Chapter Two.
The rest of the day blurred by. I completely checked out in every other class because I couldn’t get out of my head. Each person squealing with excitement at their acceptance letters further fueled the anger and self-loathing bubbling under the surface, fighting to get out.
Unfortunately, those seem to be the only emotions I'm in touch with anymore. Growing up as an emotionless zombie never bugged me, until recently. I’ve only cried five times in my life, and Ben witnessed two of them, one of them being in public.
Crying at a junior high dance when no one would dance with me was a low point, but Ben was kind enough to leave his date to slow dance with me a couple times and made sure I was okay before he went back to her.
But right now, hearing everyone talk about what major they’re going to pursue, how stoked they are to go to college, who they’re going to room with, and their big plans for the summer make me want to stab someone.
Next week is May. No one ever hears of anyone getting acceptance letters in May, which means this weekend is my last chance to hear from any colleges. If I don’t get in, I have no idea what I’m going to do, let alone how I’m going to show my face in public.
I pull open locker twenty-three and pretend to get dressed for track practice, sifting through my gym bag and all the crap crammed in it. Per usual, I wait until everyone leaves before changing.
Being shy about my body isn’t anything new.
I developed over the summer of my junior year, but my flat abs, small chest and thin legs just can’t compare to what God gave the other girls my age around here.
Tossing my small frame out in front of the other girls’ voluptuous bodies wasn’t something that enticed me.
I change into my sports bra and athletic shorts and stare at myself in the mirror in a futile attempt at some confidence building. Well, I guess having a B-cup is better than nothing. I turn to the side and stare at my small waist, six pack and petite butt.
My mother says my petite figure is “cute”.
I disagree. I think it keeps me looking like a little girl which can’t possibly be attractive to guys.
I brush off the thought and pull my long brunette hair into a high ponytail, taking a deep breath to clear my ruminations before going to the track field.
Ben typically stays around after school to either watch me practice or lift weights but a quick scan around the stadium and behind the bleachers tells me he isn’t here.
Is he with Tree?
I sigh at the intrusive assumption.
Their relationship has become a spectacle everyone’s invested in. The question as of late? Will they get back together before graduation or finally break up for good this time? Thankfully she was accepted into Patron University which is five hours away from here so the odds are in my favor.
I hope beyond hope they’re done. He’s completely miserable when he’s with her so I don’t know why he keeps going back.
He tells me each time he dates her again that he wishes he wouldn’t, but it’s like she has a death grip on him.
I once joked she invoked some witch curse on him, but then I heard the truth and realized it was nothing so nefarious.
It was sex. And since sex forms not only a physical bond, but an emotional one that’s hard to break…
leaving someone behind who you did it with can be challenging.
Something in how our brain chemistry works or whatever. Or maybe he’s just weak, I don’t know.
Regardless of the reality of it, I loathed to my core that he wasted his first time on her.
I walk over to a group of my teammates who’re standing in a tight circle on the grass in the middle of the track field with their heads bowed down. Shirley turns around and smiles at me when I try to peek over her shoulder.
“Hey, Charlie!”
“Hey. What’s everyone looking at?”
She motions me into the group and points at Kate’s phone.
Ahhh. Him.
Kate restarts the video on her Xypher social media app right when I lean forward to see better.
Last month, this guy randomly appeared on social media, taking the school by storm.
And when I say took the school by storm, I mean took the girls at this school by storm.
Their obsession with him is beyond unhealthy.
The video plays on repeat as an insanely hot guy, from what I can tell, dances seductively in a motorcycle helmet.
He keeps his identity a secret—no one can figure out who he is, how old he is, or if he’s even in school.
His anonymity is the only thing that keeps him hot…
or it could be the tight black shirt and grey sweatpants he wears in most of his vids.
Thus far, I’ve avoided creating an account on the app, so the only time I've watched him is when other girls show him to me on their phones.
