by Laura Hopper
“On that note . . .” Brett says as he peels away and heads toward the school building. Brett tends to do a lot of eye-rolling when it comes to girls’ meaningless crushes on people he deems unworthy.
“How would you even hear that?” I ask Sloan.
“He used to teach at Muirlands.” Sloan has up-to-the-minute updates on random subjects. Usually gossip, usually about boys, sometimes useful, often not.
Before Sloan has a chance to delve into more details about the teacher, we see Danielle arrive in her mom’s SUV. When she opens the door to jump out of the passenger seat, we can hear the twins fighting in the back seat. I get my second sympathy hug of the morning. I accept it gladly. The three of us begin the walk toward the main building and our first class. Being back in my routine is comforting.
“How are things at home?” Sloan wants to know.
“Weird. They act like everything’s fine. They’re still sleeping in the same room and sharing the newspaper while they eat their corn flakes. The only difference is that they’re being super nice to me and constantly checking to see how I’m feeling.”
“Weird,” Danielle agrees.
“I just don’t need the distraction right now,” I add. “Track’s about to start, I have a debate on Saturday, and I need to get straight As this semester to even have a shot at Stanford.”
Sloan stops in her tracks, adjusts her ponytail, and licks her lips as if to make sure her gloss hasn’t evaporated. Danielle and I look to see the cause of Sloan’s diversion. Luke Hallstrom is walking right toward us. He’s with two girls and another guy. One of the girls jumps on Luke’s back for an impromptu piggyback ride. He’s caught up in conversation, laughing and still flaunting his south-of-the-border glow. Just as he’s about to pass us, he looks straight at me.
“What’s up?” he says.
“Hey” is all I can think to say in response.
And then he’s gone. Sloan is practically shaking.
“Holy crap. What was that about?” she asks in shock.
“Nothing. We were on the same plane home from Cabo,” I say, attempting to calm her down.
“I can’t believe you waited this long to tell me.”
“Oh, sorry,” I say sarcastically. “Maybe I’ve had other things on my mind.”
“He’s almost worth running around and around that track like a brain-dead hamster,” Sloan says, turning around to get another glimpse of Luke.
“Oh, please, you couldn’t run one mile without collapsing,” I say.
Danielle chimes in, “Well, if she collapses, maybe Luke will come to her rescue and give her mouth-to-mouth.”
“That, my friend, is a brilliant idea.” Sloan seems to be seriously considering it.
“Well, there are optional workouts after school before the season starts,” I add. “Feel free to join me, because I plan to be there every day. Anything to avoid the weirdness at home.”
As we approach the wall of lockers, Charlie appears out of nowhere and practically tackles Danielle. They haven’t seen each other for the full two weeks of break because Danielle was visiting her grandparents in Palm Springs. Charlie turns her around, backs her up against the lockers, and starts kissing her with unbridled desire. I try to look away, but it’s like a car crash: You don’t want to see the blood and guts, but you just can’t pull your eyes from the wreckage. It’s as though Danielle and Charlie are totally unaware of where they are and who’s nearby. I can’t imagine being so into someone that I would kiss with such passion in the middle of the science hallway. Sloan and I leave so they can make out in peace, or whatever peace you can find at eight o’clock on a January morning at school.
Chapter Four
After school, I go to the locker room to change into workout clothes. I shove my backpack into my locker and start to take off my jeans and Converse. The girls on the basketball and soccer teams are all there, getting ready to head to practice. So many of these girls, the seniors in particular, look like women. Their bodies, their hair, the way they dress. I feel like a little kid next to them.
Many of them have real bodies, the ultra-coveted boobs and butts that girls show off on Instagram to hundreds of likes. I, on the other hand, am severely lacking in that department. And since I’m already seventeen, I don’t think I can hope to ever be blessed with those assets. Where these girls have cleavage that spills out of their demi-cup bras and full round butts that sit up high under their thongs, I have A-cup boobs and not much of a behind at all.
