guy tear off another piece from his breakfast and toss it farther and farther away from us. Soon he’s chucking it as hard as he can to reach the birdigator across the cemetery. When he’s done, he wipes his hands free of crumbs and settles back against the headstone. He continues to write in his notebook as if he didn’t just rescue the crazy damsel in somewhat distress.

Okay, so I’m not one of those girls who is attracted to guys right away. I mean, Tiff saw Fartbucket only once before she started swooning all over him (ick). But it took me several meetings before I crushed on Kevin Welby, and it was because I caught a glimpse of him helping an old guy cross the street. What can I say? I have a thing for quiet, understated good guys. And Cemetery Guy should probably creep me out since, well, I don’t know him. I can’t help but analyze the way he got rid of the bird. Sure, he could’ve left me to fend for myself, or laughed at me since that’s probably what I would’ve done. And he could’ve gotten up and chased the bird in a macho “I’m saving you” kind of way—he’s certainly got the muscle for it. But no… he found a way to get rid of it in the gentlest way possible, which I also think is incredibly clever.

So of course, I’m finding Cemetery Guy undeniably attractive in this moment. I should probably say something. Like “Thank you.” But I can tell my cheeks are full of blush from the heat rolling through them. My shaking fingers try to get my earbuds back in, but it takes me one or two times before they stay. His eyes flick up, and now I’m noticing their color, which is this greenish but more brownish that match the freckles on his round cheeks. Oh joy, I’m noticing freckles. And I’m staring. My lips turn into this lopsided, goofy feeling grin, and instead of grinning back, he just looks at me with the blankest of stares, mouth partly open and floppy hair blowing across his forehead.

I slam my eyes shut and fall back on the grass, cranking my music up. Maybe when I have the guts to open my eyes again, he’ll be gone, and I can talk to Cayenne about this in private.

My track turns to
I Put a Spell on You
. My sister thinks she’s a comedian.