Breathe, Annie, Breathe

by Miranda Kenneally

  20 miles

  August 31

  14 miles

  September 7

  22 miles

  September 14

  20 miles

  September 21

  The Bluegrass Half Marathon

  September 28

  12 miles

  October 5

  10 miles

  October 12

  Country Music Marathon in Nashville

  TODAY’S DISTANCE: 6 MILES

  Six Months Until the Country Music Marathon

  I’m halfway through my six-mile run when Running Backwards Boy flashes by. But he’s going forward this time.

  “Let’s go!” Running Backwards Boy yells to the man on his heels. “Pick it up, pick it up!” The man looks like he’s fixin’ to die, but RBB is in top form.

  “Are you training for the Olympics today or something?” I holler, but he doesn’t slow down. He’s in some sort of super-runner zone and disappears from sight.

  Today’s run is going a little better than last week’s. I’m not as tired, but my feet feel slimy inside my socks and I know another blister is forming. Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. It’s amazing to think that the fastest ladies in the world can finish a marathon in two hours and twenty minutes. I’d be glad to finish in five hours.

  Matt jogs up next to me, his backpack bouncing against his back. “How you feeling?”

  “Good.”

  “Keep your arms moving. Pretend you’re a pair of scissors.”

  I slice air with my hands.

  “You got it now. Need anything? Water? Candy? Tylenol?”

  “You’re a mobile drugstore.”

  He grins, maintaining my pace. “Need any Vaseline?”

  “Gah! Stop asking me that. I do not have chafing issues.”

  Matt laughs, and then another guy from our team passes us. “Andrew! I told you not to use an iPod on the trails! It’s not safe! …As if he can hear me.” Matt jets off to catch Andrew, leaving me behind. Damn, Matt’s fast.

  I saw him run for the first time at Wednesday’s training session. Until then, I wasn’t aware Usain Bolt was my running coach. I bet Matt’s even faster than Running Backwards Boy. Who now runs forward. I shake my head, trying to forget how he checked me out. I admit I’ve thought about it a few times in the past week.

  It’s not that I’m desperate for sex. I’m desperate for Kyle to push my hair behind my ears. To scratch my back when I’ve got an itch. To watch reruns of The Big Bang Theory and laugh at all the same parts as me.

  I focus on moving my arms back and forth like Matt showed me. Point my toes.

  Breathe, Annie, breathe.

  •••

  The 0 mile marker comes into view and I sprint toward the finish. Sweat drips down my face. It takes all my energy to keep my arms moving. My calves burn. Matt and his assistants are screaming my name and clapping for me as I near the end. “Go, Annie! Push it!” Twenty seconds later, I pass the mile marker and slow to a walk.

  I wipe the sweat off my forehead with my T-shirt and grin up at the sky. Everything hurts, but it’s a good hurt. I finished the entire six miles!

  “Great job,” Matt says, patting my back. He hands me a cup of Gatorade. “Drink it all, and then you can have a banana.”

  My hand shakes as I lift the cup to my lips. I breathe deeply to combat the dizziness. Don’t pass out, don’t pass out.

  “How did today feel?” he asks.

  “Okay. I only walked for a m-minute or s-so in the middle.”

  Matt watches me finish my Gatorade. He has a group of fifteen runners at the trails this morning, but he makes me feel like I’m the only person here. He reminds me of my big brother. After I finish my drink and eat a banana, he leads me through a series of stretches and gives me instructions on how much water to drink this afternoon and tells me I need to run two miles tomorrow on my own.

  His training program is tougher than two-dollar steak: during the week, I run or cross-train over short distances, but then we keep upping the ante on the weekend runs. For instance, if one Saturday we run four miles, the next weekend Matt makes us try for five. Over the next six months, I’ll work my way up to twenty-two miles before race day.

