“What’s up?” I ask.
“I just wanted to say hi before the meet,” he says. “Wish you luck, you know, since we can’t really be like that when we get there.”
My heart sinks. Of course.
“Aw, Ell. Come on,” he says, bringing the phone close to his face. I didn’t even have to say anything for him to know something was off. “You know this will be over soon. I’ll hear about early decision in December, then we’ll have a whole semester to be together.”
“It just sucks. Sneaking around like this makes me feel like crap, you know?” I don’t tell him about the rage I felt watching him make out with Tamara all night at the cross country formal—especially after I spent an hour looking for him at the party. Or how I can’t bear to let him go because of the secret we share. Instead I push myself to sit up. “Maybe we can hang out sometime soon? One of our midnight walks?” I try to hide my desperation. The hunger. The need for him to tell me it’s me, it’ll always be me.
Noah nods but looks away. “Soon, Ellie. For sure, soon.”
“When?” I ask, my voice wavering. “This week?”
He ignores the question. “Where’s the bracelet, Ell? Remember the bracelet?”
“The one you told me to take off?”
Noah looks away, annoyed. “Come on, that’s not fair.”
“Yeah, well, this isn’t fair to me. After what we went through . . .”
Noah purses his lips and runs a hand through his hair. “Can we please not talk about this right now?” he says, his voice an angry whisper. “I’ve got to get ready for the meet.”
“You never want to discuss it,” I say, the frustration building in my throat.
“What’s the point?” he asks, exasperated. “If people find out, you know this will look bad for you.” His eyes are shifty, moving away from the camera. “People will talk shit about you more than me. That’s just how it is.”
Tears form in the corners of my eyes, and I bite my lip to keep from crying. I know he’s right. If I told even one person the truth, no one would look at me the same way again.
Noah looks off-camera, bored and irritated. “I gotta go. I just called to wish you luck, okay?” Then he hangs up and my screen goes dark, his face imprinted in my brain. I always forget he can be cruel like this, slick and slippery when he doesn’t want to do something.
“Ellie!” Stella calls from outside my room. “Leaving in ten.” She bangs her fist a few times on the door for emphasis.
“No shit,” I mumble.
I throw my phone down and force myself out of bed. I push Noah out of my brain and try to let the excitement of meet day pulse through my body. I let my mind wander, playing the same if-then game I have for years. If I bring Noah’s red bracelet with me, I’ll break my PR. If I forget celery in my green juice, I’ll come in second. If I don’t do forty-five jumping jacks during practice, I won’t place. If I . . .
It’s a game I’ve played with myself ever since the Youth Running Club. Little twisted mantras I repeat over and over. Superstitions that mean nothing, but also everything. I can’t stop them and I don’t want to. I always follow them, whatever pops into my head.
The wheels are turning and the rules are coming to me as I put on the blue Lycra shorts and the matching racerback tank top with white lettering along the chest. I gather my hair in a high ponytail and stuff my feet into black sneakers. In the mirror, I look like an athlete. A warrior. Ready for battle. If Noah talks to me at warm-ups, I’ll win. If he doesn’t . . . I force myself not to finish the thought.
When I get downstairs, Stella is already stretching in the living room, smoothie blending on high. She’s wrapped in a warm-up jacket that crinkles when she bounces into the air, her hair twisted in a tight French braid. She was never into the functional high pony.
I make a beeline for the blender but before I can portion the green liquid into two cups, Stella comes up behind me.
“Snooze you lose.”
“What the hell?”
“Meet day. I need it all.”
“Uh, are you kidding? I don’t have time to make another one.”
She shrugs and grabs the blender from my hand. “Shoulda been down here earlier.”
My face heats up and I want to push her and that glass pitcher to the floor and shove her face into the murky mess. But instead, I clench my fists and grit my teeth and reach into the pantry to find our stash of protein bars.
“Okay, no. You definitely can’t eat that right before a meet,” she says, appalled.
