Moonglass (20 page)

I chewed slowly, trying to buy time, wishing I had just ignored her text and spent lunch alone. We were past the point where I probably should have told her, but there wasn’t exactly a simple way to bring up a dead mother. I hadn’t totally lied, but looking at Ashley’s ridiculously excited smile, I felt guilty knowing that I would now have to. finally I swallowed and took a sip of water.

“Well ?” she asked, waiting.

“Well …,” I started, “I don’t think we’ll be able to make it, Ash.” I tried to sound as disappointed as possible.

She dropped her wrap, confounded. “Why?”

I hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. I tried to avoid lying to her and went for vague instead. “Um, we already have something planned, some catching-up time, and—”

“Perfect!” She clapped her hands together. “You guys can have a massage together! That’s when me and my mom always catch up—”

“No. I don’t think it’ll work out. We’re not like that, my mom and me. We—”

Her face suddenly went serious, and she put a manicured hand on my arm. “Anna,
do not
worry about the money. It’s my—well, my dad’s—treat! He totally loves being able to give to people who need it.” She caught herself, or at least had an inkling that she had said something that could be misunderstood.

“You know, like the beautiful women in his life and their friends!” She punctuated this with a nod, clearly happy with herself for her recovery.

I shook my head. “Thanks anyway, but not this time.”

Now she looked hurt. And a little ticked off. And kind of pouty. “I thought you’d be excited. I told my mom all about you, and she wants to meet you, and I was excited to meet your mom, and—”

I set down my wrap and looked right at her, sorry for what I was about to say, because I knew it would shock her. “Ash, I don’t have anything planned with my mom…. She’s dead.”

She flinched, then leaned in, trying to understand. “What?”

I rubbed my forehead. “She died when I was seven. She drowned. It’s just me and my dad.” Her face had already fall en into the deeply sad and sympathetic expression I dreaded. “I didn’t tell you before because I just wanted a fresh start here, because before I moved, everybody knew about it and …” I looked down at my lap, then back up at her, feeling tears well up. “I’m sorry.” I bit the inside of my cheek and looked down again.

She was silent, which I had expected. What is anyone supposed to say to something like that? Then her eyes lit up a bit. “You’re like a Disney princess!” It was my turn to flinch.
“What?”
I asked, wondering if she had heard me right.

“You know,” she continued, matter-of-factly. “Ariel, bell e, Cinderella, Jasmine … none of them had mothers.” I still wasn’t following, but she continued, obviously excited. “When I was little, I used to think that meant that life had to make it up to them, for taking their mothers away, and so that’s why they ended up having the whole fairy-tale happily-ever-after magic happen to them. They deserved it more than other girls.” She looked at me intently. “Life will make it up to you, Anna.”

It was so ridiculous, yet she said it with such confidence and sincerity, I was almost convinced. No one had ever reacted quite like that, but in a way it didn’t surprise me with her. I laughed and wiped at my eyes, then breathed in deeply, thankful she had somehow said the exact right thing.

The bell rang, and I went to pick up my half-eaten wrap, but she handed me a mirror instead. “Here. Fix your eyes. In case you see your handsome prince.” I took the mirror and the tissue she handed me and dabbed at my running mascara. “Thank you, Ash.” She smiled at me simply. “That’s what friends are for. And you’re still coming. But now I’m ordering you every treatment on the spa menu. Plus products.”

“I can’t do it that day. We have a race. A big one.”

She frowned. “What about if you run, I watch, and
then
we go?”

I considered. It might be nice after the race. “Okay, yeah. That’d be good.”

We cleared our table and headed up the path to where it split. She patted my shoulder. “One more period. Then you can try to beat Jillian for once.” I rolled my eyes. “Yeah. That’ll be the day.”

She gave me a quick hug before we went our separate ways, and I walked slowly, not in the mood for sitting through another class. The hall ways were nearly empty now, and quiet, everyone having filed into their last period of the day. A steady breeze of cool air blew up the hill from the ocean, and I looked out over the horizon, which had darkened considerably since I’d come outside.

I wasn’t going to seventh period. I walked past my classroom, then turned the corner to the back of campus, where I had seen a massive elm tree with branches like an umbrella.

