You Can't Catch Me (11 page)

“Hey, I was gonna say something, but the look seems to be working for you.”

“How do you figure?”

“You’ve got a fall formal date, don’t you?” Her eyebrows waggle. “Aaaand, I’ve heard another someone has been asking you out.”

My arm drops from my hip. “How’d
you
hear about that?” I’ve been tight-lipped about Oliver, mostly because I’m in denial—someone that adorably charming can’t be interested in me
like that
. I start wondering if Coach Fox is a blabbermouth because she is the only one with a connection to the guy.

Tiff shakes her head like I’m an idiot. “He’s been telling everyone you guys are like, ‘a thing.’ I was gonna ask you, but we’ve been… I mean, I wasn’t sure if you were still mad about Marcus and me. Asking to double seemed like pushing it.”

Now I’m lost.

“You lost me.”

“Jamal.” She waves her hand out, and my eyes pop wide. Confusion settles in her eyes as she slowly asks, “You guys are going out now, right?”

I wildly shake my head, my frizzy brown curls thwacking my cheeks. Red hot butt-kicking anger steams up my neck and shoots out my ears. Tiff’s mouth is wide open, like a frog catching flies, and she dives into the gossip that I’ve been completely oblivious to.

My wardrobe is the talk of the sophomore class—really, people?—and Drake apparently came to my defense, and Jamal got all up in his face, saying that he and I are “a thing,” but Drake said he’s going with me to the formal. I’m fuming by the time she’s done. Not only at my friends doing all this behind my back, but at the Sharpies for causing all the drama.

It’s their fault; I know it somehow. Drake saw them at my party, and now my guy friends have turned into poop-flinging apes.

“So, you and Jamal…?” she asks again. I shake my head and manage to answer through gritted teeth.

“Friends.” I let out a humorless laugh. “For now anyway. I may kill them both.”

She nods with enthusiasm, and I love her in that moment, and not just because she told me everything, but also if she hadn’t raided my father’s closet, I’d still be perched half naked on top of a questionably sanitary toilet.

She snatches at my forearm so suddenly I nearly jump from my shoes. “Wait…
do
you have someone asking you out?”

I try to rewind the conversation to where I slipped, but it’s been about fifteen minutes, and I track it back that far.

“Um…” And my traitorous cheeks fill with blazing heat.

Her mouth splits open into a wide smile. “Omigosh,
who
?”

“Geez, chill.” I chuckle, quieting her squeal. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Who who who?” She’s bouncing now.

“You don’t know him.”

“I know
every
body. Don’t lie.”

“I’m serious.” Even though my smile is widening, my stomach zoo is perking back up. Admitting a crush is so much harder than having one, I decide. “He doesn’t go here.”

Her enthusiasm doesn’t wane in the slightest. “What’s his name?”

Here it goes. “Oliver.”

Her face does a slow motion crumple, like when someone finds a basket of kittens. “Awww—”

“Okay, stop,” I tell her through a laugh. My stomach is going crazy. My hands are shaking, and my toes are wiggling in my shoes. I jam my fingers in the hem of my shirt, refusing to go boy crazy. Tiff’s been waiting for me to gush over a real-life person and not someone on our shows. I’ve been more about being one-of-the-guys than actually “gushing” over one of them.

“Okay,” I say, just wanting to get it out of the way in one, quick tug, “don’t squeal like a monkey again, but I kinda need you and Far…Marcus to double this weekend.”

She has to clap her hand over her mouth to contain the freak-out. I put one up against her mouth too because her excitement needs to be even more muffled.

“That’s a yes?” I ask. She nods under our hands, and then voices from the gym door come filtering in.

“…knew it, right?” Bridget says through a laugh, and the other girls all laugh and agree to whatever she was saying. They come around the first corner—all of them dripping from the downpour outside—and spot Tiff and I. We drop our hands.

“Oh, hey,” Bridget says quickly, her wet cheeks burning red. “There you are.” She looks to Hadley on her left, who’s playing with her slippery water bottle.

