They'll Never Catch Us

by Jessica Goodman

  “Wouldn’t get what?”

  Stella throws the pillow down with a violent thud and her fingers dig into the side of the couch. “I said, nothing.” Her eyes are dark and for a second I see a flash of something scary. Something I thought was in the past. “Just forget it, okay?”

  “Fine.”

  Stella heads to the stairs and I can hear her footsteps stomping overhead as she moves around her room.

  I sink further into the couch and flex my leg. It’s all red and tight, like a piece of raw meat. It’s only then that I realize Coach didn’t even ask about my knee.

  5

  STELLA

  I fucking hate parties. The dark lighting, the over-excited music, the nervous energy pulsing through the air. It’s just so sad, like these people have nothing better to do, no goals to achieve, other than to get fucked up and grind on each other. Pathetic. The only one I can stomach—well, have to stomach, since I agreed to plan it—is the annual Fall Cross Country Formal.

  “You’re wearing that?” Ellie asks, leaning up against my doorframe. Obviously she looks amazing, with her shiny, bouncy hair and off-the-shoulder royal blue dress. She’s even put on some sort of lip stuff. It glistens.

  I look down at my own getup. A simple black sheath. It hangs off me like a sack. “This is the team formal, not the Oscars.”

  Ellie rolls her eyes. “So?”

  I pull my hair up into a high ballerina bun. Whatever.

  “Let’s go.” I brush past her and call to Mom and Dad. “We’re gonna be late!”

  They scurry behind us, Mom in a sleek navy cocktail dress and Dad in a dark suit. It’s basically black tie for Edgewater.

  “I heard the Keene girl and her mother are renting over by the farming museum,” Mom says once we’re on the road.

  Ellie groans. “Please do not use tonight to try and upsell someone a house.” She doesn’t mention that Dad always calls the homes over there “fixer-uppers no one wants to fix.”

  “I never said I was going to do anything!” Mom whines, getting all defensive.

  “No networking,” I say harshly. Mom and Dad exchange a look in the front seats and I can’t tell if that means they’ll abide or just do it behind our backs. They can be so annoying. And pushy. And gross.

  I try to cut them slack like Ellie does, but it’s almost impossible. When they do something—anything—that reminds me of the Dark Years, it’s like my brain short-circuits and I’m five years old again, shielding Ellie from the clanking of Mom’s empty bottles and Dad’s frantic gaze. We were living in the Airstream then, and I can still remember every inch of it. Before we were born they had hung up dumb hippie art, posters of the Grateful Dead and Woodstock memorabilia. Even when Grandma and Grandpa shipped Mom off to rehab, we kept everything, living among the incense holders and the beaded curtains. Ellie walked into them every time she sleepwalked and the noise would wake me. That sound will always remind me of pulling my little sister back to bed, soothing her with head pats and back rubs—of waiting to see if Mom would come back alive, if they could turn into the parents we always wanted.

  When Mom did return, Ellie helped Dad make cut-out cards and paper chains. She welcomed Mom with tight hugs and neck nuzzles. She told Mom to never leave her again. But I was cautious. Distrustful.

  Ellie was too young to understand why Mom left or what it was like before. She only got the good stuff. The after. The determined, hardworking duo who busted their asses to get their real estate licenses. The parents who worked together as a team to build something, to move us from a home that reminded me of aluminum foil to their favorite house on the market.

  She was proud of them and what they accomplished. She wasn’t even that upset when Mom relapsed. She trusted Mom would get better, like the last time. I didn’t, though. Now it’s always in the back of my mind. The fact that Mom’s always teetering on the edge of destruction and we’re the ones waiting to deal with the fallout.

  That’s what I kept thinking about when I came out. I sat both of my parents down and read a letter I had written, like I saw on YouTube, unease churning in my stomach. But when I reached the end of the page and lifted my gaze, I was expecting one of the classic reactions I read about on an LGBTQ+ resource website—something resembling disappointment or rage, surprise or excitement. I was worried my admission would send Mom into a tailspin. But instead, she and Dad just smiled pleasantly, unfazed.

