Chapter 6: : Chapter 5

After class, my head’s still woozy from my freak-out.

But duty calls.

I chug an energy drink until my heart’s doing the cha-cha. Sam and the rest of the track team are already four minutes into our twenty-minute warm-up run by the time I drag my butt out to the field.

“Tardy. Twenty push-ups after warmup,” Coach Johnson bellows as I run to catch up with Sam.

“Soooo,” she says. “Are we going to talk about it or just blow past it?”

“Blow past what?”

“You. Sprinting out of class.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yeah, ”

“It’s nothing.”

Sam stops dead on the track, hand on her hip.

“No. You do not get to act like that. Not with me, basically the be-all and end-all of best-friend-dom, just like all the Sams before me.”

“All the Sams before you?”

She shushes me with her hand in the air.

“Please save all your mockery until the end of my soliloquy.” I gesture for her to continue. “As I was saying, take a look at the finest heroes of all time. Frodo. Captain America. Jon Snow. What do they have in common?”

“Capes? An unhealthy affinity for hair gel?”

“Incorrect,” she says. We start running after Coach threatens more push-ups. “A Sam. Jon Snow has Sam Tarly, lovable nerd. Frodo has Sam, loyal hobbit of the Shire. Even Captain America had a trusted Sam sidekick. But every time you shut me out, you are robbing me of my birthright. My heritage by name.”

“Must you always be so…extra?”

“Must always be so secretive?”

Sam waits for an explanation, but I don’t have one. The heat from the rubber track radiates onto my legs. My body drags, but I push through.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Just move forward—one foot in front of the other.

“Is it about Alice?” she whispers as a trio of girls runs alongside us.

I wait for them to pass before I whisper back, “That boy from the art class. The one with the socks? He was at Fairview with her. He almost said it in class, in front of everyone.”

“So you ran?”

“Yeah.”

“Even if he told, Lil, it’s not like went to Fairview.”

We round the corner where Coach is writing each of our names on a whiteboard with a number.

That’s how much I need to cut off my 400 meter if I want to have a shot at state in two months.

“What’s the big deal if he’s your partner for project?”

The big deal? The big deal is that I exist in two different worlds. The one where I win races and get straight As, and the one where my brain is breaking and my sister is in a rehab center because hers already broke. Two Lilys, and never the twain shall meet, at least not if I want to keep at least one Lily sane. And getting all chummy with Micah qualifies as worlds colliding.

For a second, I almost tell Sam everything. Tell her how I’ve been losing control since Alice left. How I stay up until the sun comes up most nights, locked in an ever-tightening spiral of what-ifs. About the list in the back of my planner and how I slip out of myself sometimes, become a spectator in my own life.

Across the parking lot, Micah’s pedaling away on a bright orange bike, ignoring Damon and the posse of jerks taunting him.

That’s what Damon called him.

That’s what people think about kids who go to treatment centers or make lists about why they’re going insane.

And that’s exactly why I can’t tell—anyone. Not even my best friend.

“I think I’m just stressed,” I say.

Sam rolls her eyes and mock waves to me.

“Hello? It’s junior year. It’s supposed to be stressful. I’ve been up till one every night this month practicing for my solo.” She holds up her bandaged fingers while we run.

“Right? It’s just a lot, sometimes.” An unexpected lump lodges in my throat. “Take the right classes. Get the right grades so you can take better classes. Cram your schedule full so by the time you actually get to college, you’re ahead of your classmates, already winning a competition you didn’t even know you entered.”

Sam stops running and grabs me by the shoulders.

“Listen to me. It sucks a fat one. We know this. But we’re going to get through it, get into college, party like hell senior year, and then bust out of this joint.”

“If we’re lucky,” I say. “Did you know the acceptance rate at UC Berkeley was only seventeen percent last year?”

She throws her head back in exasperation.

“Lily Larkin. Do make me take away your Google.”

“No, seriously. What if I don’t get in? Dad wants me to follow in his Golden Bear footsteps so badly, and everybody will think I’m a total failure and—”

“You’ll end up living under the overpass and eating soggy Cheetos from the trash can to survive?” Sam bumps my shoulder with her fist. “You’re going to be fine. We’re going to be fine. We’re almost there. Just hold on a little longer.”

We run the rest of the path out to the end of the school property, where the track intersects the Pacific Coast Highway sidewalk. The ocean stretches out in front of us. We’re just about to turn right, follow the regular loop back up to the school, when Sam grabs my arm.

“I know what you need.” She looks down at the beach and then back at me, eyebrows lifted in invitation.

“Uh-uh. Coach already thinks I’m slacking.” He’s not wrong. I’ve stopped doing my practice runs. I’ve tried taking a different path, but the memories of Alice always find me, and my body and brain go berserk and I turn back before I even break a sweat.

If I didn’t need a win at state to polish off my college apps in the fall, I’d probably stop running altogether. But I’ve worked too hard to quit now, and the team’s counting on me, and Dad’s counting on me to get into Berkeley, and I’m not about to let everyone down.

“Coach will live,” Sam says, smiling as she runs down the steep stairs scaling the cliff. She yells back at me, “What need is a detour.”

I glance at the school behind us, where Coach is berating some terrified freshman, and I follow her down the stairs, taking them two at a time until I land on the soft beach. And then we’re off, sprinting toward the water’s edge. We run along the space where sea meets shore, dodging the waves as they surge toward us. Our footsteps fall like secrets in the sand.

My lungs fill with salty air as I breathe deeply. My mind feels clearer out here, running free. No finish line.

The beach is ours except for the shape of a person way out on Deadman’s Cliff, a glowing silhouette in the slanted sun. Sam’s black hair shines, too. With the sun streaming across her face, the uneven sand beneath our feet, I let myself believe her.

Wet sand clings to our shoes as we run back up the steps, leaving the freedom of the wide-open beach.

“Totally what I needed.”

“Exactly. Because I’m Sam. Best friend extraordinaire.” She puffs out her chest and puts her fists against her hips like a superhero. “And you can be my sidekick—Anxiety Girl!”

I laugh and point my fist toward the sky, acting stronger than I feel. “Jumping to the worst possible conclusion in a single bound!”

“Should we get matching capes?”

“Definitely.”

Back at the track, Sam takes off with the long-distance runners while I pay my push-up penance. After, I take my spot on the starting blocks with the sprinters. 1.7 seconds. That’s all I need.

“Pick up the pace, Larkin,” Coach yells when I’m halfway around the 400-meter track. “Second place is first loser.”

I dig my heels into the spongy rubber blacktop, my quads propelling my body forward. Sam’s right. We’re almost there. Hang on a little longer.

I train my eyes on the finish line.

Just keep running.

curternus (n) The act of running toward a goal that keeps moving, ever so slightly, out of your grasp, as if you’re a hamster on a wheel to nowhere, believing that if you can just go a little more, a little farther, you’ll win.

From Latin (running) +

(eternal)