Chapter Twelve. Reid #2
When she notices me, she quickly walks over, keeping her lens trained on me. The rush of pleasure I feel at seeing her again so soon is concerning. She’s flushed, and her eyes are bright and excited. She’s in filmmaker mode.
“Are we starting?” I ask, gesturing to her camera.
“I was hoping to,” she says, bending her head toward the crew a few feet away. “But Channel Nine pulled rank.”
“But you’re filming?”
She nods. “Getting footage. I’ll be hovering around you and everyone all weekend pretty much. Asking questions occasionally. Is that okay?”
I nod. I told her I was in. I’m determined to see this through if it helps with what she went through last year. But I need to get my shit together first. There’s nothing she doesn’t see through that lens.
“We’ll set up the formal interview whenever you have a break,” she says.
Clara usually tries hard to play it cool. But with a camera in her hand, she is cool. More present. Like she forgets to be self-conscious and is the person few people get to know.
The person I got to know.
Her eyes travel over my face, and it reminds me of how she used to look at me. The way she drank me in. I had no idea attention could feel good until it was hers. She cocks her head to the side, her expression turning concerned. “You look tired.”
I pull in another deep breath and look around. When I exhale, it comes out in a visible puff against the cool air. “I was so looking forward to this run, I had trouble sleeping.”
Her expression is pinched, like she knows it’s a canned answer. The kind I’ll give Channel Nine in a minute.
“Insomnia,” I admit.
Only her green eyes flick up, quick and sharp over the camera. I almost wonder if she can hear the slam of my heartbeat. I shouldn’t have told her that.
“The guest of honor has arrived!” Principal West runs over. “Over here, sport, we have the crew all ready for you!”
“I should…”
Clara nods stiffly.
Relieved to be away from her watchful gaze, I get through my interview fine. Then they inform me they want B-roll of me warming up before “the big race.”
After stretching and jogging around the square, testing my knee, I feel a little better. My knee doesn’t feel great, but it’s definitely been worse. I can do this. Probably.
But before I can make my way to the starting line, Kenji and Mitchell appear, looking stressed. Clara hovers off to the side, recording us talking.
“So, don’t freak out,” Mitchell says to me, pushing a hand through his curls.
“Always a good start,” I say slowly.
Kenji rounds on Mitchell. “We shouldn’t show him now.”
“Is there an optimum time for something like this?”
“Probably not when he’s surrounded by the entire town?” Kenji suggests.
“He’s always surrounded by the entire town—”
“Show me what?” I interject.
They remember I’m standing right there, and Kenji gestures toward me like, Might as well.
Mitchell exhales. “Legacy Lore just posted.”
I frown at the anxiety all over his face. “Okay?”
“About you.”
Mitchell hands me his phone, and my pulse takes off as I read the post open on it:
@LEGACY_LORE: Let’s introduce you to our five distinguished Legacies. The real introductions. Starting with our guest of honor, shall we?
Meet Reid Rousseau: State cross-country champion, our first Olympic hopeful if Coach Andrews has anything to say about it—we all know him as the pride and joy of Woodhurst. But given his mysterious absence from the course this season and earning more than a few failing grades, is the Golden Boy starting to tarnish outside of his small pond? More soon.
What? What the fuck is this? Last night this whole thing seemed like it could be a game. Someone letting us know they were watching to see what we were going to do this weekend. But this … I read it again. How could they know about my grades? I’ve told no one. It’s impossible.
But true.
And this is a public account. Anyone can see this. My dad could see this.
More soon. Does that also mean whoever wrote this actually knows more?
There are a few comments already:
If this is true, he shouldn’t be a Legacy!
This isn’t all he’s hiding. DMing you.
I don’t recognize the second account, and it’s private when I click on it.
I think of the other things it should be impossible for anyone else to know but are also definitely true. My eyes dart around the square, looking for an exit. A way out. I can’t catch my breath.