  “Oh, Stell, is that all?” Mom asked.

  “Uh, yeah,” I said.

  “I think what your mom is trying to say is that to us, it’s just not that big of a deal,” Dad said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “We love you unconditionally.”

  Mom nodded beside him, but looked a bit distracted, like she wanted to check her phone or prepare for another open house.

  “Oh,” I said, my heart deflating. “Okay.” Suddenly, I wanted the conversation to end. I knew I should have felt things like relief or joy. But the whole encounter was just so underwhelming. I was glad I had done it. It was a good thing. I knew that in my bones. But nothing changed between us. We all just continued on with our lives.

  Yeah, they were happy when I told them I joined the LGBTQ+ alliance at school, but it wasn’t like I was going to confide in them that it felt like I was being strangled when I was crushing on Lilly Adams and saw her making out with Jade Kensington at practice. I just kept moving about the world, my queer heart another thing that made me whole, and my mind focused on the one thing that could propel me forward: winning.

  I press my forehead against the car window and fog the window with my breath. As soon as we pull into the high school parking lot, I pop open the door. “Gotta find Coach and Noah,” I call over my shoulder. Even though Noah is completely useless, Coach has always told me that people feel more included when they’re . . . uh, included. So I’ve been trying to make an effort. Doesn’t help that I constantly want to punch his face. Or that he looks at Ellie like she’s an ice-cream sundae, even though he’s basically married to Tamara. Gross.

  I walk through the dark hallways toward the gym until I see a light illuminating Coach’s office doorway. It’s my first time back here since the spring, when I was summoned by Principal Pérez. It smells the same as it did then, like sweat and Lysol. I have to stop to catch my breath for a second.

  I thought things had settled down then, that Pérez, Coach, and I were just going to talk about logistics, like assigning booster club roles and fall training schedules. But when I arrived and dropped into the metal chair, Pérez’s face was stern, her mouth a straight line.

  “Stella, this is serious,” she had said. Her dark shoulder-length hair was flecked with gray and she pushed a pair of reading glasses up on her forehead. She had come to Edgewater High after Shira Tannenbaum disappeared. Apparently the school board organized a statewide search to find a principal who could help raise fundraising numbers, increase safety, and send students off to college at an above-average rate. They were determined to make Edgewater a happy place. A safe place. A place that didn’t make you think of dead girls.

  The superintendent found her in Westchester County, where she had been the principal at some snooty suburban high school for fifteen years. Her district was number one in the state. Mom told me Pérez wanted to move to Edgewater because she liked a challenge. She’s the one who recruited Coach Gary to revamp the cross country program and persuaded the town council to expand the education budget. She even organized fully funded trips to Mexico City, where her parents were born and her brother works as a curator at the big anthropology museum. In a matter of two years, Principal Pérez was 100 percent beloved.

  “Lauren,” Coach said. “What are you really worried about here? Stella intentionally breaking someone’s neck? She’s a kid, not a monster. This whole Allison Tarley thing was an accident.” His bald head was shiny under the fluorescent light and he gave me a so
ft smile. I’m on your side.

  Pérez ignored him, and turned to me. “Stella, there’s no easy way to say this. You are a liability. Keeping you here on the team is a risk for all of us.”

  My tongue became heavy and I swallowed the venom building in my throat.

  “But you are also our best chance at winning State next year. And we have to win.”

  Coach let out a puff of air, relieved.

  “Cross country is the only team we have that can bring in the PTA money we need to keep this school as the best in the county,” Pérez said. “You saw what happened to Tremont a few years back when that new coach ran their football team into the ground. Numbers plummeted. They lost their IB program. College matriculation declined. Families moved.” She fiddled with the gold wedding band on her ring finger. Her nails were freshly painted, pink and shiny. “All I’m saying is if you fly off the handle again, I’ll have no choice but to remove you from the team. And I really don’t want to do that.”