  “So I’ll see you at the gym for cross-training this Wednesday?” Matt asks, and I nod. I love the structure this program brings to my life; I don’t like having to figure out how to fill the empty days and hours when I’m not at school or working. Not only do I have to work out every day of the week, but Matt also gave me a meal plan that shows when to drink water and what foods to eat when. I swear, all this planning and thinking about my body and what I’m putting into it is harder than rocket science.

  But I like it. When I’m not running, I’m thinking about it constantly: planning my meals, psyching myself up for the next weekend’s long run, drinking tons of water, icing my sore legs, sleeping. It exhausts me to the point I don’t lie awake staring out my window at the streetlight, hating that I have no strong chest to curl up against anymore. The minute my eyes close at night, I pass out.

  I say bye to Matt and limp toward the parking lot. Running Backwards Boy is sitting on the back of a Jeep. Crap. I’m parked right next to him. Luckily he doesn’t seem to notice I’m waddling like a pregnant lady who needs to use the bathroom real bad—he’s fully immersed in texting and listening to something through his headphones.

  I hobble over to my tiny red car, a 1984 Audi GT. She’s a piece of crap, but it’s all I could afford on my own. I saved for two years, and I love her. I pop open the hatchback, sit down, and kick off my sneakers. Then I peel my socks off one by one. The foot odor could knock somebody out.

  “Damn,” the guy says. Shit, can he smell my feet or something? He slips his earbuds out, stands, and starts rummaging in the back of the Jeep. I expect him to Febreze the area, but seconds later he kneels before me, opening a first aid kid.

  Why is he so close to me? My feet stink!

  “That is one hell of a blister.”

  That’s when I see it. My skin is stretched over a blood blister that’s bigger than a quarter.

  “So that’s why my foot was killing me.”

  The boy unscrews the top from a brown bottle. “What’s your name?”

  “Annie.”

  He grins. “Hi, Annie. This won’t hurt.”

  “What are you doing?” I blurt, but it’s too late. He’s poured something on the blister. I don’t feel any pain, but there’s some kind of scientific reaction going on. Little bubbles appear, like he mixed baking soda and vinegar together.

  “It’s just hydrogen peroxide. I’m cleaning that blister. Or is this some sort of unborn twin attached to you?”

  “I do not have an unborn twin.”

  “That you know of. Did you ever have this thing checked out? It looks big enough to be an unborn twin.” He lifts my foot by the ankle, staring the blister down. It tickles. Oh my God, my foot stinks and he’s touching me! “Is it okay if I lance it?”

  “Do what?”

  He reaches into his kit and pulls out a needle, dipping it into a bottle of alcohol.

  “Are you a doctor or something?”

  “No, are you?” He beams up at me for a sec. This boy might as well wear a nametag that says Trouble. “I’ve been running a long time. I know how to deal with injuries.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s the weirdest injury you’ve ever seen?”

  “One time I was running a race dressed as Elvis.”

  “Elvis.”

  “Yeah, Elvis. And I was doing pretty well too, until t
his other guy dressed as Elvis tripped in a rut and tore a ligament. I helped him until the medics could get to us. Everyone was pretty impressed to see one Elvis treating another.”

  I bite into my lip, barely able to contain my laughter.

  “I’m gonna lance your blister now,” the guy says. He sticks the needle into my skin and I rear back when it stings. The fluid trickles out as I bite into my hand. It’s about the grossest thing I’ve ever seen, but this guy doesn’t even react. He pours more hydrogen peroxide on it, making more bubbles.

  “You want a Little Mermaid Band-Aid?”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Disney?”

  “I have two little sisters.”

  I watch as he bandages the blister, taking notes so I can do this next week when I grow another Manhattan-sized blister. The boy pats my foot when he’s done and stands.

  “Good as new.”

  His eyes meet mine, and he gives me a little smile, and I find I like the way it makes me shiver even though it’s a rain forest outside. When he brushes the hair off his forehead, I get the sudden urge to do it for him, to push it back behind his ears. Uncomfortable, I turn away from his smile to shut the hatchback, and I’m fixing to make a break for it, away from the shivers and weird want to touch his hair, when Matt stalks over.

