Be the Girl(60)

I laugh, though I don’t think Richard was trying to be funny. “Thanks for the pep talk. See you in a bit.” I take my place in our team’s box at the starting line—a white streak of chalk marking the trail—ever aware of Holly settling in directly beside me. Almost as if she was waiting for me to find my spot before taking hers. Now I’m being paranoid, I tell myself.

I edge a step to the left, to put some distance between us, but it’s futile as the rest of our teammates move in, eating up the space.

“Runners, ready!”

We take our starting positions. Adrenaline courses through me.

“Good luck, SWF,” Holly murmurs in that faux sweet voice a second before the official fires the starting pistol.

I launch myself forward to fall into place with the herd, careful to avoid getting tangled in the encroaching knees and legs. The start of these races has always been the most stressful and my least favorite, ever since I watched three girls trip over each other in seventh grade. One ended up with a broken ankle.

SWF?

What the hell does that mean?

I roll the initials in my head, coming up with random words.

Stupid? Whore? Fake?

The only thing I can be sure of is that it wasn’t intended to be kind, and Holly intentionally threw it at me right before the gun went off to rattle me.

Screw her.

I set my jaw with determination and push Holly’s jab out of my mind as we pass the official at the fifty-meter mark. A few girls are outpacing the group ahead. As much as I want to put distance between myself and Holly, I avoid the urge to run faster just yet. Moretti warned us that this trail would be challenging, the hills steeper, the terrain rough.

Slut? Is that what the “S” stands for?

Wouldn’t that be a little ironic, given—unlike her—I’m still a virgin.

I sense someone closing in on my right, getting too close for my liking.

And then the next few seconds happen in a blur. There’s a swish of a blonde ponytail as my foot catches a heel. I stumble, fighting to regain my balance.

But I fail and tumble to the ground, my knee landing on the sharp gravel.

The runners behind me maneuver last minute and continue past as I struggle to get to my feet. Ahead, Holly glances over her shoulder once before continuing.

As if to make sure I’m down.

There’s no way that was an accident. How the hell she managed to trip me like that, and to stay on her feet, though …

Frustration and anger—at her, but mostly at me—flares, my eyes prickling with tears. My focus was broken, that’s how.

And we’ve passed the hundred-meter mark. They won’t restart the race, but maybe I can still catch up. I take a step forward, and pain lances through my knee.

“Aria!” Moretti’s standing at the sideline, her raven bob swishing with her head shake. She waves me over.

I hobble off the course much like my old dog would.

“It’s a mini-meet—not worth it. Not with regionals coming up.” Her face twists with sympathy. “That looked like it hurt. Are you okay?”

“I think so.”

Richard has procured a folding chair from somewhere. I offer him my thanks as I settle into it, peeling my pant leg up.

Moretti winces at the quarter-sized patch of missing skin and the blood. At least it’s not dripping with blood. “Can you try to bend it for me?”

I hiss from the sting as I do as asked.

“Okay. Clean that well and ice it for tonight. Fifteen minutes on, fifteen off.” She frowns, her gaze on the runners in the distance. They’re climbing a slight hill, spread out now, the leaders of the pack making their move. “It looked like you and Holly got tangled but I couldn’t see clearly. What happened?”

She ambushed me.

It’s on the tip of my tongue.

“I tripped,” I say instead.

“You sure?” Her eyes narrow in a way that makes me think she saw more than she’s letting on, that she suspects more than she’s saying.

But I’m not stupid. I already know how this is going to play out—Holly will return after the race, all doe-eyed and full of worry, apologizing profusely for “accidentally” crossing paths with me. She’ll swear she didn’t know what to do—hang back or keep going. She’ll be so thankful that I’m okay. Maybe shed a few tears to cement her innocence.

And, in the end, suspicions or not, Moretti will believe her, because Moretti wants to believe her. She doesn’t want to think that one of her runners could harm another like that, and all over a boy.

I’ll end up looking like the problem.

And if I bring up the SWF reference?

Holly will deny it. Her face will become a portrait of innocent confusion. I have no idea what she’s talking about, Ms. Moretti, I swear! I just wished her good luck!

Or she’ll have an innocuous answer for what that might stand for. Something kind and flattering.

This is what girls like Holly do. This is how they get away with their cruelty—they hide their toxic underbelly with a honeyed veneer for adults, and adults buy it because they want to.

Or they shrug it off as typical teenage behavior.

The Hollys get away with it.

And then they do something else. Something worse.

And the cycle continues.

I study the grass at my feet. “Yeah, I’m sure. We got tangled.”