CHAPTER 1
This Bug is dying, and hideous, and should’ve been sold for parts years ago. That’s why the damn thing is stalled for the hundredth time at a green light fifteen minutes from school—but I keep my mouth shut. One word (again), and Marissa will definitely make me walk to practice. Instead, I throw my feet on the dash and wait while she curses back at the six cars that honk and drive around us. I have no idea how manual cars work, but after some magic with the clutch and gear shifts, the engine roars to life and the whole Bug finally lurches forward.
“Heeey!” she cheers, and I brace myself against the seat.
“Marissa. You know the speed limit is forty, right?”
“Do you want to be late, dude? No, I didn’t think so.” She sticks her tongue out at me, but her face, covered with thick black sunglasses, is toward the road, so her tongue flies to the side like a puppy’s. With the windows down, her fire-hydrant-red hair whips around the Bug, hitting me in the face. I should mind, but it only makes me smile.
We’ve only been friends for, like, four months, but it feels like it’s been an eternity. Our chemistry teacher paired us up for a class project last semester, and when we exchanged numbers, I explained that my house was off-limits because my dad is a drunken rage-monster. Then she explained that her mom would either be “too hungover to bother us or sober enough to be fucking her boyfriend in Summerlin.”
We’ve been inseparable ever since.
Now it’s June, and our junior year has finally ended … which means today is the start of our new training season. I lean out the window, away from her wild mane, and she puts her hand on my leg. Even with the rush of the wind from the window and the ever-present hum of her engine, she can probably hear the loud thud of my heart. It’s been eight months since I ran cross-country. Eight months since I felt the sun sear into my skin and I raced with the wind. Now we’re on our way to the school’s field and I’m about to face my teammates for the first time since Coach stripped me of my title as captain last November.
Yaaay.
We pass the casino by our school in five minutes when it should’ve taken ten and veer left onto Las Vegas Boulevard. Since it’s a Saturday in June, the parking lot is mostly empty, except for the cars that I assume belong to our fellow runners. When Marissa puts the car in park, I take a deep breath and give her my best serious look. “So. You sure you want to do this?”
She scoffs. That was not the question she was expecting to hear. “What do you mean?” She lifts her sunglasses off her head and shakes out her hair, so that it settles into less of a mane and more of a cascade of very loose curls. Her natural hair is a much lighter strawberry blond, but the deep red reminds her of Batwoman and pisses off her mom, so she’s been rocking that look since May. She tried to convince me to dye my hair something shocking—like electric blue—to celebrate the end of the year, but my mom would’ve been far more than pissed. Then again, it’s been months since Mom and I have had any kind of argument. Now, she just sort of glares at me occasionally. A snippy word here or there. I don’t know if she doesn’t care anymore, or if she’s just tired. I guess I put her through a lot last year.
Which is fine. She put me through a lot, too.
I shrug, careful not to smile. “I just mean that cross-country is intense. It takes a lot of stamina, and it’s going to be a lot different than—”
“Yeah, Aali, I know.” Marissa waves me away. “Cross-country is for hard-core badasses, and track is for thrill-seeking pussies. I get it. I’m still totally in. Like I’ve said a million times already: If I don’t do something after school this semester, my mom is gonna make me work part-time as some stupid promotional model on the Strip. Again.” Then she fixes me with a cool stare, her eyebrow raised. “And what about you?”
“What about me?” I keep my voice level, annoyed that my attempt at diversion didn’t work.
“Are you ready to kick ass this year?” Her voice is kind, but her words make my lungs want to seize. Am I ready? The last thing Coach said to me was, “I know you can do better.” That was only two months ago, when Marissa dragged me to see him after her track season ended. I’d mumbled something akin to “I’d like to join cross-country again,” although I had been thinking more along the lines of “I’m sorry I’m a useless, heartbroken disaster of a queer who can’t get her shit together.”
He’d only grinned his typical toothy smile, put his hand on my shoulder, and said, “Absolutely, Aaliyah. We miss you, and I know you can do better.”