“These are obviously lies to get a reaction out of you,” Kenji tries.
I click on the profile, and though it’s anonymous, it’s not like I don’t know who it is.
Your team likes to talk.
“It’s Josh,” I say.
Kenji and Mitchell exchange a look. “There’s stuff about him,” Kenji says, unconvinced.
I scroll to the second post:
@LEGACY_LORE: Meet Joshua West: Principal West’s son, valedictorian, with a strong athletic record.
An obvious choice for Legacy. But with the way he treated his girlfriend and nepotism on his side, what else is he willing to do to get what he wants?
As the saying goes: Once a cheater always a cheater. More soon.
“Everyone knows he cheated on Amaya. It would look too suspicious if he wasn’t included,” I say. “It’s him. He’s always had it out for me.”
Watch your back, Rousseau.
“Ow,” Mitchell exclaims as I thrust the phone into his chest.
“Where is he?”
I find Josh across the square. I was hoping he’d be too hungover today to come, but he’s here warming up with Nicole and the current cross-country team. He’s talking and laughing with one of the JV runners from this year. She can’t be more than fifteen.
Kenji grabs a hold of my shoulders before I can charge over there. “Nope. Principal protection, remember?”
I exhale slowly. He’s right. Josh is untouchable because he’s a West. It’s why he did this—he knew he could get away with making an account like this in the first place to stir up shit and mess with me. But he’s playing with fire.
“Don’t stress,” Kenji says. “It only has … a few … hundred followers. I doubt anyone will even see it or believe it.”
I scoff. We all know that’s a long shot.
Mitchell steps closer to me and asks in a low voice, “Are you really failing?”
Case in point.
But I don’t respond because Clara is close and—fuck—getting all of this on camera. She looks concerned and I hate it.
I never wanted her, of all people, to know any of this.
“Can you turn that off?” My voice is sharp. It’s not a command, but it sounds like one.
She frowns. “You said I could—”
“And now I’m saying you can’t,” I snap. My gaze is hard on hers. Dread and furious anxiety clawing at my stomach.
Her face reddens. I don’t know if I’ve ever spoken to her like that, and I immediately wish I could yank the words back. But at least she lowers the camera and walks toward the course without looking back.
When Josh sees me, his gaze narrows. It’s clear from his expression that he has one objective today: to beat me.
Yeah, like I’d let that happen.
Ready or not, I can’t just get by today.
I have to run like I haven’t in weeks if I don’t want these rumors to spread more.
The last thing I need is my dad finding out and asking questions about my grades or pushing harder about my mysterious absence from the course.
He’s accepted my excuses for now, but I can feel the clock ticking.
Rumors become facts here. Nobody knows that better than me and Clara.
I need to put this to rest, today, on this trail—before things get out of control.
“You limping there, Rousseau?” Josh asks, loud enough that several heads swivel to watch me.
I concentrate on keeping my gait fluid as I approach the starting line.
“You still obsessed with me, West?” I ask.
He scoffs, but at least he shuts up.
“Just ignore him,” Nicole says on my other side, rolling her eyes at Josh.
I shoot her a grateful smile. It takes a minute as we wait for Mayor Harper, Logan’s mom, to get in position with the starting gun. I should be talking to all the people around me who are giving me excited looks. Who came to see me. But I don’t have a fake smile in me right now.
I put my earbuds in and scroll through my phone for my favorite running playlist. Amaya is on Nicole’s other side, and though she speaks quietly, I hear when she asks, “Did you see those posts?”
I turn down my music.
Nicole nods, her eyes wide. “I’ve heard some of the same stuff about…” She trails off, and I see her bending her neck toward me. It’s about as subtle as a shove. But I’m not worried. She told me herself that she’s heard the Olympics rumors.
There’s a note of panic in Amaya’s voice. “Really? So they’re true? What if they actually post about us next, then? I can’t lose my scholarship.”