I’m about to shove the wrapper straight down her throat when she rolls her eyes and reluctantly portions her smoothie into two cups. “Fine,” she says, handing me half.
Mom appears in the doorway. “Girls, time to go.”
I should know better than to fight on meet day. To “rile Stella up,” as Mom puts it. But sometimes, when I look at my sister’s smug face, I just want to crush her. I hate when she gets like this. Moody and solitary, like she’s the only one with problems, with goals. It’s how she deals with stress, Mom once told me. She bottles it up and fights off outside forces, even if they’re helpful. It’s a defense mechanism, Mom said. It must be.
It’s what kept her—and me, to be honest—alive during the Dark Years and the short period when Mom relapsed. Mom had been at a wedding of an old high school friend somewhere in the Berkshires. Went alone so they didn’t have to hire a weekend babysitter. They were still getting the business off the ground and money was tight. Dad could watch us, no problem. That Saturday night, he cued up some old rom-com. When Harry Met Sally . . . , I think. We were going in on a big bowl of popcorn and each had a glass bottle of root beer when Dad’s cell phone buzzed.
At first he ignored it, tearing up as Meg Ryan confessed her love to Billy Crystal. I laughed at him and Dad just patted my head. “Your dad’s a big ol’ crier,” he said, grabbing a handful of popcorn. “Deal with it.”
But when his phone kept ringing, he begrudgingly picked up. The mood shifted. Stella noticed it first, staring at him with her big roving eyes. Dad stood up from the couch and went into his office, closing the door.
“Whatever it is, it’s going to be okay,” Stella whispered. “You and me forever, okay?”
I didn’t really understand what she meant, why she was being so dramatic. But then Dad came out of the office in his beat-up jean jacket, flustered. “Everything’s fine, but I have to go get your mother. Mrs. Levin from next door is coming over, okay?” he said.
And then he was gone. Stella squeezed my hand in a strange, motherly way. But it helped ease the aches in my stomach. Later, after we went to sleep, the night terrors came back. It was my first episode in years. I woke up in a sweat, sheets tangled around my feet, heart racing. The moon hung high and bright outside my window and I tossed and turned, trying to calm down. But I couldn’t. Finally, I heaved myself out of bed and crept into Stella’s room. I pulled back her big quilt and cuddled close to her, feeling the warmth from her back. Her breathing was steady and I thought she was asleep. But just as I started to drift off, she spoke. “It’s you and me forever, Ell,” she said.
It was only later that we found out Mom had allowed herself a glass of champagne, which turned into a few too many, which turned into a drunken rant against her old friends and a fight over the car keys. Dad got there just before she sped away into the dark night. She went back to treatment. Outpatient this time. Started going to meetings every Thursday evening in the basement of the old church in town. But no one wanted to talk about it. Stella and I only spoke about it in hushed whispers, late at night, when I was startled awake from a nightmare and would tiptoe into her room for comfort.
Stella stopped trusting them after that. But I latched on harder. I try not to think about all that now. It’s in the past. Forgotten. We Stecklers are indestructible. Mom said that herself.
*
* *
—
The first meet of the season is always at Hanover High, where the course is flat and predictable, winding through the woods at the base of Mount Kutz. Stella came in first here last year, dominating the easy terrain. I beat everyone else on our team, but landed in fourth place overall. Nothing to be mad about, but it sure didn’t earn me kudos from Coach.
Stella and I climb out of the car and walk in silence toward the team. She’s got a dark, menacing look in her eyes—like she wants to watch someone burn. It’s that look that scares people. That makes them think she’s dangerous. I love it, though. Reminds me we’re all carnal on the inside. I get it, too. We have the same DNA, the same hunger. I just know how to hide it better.
Stella pushes past the parents chitchatting on the sidelines to the grassy warm-up area next to the bleachers. She drops her bag and reaches inside, retrieving her enormous set of noise-canceling headphones.
“You’re not going to lead us in stretching, captain?” I smirk in her direction but she doesn’t even hear me.