“Uh, Coach wants to see you,” Hadley says, and then they go off to change, leaving a trail of water behind her. I flick my eyes to Tiff, who gives me a “Good luck” half smile before saying, “I’ll wait for you in the lot.”

I have no doubt that we’ll be having a much looonger conversation tonight.

For the first time since I’ve known her, Coach Fox doesn’t look happy. Her highlighted hair is frizzy from the rain and falling from its low ponytail, and her lips are chapped and turned down in a frown that reminds me of Mom when Dad doesn’t ask for seconds on an experimental meal she’s made. She waves me in, and I gently push the door closed, to the dismay of the runners lingering in the locker room.

“Take a seat,” she says, her voice suddenly salty when I’m used to sweet. I lower into the chair, ignoring the pinch of the duct tape as my skin rolls over it.

Coach studies me, and I let my eyes wander around the room as my discomfort grows. I didn’t think this woman was capable of intimidation, but here I am, under her microscopic stare, being silently lectured. The clock ticks above her head, and the second hand starts to move backward, and I can feel my heart in my brain, and I clear my throat, swallow, cluck my tongue, and wait forever and a day before I finally can’t take her scrutiny anymore.

“Someone stole my clothes!” I blurt a little louder than I mean to. Her curious eyes transform to surprise so quickly if I’d have blinked, I would’ve missed it. She rolls her chair closer to her desk. Her chest covers nearly her entire desk calendar as she leans across it. The stopwatch from her neck doesn’t dangle, but drapes over her giant bosom, getting caught in her cleavage. It doesn’t bother her; she’s comfortable in her body, and an ache forms in my stomach, bringing a sting of jealousy with it.

“Your uniform is missing?” she asks, sugar dusting the edges of her voice again.

I nod. “I’m sorry. I called my friend to bring me some clothes, but…” I drift off, knowing that I probably should’ve ran right out after I got changed, but I stayed behind and talked about
boys
. About
her son
. My eyes drop to my lap, my shoulders unable to slouch without shooting pain up and down my ribs. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I admit. This isn’t the Ginger from last year. That Ginger worked her butt off. This Ginger is a stranger in an even stranger body.

Coach scratches her bitten-down nails along her round cheek, frowning at me in a completely different way than when we walked in here. “Can you find something appropriate for next week?” she asks. “I’ll try to find where your clothes went.”

I nod. She gives me a semi-smile.

“I’ll be honest, you threw me off. I was about to give out my well-practiced lecture.”

I let out a small laugh, look at my bare thigh sticking out of my running shorts and run a hand over it. Now even my thighs look like they’ve gotten soft, lost all the muscle that I worked so hard for.

“Could you give it to me anyway?” I ask, flicking my gaze up. “I think I could use a little tough love.”

“It wasn’t tough love, Silverman.” She sighs. “It was a coach who’s getting fed up with the girl she was told was the best on the team.”

Ouch. “I know I’m not as fast as—”

“It’s not about your speed.” She shakes her head. “You’ve dropped on the track, completely given up, ran out of practice, and not shown up. All within the first few weeks.”

There’s a sick taste on the back of my tongue. “I know, and I promise I’ll be better. I
promise
. I meant what I said before. I’m here to prove to you that I can do it.”

Her lips pull down. “This isn’t just about
you
. I’m not here to see you only care about what you can do and what you can’t do.” She pauses as if trying to make sure what she means comes across the right way. I sit poised on my chair, ready for something,
anything
that may help me figure out how to crawl out of this horrible funk.

“You are part of a
team
,” she says. “When you put aside how you feel about your own performance and concentrate on getting everyone across the finish line, this sport becomes much easier to handle.”

I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “That’s not how we’ve been coached, Coach.”

“I know.” She leans back, a fire stirring in her expression. “But believe me, someone will have your back if you have theirs. This is true in
any
sport. You’re not the only one struggling, Ginger. Keep it in mind.”

