They'll Never Catch Us

by Jessica Goodman

  “Here,” Tamara says. I open my eyes and turn to face her. She hands me a purple ribbon.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?” I ask.

  Julia rolls her eyes from behind Tamara. “Whatever you want,” Julia says. “Tie it in your hair, or around your wrist. Wrap it around your neck for all I care.”

  “We’re all wearing them,” Raven says, tying hers into a bow around her flat ponytail. “Purple is Mila’s favorite color.”

  “How do you know that?” Anger pools in my stomach. I still don’t know which of them told Pérez about the ID in my locker, but based on the crimson color of Raven’s cheeks, she’s my best bet.

  Raven shrugs and scurries away. The ribbon is soft and shiny, thick and frayed at the edges where Tamara must have cut them with scissors. I don’t want to attach this fake bullshit to my body, but I remember Coach’s words. Don’t make a scene. I gather my hair into a low pony and knot the ribbon at the base. The ends tickle the back of my neck and I know it will annoy me while running.

  “Let’s get out there,” Tamara calls. “Let’s do it for Mila!” The rest of the team follows her out to the track. I’m left alone with the smell of stale sweat and the tinny echo of slammed lockers. That is, until Ellie barrels into the locker room, nearly knocking over a wooden bench as she drops down onto it.

  “Nice of you to show up,” I say.

  Ellie lifts her leg and presses it into the lockers as she leans forward to tie her sneaker. “Fuck off,” she says, not making eye contact.

  “What’s with you?” I ask. But Ellie says nothing. I lower my voice and try again. “Hey, about the ID—”

  “Don’t mention it,” Ellie says, keeping her head down as she straightens her sock.

  “How did you know?” I ask. “What did you do?”

  Ellie stands and reaches one arm across her chest in a stretch. “Raven saw and was practically telling the whole school about it,” she says. “After last year, I thought Parker would jump at any chance to place blame on you for something. I knew your combination and I took care of it. That’s it.”

  “But—” I want to tell her I had nothing to do with Mila’s disappearance, that I’m just as confused as everyone else.

  Ellie holds her hands out in front of her. “We don’t need to talk about this anymore, Stell. I got your back always,” she says. “And you got mine.” She pauses for a second, chewing on her lip. “You and me forever, right?”

  “Right,” I say, softening.

  “Come on,” she says. “Let’s go.”

  I don’t know what I thought I would expect, but the scene on the track makes me stop. The bleachers are filled with Edgewater students and faculty, holding signs that say things like BRING MILA HOME and FIND MILA KEENE. The marching band has formed in their usual roped-off area in front of the bleachers and they’re all wearing purple T-shirts that say WE MISS YOU, MILA. The pit, where the away team usually readies themselves, is packed with reporters and cameras, microphones and recorders. All around us, Mila’s face, that same class photo, is staring out at me, smiling as if nothing’s wrong. But none of these people knew her. None of them knew about her dad, or that she loved art history. I bet they didn’t even notice the daisy chain on her wrist, or that she has the same fierce ambition inside her as I do.

  “Whoa,” Ellie says under her breath.

  “I know.”

  But when I follow her gaze, I see she’s not looking at the reporters or the instruments in the marching band. Her eyes are locked on the front row of the stands, where six scouts holding clipboards sit side by side, wearing baseball hats.

  “What are they doing here?” Ellie turns to me. “Did you know?”

  My throat is scratchy. “No,” I say.

  One of the scouts, the dude from Yale who was at the first meet of the season, sees me and elbows the other. Soon they’re all looking at us, at the Steckler sisters, to see what we can do.

  “Un-fucking-believable,” Ellie mutters. “I thought this was for charity.”

  I spot the scout from Georgetown and kick my pre-race routine into high gear. My breathing becomes rhythmic. My brain begins to clear.

  I follow Ellie to the rest of the team, where Coach gathers everyone in a huddle. He’s surrounded by the varsity team, but also a few JV runners and a bunch of other participants, who willingly signed up to complete the race on Mila’s behalf.