Of course, he doesn’t really know what went down last year. No one on the team does, except Naomi, whose role as new team captain makes her the keeper of all team secrets. I do wish there was a way to explain myself quickly, though. Like, Sorry I bailed on you guys last year. Mom grounded me for six months for liking girls, and I was too busy planning methods of self-harm to show up and give a real shit about running. But I’d rather not have to relive that fresh trauma so soon.
Marissa squeezes my leg, still waiting for a response. I give her a tight smile that I know she can see right through. “Don’t worry about me, dude. I will run circles around your slow ass.” With that, I hop out of the car and speed-walk toward the field, my heart in my throat as I think about the team I failed last year that is now lined up in a neat little row.
I recognize basically everyone except for a few freshmen, but one girl sticks out to me. She doesn’t look like a freshman, so maybe she’s new. She’s also Black, like me, which brings the total count of Black kids on the team up to three. Our school is like 50 percent white kids, including Naomi and Marissa, with the other 50 percent a mix of Vietnamese, Filipino, and Mexican, with a handful of other Black and brown kids thrown in.
Even if there were another ten of us on the team, though, I’d still notice this girl. She has a mix of green and white braids piled on top of her head, and she’s wearing a shirt that says THE BIGGEST LITTLE CITY IN THE WORLD, over short black shorts that reveal incredibly long, toned legs. Legs that announce she’s definitely not new to running.
Not that I’m staring or anything.
“Aaliyah!” someone calls. I look past the girl to see Naomi standing especially close to Curtis, the captain of the boys’ team and the only other Black person on the field. Like a few of the other kids here, they’re both wearing last year’s team shirts, the logo of a white gold miner in a blue outfit grinning beneath the words HENDERSON HIGH SCHOOL. Our school is on the outermost edge of the city of Henderson—one mile farther and we’d be in greater Las Vegas. But having Henderson in our name means we get cred for being in a rich district—even if a lot of us don’t come from that kind of money. And by a lot of us, I mean me.
I’m happy to see Naomi, since she’s part of the reason I even thought of coming back. But I haven’t seen Curtis in months. I ran away every time he tried to talk to me in the hallways at school last semester. We’ve never been close, but it was supposed to be us this season—we were supposed to be the leaders of this little running gang, two Black kids excelling at a high school sport other than football and basketball. And I let him down.
I think he’d understand, if I told him everything that happened—Curtis is and always has been a good guy. But. I don’t want to talk about it. At least, I shouldn’t have to. Straight kids don’t have to deal with this stuff—this whole coming-out-to-your-parents thing, as if you’ve been an alien all along, body-snatching the normal kid they thought they’d been raising. They don’t have to deal with the fear that they might wake up one day and have a parent who looks at them like they don’t know who they are.
Like the kid they loved is gone.
Anyway, Curtis probably isn’t too bothered about the whole being-stranded-as-captain thing. Looking at the way he moves just a little closer when Naomi tries to get his attention, his hand hovering just above the small of her back, I’m thinking he’s probably thrilled by the replacement. Interesting.
Naomi mutters something in his ear, and then he looks up, finding me near the track entrance. Together, they wave me over.
Ugh. I’d hoped I could just blend in with the gate, but it seems my cloaking abilities have failed me.
“You got this,” Marissa whispers, her breath tickling my ear. She places a kiss on my cheek, pushes me forward, and walks away.
“Where are you going?” I hiss.
She turns around and begins walking backward. “Booty calls!”
Double ugh.
I watch as she makes a beeline to Coach’s son, Emmanuel. He’s standing next to Curtis and Naomi, trying—and failing—to not look too eager as Marissa approaches. Even though it feels like a funeral song is sound-tracking my steps, I surge into a jog toward them, a big smile plastered on my lips.
“Hey, guys,” I say. Without warning, Curtis grasps my hand and pulls me into a tight hug against his white tank top.
“Good to have you back, Champ,” he says.
“Agreed,” Naomi says from behind Curtis’s shoulder. He lets me go, and I grin at the both of them—genuinely this time. It’s a warmer welcome than I expected—certainly more than I deserve. Still, it gives me a boost of confidence. Like, maybe I do have this.