“Isn’t he so hot? I mean his biceps practically rip his T-shirt sleeves every time he flexes, and you can totally tell he’s got a six pack under there! Ugh, and his tan skin? So. Fucking. Hot,” Shirley gushes with a girlish squeal.
I roll my eyes in response. “Sure, Shirl.”
Weaving my way out of the circle, I step back far enough so I can speak to the entire team.
“Are we gonna get started or what? Let’s go!” I yell at the girls, beginning our warm-ups with high knees down the field.
Coach named me team captain, which means I lead warm-ups on the days he runs late.
People call me a goody-goody for it, but I don’t care.
In fact, I secretly love it. Being a teacher’s pet makes me unpopular with my peers, but I’m the one who gains the perk of getting out of study halls and boring classes to hang out with whatever teacher I want.
No one else has ever gotten to do that before.
All the girls groan, angrily throwing their phones in the grass, but they comply and file in behind me, nonetheless.
They think I’m annoying but keep it to themselves when I’m right in front of them, although their hushed words behind my back do reach my ears at times.
Their typical favorite criticisms are, “know-it-all, goody-two-shoes, weirdo”—you know, nothing original.
I’ve never had the courage to confront any of them about it. Plus, what good would it do anyways? We graduate in a month, which means I'll hopefully never see these people again. I just have to put a brave face on and get through it.
Coach Lukas jogs up to the track, hands on his knees, panting dramatically.
“Made it!”
He flings his head up, revealing a grin that moves the long stubble on his face upwards.
We’ve never seen him fully clean shaven but that’s probably for the best. If we did, we might assume he was a student.
He graduated college a few years ago, but they hired him as our coach this year because he was a nationally ranked runner during his time here.
Not to mention they couldn’t find anyone else to do the job.
He catches his breath enough to blow the whistle and round us up. It took less than one minute for him to recover, already breathing normally after literally running five miles from work to here. That’s how much of a beast this guy is.
I don’t understand why he chose to be a coach here instead of trying out for the Olympics.
The rumor circulating is that when he married his wife during college, they decided not to pursue it, choosing to have a family and travel together instead.
Sadly, it didn’t work out for them. They can barely afford to go anywhere on their salary with their family of four, even sharing one car.
On Tuesdays and Fridays, she has the car, which results in him running here after work.
His situation sounds sad to me, but he’s always positive and happy.
I’ll never understand it. I would never give up on my goals or dreams for a relationship, but that’s just me.
“Alright, ladies. Huddle-up! Today we’re starting with four rounds of 40-meter resistance sprints.
Partner up and make three rows. After that, we’re doing four rounds of 50-meter unresisted sprints.
These will be timed. If you break your past record time, then you don’t have to do the extra weightlifting homework for the weekend.
” He briefly glances over in my direction before shouting, “Charlotte and Shirley, grab the resistance equipment, please!”
More groaning fills the air as the girls line up into rows while Shirley and I make our way to the equipment barn. Our past coaches never required us to weightlift, but he mandates it, even making us do it on the weekends.
I shouldn’t complain, our team is better than it was last year, but the underclassmen are the ones who’ll benefit from this program.
There’s not enough time for it to benefit the seniors.
Cross-country’s more my sport anyways, but that season already ended, and I never made a stir or broke any records.
Average like always.
My shoulders slump forward in self-pity.
I walk in silence next to Shirley who continues to talk my ear off about the biker boy and how hot our coach is. It’s not much of a change from her usual topic—hot actors. She’s never had a boyfriend, but she’s had her first kiss and messed around with a couple of guys at some parties.
I wouldn’t call her experienced, but she’s definitely not innocent. She should be more careful about who she lends her body to or she’s going to be the next teenage pregnancy statistic.
The rest of practice dragged on. I didn’t beat any past records, but Kate and Laure did.
They’re two of our freshmen who contain enormous amounts of potential.
I guarantee they’re going to make state and be nationally ranked by the time they’re my age.
Jealousy surges deep within, but I remind my brain I can never be them so why stress over it?