You Can't Catch Me

by Becca Ann

  “Ginger?” Rodney says, and I blink and turn to him. His brows are raised expectantly, and I give him an apologetic look.

  “Sorry, what?”

  He laughs. “I was expressing some real deep, heartfelt emotions, and you don’t hear a thing.”

  My mouth pulls in all-out skepticism. “Heartfelt?”

  “Yes, I am capable.” He stops us before we head into English. “Now pay attention. Only gonna say it one more time.”

  I straighten up, exaggerating eye contact. “Go.”

  His expression hardens, going from teasing, playful, hilarious Rodney to a brother-like protector, and I feel my own smile slowly fade, and my ears perk up.

  “I know you’re Ginger, and you don’t let crap get to you, but I gotta say this anyway in case there’s the slight chance that it’s bugging you.” He reaches out and pulls on my elbow to move me out of the way from the door as people pass. “Everyone has their ‘thing’ they’re dealing with, and some people just want to focus on other people’s ‘things’ so they don’t have to deal with their own.” His eyes flick over my shoulder as Jamal slides into the classroom. Jamal’s brow furrows over the quiet conversation I’m having with one of the least quiet people we know, but he doesn’t interrupt.

  Rodney waits till he’s out of hearing distance, letting out a long breath and straightening up. “You’re my bro. I got your back, all right?”

  A smile tugs on the corner of my lip, and a weight I didn’t know was there lifts slightly off my shoulders. I clasp Rodney’s hand and pull him in for a chest bump and back slap, because this is our thing, and it feels good to act like myself—a person I’m slowly remembering.

  “I know,” I tell him when we pull back. I didn’t really know, but I do now. And I smile behind his back as we walk in, grateful that the whole time we were talking, he didn’t look down once.

  Jamal twists in his desk when I sit behind him. “You run this morning?”

  I nod as I pull out my book and a pencil. “Went early.”

  His eyes drift to the stuff on my desk, and I can see his tongue move along the inside of his top lip. Rodney watches the short exchange with a questioning eyebrow and then rips a corner off the notebook paper he’s got out, crumples it, and chucks it at Jamal. It hits right between his eyes.

  “What?” Jamal asks, searching for the paper, but it fell somewhere under his desk.

  Rodney leans forward. “You know what.”

  They have a stare off, and then Jamal says, “I’ll tell her later.”

  “Tell me now,” I say, leaning back in my desk and crossing my arms. I quickly uncross them the second I notice cleavage peeking from the top of the shirt.

  Jamal eyes Rodney once more before he grumbles something under his breath.

  “Huh?” I prod.

  “I’m sorry,” he says again, glaring at Rodney before going back to me. “I was going to apologize in private, but someone’s impatient.”

  “Just making sure you followed through,” Rodney says, putting his hands up. He sits back and acts like he’s not listening anymore, even though we both know he is.

  My eyes meet Jamal’s, his dark cheeks splashing red. “Sorry about what?”

  Our teacher comes in and holds out the bin for our phones. Jamal turns in his seat, I think relieved that he doesn’t have to answer my question right now. I wonder if he’s apologizing for the boyfriend/girlfriend rumor—albeit reluctantly—and I kinda hope that he is. That’s one conversation I don’t want to have to bring up. I was perfectly fine ignoring it till it went away.

  Halfway through our reading time, Jamal’s hand twists under my desk, a folded paper sitting in his palm. I’m careful to only touch the note as I pluck it from his hand, and I settle it in the binding of the boring required reading.

  I was only trying to defend you on that thread. Didn’t realize I was making it worse.

  I flip the paper around, brows pulling in when that side is blank. I didn’t even see Jamal comment on the photo, mostly because I was avoiding it like the plague. Now I’m itching to get my phone out of the bin so I can catch up to what he’s talking about.

  I don’t write him back, not wanting to say “Don’t worry about it” when I have no clue what it is I’m telling him to not worry about. When the bell rings, Jamal races out of there pretty fast, and I open my Instagram, fire ants crawling through my gut as I scroll through the comments to find Jamal’s username.