I’d been beating myself up all spring semester for how I screwed up at the end of last season. Cross-country was my one escape out of the house of horrors—away from Dad’s tirades, and Mom’s tears, and my little sister Trinity’s sad eyes—and I fucked it up because I couldn’t deal with a little motherly rage and disappointment. But I’m here now, and the earth hasn’t swallowed me whole. No one’s come over and cursed me out, although a few girls on the team are giving me the side-eye. Like Radhika, who I’ve never liked anyway. Still, I feel the muscles in my chest unclench just the tiniest bit.
I glance back toward Marissa, who is now standing so close to Emmanuel that his hand has slipped to her bare thigh. Apparently, Naomi notices, too, because she rolls her eyes at the same time that I pretend to gag. That makes her snort, which makes me laugh, and then we both turn to each other in quiet hysterics until Coach Carter jogs up. Per usual, he’s got a wide grin on his young, tan face. It’s like the guy’s never seen a rainy day in his life. Which, I guess, is probably true, unless you count the occasional summer flash flood. He’s already drenched in sweat, so I bet he’s coming from a prepractice run. The adrenaline drips from his pores.
“Hello, hello, Henderson recruits and returnees!” He makes a point to smile at each and every one of us, but he pauses when he looks at me. Then he gives a quick thumbs-up, and for the first time since I woke up this morning, I feel like I can breathe. This is what I’ve been waiting for since the season ended last year.
A chance to start again.
CHAPTER 2
Distance running isn’t about brute strength, or any particular skill. It’s not even really about beating the other person. It’s just about you, and how willing you are to just keep going.
See, Marissa is used to going hard and fast—pounding flesh against dirt for a brutal sixty seconds or less for an immediate payoff. It’s not even enough time to think; just to act. It’s the kind of reward system that keeps you cocky, and easy to please. That’s why, during our very first practice two weeks ago, she had a shit-eating grin on her face after only a mile into the team’s three-mile trek. She was too proud to admit she was out of breath, so she didn’t even try to speak, but the look on her face said, “See? I told you I can do this.”
And she wasn’t wrong. One mile? That was easy.
But after another few laps, her legs started to stiffen, her shoulders started to hunch, and then she started to trail behind me. When I passed her on our last lap, she could barely manage a fuck-you.
But even then, I was too focused to gloat.
Sure, I’ve gotten a couple of good teasing sessions in after practice, but when we’re running, all I see is track ahead of me, and all I hear is the wind in my ears. I can feel the sweat dripping down my armpits and my feet hitting the path again and again, a steady rhythm just like my heart. This is my church, my heaven. I pray to the god of movement, and she tells me I can fly.
It’s been a while since I’ve gone to my mom’s church, but these last few weeks, I’ve finally returned to mine.
Last semester, I had this ache every time I watched Naomi and Marissa run during track season, but I ignored it. Figured I could get by hiding from my mom in my room and crying myself to sleep, or walking circles around the neighborhood if my parents were fighting and the cops hadn’t come yet. I stopped running. Stopped caring. Just watched TV with Trinity and let the days roll by.
But now…? Now, I’m back where I belong: steady breath and moving feet. A hymn only I can hear.
Today, I don’t know where Marissa or anyone else is and I don’t care, either. It’s just me and the wind testing each other’s breaking point. Yeah, Naomi’s the girls’ team captain now but I’ve always kept the best time.
Everyone knows that.
Just as I approach the last lap, footsteps fall in tempo with mine. It’s probably Naomi. I don’t even consider turning my head, but I don’t have to because soon she’s in front of me: a girl just my height with braids streaked with white and dark green piled on top of her head. The new girl. Tessa.
I almost pause—for once, I nearly consider slowing down. I’m not sure why—we’ve barely exchanged words these last few weeks. Still, a thousand questions burn in my throat, like, How long have you been running? and Where are you from? and Are you possibly single and gay? Or maybe that’s the lack of oxygen from all the running. But she makes the first mistake: a small smile. As if to welcome us both to this space. This moment. And she’s got a lovely smile, but she’s wrong. There are some things you just don’t share.