I nod, not sure what to say to that. I’d like to tell her that if I didn’t watch out for myself, no one would, especially after that conversation I overheard not forty-five minutes ago.

Her hard-pressed expression turns soft and amused. “Regretting your decision to hear the lecture anyway?”

I give her a laugh, though I’m not really feeling it. “No.” I stand. “Thanks, Coach.”

She smiles and watches me leave. I’d make her a promise to be a better team player, but I’m not sure if I’ll be able to keep it.

I pass Hadley on the way out. and she gives me a small smile before looking past me.

“Coach? Can I talk to you for a second?” she asks. Coach Fox nods and invites her to sit.

“Will you get the door, Silverman?” she asks politely. Curiosity pulls at me as I shut the two of them in. Is Hadley struggling, too? The words Coach just said to me hit home as I realize what a self-absorbed teammate I’ve been.

I pull out my phone and send Tiff a text. Even though I’ll go through every shade of red, I’d rather talk about my boy problems than deal with the chance of State getting further and further away from my grasp.

***

“This is the craziest thing you’ve ever thought of, and I just… I just… omigosh… Ginger! I’m so proud of you!”

If she wasn’t sitting behind the wheel, I’m one hundred percent sure Tiff would be mauling me right now with hugs and forcing me to jump up and down on my toes. That reaction is more appropriate for cake than it is for this.

I slap my hands over my face, peeking through my fingers at the faculty parking lot so I don’t miss anything. “Don’t talk me out of it.”

She gasps. “Never.” Now she’s bouncing again. “I hope we get a good look at him.”

I shake my head so hard my hair loosens from its ponytail. If Oliver catches me stalking, I will keel over in a matter of seconds. But I can’t help but feel an excitement build inside of me over the thought of seeing him in our stakeout. I mean, this whole thing is because of him; getting a visual on him would be a butterfly-inducing bonus.

I pull at the duct tape around my chest, wincing a little because I’ve sweated so hard just sitting out in the student parking lot, and it’s accumulating in very itchy ways. Now that the rain has let up, the humidity is hitting. It’s gonna hurt like a mother when I have to rip the tape off tonight to let the Sharpies breathe. I’m actually hoping they’ll suffocate back into their 32A selves.

“Oh! We have a visual on the subject,” Tiff says, pointing out the speckled windshield to Coach Fox trudging out the main doors. She must’ve gotten changed in her office or something, because she’s wearing a full, flowy, floral skirt and a pink baby doll blouse. The outfit she wore earlier was a little longer and looser, but this one looks a little more… dressier. Her hair’s down, blowing with the slight breeze, and she’s rushing, but her shoes aren’t making it easy. I chuckle a little bit, because it looks like she has trouble in any other footwear that isn’t flat—like me. She looks good though. Like she’s ready for a hot date.

I slap my hand on Tiff’s forearm, and she spits out a curse.

“Sorry,” I rush out quick, taking my hand off her. “I think we should go.”

“Yeah. We’re gonna follow her…” She hovers over the ignition.

My head shakes back and forth slowly as I watch Coach cross the lot. “I… I’m not sure she’s going home.”

“Only one way to find out, right?” Tiff prods. Coach fumbles around in her purse, pulling out her phone and putting it to her ear. She stops dead on the way to the car to listen to whoever’s on the line. Her mouth doesn’t move, so it’s probably a voicemail.

My eyes drop to the clock on the dash. It’s nearly 6:00 already, and I’m losing the excitement I had when I first caught Tiff before she left the school, and I asked if she would help me find out where Oliver lives. Oh, Tiff’s enthusiasm hasn’t faltered in the slightest, but then again, if she follows Coach home, and Oliver spots her, there would be absolutely no significance in that. Well… at least until he meets her in person.

My reasons for wanting to know where he lives are completely stalkerish—I’d like to make a new running route, and I know that if his house is part of the scenery, I’ll find a whole lot more motivation to work off the summertime flub.

Tiff lets out a frustrated growl and then laughs. “She is the slowest cross country coach ever.”

