Not If I See You First(71)

“Do you care?”

“Not even the tiniest bit. Just making conversation.”





After school, Molly walks with me to the locker room and then splits off to head for the bleachers and read instead of hanging around in her mom’s classroom. Our new plan is for her to do whatever for an hour while I’m at track, then we’ll do homework, saving trig for last when Kent comes after football practice.

I pick up track clothes at the coaches’ office and try everything on. The shorts and tank top are snugger than I like but that’s fine. If I’m going to sprint in front of an audience I’d rather not have my clothes too loose and not secure.

“Parker, it’s me,” Trish says to my left. “I’m over here.”

“Who? Where?” I turn my head all around like I’m looking for her voice.

“It’s me. Trish. To your right, I mean left. Your left.”

“Oh, good, thanks for telling me. It’s not like I can recognize your voice or anything or tell where it’s coming from.”

“God, you’re such a bitch. I really might call you B.B.”

“The rumors are true. We can go faster if I take your arm. My cane’s bent anyway. Unless you’re worried people will think we’re a couple.”

“You wish.”

We march out to the track, my free arm slightly forward to guard against her driving me up against any walls or poles. She doesn’t but I’m not going to jump to any conclusions.

While we stretch, Coach Underhill talks about how we should take it slow and just get used to walking together, then jogging, and only going faster as it feels comfortable. I honestly thought we’d jump right in on moderate sprints and starting blocks. I’m glad he spoke first.

At Coach’s suggestion Trish and I hold hands and walk around the track. I hear people talking and milling around, footsteps, and the clanking of various bits of equipment from people working on field events. There’s water on the track midway up the far straightaway, deep enough to splash, which Trish says came from a busted sprinkler head. I flag this as potential bullshit and file it for later, but the rubberized track isn’t slippery when wet so I’m not worried.

After one circuit we start to jog. I thought this coordinated running in step, arms cycling in unison, would be harder than it’s turning out to be. The challenge is more in distinguishing between normal jostling versus her deliberately steering. After a few laps we start talking through it so I don’t have to guess.

As much as I want to run a lot faster, I decide it’s not going to happen today. This is just about the basics, getting to know each other’s movements at a light jog. It’s not long before things are working surprisingly well though my socks are soaking wet.

Scott joins us for a lap but it’s awkward because Trish keeps interrupting with directional talk so we can’t have a normal conversation. He finally says he’ll leave us to it and peels off. The way it happens makes me think he regrets not being the one running with me. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

After he goes, Trish says, “I swear to God if you hurt him again, you’re on your own. You can run with Pokey Patricia.”

“Did Jason tell you what happened? I mean all of it?”

“Yeah, all of it. I think it’s bullshit. I mean, it was middle school. Big deal.”

I don’t reply. I wonder if she’d have thought that way when she was thirteen. Probably. I’m the paranoid one.

“Do you like him?” I ask.

“Everybody likes Scotty.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Oh, no, not like that.”

“Are you sure?”

“What, because you like him everybody should?”

“No, I just think you’d have to like someone a lot to attack me the way you did.”

“I stand up for people who don’t stand up for themselves.”

“Are you sure?”

“Are you a parrot? Scotty’s great but I want more backbone in a guy. Someone I don’t need to stand up for.”

“He’s got a spine, believe me.”

“I guess we’re figuring out why you want to have his baby and I don’t.”

I laugh. She doesn’t.

“I’m serious, if you f*ck with him at all, we’re done.”

I let Trish have the last word; I think it’s what she wants. After another couple laps she needs to go—she’s also a steeplechase runner and Coach Rivers calls a meeting that won’t end soon. She turns me by the shoulders, says, “You’re facing the lockers now,” and trots away.

I pop in an earbud and call Molly.

“Hey,” she says. “You know I’m just sitting right here in the bleachers? At the fifty-yard line? Watching you?”

“You know damn well I don’t know where you are. Ready to go?”

“Done already?”

“For today. She’s got other stuff.”

“You know that puddle you kept running through?”

“Yeah.” I laugh. “She was steering me into it, wasn’t she?”

“No, she was steering you away from it—”

“Really?”

“It was so she’d run through the deepest part and splash you even more. She was doing all kinds of stuff to get you as wet as possible.”