I scan the group for Noah, and it’s only when I turn my head to the bleachers that I see him. Leaning over the metal railing, he’s smiling wide, gazing up at Mr. Johnson, Tamara’s dad. Noah laughs and throws his head back and Mr. Johnson gives him a hearty pat on the shoulder, like he’s proud, like Noah is family.
Mr. Johnson taps his chest. He’s wearing his Princeton Alumni windbreaker and Noah nods, staring longingly at that neon-orange P. The whole scene makes me gag. Over the summer I learned so much about Noah. That chili is his favorite food, even when it’s hot out. That he can juggle, but only for fifteen seconds and not one longer. That after college, he wants to move to DC and work in politics. But one thing I never understood, never could crack, was why Princeton—one school amid many excellent options—was more important than telling the truth, than being with me.
Noah jogs back to the group but avoids making eye contact with me. He winks at Tamara and assumes a quad stretch, bouncing up and down on his left leg.
“You okay?” Raven asks, her voice high and curious. “You look nervous.”
“Oh, yeah, I am a little, I guess,” I say, playing down my anxiety. Even though she’s vanilla, her loyalty still lies with Tamara.
“First meet of the season’s always a little stressful,” she says, kicking her heel in front of her to stretch out her calf.
Raven would know. She landed right in the middle of the pack during last season’s kickoff meet. Would have been fine for most of the girls here. But after, I remember watching as her mom tried to comfort her in the parking lot after the race. “I know you’re disappointed,” she’d said, running a hand down her back. “Shira used to crush this course.”
“Yes, Mom, we all remember how incredible Shira was at everything,” Raven hissed, throwing her water bottle to the ground. The parking lot was almost empty but a few heads turned toward the noise. “We get it! I’m a total loser,” she spat out. “I’ll never be as good as Shira. I’ll never get a scholarship. I’ll never be number one like she was. The only thing I can do that she didn’t is not run away.” It was a rare break from her submissive demeanor and I froze on the way to our car, watching her body shake as she cried.
Mrs. Tannenbaum looked around warily, trying to contain the scene. She was used to the stares, the ones that came after Shira left town. But Raven was supposed to be the stable one, the one who would put her family back together. It was too much pressure, I guess.
Mrs. Tannenbaum wrapped a hand around her daughter’s wrist tightly. “We’ll talk about this at home, okay? Let’s get in the car.” Raven glanced up and saw me standing there, watching.
I tried to think of something nice to say. But I came in fourth. Raven didn’t even place.
“What are you looking at?” Raven asked, her cheeks stained with tears.
“Nothing,” I said. “Just—you had a bad day, that’s all. You’ll do better next time.”
Raven scoffed. “You’ll never get it, Ellie. Not all of us are born Stecklers.”
I was left speechless as she threw herself into the passenger seat of her mom’s car and slammed the door, wondering what the hell she meant.
Now Raven’s all sunshine and rainbows, her usual perky self. She rustles around inside her track jacket and pulls out a bright-blue face-paint stick. “Want some?” she asks, extending her hand. But then Julia stomps over to us.
“I thought we decided face paint was bad for our skin, Rave,” she says, rolling her eyes. “It made me break out like crazy last time.”
Raven chews the inside of her cheek and shoves the face paint back in her pocket. “Right.”
“Of course I’m right.” Julia leans down and wraps her arms around Raven’s neck in a hug, then winces. “Ugh, you’ve got to stop buying your clothes at Charlie’s Vintage,” Julia says. “That jacket smells like my grandma.”
Raven purses her lips and red splotches form on her pale, freckled neck.
“Not everyone wants to spend a million dollars at your dad’s stuck-up store, Julia,” I say, rolling my eyes as I stretch my arms overhead. “Everyone knows you guys jack everything up a bajillion percent.”
“Oh, fuck off, Baby Steckler,” Julia says. “It’s not my fault we’re the only place in the whole county that sells designer athleisure. You wanna go all the way to Westchester to get Lululemon?” She nods over her shoulder at Raven. “Come on, let’s get some water.”
