You Can't Catch Me (6 page)

Water
. Why did I forget to bring water?

I slump over, my nose touching my knees, my fingers dragging across the dewy grass at the cemetery. I pushed it today. Woke up an hour earlier to get more time in. Stretched. Jogged. Sprinted. Practiced on the track, on the grass, on the concrete… and now I’m dead. So I suppose the cemetery is the appropriate place for me right now.

When I ran past The Rolling Scones, it was too early for Marcel, so I don’t have anything for Cayenne.

“Sorry… Sis…” I tell her through labored breathing, slowly lowering into the grassy spot. Cemetery Guy isn’t here, and I’m more relieved than I am disappointed—obviously… I mean, I don’t know the dude—but I am surprised that I’m a teensy tiny itty witty bit disappointed. I could use a distraction, and honestly, I’ve gotten used to the morning company. We’ve yet to say anything to each other—seems like we’re both content in the quiet.

Since I’m alone, I pause my music and start talking to my sister. There’s a roly poly crawling across Cayenne’s name so I pluck him up and set him in the grass.

“My time was awful yesterday,” I tell her. “Well, not awful. I still outran a few people who are on the team now because they beat their own original tryout times, which is completely unfair, but whatever. Coach finally explained that this helps us cheer on each other instead of wishing that someone ends up with a slower time than what we did. So the only person we can be mad at, or superior over, is ourselves. Something about building us up as a team and not so much individually.” I snort and shake my head at the roly poly, who is determined to get back to Cayenne’s stone. “She was definitely a dance teacher before. ‘Teamwork! Unity! Rah Rah Rah!’”

Running has been such an individual sport for Crest Hills, unless we do the relay. We’ve always been competitive against each other, always wanting the top spot, always fighting not just other schools, but everyone so we could make it to State. Coach is determined it seems, to make us lean on each other.

I lie flat on my back and look at a cloud that resembles a burger with teeth. “It was cool when Annie ran her lap though,” I continue. “She was so close… and we could all tell she was slowing down near the end. She made the mistake of running with all she had right at the beginning. So she was coming down after the final turn. Coach said she had ten seconds left, and Ronnie took off down the track, met up with her, and said, ‘Push! Push! You can do this!’  And Annie pushed. She made it with a second to spare.”

It was the first time our team had been, well, a
team
. We all clapped and whooped for her when she collapsed on the track, tears and sweat mating on her cheeks. Even though I completely crapped out on my run, I felt genuine joy for her. Also, I had no real opinion of Ronnie before, other than he was the quiet guy who was an average runner—never first, never last. Now I want to be his friend. Invite him to hang with Drake and Jamal and Tiff and Rodney. I chuckle a little bit with the image of the shy Ronnie hanging out with the very loud Rodney.

“I have to run again today,” I tell my sister, watching the burger cloud morph into a Playstation controller. “And I’m afraid there won’t be anyone who will want to push me.”

A breeze blows past my face, almost as if Cayenne is telling me that she’ll be there. At least, I like to think that’s what she’s saying. I smile and say, “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

Something crunches, lurching my stomach. I sit upright and clutch at my chest as Cemetery Guy takes a spot across from me. The corner of his mouth twitches up, and I thank the heavens for the earphones dangling from his ears down to the pocket of his very blue jeans. He’s wearing a t-shirt today—I’ve only seen him in hoodies—and it accentuates the muscle of his arms, but it hangs shapeless over the rest of him. Kind of like my dad’s t-shirt on me. I bet they wear the same size. He waves. I wave. Then I reach into my pocket and crank up the music.