  I’m so focused I don’t notice Rodney until his booming laugh is heard over my head as he runs into some of his teammates. Looks like he’s taken it upon himself to be my official body guard in between classes.

  SuperBridget knew there was no way she was running that fast. Coach Fox must’ve seen this and empathized. #biggirlsunite

  My breath lodges in my throat, and I quickly scroll so I don’t catch any more comments that I really don’t want to see. But it’s like I can’t train myself to not read.

  Joe_Joey_Sloppy Hey, GingerbreadMan, you want to try out for softball? I can teach you the bases ;)

  MeOhMiley Girls can’t be too small or too big now? WTF!

  NerdChique Not about that MeOhMiley! This is about CHEATING!

  MeOhMiley Cheating in what??

  SuperBridget She faked her score. You try running with two sacks of flour taped to your chest. See if you break any records. #Silverman=Cheaterman

  BenHornby12 I’d like to second MeOhMiley on one thing… this is about the boobs. #whencanIseethem?

  Joe_Joey_Sloppy agreed BenHornby12

  JoshTree63 I’ve seen bigger

  MeOhMiley BenHornby12 STOP BEING GROSS!

  NerdChique found Coach Fox’s dating profile. #woof

  Someone knocks into me, jolting me from the feed. Tiff reaches over to Rodney and smacks him upside the head.

  “You were supposed to keep her away from that.”

  His eyes come down to the phone in my hand, and his lips turn down. “Whoops.”

  Tiff huffs and grabs my cell. The back of my eyes sting, and I sniff before I can look up at her.

  “People are stupid. Don’t. Look. At. This.”

  “You didn’t tell me they were making fun of Coach, too.”

  Tiff shares a glance with Rodney and then pushes my phone into a pocket of my backpack.

  “Honestly, I thought you knew.” Her eyes drift to my necklace. “I had a tough time not scrolling through it, and it’s not even about me.”

  “Did you comment?”

  Rodney and Tiff both shake their heads. “I don’t want to feed into that crap,” Rodney says.

  “But Jamal commented…”

  Tiff’s eyes grow big. “Did you read that part?”

  I shake my head, and then Rodney puts a hand over his face. “You didn’t? Ugh… that was probably my fault.” He blows out a breath then tells Tiff about the forced apology in the period before. She smacks him again.

  “It wasn’t a big deal,” she says to me. “He and Drake just got into it over you. It took me every ounce of strength I had not to comment about how you were out with another guy at the exact moment they were fighting.”

  I snort, laughing only because it’s so much better than crying. My gut is all knotted up, and I feel like disappearing, especially when Ben walks past and suggestively pushes his lips out at me.

  And I don’t know what happens. It’s like all the silence has built up inside of me and it wants out. The suggestive look on Ben’s face, a guy I barely know, acts like an accelerant in my already fired up nerves. Sound fuzzes around me, my eyes sting, and my heart pounds underneath my shirt, only emphasizing the feel of the Sharpies underneath.

  Without any more thought, I shove through Tiff and Rodney and throw myself onto Ben’s back.

  He goes down fast, and my knees crash into the tile floor, sending a dull wave through my legs. I squeeze my thighs, holding him tight to the ground and start smacking the back of his head.

  I don’t know how to fight. I’ve never
been a fight girl. My fleeing instinct seems to have flown right out the window.

  My face feels wet, and I don’t know if it’s tears or sweat or both, but I scratch and pull and smack at the guy underneath me, wanting to cause him as much pain as I feel.

  The noise in the hallway must be getting louder, but it continues to fuzz in my ears. It can’t be more than five seconds before I’m hoisted back, my arms still flailing, my shirt hanging off in disarray, my best friend staring at me like she doesn’t know who I am. Rodney’s arms pin mine to my sides, and he barks at Ben to leave me alone, using words I never hear from him because Rodney believes in a God who doesn’t like expletives. Ben isn’t bleeding. He hardly looks touched at all, only his hair mussed like he’d been making out instead of attacked. My shoulders slump in yet another failure. I can’t even defend myself right anymore.

