I slip on my shoes and walk into the dark hallway. Mom and Dad’s door is closed, a sliver of pale light lining the crack at the bottom. I can hear the hum of their voices but cannot make out what they’re saying. Or more important, what they’re plotting. A shiver pricks at my spine, sending my body shaking, at the thought of what’s next. A two a.m. wake-up call. A frantic search for my go-bag. A silent drive down our street, my face pressed to the window, as I watch my house, my life, disappear.
I pound down the stairs, pull open the front door, and practically throw myself into the darkening night. The cool air hits my flushed face and finally I can breathe.
The leaves crunch under my running shoes as I head out of my neighborhood and down one of the bike paths. I pick up the pace and turn on the running mix Luke made me last weekend. A hollow, harsh violin floods my ears, followed by an explosion of drums and a rap beat.
My feet strike the pavement and with each line I push myself to run a little faster, my stride a little longer. I run past the small downtown and toward the bright lights of the high school track.
Once I reach school, I’m surprised to see dozens of cars in the parking lot. I thought the track would be empty. I take out my earbuds and hear female voices. The cross-country team is in the middle of the field, laughing, talking about their weekends while they stretch their tight quads and massage sore calf muscles. I reach the iron gates and grab the cold metal with both hands. I know I should turn around, head back to the path or pick a different route. But I stay there and watch them. I lean my warm cheek against the cool black bar, wishing I was in the middle of the field with them instead of looking in. A wave of loneliness rushes over my body and even though I’m sweating, I feel cold.
Every fall I ask my parents if I can run cross-country. I don’t know why I even bother asking anymore. The answer is always no. My training is too important, they say. I’m in far better shape than any of those girls will ever be, my dad always tells me. But it’s never been about the running or the competition or being in shape. I just wanted to be part of something normal, something that was mine.
The crisp evening air punctures my lungs. At first, I think something is wrong. I put my hand on my chest and breathe in again. The air cuts through me, knife-sharp, as I inhale. I realize then that the crushing pain I feel isn’t just in my lungs, it’s in my veins. Anger tingles down my arms and up my legs.
I do my best to bury the anger. Mask it as sarcasm or annoyance. But watching the girls in the middle of the field, I can’t find a way to make fun of it or brush it off. Because I’m not annoyed or irritated. I’m freaking pissed off.
It crushes me, wave after wave after wave, one right after the other. It doesn’t trickle in, it floods. I’m angry that my childhood ended at ten. I’m angry that my parents pulled me out of ballet and soccer and that training took over my life. That summers were spent learning languages and martial arts, and weekends were spent shooting and running and strength training. I’m angry that playing outside with my friends was a luxury and that leaving them in the middle of the night was something I was told to just “get through.” I’m angry that my mind is riddled with daymares and that the fear of another panic attack lingers with every anxious breath. I’m angry I might be taken away from the only person who’s ever really seen me, maybe even loved me. That I have to bury every emotion and pretend everything is okay. God forbid I cry or get mad or show that I’m human. I feel like a zombie, a robot. My entire life, I’ve followed their every order, forced on a million different masks, and I’m just so tired. I’m tired of feeling half dead.
My mind takes over my body. I don’t even realize what I’m doing until I shake the fence with so much force the gate slams shut. The bone-chilling sound of metal crushing metal echoes against the empty bleachers, silencing the entire cross-country team. I stand there frozen as their ponytails whip around. They stare at me, their mouths open, like I’m a monster. And maybe I am.
I take three steps backward and turn around, running at almost full speed toward the sidewalk. My feet pound back down the hill and my heart beats just as fast. Fury tightens my lungs and numbs my lips. I take deep breaths in and push bad air out as my legs sprint the mile back to my house. My body fights me, wanting to give up, but I just keep running.
I flip open the keypad and punch in the six-digit code, unlocking the secret door to our basement. My feet pound down the stairs, relieved to find the basement empty and cold. I head straight for the punching dummy, rage bubbling and burning my skin. My hands are shaking. I can’t even be bothered to put on training gloves. All I want to do is smash the dummy’s face.
I tear off my jacket and throw it to the floor. A piece of paper flies from a pocket and pinwheels to the ground.
It’s folded, its edges torn. I pick it up, unfold it, and recognize the half-cursive, half-printed handwriting immediately. Luke’s. Inside the note are four words. I’m falling for you. I hold the note in my hand and read the words over and over again. The tears I’ve been struggling to contain rise, burning the corners of my eyes.