Running Lean

by Diana L. Sharples

  Yet Stacey’s sick days, the dizziness, and her über-strict diet that drove him nuts … Could he really blame that stuff on Zoe?

  Calvin looked over his shoulder and saw the two girls heading into a science lab.

  Not Zoe. That social parasite couldn’t cause Stacey to do a face-plant in the school hallway. And neither could female problems. Calvin had sisters; they complained and got cranky, but they didn’t turn sickly pale and pass out once a month. Something else was up.

  And both girls knew what it was. He’d bet his motorcycle on it.

  Chapter 2

  Stacey eased onto her assigned stool in the science lab and arranged her books on the counter in front of her. The chemical tang in the air melded with the roiling acids in her stomach, intensifying the pain behind her eyes. She covered her face with her hands and inhaled scented hand sanitizer. The room tilted around her, or maybe she swayed on her metal perch.

  Spicy perfume, which Zoe used by the bucketful, seeped into the bubble of air between Stacey’s hands. She parted her fingers to peer at her friend.

  Zoe folded her forearms on the table and leaned close. “I have Midol.”

  “Huh?”

  “Didn’t you tell Calvin you’re having cramps?”

  Stacey winced. Had half the people in school seen her fall in the hallway? Anyone in this room? Humiliating! And now Calvin would be … watching. “No, I’m okay. I just got dizzy.”

  “Take your vitamins this morning?”

  She stared at the counter in front of her. Vitamins. She had bottles and bottles of them, but she hated pills. Hated them since she was a child, when they pumped drugs into her after two heart surgeries. No pills. No matter how much Zoe insisted. Besides, she’d yet to figure out how many calories those things had.

  Stacey leaned toward Zoe’s ear. “Fasting,” she whispered.

  Zoe hummed acknowledgment. “Drink water. Not this stuff.” Her fingers closed around Calvin’s energy drink bottle.

  Stacey snatched the bottle back. It was Calvin’s gift to her, though it was poison to her system, a red flag against all her plans.

  Zoe threw up her hands. “Whatever. You wanted accountability.”

  Stacey turned the bottle around to study the nutritional information. Might as well be a gazillion calories and carbs.

  “Ugh! This is so hard.” She collapsed onto the counter.

  “Do you have any sugar-free gum? It’ll help get rid of the cravings.”

  She dug into her purse for some sugar-free peppermint that was somewhere at the bottom. It’d keep her breath from smelling like the acid in her stomach, but it also had artificial sweeteners and other rancid chemicals. “I can’t chew it now. Mr. Emerson will have a fit.”

  “He’s always having fits,” a male voice said. The counter quaked as Stacey’s lab partner dumped his monster backpack onto it. “What’s the matter?” Kenny asked. “You sick?”

  Zoe whirled, placed herself between Kenny and the table. She struck a swimsuit-model pose, letting her hair drape over part of her face. “Hey, Kenny.”

  The redheaded senior peered down from his six-foot-two height. Tiny muscles beneath his eyes twitched. “Excuse me. This is my seat.”

  “What’ll you give me for moving?”

  The guy just stared.

  Zoe groaned and rolled out of the way. “You break my heart, Kenny.” She grazed her fingers across Stacey’s shoulder. “Feel better, girl. Talk after class.”

  Stacey set the drink bottle on the counter again and hugged her arms. Honestly, they had to be running the air conditioner already. None of her sweaters were heavy enough.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t handle chemicals in class if you’re sick,” Kenny said.

  Be strong. Can’t become the center of anyone’s attention. Stacey sat tall, envisioning a graceful line from her chin to her chest. “I’m fine.”

  Kenny nodded, his face stony. She’d never seen those flat cheeks crease with a smile’s dimple. “Good. ‘Cause puking on the table would be bad.”

  Thanks, Kenny. I so needed that image in my brain.

  The bell rang. Shoes and stool legs screeched against the tile floor, while thumping noises and conversations ricocheted between Stacey’s ears. The classroom door slammed, sending a hammer strike to the back of her skull. She closed her eyes and drew a breath of air glutted with the stench of hydrochloric acid. As Mr. Emerson launched into his lecture, Stacey tucked the energy drink bottle into her purse. She could slip out to the bathroom during lab time to pour it out.

