False Start

by Barbara Valentin

  Man, oh man, she had hated the jocks at her high school. They swaggered around like they owned the place, objectifying the more than willing cheer squad, and passing all of their classes without so much as picking up a book.

  He scowled down at her. "I think you're confusing me with my brother. Again."

  Feeling as if he had just shoved her backwards a few feet, she said, "I don't think so," and turned to walk away.

  "Hey," he called after her. "High school was just as hard for me as it was for everybody else."

  There was an edge to his voice that made her turn around. Marching right up to him, she asked, "Oh, really? Tell me, did anybody ever leave a dirty diaper in your locker?"

  A look of disgust swept over Nick's face. "No."

  "Anybody ever loosen the bolts in the chair they knew you'd be sitting in so when you did, it would break?"

  Nick shifted his weight to his other foot and stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets. "No."

  Her eyes welling up, she leaned closer, lowered her voice, and asked him one last question. "Anybody ever make you feel like you don't deserve to be loved? Ever? By anybody?"

  Titling his head to one side, Nick looked at her, his eyes filled with compassion.

  Mattie pressed her lips together and whispered, "I didn't think so."

  She turned her back and walked several paces away from him before calling over her shoulder, "Thanks again for breakfast."

  * * *

  Two hours, one hot shower, and three cups of strong black coffee later, Mattie had put her outburst with Nick behind her and stormed into Dianne's office. She was barely able to contain herself.

  "I ran a whole lap without stopping."

  But, Dianne wasn't there. Looking around, she noticed that the entire lifestyle department seemed to be missing.

  What in the world…?

  On her way back to her desk, she heard the sound of laughter spilling from a conference room. As she approached, she noticed the door was slightly ajar.

  "Over four minutes to run a quarter mile? My grandmother can do better than that," said a voice belonging to Troy Baker, the new intern who made up for his lack of experience by inflating his own accomplishments at every turn.

  "Is that the same grandmother who taught Martha Stewart how to use a glue gun?" retorted the unmistakable drone of Hugh Fink from classifieds, already tired of hearing Troy's tall tales.

  "Check this out," said a man whose voice she didn't recognize. "This is the best part of the whole thing."

  The room erupted with sounds of disgust. The intern exclaimed, "Hey, do you mind—I'm eating?"

  "All right. That's enough." It was Dianne. She was in there with them.

  Goosebumps crept over the surface of Mattie's arms, and the nausea threatened to return. She racked her brain trying to recall if she saw someone with a cell phone recording her every move.

  As much as she wanted to slink away and hide in her cubicle, she felt compelled to stay and listen.

  Dianne shot out, "We need a name for this feature and fast. What've you got so far?"

  "Fat to fantastic?" one voice offered.

  "Forget it. First, she's not fat. Not by my definition anyway. Second, this isn't about losing weight. It's about training for a marathon. Focus."

  "Rubenesque to ripped," offered another.

  "Did you even hear what I just said? What else?" Dianne fired back.

  "Plump to perfection?" This one actually got booed.

  "Buxom to buff."

  "Tubby to Terrif—"

  Mattie laid her head against the corridor wall. Aside from Dianne, she associated with no one, fearful of exposing her charade. That, however, did not make her co-workers' jabs any less painful.

  "All right. That's it. This is a feature title, people. It will be plastered on billboards across the Chicago metro area and slapped on the side of CTA buses. Use your brains. I'm sure you can come up with something at least a little clever and far less insulting. Think of a working mother who's too busy to exercise, committing to train for this marathon. Think 'A Cinderella Story,' but with runners."

  Mattie closed her eyes and pictured herself crossing the finish line, skinny and fit, waving to a mob of her adoring fans before accepting a giant bonus check from Lester.

  Running down a dream…

  An unrecognizable female voice asked, "So if she doesn't want to lose weight, why is she doing it?"