  Detective Parker is off to the side, near the scouts, sitting with his arms crossed over his chest. I vow to block him out. I can’t think about him today, not when the scouts are here.

  Shawna Keene is next to him, watching as her sister moves in front of a microphone to make a speech. She speaks slowly, with confidence, about how much Mila loves running, about how her old teammates are holding their own charity run in Connecticut at this very moment. After a minute, she takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. When she opens them, she scans the crowd of strangers and grasps the microphone.

  “Bring our baby home,” she says. “Bring her home.”

  My chest tightens and I jump in place, trying to keep warm, trying to keep my cool. I picture Mila and I wonder where she is. What she’s doing, because she must be doing something. She must be alive. What would she do if she were here? I ask myself. And the answer comes instantly: she would try to win.

  Principal Pérez joins her in front of the microphone. “I’m pleased to announce we’ve already raised four thousand dollars for the Mila Keene Search Fund!” Cheers erupt from the stands and Mila’s mom offers a weak smile. “But we’ll continue collecting donations throughout the evening, if you feel so inclined.” Pérez then brings a whistle to her lips. “Without further ado, runners! Take your marks.” The massive group pushes to the starting line and I shuffle to take my place, closest to the inner ring of the track. My heart rate steadies, and I close my eyes for just a second. “Get set!” Pérez yells. “Go!”

  The word sends me speeding. I’ve run around this track a million times before. I know its cracks and slopes like I know my legs, my muscles, my heart. As I take off, the world fades around me. The cheers disappear. I’m in a black space of darkness, fighting for air, for breath, for space in the crowd. I can’t see anyone else or anything. It’s just . . . me.

  The first lap around the track goes by, and then the second, and by the third, I can’t tell who I’ve already lapped, who is at my level. People are walking. Parents and cousins, freshman theater kids who are here just trying to do something good, some volunteer work. They’re just here to get out of doing homework on a Tuesday. But I keep sprinting. I fight and I push, and these randoms, these people who mean nothing, move to the side as I go by. They hear me before they see me flying past them. They feel the air move between us. I am wind and I am speed and I am one with the road.

  Until I’m on the sixth and final lap, the one that I know I can crush. I can stomp it out and beat my time and show all of those scouts that I am Stella Steckler and I am a star.

  The finish line looms overhead, and my lungs are on fire. I am skin and bones and pain will not stop me. I blow through the finish line and slow as I know I should, to conserve my muscles, to relish the victory. I tilt my head back and look up to the sky, a clear swath of blue just beginning to darken. I think of Mila and how if she were here, she would have kept up with me. She would have been right beside me, throwing herself over the finish line.

  Then I look to my watch to check my time. Shit. I obliterated my PR. Blew past it. I want to cry, I feel so free, so good, so alive. I can’t help but let my face erupt into a smile, a broad wide grin reserved only for breaking records and winning medals. But when I look up to find Coach, his mouth is a hard line of fury. He motions for me to come over.

  “That was my best,” I say. I’m still trying to catch my breath, but I look up to the scouts to see their reactions. They betray nothing, their eyes on their clip
boards.

  “I told you not to make a scene, Stella,” he says.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You were the only one running,” he says. “Look.” He points to the track, where everyone, including Tamara and Noah and the rest of the Edgewater varsity track team, are just . . . walking. Well, walking and looking at me, whispering to each other.

  “But . . .” I say. “The scouts.”

  “They’re paying respects, Stell,” he whispers. “They’re not here to judge you.”

  “But you said if I beat my PR, they’d have to pay attention.” The delight I felt a few seconds before is now replaced with shame, all muddled with adrenaline and fear and the unfairness of everything. How unfair it is that Mila isn’t here. How unfair it is that I can’t control my body or my brain.

  “Leave,” he says, his voice a harsh whisper. “Just go. It’ll be better if you do.”