  Art was not a precise thing. It never obeyed timetables. Stacey glanced up from her secret creation toward the ticking second hand of the clock in her history class. Twenty-seven seconds left. Twenty-six. Would the third-period bell ring right when that tiny strip of plastic reached the twelve?

  Mrs. Bartow droned on, talking about political strife in some distant past. Stacey’s hand moved over a sheet of notebook paper. Anyone watching would assume she was taking notes.

  Nearly done.

  She grabbed another line from the poem scribbled in the margin of her actual class notes. She envisioned the letters, measured them, and inscribed them, perfectly positioned, on the fresh page.

  Fifteen seconds.

  Hand and heart raced with the clock as she laid out the last letters: f-a-c-e.

  The bell jolted through her. Banging and scuffling surrounded her, but Stacey remained still, bent protectively over her poem as she read.

  forever

  tumultuous

  my heart

  gushing spilling over

  a violent wave of need

  crashing inside me

  yet never quenching

  the warmth that lingers

  where your fingertips

  tenderly lovingly

  caressedy my face

  The word tumultuous had been her muse, despite having been spoken through Mrs. Bartow’s wrinkly lips. Stacey had sculpted the letters to form the shape of a bloated female body.

  Would Calvin notice? Would he get it? Did she really want him to?

  Warring desires. Help. Stay away. Notice me. Be invisible.

  She touched her cheek, where she could still imagine the pressure of his fingers. Sweet Calvin. She couldn’t confess anything to him outright, couldn’t add to the burdens he already carried. He needed her to be strong. Raised on his mama’s country cooking, he probably wouldn’t understand the poem’s symbolism, anyway. He wouldn’t support her choices the way Zoe did.

  His political science classroom was just down the hall, but she’d have to hurry to catch him before he headed to lunch. She laid the poem between her notebook and textbook then hurried out the door.

  Three doors down, Stacey poked her head inside the classroom to confirm Calvin wasn’t there. She rushed down the hallway, whirled at an intersection to avoid slamming into someone, then lifted on her toes to peer over heads and past shoulders of clamoring students.

  Ahead—dusty-blond curls and a gray sweatshirt topping baggy jeans. She’d carefully inscribed the Yamaha logo across the back of his shirt with fabric paint, and on the front she’d drawn his motorcycle. Stacey lifted her hand and opened her mouth to call Calvin, but stopped. A girl walked beside him. Stacey nearly missed that detail, because Flannery Moore kept her hair cut boy-short and hid her narrow hips beneath baggy athletic pants. But when the girl turned her head to reveal a classic film-star profile, there was no denying who clasped Calvin’s elbow and leaned close to say something in his ear.

  A clammy chill flooded Stacey’s face. Her balance failed her, and she stepped back.

  Flannery and Calvin?

  Clutching her forehead with her free hand, Stacey bulldozed a path through the other students. At last Calvin and Flannery were only a few steps in front of her, close together and laughing.

  Not happening. Not possible. They’d known each other since kindergarten or some ridiculously long time like that. Flannery’s father owned the local motorcycle
shop, and she and Calvin were riding buddies. Her hair was short because she didn’t like yanking out the tangles after a ride. She was—or at least was supposed to be—one of the guys.

  The world blurred into a haze around the oblivious pair. Stacey’s shoes felt like pink-laced bricks. Calvin’s name tore through her throat.

  He turned. His eyebrows shot up and a wide smile spread across his face. Too wide? “Hey, Stace. How’re you feeling?”

  “Calvin? Wh—what’s going on?”

  The girl, Flannery, turned her green-tinged doe eyes toward Stacey. Long, trendy bangs framed her oval face—liquid eyes, pouty lips, smooth skin. An Irish tomboy version of Audrey Hepburn. Definitely not one of the guys.

  “Just going to lunch. Are you okay?” Calvin’s voice trembled in Stacey’s head where rational thought once lived. She’d come looking for him for a reason. The poem. Stacey slipped her fingers beneath her notebook and found the loose sheet of paper.

  “Stacey, say something. What’s wrong?”

