None of the Above(58)

But now? I wanted to impress Darren.

Just a few blocks away from home, I took a little detour and went to Colonial Plaza. I wormed my way through the mostly empty lot, and parked by the used bookstore.

“We’re closing in fifteen minutes,” barked the crusty old owner when I walked in. “No sales after eight p.m.”

“I’ll be quick,” I assured him. And I was. I made a beeline back to the children’s book section and picked up a set of Eric Carle books, an old copy of The Snowy Day, and a few Dr. Seuss classics. I almost whooped for joy when I found a Spanish translation of Oh, the Places You’ll Go!

The magazine section consisted of four milk crates filled to the rim with a hodgepodge of titles, but eventually I found a dozen copies of Highlights that had barely been touched, a bargain at ten cents apiece. I added a couple of copies of Seventeen for the older girls.

When I got home, I crawled up into our attic and brought out the heavy artillery. The summer before sophomore year, when I had started babysitting hard-core, I’d found a big rolling suitcase from Goodwill and filled it with coloring books, stickers, Legos, and the occasional box of fruit snacks in case of emergency. I added in the books and magazines I’d gotten.

It seemed like a small offering, when I thought about the big-picture perspective that Darren had talked about that day we’d run up to the top of the hill. But then I thought of a different perspective—that of a ten-year-old girl sitting in a doctor’s office, waiting for her mother to get called in. And I remembered how from that point of view, the right magazine or a good book was as large as the world.





CHAPTER 33


The next Monday I timed my run perfectly and reached the woods just as Darren was jogging in.

His face lit up when he saw me, and he pulled his earbuds out. “You heading in?”

I nodded, trying to play it cool.

We fell into step. Under the canopy of trees, it was dark and chilly, and it was comforting to have someone beside me, to have someone else’s footsteps echoing my own.

“Were you listening to The Concept?” I gestured toward his iPod.

“Nah, they’re not really running music, you know? Too slow, too many tempo changes.”

I shook my head. “I never really listen to music when I’m working out.” It was too hard to set my pace when I did—I always wanted to match my stride to whatever song was playing. And besides, I never used to run alone. “What is good to run to, then?”

“Depends. Did you know there are websites out there that tell you how many beats per minute there are to a given song? So you can choose what to listen to based on how fast you want to go.”

Surprisingly, I didn’t.

“Lemme show you,” Darren said, flicking through his iPod. “We’re on pace for what? A ten-minute mile? I’ve got a playlist for that. Here.” He stopped for a second and unwrapped his earbuds, handing me the left one. I slipped it in and he started the song, a poppy, happy tune that we fell into step with right away. Tethered by his earbuds, we ran close—almost as if we were dancing our way through a three-legged race.

It felt both comfortable and slightly disconcerting. I was aware of Darren’s every breath, of the moments when he reached up to wipe sweat from his forehead. Now and then he’d shake his head to get an unruly brown curl out of his eyes, or pull out his CamelBak to take a sip, and it was as if his headphones amplified not just the music, but how attuned I was to his every movement.

The playlist brought us to the top of the overlook, where we stopped for a breather. I took out the earbud and dropped it into Darren’s open hand, suddenly shy. Then I walked up to the view point and did a couple of quad stretches, turning back to watch Darren from a distance. Even though the physical thing linking us was gone, some part of our bodies’ understanding remained. I knew that, from that point on, I would never have a problem recognizing him from a distance.

We ran back down, and when it was time to part ways I hesitated.

“See you on Tuesday, then? East lot?”

“Yeah,” said Darren. He fiddled with his headphones for a bit before tilting his head back toward the woods. “So, anyway. If you end up running tomorrow, or Thursday, just send me a text. Maybe I can find something a bit more up-tempo for you. Jeez, did you even break a sweat?”

“You’re too sweet,” I said, looking down as I scuffed the curb with my sneaker.

I ran home wearing a silly little grin.

The good feelings lasted until I checked my email, and found a message from Coach Auerbach. My dad had forwarded her the relevant NCAA guidelines, and she’d been able to convince the school board to reinstate me to the team. Would I like to come to practice starting tomorrow?

I was coming off a great run. I’d started taking my hormones and seeing a therapist. And still I felt blank, like the feeling you get in your leg after sitting on it the wrong way, just before the pins-and-needles pain comes rushing in with your circulation. But I didn’t delete her email, either.

Would I like to go to practice tomorrow? Even now, my gut said no.

I replied back, and lied. I told her that Dr. Cheng hadn’t wanted me to do any vigorous physical activity for ten weeks.

Maybe in a month I’d be ready.

I was almost there.





CHAPTER 34