  The fight was so short, broken up before drawing too much attention, that when a teacher steps from her classroom, there’s nothing to see. Rodney drops his hold, and I wipe my cheek off with the heel of my hand. My two friends look at me with slightly open mouths, probably searching for what to say or what to do, but I don’t even know anymore. I just want out. I feel so trapped inside this school.

  “I want to go home,” I say to Tiff, and she nods, reaching in her bag for her keys.

  I apologize to Rodney for “letting crap get to me.” He gives me a very rare hug before heading off to class.

  When Tiff and I step outside, I was hoping for some relief from the trapped feeling. But the truth is, I’m trapped inside this body. And there is no escape from that.

  23

  Rashes and Brownie Lips

  I use every ounce of courage I have to go back to school. I change at home so I wouldn’t have to enter that locker room again—and so I can apply a healthy dose of duct tape—and then head straight to the track. When I get there, Hadley is the only one running while the football players practice on the inside field.

  “Hey,” I say, jogging in line with her, relieved because she’s the only person on the team I didn’t see on the photo thread. She breathes out and gives me a small smile.

  “Hey.”

  “Where is everyone?”

  She breathes some more, her body covered in sweat. She’s still in her gym uniform, so I guess she’s been out here since last period started.

  “Dunno…” she answers between breaths. “No… one… showed.”

  “What about Coach?”

  She shakes her head, and we hit the curve of the track. She trails a little behind, mostly because she’s on the outside and she’s been running a lot longer than I have.

  “Haven’t… seen… her…”

  She lets out a long, deep breath and then pushes into overdrive, sprinting around the last bend. I let her go on ahead, my eyes pulling to the gym doors that lead out to the football field. Instead of following Hadley, I jog across the grass and pull on the handle, thrilled they haven’t locked it yet.

  The locker room is dead quiet, the only sound now coming from my running shoes clomping along the tile. Coach’s office door is shut, and after no answer, I jiggle the handle.

  I’m tempted to text Oliver, ask if he knows where she is, but I catch a note on the door on my way back outside.

  Cross Country cancelled until further notice.

  Feel free to use the track while football is being held.

  It’s signed by Principal Turphy.

  I whip open the door, take out my phone, and send a text to Oliver.

  Do you mind if I stop by your house?

  I’m halfway across the parking lot when he responds.

  You can… but no one’s there.

  Where’s your mom? I hope he doesn’t think I only want to see Coach, even though she is the reason for my urgency.

  She not at the school?

  Crap, he doesn’t know where she is either. Nope. Practice was cancelled. Wanted to know if she was okay.

  He doesn’t answer, only making my anxiety a zillion times worse. I sprint home, the tape around my chest digging into my sides. When I turn the corner of my street, my eyes lock on a deep, navy truck, and even though I’ve had just about the worst day ever, my heart leaps up to my mouth, making me grin uncontrollably.

  Quick as I can, I duck behind Mr. and Mrs. Flackshield’s bush and rip the tape off like a Band-Aid. A hiss slides through my teeth, and I bite back the scream that wants to project from my throat. Sweet mother of all that is holy, that is the most excruciating sting I’ve ever experienced. I lift my baggy shirt up to reveal the rash along my ribs, oozing with lymph and glowing bright red. Sweat that’s accumulated under my bra starts to drip onto it, sending another wave of pain under my skin.

  I breathe it out, slowly letting my shirt fall back into place. I use my sleeve to wipe the sweat from my forehead, and I redo my ponytail to make sure I catch all the frizz I can in the elastic. Once the stinging pain has relented—as much as I think it can, at least—I move back to the sidewalk and jog around Oliver’s truck.

  He’s on my front porch, phone to his ear, running his hand up and down one of the slats in the railing. His eyes flick up to meet mine, and he gives me a smile, but it’s nowhere near the smiles I’m used to from him.

  “Yeah, she just got here,” he says into the phone. “Okay. See you at home.”

  I raise an eyebrow as he slides his phone back into the pocket of his black jeans. He pushes up off the front steps, and there’s a split second of hesitation while he scratches his arm. Next thing I know I’m wrapped up in his hold, nose pressed into his warm, fluffy chest.

