They'll Never Catch Us

by Jessica Goodman

  “Where are you going?” she asks, her head popping up from behind the couch.

  I don’t know what to say or where I’m headed, just that I need to feel normal, to feel anything at all. But she eyes my sneakers.

  “How many miles you thinking?” she asks.

  “Who knows?”

  Stella smiles just a bit. “Can I come?”

  “Really?” It’s the first time she’s ever asked.

  She stands and stretches her arms above her head. “Gimme two.”

  In a few minutes we’re out the door in matching hoodies and practice kicks, taking it slow through the quiet Edgewater streets. This isn’t a real run, one we’ll log on our spreadsheets. This is a run for us. A run for survival.

  We don’t say much for the first mile through town. We pass the diner and the wine shop, the cheese purveyor and the nursery. Only a handful of people are out today, and they crane their necks to see the Steckler sisters they’ve heard about. They don’t hide their stares. But I’m not worried, not anymore. They’ll never catch us.

  Even if they did read the papers this morning. VARSITY RUNNER CONFESSES TO MILA KEENE’S MURDER. If I close my eyes, I can still picture Raven in the station, her stringy red hair hanging limp around her face. Her shoulders hunched up around her ears. She didn’t look like one of those murderers you see in documentaries, like the disheveled Fitzwater brothers, photographed in black and white in the newspaper. She looked like the same girl we’ve known our whole lives.

  The article didn’t mention me by name. But it doesn’t have to. Everyone knows what I did and didn’t do. Everyone heard about Noah and me, about our little trip to Newburgh. It’s just what happens in a small town. But now that it’s out in the open, I don’t feel any shame about making that decision. I just feel free.

  “Come on,” Stella says, a slight huff in her breath.

  I let her lead us up toward Ellacoya. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle when we get to the service entrance. Gone are cops and the crime scene investigators, but everything else is as it was the other day when the truth came out. I can even see the patch of ground where Stella pinned Raven down. Footprints from her sneakers. A slick scraped edge of dirt.

  We don’t stop. Stella’s gaze stays straight ahead and I suck air in between my teeth, trying to be brave and face reality. For a second, I think she’s going to lead me back to Oak Tower, but then she veers left toward Foxfire Point and motions for me to follow her. I slow, unsure if I can take these first few steps.

  “Come on, Ell,” she says softly. “If you can’t do this run, how can you expect to keep going?”

  I hesitate. How can I tell Stella that I can’t bear to face anything right now? How can I tell her how sorry I am for ruining everything and leading Mila to her death?

  Stella keeps her eyes on me and extends an arm to rub my shoulder. “We’re in this together.”

  Her softness takes me aback. So different than the sister I’ve grown accustomed to. The one I spent years trying to avoid. But as soon as she touches me, I turn to putty, blubbering and heaving, snot and tears running down my face.

  “Hey,” she says softly, pulling me to her in an hug. “Hey, it’s okay.”

  That only makes me sob harder and I wonder how many gallons of tears I’ve cried in the past month, the past day.

  “I got you,” Stella says softly. I choose to believe her.

  We take the first mile of the trail slow, slower than usual, and I steady my breathing as we climb the hill. Farther and farther up we go until we reach a break in the path and make the left toward Foxfire Point. It’s the best view in Edgewater, three hundred and sixty degrees of scenery stretching almost to the Berkshires. Swaying trees extend for miles and I suck in air, overwhelmed by it all. I’d forgotten how beautiful Edgewater can be.

  A branch snaps behind me and I spin, my heart pounding. “Hey,” Tamara says. She’s sitting on a rock off to one side of the trail, knees curled up under her chin.

  “Hey,” Stella says.

  Tamara’s braids are tied at the base of her neck and her cheeks are wet. She rubs them with the underside of her sweatshirt. Her gaze moves to me and her eyes soften. “Guess we’re all in the same boat.”

  Stella walks to her and sits next to Tamara, so close their shoulders are touching and they both face out, taking in the scenery. I stay put, my feet too heavy to move. But Tamara motions to me. “Come on,” she says.

  I stumble to them and sit next to Stella, feeling her warmth seep into me. I close my eyes and listen to the sound of the leaves rustling and the water lapping at the shore of the lake below. I let my heart rate slow.

  “She fooled everyone, you know,” Tamara says, shoving her hands inside her pockets. “Raven, I mean.”

  Stella nods but we don’t say anything.

  “She just wanted everything so much, so badly. We all do, I guess.” Tamara kicks at the ground in front of her. “Reporters are all over the school. They’ll be here for a while.” She tilts her head toward the sun. “It’s the perfect story, really. No tabloid could ignore it. Especially since it happened here in Edgewater. Another tragedy.” She pauses. “A copycat killer.”

  Stella starts to open her mouth, then snaps it shut.

  “What?” Tamara asks.