I look up, and Coach is still out there with the phone to her ear, the corners of her lips turned down. After a few more seconds, she drops her hand and tucks her phone away, heading to her car in a much slower and less harried pace than before. She opens the driver door, tosses her purse in, then disappears from my view. All I can see is her silhouette, and it’s really dark because of the tint on her windows.

Tiff starts the car.

And we sit.

And wait.

For freaking ever.

“Ugh.” Tiff throws her head back, muttering her impatience at the ceiling. I squint and try to figure out what Coach is doing in there that’s making her take so long to even start her car. Sometimes Dad sits in the car for a good ten minutes just adjusting mirrors and seats and picking the right playlist, and we just tease him on delaying the inevitable work day.

She doesn’t look like she’s moving at all though. Oh, sometimes Mom prays in the car, since she forgets before she leaves. I shoot my gaze elsewhere in case that is what Coach is doing, and even looking at her seems like I’m interrupting her time with God. There’s a Cool Ranch Doritos bag floating down the gutter stream near the drop-off lane, so I watch that until Tiff suddenly throws the car in drive and pulls out after Coach, who is finally leaving the parking lot.

“Operation Oliver is in progress,” she teases me, and I laugh, but my stomach has fallen straight out my butt. Glad
she
can be excited about this. I’m going to lose the very little food I put in my belly today.

“Going stealth mode,” I say, playing along to ease the chaos going on in my insides. I drop the seat back and cover my face with my backpack. “I request commentary.”

I see Tiff’s arms shake as she laughs—I’m too hidden to see her face anymore—and she reaches down for her Rockstar.

“Subject is heading… uh… whatever direction this is… we’re on the road that leads to the fast food smorgasbord.”

My nervous stomach instinctively grumbles, knowing that the smell of fries and bread and pizza are all going to mix and mate in my nostrils as soon as we’re on that street. We’ll be stuck in traffic forever; I know it already, since it’s 6:00 on a Friday.

“Is she grabbing food?” I say in a panic. “We can’t follow her in a drive-thru!”

“Trust me, worry wart.” Tiff’s arms move, and the car swings to the left. I grab my seatbelt above me, thankful that Aunt Heidi isn’t driving. If she were, there wouldn’t be a chance of me laying my seat back.

“Are we stopped?” I ask, peeking out from my backpack. Tiff puts her hand on it and presses it back into my nose. Oy, I should’ve taken out my biology book before doing this.

“Subject is parked in front of Mickey Ds,” she commentates. “Subject must have a craving for a Big Mac.”

My stomach grumbles. “She ain’t the only one.”

Tiff laughs. “You can’t eat those. Your bowels can’t handle it.”

“True, but really… can anyone’s bowels handle McDonalds?”

She laughs again, not answering because I’m so totally right, and after ten minutes or so while my stomach talks and my butt gets sore, Tiff starts the car back up, and we pull out again.

“Subject had a big bag of food. Food for two, I’d say,” she continues as my biology book crushes my cheek. “I believe this could mean our Person of Interest is at home.”

I shake my head, loving her for doing this, and loving her more for making it fun. I’ve boarded the crazy train, and she just comes along with me. Insanity is better with a friend.

If I was a person who could express feelings out loud without fumbling around the words, I’d probably tell her what a relief it is to have someone treat me like I haven’t changed at all, even though I know
she
knows that something’s different.

This duct tape is going to kill me.

“Oh, looks like we’re slowing into a neighborhood.”

“What’s the street name?”

“Uh, I missed it. Hang on, let me see if I can find…” She tapers off, and her back straightens. I wait a good three Mississippis before she says, “Okay, she pulled into a driveway. I’ll whip around, and we can get the address.”

“Be cool about it!” I hiss, and she relaxes in the seat like she’s riding low, and I roll my eyes at the material over my face.

I turn and lift up out of my seat, hoping to get at least a peek at the neighborhood. I thought I had a pretty good idea of where we are, but from the looks of it, I am way off.