Raven stands reluctantly and follows her to the cooler. But she looks back at me and gives a small wave, like she doesn’t want anyone else to see. In another world, I could actually imagine being friends with Raven. But not in this one, where she spends her whole life repaying Tamara and Julia for taking care of her after Shira left.
Everyone knows that after Raven’s sister disappeared, Tamara and Julia spent basically every night at Raven’s house, comforting her. They helped her research all the cold cases, memorizing every detail about what could have happened to her sister. When Shira came back, they stuck by her side, creating a force field around her, shielding Raven from the shit-stirrers at school. Honestly, now that Bethany’s gone, I kind of wish I had friends like that. Some bonds you just can’t break.
I turn my face to the sun and feel the warmth seep into my skin. Then a shadow appears, standing in front of me.
“Ready to kick some ass?” Mila says. She extends a hand, helping me to my feet. Her smile is wide and she seems calm, like she’s not at all worried about competing for the first time with a team she barely knows, in a place she only just moved to. Something about her whole demeanor makes me lighter.
“I like your attitude,” I say.
The rest of the team is huddled up around Coach, near the starting line, so I grab Mila’s hand and together we walk toward the rest of the group, where Coach is giving a pep talk. Stella gives me a death stare from across the circle, lowering her headphones. She won’t even make eye contact with Mila. Weirdo.
“All right,” Coach begins. He leans in and the whistle around his neck swings. “I don’t need to tell you how important it is that we take home first today. Everything that happens today determines how we seed for the rest of the season.” He takes a breath and closes his eyes. “Run your heart out.”
Without missing a beat, we scream back at him in unison. “Run your heart out!”
“Fear no one!” Coach calls.
“Fear no one!”
“Crush everyone!” he yells, throwing his head back, fists by his sides.
“Crush everyone!”
The team erupts in cheers and people throw their arms around each other in the circle, jumping up and down, repeating the mantra over and over again.
“Run your heart out! Fear no one! Crush everyone!”
The first time I heard it, I thought it was so cheesy. But now it’s burned into my body. It’s t
he truth. We have no other options.
“You’ll pick it up,” I whisper into Mila’s ear, our arms around each other’s shoulders.
“Already did,” she says, her mouth curled into a smile.
I sneak a peek at Noah across the circle. He’s looking right at me with that annoying sexy grin, all lips. I want to put them in my pocket, despite our fight this morning. He raises an eyebrow at me, daring me to look away, but I don’t.
“Remember what you’re made of, soldiers,” Coach says. “On three. One, two, break!” We walk to the starting line like a unit, our steps in line with each other’s.
“Ninety-second countdown!” the announcer bellows through a microphone. I inhale deeply to calm my nerves.
“Come on,” Stella says to herself. She stands next to me, blocking the sun as she jumps up and down. Usually on meet day, she’s so focused you can barely talk to her. But today she’s frazzled. She’s fidgeting, playing with her fingers, which she only does when she’s scared. Also, her French braid is a little off-center, another sign that something in Stella Steckler’s brain isn’t working like it should.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Of course,” she says, smoothing her bib down over her torso.
Everyone else rolls their necks, picks wedgies, or gets their last stretch in. They make room for Stella and me to stand in the middle of the pack. They’re deferential, even after what Stella did last year.
Off on the side, I hear the rest of our team cheering us on. I try to make out Noah’s voice above the rest. “You got this, babe!” he yells, and I freeze. Everyone, including me, knows babe is Tamara. The thin red bracelet I tucked into my sock for good luck burns against my skin and all at once I realize I’m nothing. I close my eyes, pushing everything away. I wait for the signal, the moment to launch.
The ref blows into her whistle, a signal the countdown is imminent. The rest of the runners squeeze in, so we’re all squished into the starting box like sardines. Stella’s thigh presses into mine. Mila crowds in on her other side and I feel my sister flinch.
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