  I nodded. It was the only motion I could make.

  “But before that, we need to show the community that you’ve changed, that you’ve put in the work.” Pérez reached down into her slick leather briefcase and pulled out a brochure for Breakbridge. She handed it to me. The paper was thick and glossy, heavy to the touch.

  “What is this?” I asked, my voice scratchy.

  “Where you’ll be spending the summer,” she said. “It’s a track camp that focuses on anger management. Group therapy three times a week. A personalized counselor attuned to your needs. Plus, there’s a grueling training program.”

  I flipped through the pages. It didn’t sound so bad. In fact, it was kind of perfect. Until I got to the final page, where a bunch of numbers smacked me right in the face.

  “I don’t think we can afford this,” I said softly, heat creeping into my cheeks.

  Pérez and Coach exchanged a look.

  “We’ve spoken to your parents,” Coach said. “You’re going.”

  My heart raced, thinking about how much this would cost them, how much I had already cost the whole family. “Okay,” I said, and looked at Coach, then Pérez. I had no other options.

  “You’re good, Stella, but you’re not untouchable. No one is,” Pérez said. She stood then, and left the room, her yellow linen dress swishing around her calves.

  Now, right outside Coach’s office, I can still feel the warm air from last spring, how it was heavy and hot as I tried to figure out what it all meant. But I made it through. I survived. It’s time to get back to work, to get to State, to show them all who I still am.

  I knock on the door and push it open with my knuckle. “Ready, Coach?”

  He looks up expectantly from behind his desk, a stack of papers in his hand. “Stella!” He smooths his tie over his crisp white button-down. “Let’s do this.”

  Together we walk to the gym. My hands shake as I throw open the door, and when I actually see inside, I’m blinded by school spirit.

  It barely looks like a gym, with round tables set up at odd angles, plastic folding chairs tucked under them. Each table is covered in a blue or white fabric tablecloth, decorated with big balloon centerpieces. The lights are low and Tamara’s customized banners hang from the walls. Members of the team and their families mill about, breaking off hunks of cheese from a mountainous appetizer board and plucking roasted artichokes from an antipasto platter. The soccer formal consisted of takeout pizza and grocery store cupcakes. No surprise, though. Neither the men’s nor women’s team had won anything in decades. But we’re different. We win. We earn this farm-to-table catered dinner for sixty people. I turn away from everyone to the front of the room, where a small podium and microphone are set up.

  “Queen Stella, we’re at your service,” Noah says, approaching with Tamara. He takes a bow.

  Tamara rolls her eyes at him and tugs on a few of her braids. “Dork,” she says, and runs her hands over her coral-colored dress, which flares out around her hips. She turns to me. “Ready for this?”

  “Obviously.” I must say it harshly because she takes a step back.

  “Hey, hey. Be nice,” Noah says. “We’re all captains. Let’s just not make a scene.”

  Before I can respond, Coach comes up behind us and slaps my and Noah’s shoulders with his palms. It’s warm and sweaty on my bare skin. All I want to do is pry him off.

  “Ready, guys? My A-team. My captains. Shall we begin?”

  “You know it, Coach,” Noah says.

  “Suck-up,” I whisper as we walk to the podium.

  He smirks in my direction and strides toward the mic so he gets there before I do, forcing me to stand next to him like a sidekick. As soon as people see Noah in front of the room, with his broad shoulders stretching the seams of his collared shirt, the room goes quiet. People tiptoe to their seats. Respect. That’s what Noah has. Must be nice.

  I scan the room and find Ellie, Mom, and Dad sitting just off-center. An empty seat waits for me next to Ellie. But then I see who else they’re with. Mila. She’s wearing a simple sleeveless red dress, laughing with Ellie like they already share inside jokes. I don’t know why Ellie doesn’t get it. You’re not supposed to befriend your competition. Keeping them at arm’s length is the only way to win.