  “What’s going on here?”

  “Just helping Annie with her blister.”

  Matt looks at my foot, then motions for the guy to follow him. But they don’t move far enough away—I can still hear them.

  “I’ve told you not to hit on my clients,” Matt whispers.

  The guy steps back like he’s been slapped. “I just wanted to help.”

  “He didn’t hurt anything,” I start, and both guys glance over at me. “It’s not a big de—”

  Matt interrupts me. “Jeremiah, I’m trying to build up my reputation—”

  The boy holds up a hand. “I get it, I get it—”

  “Do you? This is my work, my job, and I’m trying to give you a chance here—”

  “Then don’t give up on me before I even start!”

  “Guys,” I interrupt, looking between them, but they keep right on arguing as if they’ve forgotten I’m here. Matt smacks Running Backwards Boy on the face with a T-shirt and RBB bops Matt on the head with a water bottle and puts him in a headlock. Matt escapes and puts RBB in a headlock of his own. It’s hard to believe they’re adults right now. They’re baboons.

  “Boys!” I exclaim, and they jerk their heads up and stop acting like cavemen. “What in the world?”

  “This is my little brother, Jeremiah,” Matt says.

  “Little?” Jeremiah snorts.

  Matt ignores this. “He just started working for me, pacing people that are hoping to up their game and improve their speed.”

  “What do you mean by pacing?” I ask.

  Matt says, “It’s like, if somebody wants to finish a marathon in a certain amount of time, Jere will run alongside them and keep them on pace so they finish before their goal time—you need a certain time to run big races like Boston. Pacing is what Jere does best.”

  Jeremiah looks pleased at the compliment. That must be why the man was chasing after him on the trails today.

  “But I’ll still be working with you sometimes,” Jeremiah tells me. “I’ll be helping Matt with the Saturday and Sunday long runs.”

  “So I have two running coaches now?” I ask.

  “Something like that,” Jeremiah flirts, eyes flickering up and down my body, earning him another nasty look from his brother.

  “Jere, I’m serious. If you don’t take this job seriously, that’s it. You won’t get another chance from me.” Matt gives his brother a pointed look. Why would Matt chastise him in front of me?

  Is he warning me too? I’ve only known Matt a couple weeks, but he always seems even-keeled. Why’s he so strict with his brother?

  Jeremiah’s face clouds over. “See you next week, Annie.” He gives me a curt nod, then follows his brother over to help pack up the water coolers and towels. He doesn’t look back.

  Given how by-the-book and prepared he is, training with Matt has been calm and cool so far.

  Jeremiah makes me feel anything but.

  •••

  I climb the crumbling, concrete steps and push open the screen door to our trailer.

  A stick of butter, a loaf of bread, and a block of cheese sit on our counter, away from the brownish section where the egg-colored plaster has flaked away.

  My older brother is cooking a grilled cheese and listening to the Braves game on the radio. Nick sets the spatula down to kiss my forehead. He smells like grease and exhaust fumes from doing oil changes down at Caldwell Auto Parts.

  He flips his sandwich. It sizzles in the frying pan and makes my stomach rumble. I’m starving, but I don’t think I can hold any food down. Running screws with my stomach—I can’t tell if I need to eat or use the bathroom.

  “How’d today go?” Nick asks.

  “I finished!”

  “All six miles?”

  I nod, and he beams. I’d never seen him so happy as when I told him I was training for the marathon.

  He scoops the grilled cheese onto a plate. “You hungry? I’ll make you one of these.”

  “No, thanks. Matt’s meal plan says I’m supposed to have pizza and salad for lunch today.”

  At that, Nick flips the gas off and drops his pan in the sink, then pours a mound of potato chips onto his plate, flicks off the radio, and hustles to the living room to watch the game on TV.

  Mom flits into the kitchen, brushing her wet curly brown hair. Nick got his dark, floppy hair from her; my straight strawberry blond must come from my father’s side.