  The sweat on my back grows cold and I want to protest. I take one last look at the crowd, where Parker and Mila’s mom sit next to each other in stunned silence. Both of them stare at me, but with different expressions. Shawna’s mouth is open, and her eyes are sad, bewildered puddles. But Parker’s brows have narrowed, and he looks like he’s trying to take me apart and put me back together like a puzzle. I remember Ellie’s words.

  They want to turn you into a monster.

  I think I just let them.

  I turn to walk to the locker room and try to avoid the eyes. But just as I pass the group in the middle of the track, I hear Julia’s voice, loud and clear from behind me. “Stella definitely had something to do with it,” she says. “But that’s obvious. We all know what she’s capable of after the whole Allison Tarley thing.”

  A few weak laughs follow, and the rage rises into my throat. I can’t let what happened last year happen again. But I have to defend myself. No one else will. I start back toward the group, but before I get to Julia, Ellie emerges from the crowd and blocks my path. “What the fuck did you just say?” she asks, turning to Julia.

  “Relax, Ellie. It was a joke,” Julia says. “Your sister’s just being a competitive freak again, but what else is new.”

  Ellie leans in so she towers over Julia. “I cannot stress this enough, Julia. Fuck. Off.”

  Julia takes a step back, crashing into Tamara who’s looking at Ellie with confused, almost admiring eyes. Raven stands slack-jawed by their side.

  “Jesus, Ellie. What’s wrong with you these days? You’re turning into a mini Stella,” Julia says.

  A smile spreads across Ellie’s face. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

  Julia’s mouth falls open and she turns back to her friends. “Did you just hear that? What . . .” But I stop listening. Ellie holds her chin high and her face is hard like stone. She retreats from the group, ignores the stares from the stands, and walks over to me. She throws one arm around my shoulder and whispers into my ear, “Come on.”

  I follow my little sister’s lead for once and focus on the metal doors to the locker room up ahead. But I can feel Ellie’s heart racing through her chest, her fingers shaking as they graze my arm. When we get inside, away from everyone else, we both pause. I search her face and she searches mine. It’s back to like when we were little. I see her and she sees me. I hear her and she hears me. And I know what we’re both thinking.

  We’ll protect each other.

  We’ll hide each other’s secrets.

  20

  ELLIE

  It’s hard to remember when Stella and I stopped being the same, when our interests diverged, then swerved and crisscrossed on the track. I don’t have many memories of the before, when Mom was “sick” as Grandma liked to say. When Dad was too depressed and frazzled to even make us eggs. Stella bore the brunt of that period, convincing me to play with her in our shared bedroom in the Airstream. She was only fourteen months older and couldn’t do that much more than I could, but she would pretend. Read me books upside down, while really just making up stories. Draw on the back of old bills we found in the kitchen.

  I only remember the after, how Mom came back shiny and new, with clean clothes and a fresh haircut, glowing skin and a real smile. How she smelled good, like vanilla and sawdust. How Dad came up with a plan for them to sell houses, to rebuild our lives. When they earned their real estate licenses, I remember clapping at our Formica dinner table, eating a wedge of cake made from a box. I was proud of them for being like the other parents, for being normal. But that’s when Stella got angry. Angry that I was happy and she couldn’t be. Angry at them. Angry at the world.

  That was also when Mom started dressing us in matching outfits. Fitted floral dresses with buttons down the front. Neon baseball hats and soft denim overalls to wear around town. We always had the same everything. The same hiking boots. The same swimsuits. The same backpacks. But something shifted when Stella got good. When she got fast.

  Maybe it happened the summer after first grade. Stella made the summer travel soccer team. I did not. Mom comforted me by saying Stella was older and that only one first grader made it. But I was still devastated. Mostly because it meant Mom and Dad dragged me to every single one of Stella’s games, even if they were all the way down in Westchester. I was forced to sit on the sidelines with a granola bar and a chapter book and watch Stella have all the fun.