It was good to be alone. Even better that I was missing class. I leaned my back against the elm tree’s knobby bark and looked up through the leaves that rustled above me in the breeze. The sky was a pale slab of marble now, white and gray with darker veins running through it. It had yet to spill a drop, but it felt like rain today, and smelled like it too. I closed my eyes and breathed it in, finally relaxing a little.

“Mind if I share the tree?”

I opened my eyes to Jillian standing above me with one hip cocked out, her hand resting on it. I shrugged. “Sure.”

She sat down without saying anything, settled her back into the bark of the tree, and took out her iPod. I cleared my throat and looked around, fairly sure that she didn’t want a conversation. Maybe she’d woken up in a mood too.

Jillian put in both of her earbuds and was scrolling through her music. She wore jeans, a tank top, and the same calm expression she always did, whether she was kicking my butt or just barely holding me off. I sighed loudly. “So … what class are you ditching?” She took out one earbud and turned around to look at me. “Huh? Oh, Leadership.” She smiled. “Ironic, right? What about you? Why are you out here?” I twirled the stem of a leaf between my fingers. “English. I couldn’t make myself do it today. Too much other stuff on my mind.” She nodded. “Yeah. Same here.” When she looked down at the iPod in her hand again, I figured our conversation had run its course, and I let my eyes wander out over the field. Out of the corner of my eye, though, I saw her foot tap a few times, then she turned back to me. “My sister died two years ago today.”

She said it like it was a normal thing to say, then picked at the grass next to her before looking back up at me and shrugging. “Guess that’s why I’m out here.”

I kept my face steady and looked her in the eye. Two things I wished people could do with me when they found out. Neither one of us said anything for a moment. I figured that if she had brought it up, she might want to talk about it. “Were you close with her?” At first she looked at me like I was crazy, then eased off and nodded. “Yeah. We were close. We did everything together. She was a runner too. Faster than me, actually.”

She plucked a blade of grass and rolled it between her fingers, watching the end spin. I watched it too, and then, because it seemed like the right thing to do, I asked her what nobody ever really asked me.

“What happened?”

Her fingers stopped, and she looked at me for a long moment before picking another piece and beginning again. “We went to this party together. She always brought me along so she could make me drive home if she got drunk, which she always did.” She laughed softly. “She was the only person I knew who could get wasted at night and set records the next day.”

She paused and swept her eyes over the field, and I waited for the rest. Her smile faded slowly before she started again.

“I never drank. I held her hair when she got sick, snuck her in the back door, and lied to our parents when she couldn’t. Except that night. We got into a fight over something stupid, because she was drunk, and I left. I was so pissed, I just left her there to deal with it herself for once.” She looked at me like she’d just confessed something horrible, and I wanted to tell her I understood her more than she knew.

“She left the party, I guess to walk home, and some other drunk girl who was driving home swerved off the road and hit her with her car. And then the driver took off and left her there. And I was at home, lying to my parents for my sister, while she was out in the road, dying.” I could see the guilt wrapped around her tight, and I knew there was nothing I could say to loosen it. But I tried anyway, because if I really thought about it, it was the thing I most wanted to hear myself.

“It wasn’t your fault. There was no way you could have—”

“I know that.” She cut me short in a flicker of emotion, then almost as quickly regained her composure. “Sorry. Everyone has told me that, and logically it’s probably true.” She shrugged. “I just don’t think I’ll ever stop wondering about the what-ifs, though. You know? It’s just shitty and unfair….”

She trailed off again, and I shifted my weight. I focused hard on her. Avoided the fact that I felt the same way. “But you still run. Isn’t that hard sometimes?

Because that was a thing you did together?”

“No.” She turned to me. “Running is the place I feel closest to her, where I can get away from the rest of it.” I thought about my own running, which I’d been doing for a long time. “I get it. It’s the one time I can forget about everything and just go. Hard.” She laughed softly, then sat up straight, and I could tell the conversation was about to shift. “I knew it. You always run like you’re running away from something.” She zipped her iPod into her backpack. “It’s good you’re up for going hard, because today is mile repeats. Four of them, at six-minute pace.” I took a deep breath and pushed it out as we stood up. “Oh, God.”