  Dianne's heels click-clacked on the hardwood floor as she circled her team. "Excellent question, Nancy. For starters, she's doing it to inspire her readers, mostly working parents who don't make the time to take care of themselves. And, since they make up the majority of our subscription base these days, we're standing behind her a hundred percent."

  Troy spoke up, his voice inappropriately bold. "It didn't look to me like this was her idea."

  The click-clacking stopped and Dianne spoke. "I'm only going to say this once. If I see that video making the rounds, make no mistake—I'll fire the lot of you. Now get back to work."

  Mattie had never heard Dianne threaten anyone before. She could picture her taking Troy by the ear as she led him out of the room sneering at him the entire time. Not wanting to find out if her vision was spot on, Mattie rushed back to her cubicle. It was the one place she could pretend she was someone else, someone better than everyone else, herself included, and get away with it.

  She set Nick's list of rules to the right of her keyboard and got busy doing just that. Soon, her hands were flying, cranking out her very first "Running Down a Dream" column.

  Dear Readers—I have often extolled the virtues of well-crafted to-do lists. They have the power to turn us from stressed, harried, unproductive working parents to efficient, productive, nurturing working parents. Often the goal of many a New Year's resolution, these lists are task-based and short-term. But ask yourself, what do you have to show for using them except a fleeting sense of accomplishment? Is your life better because you scratched off each item at the end of any given day? Does it make the next day's list any shorter? This year, why not create a list that will leave you better for having followed it? Or, should I say, better for not having followed it? I'd like to introduce you to the To-Don't list. Generated by an expert in his field, I intend to use this list to help me accomplish a long-held, though seemingly impossible goal—running the Chicago Marathon, and I invite you to follow along.

  As she reread it, she felt like she was reading someone else's copy.

  "Because I'm lying through my teeth," she muttered to herself as she saved the file.

  "So, tell me. How'd it go, sweetie?"

  Startled, Mattie spun around to face her only ally. She fought the urge to cover her earlobes.

  "Fine. It went perfectly fine, thanks for asking."

  Looking surprised, Dianne cocked her head and let out an awkward laugh. "I'm glad to hear it. Like I said, it's a simple business arrangement."

  "Speaking of which, what's the publicity plan? No photos of me, right?"

  Dianne folded her arms and looked down at her brand new Manolo Blahnik pumps.

  When she didn't reply, Mattie repeated, "No pictures of me, right?"

  Dianne took off her reading glasses and smiled. "Sweetie, what kind of piece would it be without photos?"

  Mattie sat up straight and gripped the arms of her chair. "Dianne, the only saving grace to writing this column is the anonymity. If you take that away, everyone will know I'm a fraud. We'll both be out of a job."

  With her heart thumping, she thought of the potential whistle blowers in her life—the cashiers at all of her favorite fast food places and grocery stores, and all of the pizza delivery guys. She saw them so often, she was on a first name basis with most of them. Then she thought about all of the readers she had ever riled. She imagined them organizing into a vigilante group bent on revenge, hunting her down like a third world dictator in a well-orchestrated working parent coup.

  Dianne picked up the picture of Tom and said,
"Maybe it's time you take your sister up on her offer to move in with them."

  A sickening feeling washed over Mattie. "Why?"

  "So the illusion is complete."

  "With who? Nick?"

  "No. With you."

  Before she could reply, a clerk from the mailroom appeared, holding a package.

  "Mattie Ross?"

  The two women exchanged glances. Packages never came addressed to her by name.

  "See who it's from before you open it," Dianne cautioned. She held her hand to her chest as she peered at it. "It's too big to be from Benziger's. And I call dibs if they send truffles at Christmas again this year."

  "Deal," Mattie laughed. "I'll need all the help I can get staying away from chocolate for the next ten months.

  Turning the package over in her hands, she announced, "No return address," and after giving it a quick shake, added, "And it's not ticking."

  Tearing away the plain brown paper, she exposed a shoebox emblazoned with an athletic manufacturer's name on the side and a note taped to the lid.

  Mattie plucked off the piece of paper. In hard-pressed print, it read, "Tomorrow morning. Same time, same place—N."