  “Well,” Stella starts. “I’m sure there will be another story waiting in the wings, something else that will make headlines soon. Who knows how long they’ll pay Mila any attention.” She chews over the words as if she’s trying to decide how to phrase this next thought, whatever it is that’s about to come out of her brain. “Why don’t we give them something to pay attention to? Something for Mila.”

  A slow smile spreads on Tamara’s face and my heart starts racing, thumping at a rhythm I can barely keep time.

  Tamara turns to us and her eyes sparkle. “What do you have in mind?”

  45

  STELLA

  It was easy to get the rest of the girls’ team on board now that the “team” consists of only Ellie, Tamara, Julia, me, and three sophomores who had been plucked from the junior varsity squad to compete at State.

  They were sick of being pitted against one another too. Sick of Coach Gary’s rules, of his menacing bark. Sick of the way this town treated us like prizes to be won. Sick of being known as the girls from Deadwater. They were still hungry and lean and knew they had a few more years to break records. Once Tamara gave them the speech, the one we had written together in the Ellacoya den, they were eager to help, to make a scene.

  No one says anything on the bus ride to State. We sit together for two hours of mellow silence, undisturbed meditation. A sacred ritual. If Coach thinks anything is off, he doesn’t show it. Every few minutes I feel Ellie tense, clench her hands into fists. But when I press my thigh more firmly into hers, she presses back, and I know she’s going to be okay. I know she’s going to do this like we planned.

  When we finally reach our destination, the team files off the bus in a single line. The air is frigid and coarse, colder than it’s been in Edgewater. Bitter and sharp, like it could slit your throat if it blew too hard.

  I shiver and zip my fleece up around my chin.

  “Let’s go,” Coach yells, and we follow him like we always have, to the area of the field sectioned off for us. I look to the stands and see Mom and Dad, their hair hidden under blue Edgewater beanies. They wave at us with supportive smiles even though they know what’s to come, what we’re about to do. My heart lifts a little, knowing they have our backs. They’re on our side.

  I spot the scouts a few rows in front of them. Coach does too and hurries over to them, offering hearty handshakes and pointing back at us over his shoulder. His trophies. His bounce-back girls. Look what they’ve been through. Look who they’ve become. Look how much they can survive. But he doesn’t know what we’ve planned or what we’re capable of. />
  The guy from Georgetown won’t even look at us, disgusted by Edgewater blue. But someone else, a white woman from a small college in the Midwest, makes eye contact with me and smiles. She jots down a note on her clipboard and takes a sip from a thermos branded with the school’s logo.

  “They’re restarting their program,” Ellie says next to me. “Division Two. No full rides. Partials, though. Not nothing.”

  “Huh,” I say. “Maybe there’s hope for us yet.”

  Ellie gnaws on her nail. She looks like she doesn’t believe me, and that she’s trapped in her own body, miserable. Beyond repair.

  “You know that, right?” I ask. “We’re going to get through this. You and me forever.”

  Even though she seems skeptical, Ellie places her hand on top of mine. “You and me forever.”

  “All right, girls,” Coach calls as he jogs back to us. “Do your stretches, hit your marks. You’ve got about twenty minutes until go-time.” Then he hops in place and makes his way to the boys’ huddle, where Noah is noticeably absent while everyone figures out his punishment.

  If this were a normal race, I’d have my noise-canceling headphones on, my stomach in knots. My head would just be beginning to clear. But today I sit on the ground and stretch my legs out in front of me, mulling over what’s about to happen.

  “Are you sure you’re ready to do this?” Tamara says. She drops down next to me. “You have more riding on this than I do. I’m not even trying to run in college anyway.”

  “Yes,” I say. “We have to. For Mila.”

  She nods once in approval. “Mila would have loved this,” she says.

  My chest tightens. Tamara’s right. She would have.

  “Is Naomi here?” she asks.

  I swivel my head to the stands and scan the rows. “There,” I say, pointing to the far-left corner, all the way in the back. “In the gold jacket.” Naomi’s staring right at me, her hand cupping her mouth as she calls my name loudly, hooting and hollering. She waves and my heart flutters, wide open for once. At last.

  Tamara looks at Naomi and then at me. “Oh, shit,” she says with a grin. “I see what’s happening here. Get it, Stella Steckler.”

  I can’t help but laugh and give a little shrug. “She’s cool.”

  “Uh-huh, sure sure,” Tamara says, elbowing me in the ribs. “Looks like she’s with Mila’s mom. And some random white dude.”

  I nod, refocusing my gaze on Thomas Keene. “That’s Mila’s dad.” There in the stands, he waves to us, his other arm wrapped tightly around Shawna’s shoulders.

  “Varsity girls!” one of the refs calls over the loudspeaker. The crowd erupts and together we stand, unzipping our layers, kicking our heels up into our butts. We look the part. Athletes. Heroes.

  I breathe in deeply and remember what this meet means. We line up at the start and I feel Ellie on my left, Tamara on my right. Julia peers around from Tamara’s other side with expectant, big eyes. I press my lips together and remember to breathe, to trust the girls I used to be so wary of.