He has a green backpack today, and I wonder what school he goes to. I haven’t seen him at Crest Hills, but my house is right on the border, so I’m used to seeing a lot of people my age who aren’t in my class. He adjusts his blue earphone chords so they aren’t in the way and pulls the backpack on his lap. His ears are a little red as he digs around and takes out different objects. A pack of mini powdered donuts, like the ones you get from a vending machine, a pen, a textbook—can’t see what one it is—and it takes him a while, but he finally locates a pad of sticky notes and then sets it on top of his book. His eyes meet mine when he’s done, and I immediately force my gaze to the clouds, ignoring the fact that he’s returning the “stare at the stranger” favor.

I should go. I got my privacy, and I guess I could give him his. My eyes do a quick scan at what he’s doing—placing a donut on top of the headstone he visits—before I fall back and close them altogether.
Be a Man
is playing on my playlist, and I mouth the words, fighting between the urge to leave and the urge to say something to him. What
would
I say? What’s a good opener? I could go with a really lame, “Thanks for the bird thing.” But I should make it wittier. Several bird jokes go through my brain, each more awful than the last.

Yeah, I should just go. Maybe visit Cayenne around sunset instead of sunrise from now on.

Then a little pressure is put on the big toe of my left foot, almost like when Mom used to find my toe when she bought me new shoes. I lean up on my elbows and gaze down at a bright yellow sticky note on my pink sneaker. Cemetery Guy is twisting the cap on his pen, studiously
not
looking at me. I sit up and pluck it off my foot.

Hi
.

I turn it over. Nothing. Just “Hi.” That’s brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that?

Biting back a smile, I take a deep breath and tap his shoe with mine. When I get him to look at me, I gesture for a pen. His body moves as if he’s laughing, but I can’t hear him since my music is so loud. He digs in his backpack for another pen and hands it over. Our fingers don’t touch, but I’m feeling tingles as if it was transferred through the ink.

Hi.
:)

I cap my pen and stick the note on the bottom of his shoe. He hoists his ankle up on his knee, reads it, then grabs a new sticky, leaving our hellos on his foot. The second note gets pressed on my right shoe.

What’s your name?

Here’s a great opportunity to change my name, since I’m not fond of the one I have. Cemetery Guy could call me Emma or Sophie, something that a million other girls have because their parents don’t look at their spice rack and think, “That’s a good name.”

What’s yours?

I have to lean forward a bit to push it against the book in his hands. He peels it off and doesn’t hesitate on writing the answer and sending it back.

Oliver

It’s funny how people can look like someone, and then it completely changes when you find out their name. I never considered him to be an “Oliver,” but now I’m giving him a second look, up and down his clothes, his black hair, his dark eyebrows, his hazel eyes, the small freckles on his cheeks… and I totally see an “Oliver.”

I tap my pen against the sticky note, biting the inside of my cheek. I wonder if I look like my name. Do Gingers have bushy brown hair, man shoulders, and virtually no butt? Do all Gingers have giant Sharpies?

The sun pushes through the burger/Playstation cloud and shines across Cayenne’s name. She’s a spice too, but I’ve always loved her name. I bet she would’ve loved mine. We would’ve traded on days, driven Mom crazy. I smile and start scribbling on the sticky note.

Ginger

I hold my breath as he reads it. His eyebrows only jump slightly upward, but his grin widens. Not in a “That’s an awful name” sort of way, but a “Nice to meet you” way. Something happens to my heart then, like I’m about to jump off a cliff. I have to press my hands into the grass so he doesn’t see them shaking.

He starts a new sticky note then presses it to my shoe.

Sorry about crashing your cemetery time. Do you visit every morning?

It seems like a personal question, but I’m relieved he asks. Maybe we can work something out.

It’s okay. I don’t own the cemetery ;) I try to come often, but I haven’t seen you up until recently…?

Donut powder dusts his lips when I hand it back, and he licks it away as he grabs a new sticky.

Just moved back here. Spent ten years in Nebraska.

I tilt my head to the side and jot back.

Are you visiting someone or just hanging out at the local cemetery? ;)

He laughs, but it’s a short chuckle. He’s not smiling when he presses the note on my shoe.

Visiting.