  She wasn’t great at soccer. She always kicked the ball too hard, out of bounds. And she had a tough time working with her teammates, other little girls from neighboring schools. Girls who wore ribbons in their smooth, shiny hair. Girls who sang Disney songs on the bus and searched for earthworms in the mud. Girls who made each other flower crowns out of dandelions and braided strands of grass. Stella didn’t care about all that. She just wanted to win. She wanted to be strong. She wanted to be fast.

  Her coach at the time noticed it first. After one of her final home games, he pulled Mom and Dad aside. I didn’t hear the conversation, but by the looks on their faces, it was good. And within a few weeks Stella had stopped playing soccer and was enrolled in the Hudson Valley Elite Youth Runner’s Club. She started coming home with fancy, shiny sneakers with bold labels on the sides. Soft synthetic T-shirts made with aerodynamics in mind.

  Once, when I whined that my sneakers were too old, Mom bent down to meet my gaze. “Are you jealous of your big sister, sweetie?”

  Her words stung. Was I jealous? Stella’s willingness to play house or cards with me had disappeared. Instead, she had taken to knocking over my block mountains and snipping locks of hair off my dolls before racing around the yard. I tried to stay away from her. I read a dozen books in a month. I met Bethany. I found my own way. So of course I wasn’t jealous of Stella.

  But maybe I was. Of the attention she received for being good, for winning. Of the blue ribbons she brought home every Saturday. Of the mud stains that streaked her white mesh shorts and the electricity that seemed to shoot through her body during the final seconds of a race. Of the way her eyes narrowed when she saw the finish line up ahead.

  So I told Mom yes. “I want to run, too,” I said. She sighed the sigh of someone who was too busy to think about the minutiae of a child’s inner thoughts, but a few days later I was enrolled in the juniors’ program at the Elite Youth Runner’s Club.

  Soon, I got good too. I brought home fancy new sneakers and soft T-shirts that were supposed to make you soar. I won medals in my division. I was fast. Not as fast as Stella. But close.

  I only beat her once in elementary school, during some just-for-fun race at the Ellacoya Mountain Resort. But catching up to Stella had become more than a game by then. It was a necessity. It was survival.

  Now, though, none of that matters. I’ve learned how to move forward on my own.

  The day after the charity race, we finally have practice. The locker room is still and somber when I arrive. Everyone pulls on their spandex, and some of the girl
s break out their fleece headbands and gloves, even though it’s not yet Halloween. I usually try to wait until November to get cold. Otherwise you’re fucked come December. I lean up against the locker and close my eyes, counting to ten, then twenty, willing myself to stay present, to stay grounded, to keep control.

  Only Julia speaks, but her voice grates against the sounds of lockers slamming and sneakers sliding against the tile.

  “I guess it’s a good thing, getting back out there like normal,” she says. “We’ve been still long enough, you know? Mila would want us to run. She definitely would. Don’t you think?”

  Raven nods silently next to her, her face pale and her freckles prominent. She ties a purple ribbon in her hair.

  “It’s a good distraction,” Tamara says definitively, but she looks concerned.

  “The reporters out there are vultures. I wonder if they’ll be watching us,” Julia says. She stands in front of the mirror and pouts, dabbing her mouth with a lip gloss wand.

  “I bet you’d love that,” I say. The words come out of my mouth in one breath, a surprise even to me.

  Julia whips her head around, her blonde ponytail swinging to one side. “What did you just say?”

  “Oh, come on. You’re literally putting on makeup right now.”

  Julia’s eyes flare and she crosses her arms. “You better watch yourself, Baby Steckler,” she says. “People are onto you, you know. If the Fitzwater brothers aren’t back, all eyes are on you and your freaky sister.” Julia takes a step toward me so my back is up against the locker, cold and hard even through my long-sleeve shirt. “Parker’s been calling all of us into Pérez’s office one by one asking us questions, wondering what happens when the Steckler sisters get too close to someone. Did you know that?”