  She searches under a stack of old newspapers, a hand towel, and the teetering pile of mail. I grab her keys from the hook where Nick undoubtedly hung them up and pass them to her.

  “Thank you,” she says, pocketing them. Our eyes meet for just a second before we both look away. “How’d your run go, sweetie?”

  “I finished it.”

  A small smile appears on her lips. “I’m so glad.”

  I nod.

  “Kyle would’ve been—”

  “Mom, just stop!” I say before I’m able to stop myself, and then she’s rushing out the door to make her shift at Quick Pick, to get away from me. I close my eyes for a sec, to calm down. I don’t like talking about him, but I can’t keep blowing up like that. When I open my eyes, I realize Mom left her cashier’s apron and coupon envelope on the counter.

  “Mom, wait!” I yell, but she’s already gone. She forgot them again. I’ll ask Nick to run them over to the store after he’s finished eating his lunch.

  I run my fingers over the apron’s stiff, black fabric. I lift it to my nose, inhaling her scent, the same way I do with Kyle’s flannel shirt. His smell is long gone, but her lavender and the Windex she uses to clean the conveyer belt are loud and clear. The smell makes me want a hug. Mom and I used to hug all the time, but we haven’t in months. Not since Christmas.

  Not bothering to peel off my sweaty shorts and tank, I go to my room and flop down on the bright purple comforter stretched across my twin bed. I point my toes at the ceiling, trying to get rid of the lactic acid build-up in my calves. Sweating on my bed makes me cringe, but I’m too sore and tired to do anything besides wallow. Before Kyle, I never made my bed, but his firefighter dad drilled the habit into him and I picked it up somewhere along the way. Other than the stacks of twenty-five- cent paperbacks I buy at the library and at yard sales, the rest of my room is somewhat bare now.

  Before Kelsey and I stopped hanging out, we loved collecting cows. A cowbell alarm clock, cow curtains, cow picture frames, cow candles, and even a cow rug decorated my room. I packed the cows away to make room for the teddy bears Kyle won me at the Coffee Count
y Fair and the seashell cedar boxes and wind chimes he bought on our road trip to Myrtle Beach. I packed his stuff away so it couldn’t make me sad, but now my room feels empty.

  After I lost him six months ago, Mom started begging me to go shopping with her for new bedroom décor to fill the blank space, to try out her yoga class, to do anything really. I knew she meant well, but I didn’t want to do anything.

  I snapped at her several times: “If one more person tells me what I need to do…” Being a bitch made me feel better and shittier all at once.

  “I don’t know how to help you, Annie. Tell me how to help you,” she cried into her hands.

  If she’d invented a special potion to erase memories and mistakes, I would’ve been all ears. But nothing she said could fix what I’d done.

  I met Kyle on the first day of ninth grade, when kids from the two middle schools in Williamson County came together at Hundred Oaks for freshman year.

  I hated him at first. On day one, we were playing volleyball in gym and he picked me for his team. I served, the ball smashed him in the back of the head, and he fell to the gym floor.

  I sprinted to him. “I’m sorry!”

  I thought I’d hurt him bad, but I discovered him giggling like a little girl. The rest of the day, he and his friends covered their heads every time I passed them in the hallway.

  “It’s the volleyball vixen!” Kyle cried.

  Fourteen-year-old me was mortified. So I got revenge. The next day in gym, I served the volleyball and whacked Kyle in the head again.

  He invited me to the Back to School dance that Friday.

  Before long, we were serious, and my mom wasn’t pleased. “You’re gonna end up pregnant at sixteen just like Willa down the street.” She said that every time she caught us making out. She thought if I stayed with him, I would never get out of Oakdale trailer park. “Never depend on a guy, Annie. You depend on yourself, understand?”

  But I loved being with him. We enjoyed curling up together with a bowl of popcorn in front of the TV. Or he’d sit on the couch playing Assassin’s Creed, and I’d lean against his side and dig into the latest mystery I’d picked up at the library. We always felt at home with each other, like we didn’t need anything else.