As the other girls change out of their jeans, skirts, and leggings and into their shorts and jog tops, I notice their delicate and colorful lace bras and thong underwear. Clearly, these girls are doing their very best to be sexy. I wonder if they’re selecting underwear for themselves or to impress someone else. I’ve never considered purchasing a bra for its aesthetic value. If it’s comfortable and doesn’t show through my T-shirt, it’s just right for me. I suppose it has something to do with the fact that I’ve never undressed in front of someone I was hoping to dazzle.
As I sit on the concrete floor lacing up my Nike Air Max shoes, I continue to observe the senior girls as though I’m conducting a study. They rub sunscreen onto their long legs and toned arms and pull their shiny hair into smooth ponytails before they do a thorough check in the mirror and saunter out. I take a moment to inspect my own reflection, which I rarely take the time to do. Frankly, I’m not that impressed.
My running shorts have seen better days; they sort of hang on my hips, and the drawstring is frayed. My hair is twisted haphazardly on top of my head, showing no evidence whatsoever of use of a brush or other grooming utensil. My body, a typical runner’s body, with its muscular legs and narrow shoulders, seems supremely unsexy to me. Before letting myself get too discouraged, I look away and head to the track. After all, who’s even looking?
I walk down the steps, past the bleachers.
“Pssst. Janey.”
I glance up. Sloan sits in the first row, drinking a vitaminwater. She leans over the railing.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Checking out the scenery. Best show in town.”
I turn to see what she’s watching. Luke Hallstrom stretches near the long jump pit. I roll my eyes at Sloan. Some things never change.
“Why don’t you join us?” I suggest.
“I don’t look good in sweat,” she answers with a flip of her hair.
“See ya.” I can’t help but be amused by her one-track mind and, in this case, her good taste. Sloan is the girl who some parents would refer to as fast. They’d probably be shocked to learn that she’s technically a virgin. She loves to go to parties and hook up with guys. In fact, her mantra is everything but. She frequently talks about all the times she’s done everything but.
Danielle and I started calling Sloan E.B. because of all her stories about doing everything but, and the nickname just stuck. Sometimes people hear us call her E.B. and ask about the origin of the nickname. We never share.
As sexy and fast as Sloan appears to be, she does not want to have sex until she’s in an exclusive relationship. Sadly, her virgin status is less widely known than her reputation for having a lot of fun with guys.
I join the kids on the track team who are stretching on the field. Coach Chow offers these workouts so those of us who don’t have other winter sports can get in shape for the season.
“Let’s start with an eight hundred warm-up,” Chow says as I approach.
As much as I like my teammates, I’d rather run alone. I hit the track and get started at a fairly fast pace. As I round the first turn, I hear footsteps approaching and can feel a body closing in on my right. I’m not used to being passed, so I quickly turn to see who it is. Luke Hallstrom. If I’m going to get passed, it might as well be by him. The funny thing is, he’s not passing me. He’s just running right alongside me in the next lane. It’s a little awkward, truth be told. He probably doesn’t even see me. I’m not sure if I should drop back and let him run
ahead or speed up to create some distance. Anything to avoid this weird situation where we’re running side by side, saying nothing to each other.
I can’t help but notice that he smells really good. Not cologne so much as a clean, soapy boy smell, which is pretty impressive this late in the day. I’m still wrestling with whether I should try to make some space between us, but it’s not so easy to make a move away from Luke. He’s like a magnet, making it nearly impossible for me to separate from him.
“Whoa, Janey King, you’re quick,” he says.
What the heck? First, he knows my name. And not just my first name, but my full name. Second, he’s talking to me. Third, and I can’t be certain, but I think he just complimented me. What do I say? Thank you seems like a lame response. You, too, would be flirty, and I don’t really do flirty.
“Just trying to get it over with.” Deflecting the praise is probably a good strategy.
“Very funny. Seriously, you’re really strong and fast. I have to push myself to keep up.”