  “Hi,” he says over my head. My smile catches on his t-shirt.

  “Hi.” I squeeze him a little tighter so he knows I’m so not done with this hug. “My mom not let you inside?” I joke.

  He chuckles, bumping me with his stomach. “She did. I came out here to call my mom.”

  I pull back. “You met my mom?”

  “She fed me, too.”

  “Fed you to what?”

  He grins. “I kinda feel bad for you. Missing out on what she just pulled from the oven.”

  My mouth pools. “What was it? Cookies? Cake? More of that devil bread she’s determined to torture me with?”

  “Mint covered brownies.” He smacks his lips. “I can still taste them.”

  I almost get out a kissing joke, but I put my tongue on lockdown before it sneaks its way out. Instead I study his eyes, his smile, and worry over why they’re a little lackluster.

  I push back into his arms, just for another second.

  “You… you okay?” He tenses underneath me, and I pull away, tucking my hands into the hem of my baggy shirt.

  “I… well… today’s been kinda—”

  “I saw it,” he says, and I’m ten thousand degrees of thankful that I don’t have to talk about the Instagram thread out loud. “That’s why…” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Well, that’s why I couldn’t wait till tonight to see you.”

  A sick wave runs over my tongue. “I’m so sorry about what they said about your mom.”

  Confusion settles in his eyes, and then he gives me that Queen of the Planet look. “Mind if I kidnap you for a bit?”

  Oh, please do. “Let me ask.”

  We head inside, and I’m immediately pummeled by the scent of chocolate and mint. Mom’s humming to the tune of Les Poissons—she’s who I get my Disney love from—even though she’s totally not making seafood.

  “Hey, Mom?” I interrupt, and she turns her head over her shoulder.

  “No, you cannot go up to your room.” She pointedly looks at Oliver and how close he’s standing next to me, her eyes dropping to our hands that aren’t touching, but could totally touch if we made the slightest movement toward each other. “Sorry, but I don’t know you that well yet.”

  My ears burn. “No, we were gonna… hang out?” I look at Oliver, who steps up to the island bar.

  “She’s kinda had a bad day,” he says, jerkin
g his head at me. “Anywhere I can take her so her mind can relax for a bit?”

  Mom presses her lips together as she stirs the mint sauce in the pot. “The backyard?” she teases, and I groan, wishing she’d lock eyes with me so I can silently tell her to stop with the embarrassment.

  “Okay, okay…” She grins, eyeing the clock on the microwave. “You probably have time for a short hike up Crest Canyon.”

  “Oh, that’s a good idea,” I say, perking up at the thought. It’s been a while since I trooped the trails, and they’re the perfect substitute for practice. They aren’t extremely strenuous; I bet Oliver could keep up with his long legs and obvious muscle.

  He nervously runs a hand over the back of his neck. “Is it far?”

  I shake my head, grabbing one of my dad’s hoodies he keeps near the front door. “Short drive, then only about a mile in, mile back.”

  “And it’ll cheer you up?”

  “Most likely,” I muffle through the fabric of the hoodie. I pop my head out the hole and fix my hair. “I won’t get an Internet signal, that’s for sure.”

  He pulls his keys from his pocket and twirls them around his finger. “Sweet. Let’s go.”

  “Back by dinner!” Mom says as we head out. “Oliver, I’m making a plate for you.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Silverman.”

  He’s so polite I can’t handle it. As soon as the door shuts behind me, I put the back of my hand purposely against his, and he takes my not-so-subtle hint and laces our fingers together. It creates a steady beat in my chest that could break the sound barrier, and I bite my smile away so he doesn’t see just how crazy I already am about him.

  Honestly, he could take me anywhere, and I’d feel better. Just as long as he doesn’t let go.

  24

  Mouth to Mouth

  Dad’s hoodie isn’t the best apparel for hiking, but it’s not too bad. The trail’s a little more uphill than I remember, and I can hear Oliver huffing and puffing behind me as we head up to where I think there’s a spot overlooking a stream. There may be a couple waterfalls too. Just itty bitty ones.