I don’t return her smile, or even acknowledge that I’ve noticed. I just dip my head and pump my legs faster, harder. This is the final lap, and I won’t stop.
Not for anyone.
* * *
By the time we return to our checkpoint, my throat is hoarse and my arms and legs are slick with sweat. My hair, gelled back this morning, is embarrassingly frizzy yet again, but I try to be used to it after all these years. If Mom had her way, I’d just straighten it all the time—that way, I’d look more “respectable,” like her. But then I’d have to worry about sweating it out, and that’s more work than I care to do. She also won’t let me relax it, because the upkeep is expensive and doing it from a home kit could mean frying it permanently (aka, she tried to perm it once when I was five and all my hair burned off; she prayed for, like, three months until it started growing back again). So I keep it long, like she likes it, and I keep it pulled back, like I like it. Well, I don’t like it. But I don’t really know what else to do with it, so here we are.
I try not to strain my neck looking for Tessa to come down from the hill. Unlike me, she kept her shirt on for this run, but even before we started, I got a peek at the dark brown skin just beneath her gray sports bra and the white tee she’d been wearing. I could tell by the jaggedness of her shirt’s sides that she cut the sleeves off herself, and that only made her look that much sexier. I actually had to catch my breath when I first saw her. It was the kind of outfit you’d see girls wearing on gay Tumblr fashion blogs, not in real life, with real people. I mean, I still don’t know if Tessa’s gay—we’ve barely talked, and that’s a weird thing to ask someone right out the gate. Right? I don’t know, I’m new at this kind of thing. Still, I think it’s okay to look every now and then.
While I wait for the team to regroup, I knock back several gulps of water that’s been kept freezing in my thermos. Curtis waits patiently behind Naomi as she fills up her water at the drinking fountain several feet away from the playground. When she finishes, he leans down to say something into her ear and I swear I can see the faintest hint of red touch her cheeks.
The others trickle in. Coach jogs in first—he almost always goes on the long runs with us. Then Tessa and Emmanuel round down the slope of the last hill together. Tessa’s now got her T-shirt tucked into her shorts, and her braids are tied up again, piled atop her head. She smiles at me but heads straight to the water fountain, and I ignore the swarm of butterflies in my stomach as the sweat glistens off her stomach. Marissa follows shortly behind; her white legs—tan again after these weeks of training—have reddened with the efforts of her muscles, and her faded gray Siouxsie and the Banshees T-shirt is draped around her shoulders, revealing a purple sports bra. She looks tired but happy—like she’s won some epic battle.
She slows to a light jog when she sees us and then stops in front of me with her hands on her knees, breathing deeply. Without a word, she grabs my thermos and gulps down my water.
“You’re welcome,” I say.
She plants a kiss on my cheek and otherwise ignores me, walking to the semicircle our team has begun to make in the grass beside the playground. She takes the thermos with her. I take this as my cue to follow, sitting as she all but collapses, a dramatic show of fatigue. Tessa, who is sitting across from us, tries hard not to laugh, but I hold on to the sound that escapes anyway. She was watching us, like I was watching her … I don’t want to make a big deal or anything, but it gives me hope. For what, though, I’m not sure.
As the team slowly re-forms, Coach asks if anyone wants to lead the stretch. For the first time since practices began, Tessa volunteers. She moves to the center of the circle and lifts her left arm above her head, revealing the taut muscles of her abs. I can’t believe she’s only a runner—she must do some other kind of workout on her own. I’ve never seen a girl that ripped and lithe at the same time. Not that I’m complaining. Not at all.
When our stretches end, I start to stand, but Marissa stops me with a hand on my knee. “Hey,” she says, her voice oddly small. Almost timid. Something’s wrong. Marissa doesn’t talk this way—not ever. I sit back on the grass and lean closer to her, minutely surprised to realize that she’s been wearing makeup this whole time—her green eyes are etched in black, now smudged from the sweat and exertion of the last thirty-five minutes. They make her look a little like an owl, wide-eyed and curious.
Copyright © 2023 by Erika Turner