  “On your marks!” the ref shouts. We all crouch in unison, playing our roles. “Get set,” he calls. I swing my arms back, ready to fly. “Go!”

  I close my eyes and stay still. We all do.

  The girls from other teams sprint out of the gate as us Edgewater runners stand up straight and firm, unmoving. Then Tamara extends her hand to me and I reach for Ellie’s. Together we form a chain, our chins tilted toward the sky, away from the stands.

  A collective gasp rises, and from the corner of my eye I can see people scramble to their feet.

  “What the fuck?!” Coach yells from the side. “Run! Run!”

  I hear his feet pounding the ground, rushing toward us.

  “Hold steady,” I whisper, and the others nod in agreement.

  “What are you doing?” Coach screams, in front of us now. Spittle flies from the sides of his mouth and the vein in his neck bulges, thick and blue.

  But we stay silent, knowing at least the next time we run, it will be for us.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you to my agent, Alyssa Reuben. You are my greatest champion and the most trusted voice in my head. I’ll always be awed that you pulled me out of the slush pile.

  Thank you to Jess Harriton, who edited this book with such generosity and was a true partner in its creation. This story would not exist without you and your brilliant brain.

  Thank you to Casey McIntyre, who shepherded me through the publication process with much-needed humor and enthusiasm, and who has shown me the kind of support authors can only dream of.

  Thank you to Elyse Marshall, whose publicity prowess I would be lost without and whose steady guiding hand I am so appreciative of.

  Thank you to Ruta Rimas, whose excitement over what’s in store is truly contagious.

  Thank you to Kim Ryan and the Penguin Teen foreign rights team for bringing my work to so many readers around the world. Thank you to my international publishers, who I hope to meet after this whole pandemic thing is over.

  Thank you to Kristin Boyle and Lilia Cretcher for creating such a stunning cover and letting me come along for the Zoom photoshoot ride. Thank you to Katie Bircher and Marinda Valenti for polishing this manuscript with your copyediting expertise.

  Thank you to everyone at Razorbill and Penguin Teen who works tirelessly to make sure our stories find the readers who need them most. You are the best support system and I’m so lucky to be part of this wildly smart team: Kara Brammer, Christina Colangelo, Gretchen Durning, Felicia Frazier, Alex Garber, Carmela Iaria, Jen Klonsky, Bri Lockhart, Jen Loja, Shanta Newlin, Debra Polansky, Emily Romero, Jocelyn Schmidt, and Jayne Ziemba. Extra special thank-you to Felicity Vallence and the social media team for basically being fairy godpeople.

  Thank you to Sydnee Monday and Rachel Porter for spending time with this story and offering excellent, thoughtful notes. Additional gratitude to Katelyn Dougherty and Alaina Belisle for your honest feedback and guidance.

  Thank you to everyone at Paradigm Agency, including Alaina Belisle, Aaron Buotte, and Katelyn Dougherty. You make everything so much easier. Thank you to Matt Snow for thinking bigger than I ever could.

  Thank you to the team behind The Players’ Table for believing in the magic of They Wish They Were Us.

  Thank you to Marley Goldman, my first reader, who never coddles me and always has ideas for how to make these stories better.

  Thank you to my fellow writers-in-arms, who became lifelines during a year of isolation: Emma Gray, Stephan Lee, Hayley Krischer, Kelsey McKinney, Caroline Moss, Zach Sergi, and Jordyn Taylor.

  Thank you to the Nieman Foundation and the 2021 class of fellows and affiliates for making this strange year feel warm and inviting.

  Thank you to Steve Almond, Maria Bell, and Marla Kanelos for expanding my view of what writing can be. I’m so grateful for your instruction.

  Thank you to Andi Bartz, Jessica Knoll, Megan Miranda, and Kara Thomas, whose early support for They Wish They Were Us buoyed me in so many ways.

  Thank you to my friends—all of you—for the socially distanced picnics, hikes, roller blading sessions, and sweatsuit selfies.

  Thank you to the booksellers, teachers, bookstagrammers, librarians, bloggers, and readers who devoured and shared They Wish They Were Us. This is the best job in the world and I could not do it without you.

  Thank you to the Lund Strachan family for letting me lock myself in a room to write and not asking too many questions when I came out bleary-eyed—and for all the laughs around the dinner table.

  Thank you to Mom, Dad, Halley, Ben, and baby Luke. Your strength, support, devotion, and unyielding love helps me stay motivated to keep at it and to make you proud. I love you endlessly.

  Thank you to Maxwell Strachan, who, after more than a year of quarantine, I only love more. Thank you for
reminding me that home is where we are together.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jessica Goodman is the op-ed editor at Cosmopolitan and author of They Wish They Were Us. They'll Never Catch Us is her second novel.

  Follow Jessica on Twitter @jessgood and on Instagram @jessicagoodman.

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