“It won’t hurt that bad … when we’re done.” She threw her backpack over her shoulder. “I can promise you this, you won’t have anything else in your mind besides the pain we’re about to feel. I think that’s why coach decided to do them today, in my honor. Or Krista’s. She used to kick everyone’s ass in these.”

“Well, guess it’s up to you to carry on the tradition.” We headed toward the locker room.

Jillian raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Yeah? We’ll see.”

She was right. About the pain being the only thing in my mind. After the first mile my lungs burned and my legs quivered from the effort. I crossed the line at the same time as Jillian, and after our talk this afternoon, I did it more out of wanting to be a friend to her than feeling competitive. We jogged the next lap without talking, working on getting our breath and heart rates back to normal. At the starting line for the second mile, we shook out our legs and waited for Coach Martin’s whistle. I took off hard, getting a jump on her at first. She caught me quickly though, and just as she did, I felt the first fat drop of rain land on my cheek. By the time we rounded the turn and headed into the third lap, the sky opened up on us with an intensity that I relished.

Time shifted and I ceased to think about anything but breathing and pushing my legs forward through the rain that blurred my vision and hid the tears that welled up, hot and fierce. And it hurt like nothing else, but as I looked at Jillian from the corner of my eye, I felt like I wasn’t alone in what I was running from.

And that, at least, was a comfort.

“EAT PASTA, RUN FASTA!”

The peppy banner hung over Jillian’s dining room table a few days later. Her mom had volunteered to host “team night” at her house a night before the Breakers Invitationall tradition and had gone all out—complete with enough spaghetti, garlic bread, and salad to feed all the teams in the meet. I watched her flit around us, winking as she heaped more noodles onto our plates, laughing heartily when we said we were full , and running Jillian around with a million tiny requests that I could see were wearing on her.

When she asked Jillian, for the third time, to see if anyone wanted more garlic bread, it was clear she’d pushed a button. Jillian took her mom by the shoulders, forcing her to be still a moment, and said, as calmly as she could, “
Mom
. You need to relax. We’re all fine. If anyone needs anything else, it’s all out here on the counter for them to get.” She swept her arm over the spread. Beth took a deep breath, pressed her lips together, and nodded, before turning to find another detail that needed attending. The brief little exchange made me wonder if her constant, smiling busyness was natural, or if it was one of the ways Beth dealt with the loss of her other daughter. Judging by Jillian’s strained mood, I guessed it was the latter. And I felt for her, having to deal with her own grief along with her mom’s. It was a lot to stand up under.

Nobody else seemed to notice amidst the chatter and laughter of the whole team at one table. Even Coach Martin had come, and for once he let down his serious-coach demeanor to laugh with us and eat a ridiculous amount of spaghetti. After three helpings courtesy of Jill ’s mom, he wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood up at the head of the table, clearing his throat to get our attention. When our forks clinked down onto our plates, and the chatter died down, he clapped his hands together.

“Ladies, ladies, ladies. First off, we owe a big thank you to Jillian’s mom for this feast here. It’s a lot of work she put in to feed you girls, so let’s give her a big hand.” We all did, and the smile that spread over Beth’s face was genuinely happy. Coach went on. “Now. Let’s talk a little business about tomorrow.” Feigned groans rippled around the table, and he waved a dismissive hand. “Tomorrow’s meet isn’t a league meet, but I want you to treat it like it is. The team that wins the Breakers Invitational wins the sponsorship of the Newport Running Club, which means brand-new uniforms, shoes, and money enough for a cushy trip to Mt. Sac, when that race comes around. So we want this one. Bad.” He looked over at me and Jillian. “Jill, you and Anna are gonna lead. Keep everyone together as much as possible, and work the hill s like I know you two can, okay?” We both nodded. “All right. Now let’s finish up, help Mrs. Matthews get her kitchen clean, and then get home and get some rest.”

Coach Martin wasn’t one for big speeches, but he got his point across. After helping with the dishes, I left Jillian’s more than a little nervous about being charged with the task of leading the team.