I realize Josh could know real personal stuff about both Amaya and, by extension, Nicole. If he actually follows through on these threats, and anyone official sees these posts and decides to look into them, we could all be screwed.
What the hell is he thinking?
Nicole chews on her bottom lip. “Me either. But at least it’s obvious who it is.”
I nod to myself approvingly. She’s never liked Josh either and probably knows him even better than I do since she had to hang out with him so much with Amaya.
But when Amaya raises a questioning eyebrow, Nicole continues, her voice dropping significantly. “Who has the biggest grudge against Legacies? Who follows everyone around all the time recording everything we do?”
“Oh my god,” Amaya gasps. “That’s why she’s always filming!”
Wait—
Nicole nods, her expression turning sympathetic. “I mean, can you blame her for wanting some justice, though? I’d be bitter, too, after what happened at the assembly.”
There’s no possible way. Clara might be bitter—which she has every right to be—but she would never do something so cruel.
“You’re being way too nice. She did that to herself,” Amaya bites out. “She’s so fake.”
“Hey,” I say, incapable of staying silent a second longer. They both startle as they turn to me. “Don’t stir shit up about Clara. She wouldn’t do this.”
Amaya frowns. “Didn’t she dump you?”
I suck in a sharp breath.
“Amaya,” Nicole hisses.
“I’m just saying, why defend her?”
Nicole glares at her. “Sorry—Amaya’s just a little cranky about seeing her own ex, isn’t she?”
Amaya shoots Josh a sneering look. “Fair.”
Nicole turns back to me, grabbing my arm. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m just stressed about this account. It feels like we all have targets on our backs all of a sudden, doesn’t it?”
I try to let my agitation from this conversation slip away because I get what she means.
I’m about to say as much when a hand slaps against my shoulder. It’s Mitchell.
Low in my ear he says, “You don’t have to do this, you know. We can tell them right this second about your knee.”
I glare at him and side-eye Nicole, checking if she overheard, but she’s already absorbed back into her conversation with Amaya. Thankfully, no one else seems to have heard, either, as Josh sets his watch, smirking, and my dad, who’s in the group of runners behind us, shoots me a thumbs-up.
I shake my head. “No way.”
Anyone following that account will know just how fine I am by the end of this race. All these people—the kids and my parents and the news and Clara—they’re here for the show. I intend to give them one.
As soon as Mayor Harper releases the starting gun, Josh explodes ahead.
The guy never learns. I follow in a steady rhythm down the trail that leads to the lake. These paths I’ve pounded over and over. My knee doesn’t even feel too bad. With every strike against the ground there’s a sharp, short zing behind my kneecap, but it’s tolerable.
I lead the rest of the pack slowly—for me—until the trail opens into the forest. With each step, each breath, I feel more like myself than I have in weeks. I follow the path through the trees, pulling in lungful after lungful of earthy air that smells like home.
When my watch beeps at the first mile split, I realize I still haven’t caught Josh.
Grimacing, I pick up my pace. The zings become sharper, the pain stretching further.
After another half mile, I see him—his stride narrower, his shoulders hunched like he can’t get enough breath.
He burns most of his energy by the halfway mark every single time.
“You’re flagging,” I goad.
“You’re favoring,” he pants out.
Shit, am I? It’s not too much of a strain to pass him.
But I don’t shake Josh the way I expect to. He’s still on my heels, his labored breaths as loud as my own. The posts and the comments swarm through my mind as if Josh is yelling them at the back of my head.
“If this is true, he shouldn’t be a Legacy!”
“This isn’t all he’s hiding.”
“More soon.”
I lengthen my stride. Because being easy on my injury means I’m not moving fast enough. A sharp, burning current of pain radiates from behind my kneecap and up my thigh. Still I push.
I push until sweat pours off me. Until my lungs get sticky. Until the thoughts of what I’m up against are shoved back, back, back.
Until I’m nothing but breath and pain and regret.
As soon as I cross the finish line, I collapse.