  After sneering at the note, she slowly lifted the lid, afraid of what she might find.

  "Oh my."

  She pulled out a pair of silver running shoes with hot pink trim by its laces. Dangling them in front of her like puppets, she examined them from all angles.

  "Oh my, indeed. Do you know how much those things cost?" Dianne exclaimed to Mattie who was already easing them onto her blistered feet.

  After jogging in place a bit, she announced with no small measure of curiosity, "They fit perfectly. And they're so bouncy."

  Dianne was intrigued. "Why did he buy you new running shoes? And how did he know your shoe size?"

  Assuming her plaid gym shoes were not the focal point of her first and already-banned workout video, Mattie thought it best to retain the last shreds of her dignity. Instead, she shrugged and said, "I have no idea, but I can't accept these. It would be like I'm signing a deal with the devil."

  Dianne laughed, "Trust me. If the devil looked anything like Nick DeRosa, I'd sign a deal with him in a heart beat."

  And, with that, she was gone.

  Mattie took off the shoes and hugged them close to her chest. Nick's gift couldn't have come at a better time, providing just the shot of encouragement she needed.

  Whether she planned on letting him know that, though, was another matter entirely.

  After morphing Nick's list of rules into a palatable New Year's resolution column for her readers, Mattie headed home. She taped the list to her refrigerator door, making sure it was at eye level. The words leapt off the page like a nightmarish, post-apocalyptic rationing mandate.

  No junk food.

  No coffee.

  No refined sugar.

  No processed foods.

  No carbonated drinks.

  Disgusted, she flung open her refrigerator door and took out the only item not on the list—a half-gallon of whole milk that she had purchased to wash down a package of Oreos a few days before. When she slammed the door closed, the list of rules, secured in one corner by a "World's Best Aunt" magnet, wafted upwards, revealing a second list on the back.

  Mattie set the milk on the counter and flipped the list. The first thing that caught her eye was, "No selling yourself short."

  She stared at the words, letting them sink in.

  "If I had a dime for every time I sold myself short, I'd be a wealthy woman," she mused.

  Her whole life, she made excuses for people. By all accounts, she was a seasoned enabler.

  Dad left because we were too much responsibility. Mom let herself go because she was too busy supporting me to take care of herself. Eddie used me because—

  Feeling as if a bolt of lightning had just taken aim at her chest, she took a deep breath and whispered, "Because I let him."

  She took the list with her into the living room and curled up in a chair. Her lips moved as she held the paper in front of her face and read the rest.

  "No disrespecting yourself, physically or mentally. No underestimating your awesomeness. No negativity. No thinking that you're in this alone."

  A strange sensation, starting at the top of her head and working its way down to her toes, gave her the distinct feeling that she had just been hugged.

  She closed her eyes and let the piece of paper fall into her lap.

  Holy crap.

  "There is no way Nick DeRosa could've written this," she tried convincing herself. The Nick DeRosa she knew, the one who was idolized by his teammates, canonized by his mother, and adored by nearly every female in the school, students and staff alike. Yet, whenever she'd walk by, he managed to look right through her like she wasn't even there. Never so much as a "hey," or "sup?"

  But that was then, and this was now, right?

  * * *

  "You're late."

  Nick stood at the edge of the track with his arms folded, watching Mattie like a hawk as she winced with each step that brought her closer to him.

  "You're lucky I made it here at all."

  "What's the matter? Shoes too tight?" he asked, sounding a little too flip for Mattie's liking.

  So as not to draw the attention of any camera phone-carrying bystanders, Mattie waited until she was directly in front of him before whispering, "No, Nick. It's not the shoes. It's my legs. I'm in serious pain."

  His face brightened. "You're welcome."

  Unzipping her coat to reveal the same dreadful sweats she wore the previous day, she glanced up at him. "For what?"

  "The shoes. I'm glad they fit. I took a guess on the size."