  I clench my fists and only realize I’m staring when Mila offers her hand up in a little wave. Her mouth is stretched into a smile. I avert my eyes and turn my attention to Noah, who’s probably been fucking up this whole speech while I wasn’t paying attention. Great.

  “And that’s why this year will be the best we’ve ever had!” he screams into the mic. The boys erupt in cheers. They pound their fists into the air and their parents clap, thrilled at their male displays of aggression. Nobody wants to see that from the girls.

  “Now you get to hear from Edgewater’s favorite fighter . . . Stella Steckler,” Noah says. My skin grows hot but I can’t let my fury show. Not toward Noah. Everyone knows what he’s insinuating with the word fighter, but that doesn’t mean I have to acknowledge it.

  I nudge him out of the way and take my place in front of the microphone. I know I should try to savor this moment. I’m finally the captain, even though I’m only a junior. But it feels hollow, like no one really wants to listen to me, like I shouldn’t be up here. At one point I thought I earned this title. I toiled away, running drills and lifting weights until I became the best. But now I just see people who roll their eyes when I call out stretches during practice. Ellie’s the only one I can count on—and only sometimes.

  “Hi everyone,” I say into the mic, ignoring the low chatter in the back of the room. “I just want to welcome Mila Keene to the team.” I grit my teeth as I motion to Mila sitting with her mom. “Coming from a great squad in Connecticut, she’s sure to be an asset and we’re glad to have her.” Mila pushes her chair back and stands, turning and smiling at the room.

  Applause breaks out and Coach nods approvingly.

  “We have a lot to accomplish this year,” I say. “Our first meet is next week and we have so much to do before then.” I spot Raven and Julia just in time for them to exchange a knowing glance. “So let’s have fun tonight and get ready to put in the work.”

  Tamara leans in and pulls the mic toward her. “Emphasis on the fun, right, guys?” The tables erupt in cheers and claps and I slink back, letting her take center stage.

  “See you all at the after-party!” she yells. “Cross country forever!”

  The crowd keeps cheering and I want to melt into my too-tight heels as I rush back to my seat. Ellie barely looks up when I drop next to her. She’s deep in conversation with Mila, laughing and talking closely over a basket of dinner rolls.

  “Give a shit much?” I whisper.

  “Sorry,” she mumbles, turning to me. “You were great.”

  I pull my napkin to my lap and turn away.

  “Le
t’s go to the party this year,” she says. “I want to.”

  “So go,” I say. Famously, I refused to drive her and Bethany last year and she pouted for a whole week, miserable that she missed out on a bunch of Jell-O shots and some unsavory time in a hot tub filled with germs.

  Mila, who’s sitting on Ellie’s other side, leans over. “Are you talking about the party?”

  Ellie nods. “Want to go? I’m dying to.”

  “Sure,” Mila says a bit too enthusiastically.

  Ellie glares at me and then smiles at Mila. “Cool.”

  “I can drive if you want,” Mila says.

  Ellie’s eyes light up and she nods with actual happiness.

  “Great,” Mila says, and pops a piece of buttered roll into her mouth.

  6

  STELLA

  When we pull up to Tamara’s place, all the girls from the team have already changed into jeans and crop tops, or tiny strapless dresses. The boys are wearing their standard uniform of hoodies and drawstring pants. “Easy access,” Bader always says. Barf.

  Ellie even jumped into Mila’s back seat to swap her cocktail dress for high-waisted jeans and a halter top she had stuffed into her backpack.

  “Guess we didn’t get the memo,” Mila says, stepping out of the car. She motions to the dumbass sack I’m wearing.

  I pretend like I don’t hear her and open the door. Might as well watch the debauchery while I’m here. I never really understood why people like to lose control like this. Why would you want to be anything but peak? Why let yourself fall anywhere below 100? It never made sense to me. Especially after seeing Mom become a different person in the span of minutes.

  But maybe I just hate this specific party because of what happened freshman year. That year, Lilly Adams hosted it. She was captain, after all. And I was a rookie, forced to tag along even though I wanted to go home and watch science documentaries.