  Flannery stared, unmoving and haughty. She toyed with a boyish beaded necklace at the base of her long, graceful throat.

  “O-okay …” Stacey’s fingers moved, flexing and unflexing. A crackling noise filled her ears, nearly drowning out the sound of Calvin’s voice.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “You look—”

  “Why should you worry about me? Just go eat lunch with your girlfriend.”

  He winced. “Say what?”

  “Your girlfriend.” She flung the wadded chunk of paper at his feet and ducked her head to spin around. She maneuvered around a hundred shifting shoes, dizzying splashes of color against the speckled tiles. Calvin called her, his voice bouncing off cinderblock walls until it was swallowed by the crowd. The hallway and all the students tilted and swayed like a carnival ride. Stacey lurched into a girls’ bathroom and careened around the privacy wall, dropping her bag as she slid her books onto the countertop. Her pulse galloped in her temples as she clung to a sink with both hands.

  Stop. They’re just friends. You’re freaking out over nothing.

  But … that touch …

  “Stacey?” Calvin wouldn’t come into the girls’ bathroom. Or maybe he would if she didn’t answer.

  “Th-there’s someone else in here.”

  A toilet flushed, converting her lie to truth. Stacey peered past her curtain of white hair at her reflection in the mirror. Tears soaked up her eyeliner. Red splotches dotted her porcelain-pale cheeks and neck. Ugly. She pressed two fingers into the soft flesh beneath her cheekbones. Still too puffy. And that loose flesh under her chin … She pinched it. Practically a turkey gullet.

  Calvin deserved someone pretty. Thin. Happy. Strong. Like Flannery.

  Black tears dribbled down Stacey’s face. Her body insisted on breathing uneven, trembling gasps. “Get a grip. He’s not cheating.”

  Sure, Flannery was gorgeous, but God had put the wrong brain behind those stunning eyes, that of a volleyball jock instead of a supermodel.

  A girl exited the stalls and took her place at the next sink. “Boyfriend trouble?”

  Not your business. Stacey channeled all her energy into standing still, forcing away the dizziness, while the other girl in the mirror fluffed her hair, adjusted her top, and walked away without scrubbing her hands.

  Dis-gusting.

  “Stacey!” Calvin called.

  “Just a second.” She blinked hard. Her face was a mess, and reap-plying her makeup would make her late for class. She’d have to wash up and go simple-faced, like she did before Zoe initiated her “totally sassy, smokin’ makeover.” Yeah, right. Who was she kidding?

  She grabbed paper towels from the dispenser, soaked them in cold water and liquid soap, and washed her face. The cool water calmed the red blotches.

  Now I look like a botched marble statue. No way I can go out there now. No way!

  Her purse, with her makeup in it, sat in a lump on the filthy floor. How stupid to just drop it there!

  More soapy towels wiped away germs from the soft leather. Stacey cleaned the countertop and the bottom of her books as well. After she scrubbed her hands in the hottest water, she wadded up all the towels and pitched them into the trash so she wouldn’t have to touch the other gross stuff in the bin.

  “Stacey, if you don’t come out, I’m coming in.”

  “I’m fixing my makeup. I’ll be right out.”

  The bell rang as she applied her mascara.

  “Stacey. What. Are. You. Doing? You’re late for class now.”

  “Coming.”

  Lipstick and blush, so she wouldn’t look dead when she begged the secretary in the administrative office for a pass.

  Stacey found Calvin pacing in the empty hallway outside the bathroom. He whirled and charged up to her. “What’s the deal? You just freaked out back there. What did I do wrong?”

  She couldn’t face his intensely innocent eyes. Instead, she focused on her hazy reflection in a display case across the hall. “I saw Flannery touch you.”

  “She touched me? When? Like, she just … touched me? That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “I know. You’re right. I overreacted.” One hand fluttered, grasping for a reason he would understand. “It’s just that she’s so pretty and … I don’t think she likes me much.”

  “You’re pretty. You’re my girlfriend. Flannery is just my friend. And she does like you.” A blink, his eyes flicking to one side. He wasn’t very good at lying.

  She let it go for now.

  “I’m really sorry.” Stacey touched her tongue to her lips and inched closer to him. “I’m sorry about this morning too, about falling. I didn’t get enough sleep. I probably need vitamins or something.”