“Thanks.” At this point, gratitude is unavoidable. “But I could never clear a seven-foot high jump, which you can probably do in your sleep.” Did I just flirt? Those words felt weird coming out of my mouth. But what choice did I have? I couldn’t just keep basking in his admiration.
“Actually, I pole vault in my sleep. But that damn pole keeps waking me up.”
“Ha, ha.”
“So, you like OneRepublic, huh?” There it is. The most humiliating moment of my life is back to haunt me. I feel my face turn hot and red.
“I’m so embarrassed,” I admit.
“Why?” he asks. “I love that song.”
“Yes, but you weren’t singing it out loud to a plane full of strangers.”
“Hey, it was the best part of the flight,” he jokes.
Is this really happening? Is Luke Hallstrom working to make conversation with me? Why? I wonder. I must change the subject. Anything to take the focus off my blunder. We keep running at a pretty good pace while we talk. For me, the conversation takes a lot more effort than the run.
“Where’d you stay in Mexico?” I ask.
“We rented a house. My brother and sister were on break from college. So we did the whole family thing.”
“That sounds really nice.”
“Yeah, but my legs didn’t get as tan as yours.” Holy crap. He noticed my legs. This is foreign territory for me. It sure does make the warm-up run go by quickly. Where is this coming from? Last year, we were both out here every afternoon, and he never even looked in my direction, much less at my legs. And it’s not like one of those movies where one morning, I threw out my glasses, grew gigantic boobs, and returned to school walking in slow motion down the hallway with bouncy hair to match my bouncy chest. I’m the same Janey I was sophomore year.
“I’ll race you to the finish,” he says and takes off. It’s by far the best challenge I’ve ever faced. I use all the gas that’s left in my tank to sprint the last quarter lap of the run. I pass him, but he stays right on my tail. I can feel him behind me. I push harder. He’s still there. I finish with him right behind me. He collapses dramatically and hilariously. I stand over him.
“You okay?”
“Help me up.” He extends a hand and I notice that he wears a thin brown leather braid around his wrist. I grab his hand and am surprised that it feels so soft and yet so strong. He doesn’t let go so quickly. It’s probably just two seconds, but it feels like an eternity. We walk over to where Chow is assembling the hurdles. Luke puts one of his heels up on a hurdle to do a hamstring stretch. I pretend to help Chow, but I surreptitiously keep an eye on Luke. I can’t help but notice that his legs did get pretty tan. And he has just the right amount of hair on his legs—not too dark, not too fuzzy, just enough to seem like a man, but not a scary, hairy man. His gray La Jolla Track shirt is damp with sweat, and for some reason it’s not gross. As a matter of fact, it’s kinda hot. What am I thinking? Has Sloan, aka E.B., rubbed off on me in all the wrong ways?
Luke and I spend the rest of practice in our separate areas, but I feel that magnetic pull again, like something is drawing me to the long jump pit. I manage to stay in my designated spot, not an easy task.
Chapter Five
That night’s family dinner is so normal, it’s weird. When my dad isn’t flying, we make a point to sit down and eat together. My mom teaches kindergarten, and she always said that one of the many reasons she loves her job is that it allows her to have the same hours I have and that she can be home to make dinner. Tonight, Mom made my favorite meal, chicken and biscuits, and dad announces he picked up a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food. Now that I think about it, maybe this dinner is better than normal. Mom and Dad ask fewer annoying questions than usual about my day, my friends, my teachers, my track workout. They’ve done none of their regular pushing or pressuring about homework, tests, and debate topics.
In the two days since we’ve been home, there has been no talk of the demise of their marriage, no mention of someone (my dad, I presume) moving out, no one sleeping on the sofa. Maybe they were in a margarita-induced haze when they gave me the news on New Year’s Eve. Maybe they changed their minds and realized that they can’t live without each other. I’ve always been able to speak freely with my parents, so I take it upon myself to say something.
“Is this the way it’s supposed to be?”
“What do you mean?” Mom’s eyes are wide with curiosity. Her eyebrows climb up her forehead.
“I mean that you guys are separating. But we’re all together. And you’re both being super nice. All. The. Time.”