Great, now I messed it up. I don’t know what to write back, because I think I unknowingly hit a nerve. Seems obvious in hindsight… don’t ask about someone’s dead relative—might be a sensitive subject. I internally smack my forehead.

Another sticky gets pushed on my foot, and I feel a slight—metaphorical—weight lift off my chest.

I tried not to listen, but I caught some of what you were saying when I walked up. Are you on the Crest Hills cross country team?

I smother my embarrassment at getting caught talking out loud, killing it before it makes my cheeks redden. He’s not making fun of me for chatting with my dead sister; I’m sure a lot of people do that at the cemetery. So I jot down a simple answer for him.

Yes
. Then I go to hand it back, but pause, quickly writing my own question.
Are you on a cross country team?

He laughs—like a bolting, jolting laugh that pushes through the music playing in my ears. He gives me a look and then pointedly gestures to his stomach. When my brows pull inward, he shakes his head and writes back.

I’m not much of a runner.

Okay, so maybe he’s got more of a wrestler or football player build. Like I have a right to pass judgment on that, though.

How old are you?
  I ask, bravery sneaking its way into our conversation. Maybe he’s not even in school anymore, and that’s why I haven’t seen him outside the cemetery.

He doesn’t hesitate on answering, pressing a new sticky on my foot.

18

Another one hits my foot.

You?

I take the second sticky and write
16
before pressing it against his pant leg. He laughs at my bold choice to push it against something other than his foot or his book. And I think he takes my boldness and uses it in his next question, because when I get the sticky note back, it feels out of nowhere.

You bring food when you visit, too?

Instead of writing my answer, I just nod at him. He puts his pen on the pad, rips it off, then leans forward, leaving the sticky part against his finger while I take it from him.

Did a bird steal it today? ;)

That dang mutant bird.

No, I’m early. Usually get the treats on the way here, but they weren’t ready yet.

So no food today?

Not today. I’ll bring double tomorrow or something.

He nods, rolling his pen cap across the bottom of his lip. I blink, watching the motion, surprised because I do that too when I’m unsure of how to phrase something.

Do you ever wonder what they do with it?

My brow furrows.
What who do with what?

The cemetery staff with the food.

I let out a tiny laugh. I’ve often pictured Cayenne’s food being taken by a squirrel or a pack of ants or a bird. Never considered a staff member stumbling upon it, looking over their shoulders, then indulging. It makes my tiny laugh turn into a bigger one.

Maybe they rely on us for breakfast.

He silently chuckles.
If they eat it, they must have a strong stomach.

Or a heck of an immune system.

His body moves in silent laughter again, and then he pulls out his phone, frowning at whoever is calling. He swipes left, ignoring the call, then writes on another sticky.

Gotta run. But it was nice to finally “talk” to you today.

He doesn’t wait for me to write something back, and I’m unsure of what to say anyway, so I just hand over his pen. But he waves at me like I can keep it. I’ve never been one of those people to treasure insignificant objects, but I imagine I’ll be smiling every time I use this sucker.

The song on my Disney track changes to
Sugar Rush.
Should I say bye? Ask if I’ll see him tomorrow? I open my mouth, but my voice stays caged in my throat, twisting the key, but unable to make it unlock. Something about using my voice now that we’ve had a full conversation via sticky note seems… wrong. So I watch him pack away his things, wondering if he even got any studying done, wondering if he’ll be back tomorrow, wondering if I should leave with him. But I stay put on the ground, mostly because—and I hate to admit it—he’s got me all twitterpated, and I’m unsure if I possess the
ability
to move at all.

He hikes up his pack on his shoulder and gives me a wave, which I return. His eyes drift to the one donut he has left in the package, and he takes a deep breath and holds it. My heart thumps heavy and hard as he closes the distance between us and crouches next to me. He smells like pine needles and dessert. And his shirt brushes the skin on my arm only slightly, but it steals the breath clean out of my lungs.