  “Good idea. ‘Cause you’ve been sick a lot and it ain’t normal.” The edge in his voice pricked her. She had to fix it. She needed him; he needed her. Stacey cupped Calvin’s rounded shoulder and ran her hand down his arm. His bicep was firm, his forearm broad and muscular beneath the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Strong. Hefty. Farm boy.

  She tilted her head to peer into his hazel eyes. “Forgive me?”

  He sighed. “I just want to know what’s going on.”

  “It’s probably something simple.” Stacey moved closer and curled her fingers around the back of Calvin’s neck.

  He stiffened and scanned the hallway. “Uh, you’re late for class.”

  “And you’re missing lunch. A few more seconds won’t matter.”

  She pulled him toward her for a kiss, a lingering, tumultuous reminder that they belonged to one another.

  His clumsy hands clasped her waist. Stacey flinched. What could he feel there, beneath her soft sweater and camisole? Not yet. She broke away and giggled. “That’s enough. Can’t let any teachers catch us engaging in inappropriate public displays of affection.” She inscribed quotation marks in the air.

  Calvin dug his fingers into his forelocks and tugged as if trying to straighten the curls. “Girl, you are driving me crazy.”

  She wriggled her nose at him. “You love me for it.”

  A breathy laugh escaped him. “Yeah, I do. You’d better hurry, though.”

  Stacey pursed her lips to kiss the air between them, then half-jogged toward the administrative office to prove she still had a healthy spring in her step. But when she rounded a corner, she dragged herself along the wall. Calvin would go to the cafeteria, pile food onto his plate, and sit at his usual table with his riding buddies, Tyler and F-l-a-n-n-e-r-y. And while Stacey was lying to the school secretary so she could get a pass, Calvin might tell his friends that his girlfriend was acting weird, doing things that “ain’t normal.”

  And that girl would give him advice.

  A vent blew icy air over Stacey, sending a chill down her spine. She shuddered and hugged herself.

  “Hey. Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere?”

  Stacey gasped and turned toward a big man wearing shorts. Hairy shins, football-player hands, soft gut beneath a
barrel chest. Coach Miller.

  “Oh! Yes. Sorry. Just on my way for a pass.”

  “Well, get a move on. Now.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry.”

  “Why are you crying?”

  “I’m not crying. I’m … I have allergies.” Stacey blinked away stupid tears. She moved, and Coach Miller’s athletic shoes squeaked on the tiles just behind her.

  Stop weeping like a feeble wretch. Still the tumult. Be strong, pure.

  Stacey tried to recapture the meter and words of her lost poem, but they were usurped by the echoes of a wicked child singing on a distant playground.

  Crazy Stacey bubble butt.

  Never keeps her big mouth shut.

  Chubbikins, Chubbikins.

  How much does she weigh?

  Chapter 3

  Tyler revved the engine of his motocross bike while Calvin wiped his hands on a rag and leaned against the wall of the workshop. Getting ready for some spring break riding. Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the open bay, glinting off the signature-green tank and fenders of the Kawasaki KX 250F.

  “Sounds good,” Calvin shouted. He glanced at his Yamaha sitting nearby. Enough time for a ride before supper? Mom would have it on the table at six sharp.

  Tyler eased off the throttle and let his engine idle. “It sounds great. Thanks. Dude, you should totally see if you can get a job at Bentley Cycles for the summer.”

  “Already asked. Dave’s not hiring. Bad economy and all.” Calvin ran one fingernail under another to dig out the grime wedged deep down.

  “Grab the stand for me?” Tyler said. “I’m going to ride around, make sure the engine’s running good at top end.”

  Calvin pulled the bike stand out of the way then held the Kawasaki upright while Tyler strapped on his matching green motocross helmet. The throttle vibrated sweetly in Calvin’s grip. Nice, tight action. In a minute, he’d stand back and sniff gravel dust as Tyler roared down the driveway.

  When Tyler had straddled the bike, Calvin tapped the back of his helmet. “Hang on. I’m coming with you. Just let me tell Mom.”

  Tyler nodded, the long visor of his helmet tipping down and back up.