  "Do tell," Mattie replied, making sure he knew how little his shoe-size-guessing skills impressed her.

  Before letting her coat fall to the ground, she pulled the rules list from her pocket and demanded, "Who wrote this?"

  Nick frowned. "I did. Why?"

  Mattie was not convinced. "Where did you get it from?"

  "My notebook," Nick replied, putting his hands on his hips.

  "Seriously?"

  "Seriously."

  Mattie studied him like he was an oddity on display at a kitschy country fair before emitting a quiet, self-directed, "What do you know?"

  "What's with the inquisition?" he asked as she slowly squatted down to return the list to her pocket.

  Before responding, she groped for his hand so she could pull herself back up. When he didn't offer it, she grabbed at the cuffs of his jacket and pulled.

  Once upright, she explained, "If I reference it in my column, I'd need to confirm the source. That's all."

  As soon as the words left her mouth, she grimaced, having exposed more about her role at the paper than she intended.

  Nick made no attempt to hide his surprise. "You have your own column? At the Gazette? Seriously?" He sounded impressed. And he was staring at her.

  Not wanting to share more than she already had, Mattie glanced at her watch. "So what's the game plan for today, huh?"

  In reply, he pointed to her legs. "We're not doing anything 'til you stretch those out."

  He waved her over to the center of the track. As Mattie hobbled after him, she scanned the crowed of joggers and walkers for any sign of pedestrian paparazzi.

  "Do what I do."

  Nick turned to face her, spread his feet apart, and put his hands back on his hips. She watched as he bent his knees and started easing his lower body from right to left.

  Chuckling, she pointed towards him and said, "I am not doing that."

  Nick stood straight up. "Do it. Now."

  After glancing quickly over her shoulders, Mattie tried mimicking his movements.

  "You should feel the pull in your hips."

  What I feel is completely embarrassed.

  "Yep, I'm feelin' it."

  She resumed her normal stance and asked, "What's next?"

  "This." Nick crossed one f
oot in front of the other and leaned forward at the waist, resting his hands on his kneecap.

  When Mattie followed suit, she stifled a grown. Her face crunched in pain.

  "Now, just hold it for a minute, but don't forget to breathe."

  She shut her eyes, trying to block out the feel of razor blades slicing up the backs of her legs. "Is this supposed to be helping, because if it is, it's not."

  "Okay, now switch legs."

  Oh, good lord.

  "It'll get better. I promise," she heard him say.

  "Why don't I believe you?" Mattie asked as she followed him into a very unlady-like squat with her knees resting against the insides of her elbows and her fingertips grasping her toes.

  "This one's called the 'Monkey Stretch,'" Nick announced, watching as she lost her balance and toppled onto her side.

  Once she righted herself, Mattie asked, "What else ya got?"

  Sitting with his long legs extended into a "V" in front of him, he invited Mattie to sit facing him.

  After pulling the hem of her sweatshirt down as far as it would go, she lowered herself into position.

  "Put the bottom of your shoes against mine," he instructed before holding his hands out to her.

  Looking as if she had just sniffed sour milk, she observed, "This is couples stretching. I've seen it on TV."

  Nick shook his head. "It's instructional stretching, just until you're comfortable doing it on your own."

  When still she hesitated, he urged, "Come on, Mattie. Ya gotta trust me."

  She pressed her size five shoes against his. As she leaned forward, holding out her hands, she felt his shoes press back.

  When Nick grabbed a hold of her fingers and enveloped them in his grasp, tingles traveled up the length of her arms, and she let out an involuntary gasp.

  Eddie had rarely laid a finger on Mattie, and when he did, tingles were not the result. Maybe because any intentional physical contact on his part always seemed so forced, so obligatory. Even after they were engaged, the only time Eddie had agreed to sleep with her was after he had downed nearly half a bottle of one hundred-year-old cognac. While she had spent much of her young life looking forward to the magical moment when she would finally lose her virginity to the man of her dreams, the experience was, at best, awkward and, for lack of a better word, platonic.