They exchange a glance. Mom nods at Dad, encouraging him to speak up.
“We want to make sure you’re fine and that we don’t make any sudden changes.” He speaks as though I’m a time bomb that could explode at any given moment.
Mom picks up where he leaves off. “It’s a stressful year for you, and we want to be helpful, not hurtful.”
“Guys, I get it. I can handle it. I’ll be fine.”
Mom’s eyes brim with prideful tears, as if I’ve just won the Nobel Peace Prize. “We know, and we’re going to make sure we do what’s best for you.”
I wish I could say, Then you wouldn’t be getting divorced. But that might interrupt the whole lovey-dovey, mushy King family moment.
I decide that the sooner I finish my Phish Food, the sooner I can get back to my room and enjoy the pleasure of my own company. And my Spanish homework. I power through the dessert, get a scorching ice cream headache, and put my bowl in the dishwasher.
“Thanks for the yummy dinner. Love you.”
“Love you back,” they say almost in unison.
In the comfort of my own room, I settle onto my bed. I lean back against the pile of pillows with my Spanish textbook and my laptop splayed out in front of me. I have to create a travel brochure for a Spanish-speaking country. Mexico seems too obvious. Belize, maybe. I start to research Belize, but my phone makes a pong noise, telling me I have new text message. I grab my phone.
Hey.
It’s from a phone number I don’t recognize.
Who’s this? I type.
Luke shows up on my screen. Really? Is someone messing with me? There is no way that Luke Hallstrom is texting me.
Luke who?
Luke Hallstrom.
I’m not sure whether to believe this is real; how the heck did Luke get my phone number? Then I remember that the track team roster from last year has everyone’s info to encourage us to carpool to meets if we don’t want to ride the team bus. I pull up the roster on my computer and, sure enough, the phone numbers match.
He was on my mind this afternoon, and even this evening. I wondered if other people on the team saw us running together, and what they thought about that. They probably figured it was some kind of mistake. I wasn’t really sure what I, myself, thought about that. But I know that my heart is beating really fast right now, and I’m sitting in my room all by myself with
a big stupid smile spreading across my face.
Hey, I text back. What’s up?
Just procrastinating. Don’t wanna read Crime and Punishment 2 nite.
Ugh. I don’t blame u. The crazy-fast heartbeat and the big stupid smile show no signs of stopping.
What r u doing? he types.
Spanish hw. Fun fun fun.
Although the last thing I’m thinking about at the moment is my Spanish homework, and while the fun fun fun was meant sarcastically, I am truthfully having a lot of fun right this very second.
R u going to track workout tomorrow? he asks.
I think so. R u?
Yeah. Wanna go get a juice or coffee after?
I have to take a breath before I answer with an enthusiastic YES. I want to make sure my response seems more casual than I feel.
Sounds good, I write.
Cool. C U tomorrow.
Can this be real? Do I really have a date with Luke? Why would he want to go out with me? I am so normal I’m practically invisible, and he is widely known and adored. Is a beverage in the afternoon even considered a real date? My first instinct is to text Sloan. I feel much too excited to keep this to myself, and I want her professional opinion on every word that was exchanged. I start to type, but then I hit the cancel button. There’s a chance Sloan won’t be happy for me. She has had a crush on Luke for a while. She does, however, crush on several boys at a time. But what if she gets mad or jealous? I don’t want her to dampen my excitement. I decide to keep this to myself, which is not easy to do. It’s also not easy to focus on homework. Or anything besides Luke.
Chapter Six
I wake up before my alarm goes off, which never happens. Most mornings involve my pressing the snooze button two times, stumbling into the kitchen in my pajamas, inhaling some orange juice and a bowl of Rice Krispies, and waking up while listening to NPR, which is always on while my parents eat their breakfast. After my sleepy breakfast, I typically take a two-minute shower, throw on some clothes, toss shorts and a T-shirt into a bag with my running shoes, brush my teeth and my hair, and go wait outside for Brett to pick me up.