Be the Girl

And we’ve passed the hundred-meter mark. They won’t restart the race, but maybe I can still catch up. I take a step forward, and pain lances through my knee.

“Aria!” Moretti’s standing at the sideline, her raven bob swishing with her head shake. She waves me over.

I hobble off the course much like my old dog would.

“It’s a mini-meet—not worth it. Not with regionals coming up.” Her face twists with sympathy. “That looked like it hurt. Are you okay?”

“I think so.”

Richard has procured a folding chair from somewhere. I offer him my thanks as I settle into it, peeling my pant leg up.

Moretti winces at the quarter-sized patch of missing skin and the blood. At least it’s not dripping with blood. “Can you try to bend it for me?”

I hiss from the sting as I do as asked.

“Okay. Clean that well and ice it for tonight. Fifteen minutes on, fifteen off.” She frowns, her gaze on the runners in the distance. They’re climbing a slight hill, spread out now, the leaders of the pack making their move. “It looked like you and Holly got tangled but I couldn’t see clearly. What happened?”

She ambushed me.

It’s on the tip of my tongue.

“I tripped,” I say instead.

“You sure?” Her eyes narrow in a way that makes me think she saw more than she’s letting on, that she suspects more than she’s saying.

But I’m not stupid. I already know how this is going to play out—Holly will return after the race, all doe-eyed and full of worry, apologizing profusely for “accidentally” crossing paths with me. She’ll swear she didn’t know what to do—hang back or keep going. She’ll be so thankful that I’m okay. Maybe shed a few tears to cement her innocence.

And, in the end, suspicions or not, Moretti will believe her, because Moretti wants to believe her. She doesn’t want to think that one of her runners could harm another like that, and all over a boy.

I’ll end up looking like the problem.

And if I bring up the SWF reference?

Holly will deny it. Her face will become a portrait of innocent confusion. I have no idea what she’s talking about, Ms. Moretti, I swear! I just wished her good luck!

Or she’ll have an innocuous answer for what that might stand for. Something kind and flattering.

This is what girls like Holly do. This is how they get away with their cruelty—they hide their toxic underbelly with a honeyed veneer for adults, and adults buy it because they want to.

Or they shrug it off as typical teenage behavior.

The Hollys get away with it.

And then they do something else. Something worse.

And the cycle continues.

I study the grass at my feet. “Yeah, I’m sure. We got tangled.”





Dear Julia,

Single white female. That’s what SWF stands for. I Googled it. As in, I’m some sort of stalker.

Holly basically called me a stalker. And then she tripped me!

Of course, like I expected, she pretended to be “oh so sorry!” (insert apologetic, concerned treacherous doe eyes here).

Maybe I can use this as my excuse to quit cross-country. Though, I think I’ll get so much more satisfaction from beating her at regionals. Is that too catty a thought? I can’t tell anymore.

All I know is that I hate Holly Webber and I don’t feel an ounce of guilt over showing Emmett that video anymore. In fact, I’ll be sure to stick my tongue in his mouth the next time she’s—

Mom’s signature knock sounds on my bedroom door and then she pokes her head into my room. “How you doing?” Her concerned eyes shift first to my knee—cleaned, bandaged, and propped atop the desk chair I dragged over to my window seat, bag of frozen peas chilling the ache—and then to the diary on my lap.

I shut the book. “I’m fine. It’s already feeling better.” Because it’s numb.

“Good. I’m glad to hear it. Listen … so …” She edges in, folding her arms over her chest. “Mick asked me out to dinner tonight. To that cute little Italian place we drove past the other day. You remember—Nonna’s? The one with the red-and-white-checkered awnings.”

“Okay?”

“But I don’t have to go,” she rushes to say. “I can stay home with you. If you need me to.”

“Why would I need you to?” I pause. “Unless you’re looking for an excuse to turn him down, in which case I am dying and they may need to amputate, so you should stay with me. I’m on board with whatever. Just let me know what to say.”

She chuckles. “No, it’s not that I don’t want to.” Her gaze searches the cluster of yellow stars stuck to the ceiling above my bed. “I spent twenty years married to the wrong man. A complete schmuck. Twenty years. And here I am, going on a first date again. I don’t know if I’m ready. Plus, Mick is a good man but he’s never been married and, at his age, that raises alarm bells.”

“It’s just pasta.”

Her lips twist in thought. “It’s just pasta. You’re right.” Shaking her head at herself, she stands taller. “So, you’ll be fine at home alone tonight, then? Well, Uncle Merv is here, but he’ll be in bed soon.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Oh!” Her eyes flash. “And I was thinking, if your knee is good enough, we could get mani-pedis tomorrow morning and then, I don’t know, maybe head into the city to go shopping? You know, make a day of it, for your birthday.”

“Umm … Yeah, that sounds great.” It’s now or never. “And there’s this guy at school who’s having a few people over to his house tomorrow night. It’s around the corner. Like, a five-minute walk. So, I was thinking of going.” I figure the key to this is telling her, not asking her.

“Will this boy’s parents be there?”

I bend my knee intentionally, so I’m forced to wince and have an excuse for shifting my eyes when I lie. “As far as I know.”

She shrugs. “Okay. Sounds good.”

My phone chirps with an incoming text.

How was the meet?





I can’t keep the wide grin from showing when Emmett’s name appears, despite his question.

“Let me guess … a certain boy from next door?” Mom smiles knowingly. “So, what’s going on between you two?”

I shrug, trying to act nonchalant. “We’re hanging out.”

“Right. ‘Hanging out.’ That’s what the kids call it.” She bites her bottom lip. “Maybe we should have a conversation soon, about what it means to have a boyfriend—”

“I’ve already had a boyfriend, Mom. Two, actually.”

“Oh?” Surprise fills her face before she smooths it over. “Anyone I know?”

“No. They were from my old school. But … no.”

“I see.” She hesitates, then asks, “And have you ever …” Her eyes widen.

“Mom.” My face flares with heat. “Let’s stick to the daily three for now.” As much as she’s pushing for this whole open-and-honest communication, we’re not at the chatting-about-our-sex-lives stage. I kind of hope we never get there.

She purses her lips. “Fine. Just know that you can come and talk to me about that kind of stuff.”

“Uh-huh.” No, thank you.

“And remember, Emmett is older than you and probably—well, hopefully—more experienced.”

I groan and close my eyes. I so regret ever telling her about the hickey.

“I want to make sure you’re being careful and—”

“This just started.” And I want this conversation over with.

“Yes, well, these things have a way of moving fast when you really like the boy. And I can tell that you really like this boy.” She smiles. “And for the record, so do I.”

My phone chirps with another text.

So, what’s the plan for tonight?





My heart flutters. He assumes we’re doing something tonight.

“Actually, I’m probably going to hang out with Emmett tonight.”

“You need to be off that.” She points at my leg.

“I know. I’ll see if he wants to watch a movie or something.”

“At their house. Where there’s an adult present who doesn’t go to bed at eight and sleep like the dead,” she warns, heading for her bedroom, her hum carrying through my open door.

I read the texts again, and decide how I should answer. There’s no way I’m telling him that Holly did this. He might do something crazy again like suggest we take a break from us. No way. “In case you were wondering how psychotic your ex is …” I say to myself, aiming my phone at my leg. I snap the picture and hit Send.