I’m running hard, my feet pounding the track like they have a personal vendetta against it. Halfway through my third lap, someone calls out my name and I see Stacey, still dressed in her tracksuit, crouching into her stretches. She waves at me and I jog over.
“You’re here early,” she says.
“I only got here a few minutes ago,” I lie. I can’t possibly tell her that I’ve been here since four a.m., because when I tried to sleep, all I could think of was Mr. Werner’s hand. How a wild animal must’ve gotten to his body and severed—
Oh god, I can’t. It’s been less than forty-eight hours since Vegas, and there are no words for just how much I cannot. And so, I do the only thing I can: I run. When we came back from Vegas on Sunday afternoon, I immediately headed for the track to run. And now, so early on Monday morning that it’s not even light yet, I’m running again.
“You’re lyiiing,” Stacey says in this singsong voice. “God, you’re so competitive.” She straightens up and we do a couple of laps together, and she keeps nagging at me to slow down, it’s “just the warm-ups, dude,” and I want to yell at her that I’m not warming up, I’m trying to outrun Mr. Werner’s ghost, but that’s kind of hard to explain, so I don’t say anything.
I shouldn’t be pushing myself this hard, especially not with Mandy around. She’ll think I’m showing off, and I’m not doing that at all, I just need to outrun this cursed voice in my head.
Dirty, lying, murdering bitch.
Did I mention that the voice is mean AF? But the thing is, it also has a point.
I put on a burst of speed for the final lap. Break the sound barrier. Outrun the voice.
My calf suddenly turns into a scream of pain. I thud to the ground, almost biting through my tongue, and clutch at my leg, gritting my teeth so hard, they crack against each other.
Mandy and Elle laugh as they jog near.
“This dumbass doesn’t understand the concept of warm-ups,” Mandy says.
“Your face doesn’t understand the concept—ow, ow, ow.” I roll on the ground as my leg cramps up even more. Stacey catches up and crouches by my side.
“They’re assholes, but they’ve got a point,” she says. “Why’d you push yourself so hard, anyway? We’re just warming up.”
“Because.” Then, to my horror, I start crying.
Stacey looks surprised. I don’t blame her. She starts massaging my calf, and it feels both soothing and excruciating. “Hurts that bad, huh?”
I nod, my breath hitching as she massages my leg. I wipe my face when I see Coach approaching us. They help me up and lead me toward the bench. I’m all trembly and my breath is coming out in little half wheezes, half sobs, but at least the tears have stopped for now.
“Thanks, Stacey,” Coach says. “Go and join the rest of the team.”
Stacey gives my shoulder one last squeeze and jogs off.
“What’s going, Lia?” Coach says, lifting my leg onto the bench and helping me stretch it.
“Nothing?”
She give me a look. “I enjoy how you girls like to think that we’ve got our heads stuck so far up our asses that we can’t tell when something’s wrong. But I’ve been a teen before. I know when something’s off. So dish. What is it?”
“It’s nothing—ow!”
“You’ve been running your whole life. You know better than to start sprinting before a proper warm-up, and now you’re sitting here with your leg cramped up and telling me nothing’s wrong? I call bullshit.”
“It’s just. Boy trouble.”
Coach sighs. “Isn’t it always? Look, Lia, I don’t have to remind you how much you’ve got riding on this. The boy thing—it’s a rite of passage, I get it. Try not to let it get to you, huh? Mrs. Henderson filled me in on what happened with your English Lit teacher. She said the class will be canceled and everyone’s grades will be voided, so that’s good for you. You’ve got a second chance at this. Don’t blow it. Which reminds me, there’s someone who wants to meet with you. I think you’re going to like this.”
I doubt it. But I force a smile and go, “Yeah?”
“Her name’s Mickey Gentry, and she’s a recruiter. From Stanford.”
Oh. Shit. I don’t care—
Except I do. I really, really do care. I didn’t think it’s possible, after what happened with Mr. Werner, to care about much else, but it’s like Coach has wrenched open a door and suddenly all these feelings are pouring out, and I care. God help me, I don’t deserve anything, but I want this. So, so much.
“I’ll get my shit together, Coach, I swear.”
Coach grins. “Atta girl.”
I will. I’m still buzzing by the time practice ends and I’ve showered and dressed. I just gotta focus, get my head on straight, and I’ll be fine.
First period is Mr. Werner’s class. I ignore the horrible sucking sensation overtaking my body and perch on my seat and keep my head down. The room fills up, Mandy shoots me her usual bitch face, Elle whispers something rude as she walks by, and then the bell rings and the class starts. Except, of course, it doesn’t. It doesn’t start at all, because Mr. Werner doesn’t show up. Five minutes in, a woman from the admin office bursts in, looking harried, and says, “Ah, I’m so sorry, you guys, things have been so crazy at the admin office, I forgot to let you all know that Mr. Werner’s class has been canceled due to—ah, unforeseen circumstances. You have a free period today. Don’t worry, we’ll have a sub ready for you next class.” She gives us an overly bright smile before backing out of the room.
As soon as she’s gone, the room explodes with hoots and claps. Aiden B. says, “Musta been a wild night for Mr. Werner,” really loudly, and people laugh. Aaron Presley goes up to the blackboard, imitating Mr. Werner’s walk, and says, “Okay, kids, today we’ll be talking about The Handmaid’s Tale.” He makes such a close impression of Mr. Werner that I get goose bumps all over. I feel nauseated. I want to tell him to stop, but everyone else is laughing, and I can’t even watch him, because the way he moves reminds me of Mr. Werner, and Mr. Werner isn’t here because I killed him, and now he’s up in the woods, missing a hand, and—
“What if that hand that was found in the woods is his?” Aiden B. says, and everyone goes quiet for a second. I swear I can hear my heartbeat, a panicked thrum that everyone must be able to pick out.
“Sounds like we need to set up a—drumroll please—death pool!” Aiden B. says.
“It can’t be a pool if the only candidate is Mr. Werner,” Mandy says, rolling her eyes. “But whatever, I bet a hundred bucks it’s Mr. Werner.”
How can these kids be so heartless? He was their teacher. They were happily buying grades off him! But maybe I’m just being a massive hypocrite, given I killed the guy and everything.
Other kids pipe up, putting down bets before picking up their bags and leaving the room. I follow the stream of students out of the classroom, feeling sick. Everyone else is busy texting and chattering, making guesses as to what Mr. Werner could possibly be up to. I guess no one truly believes he’s actually dead in the woods, even though almost everyone here has put money on it.
My phone rings. It’s Danny. My stomach does that horrible sinking thing because I know immediately it’s nothing good. People only call when it’s really bad news. For a second, I consider not picking up at all. But my thumb slides across the screen and accepts the call.
“Hey, Danny—”
“Uncle James is dead.”