Weston
My third and final race was the 4x400-meter baton relay. Coach Braun always had me run anchor for the simple fact - I won races. Which also happened to be the only reason my teammates were still talking to me. Fine by me. I wasn’t there to make friends. I was there to win.
The 4x400 began, and as the baton was passed once, then twice, I took my place on the track for the last leg. We had about twenty seconds before our teammates rounded the curve for the final stretch, and a cloud of nervous tension hung over us. We all craned our necks to look over our shoulders, arms stretched back for the baton, reaching and ready, praying to the gods we wouldn’t drop it.
“Hey,” I said to the Tufts runner in the lane on my right, a guy I’d run against for two years. “Hey, Jacobs.”
Todd Jacobs—lanky and dark-haired—glanced at me quickly, scowled. “Fantastic. Another season with the Amherst Asshole. Just what I always wanted.”
“Do you like my uniform?” I asked.
The third-leg runners were rounding the curve. The anchors started taking half steps. Jacobs’ gaze darted to me, then back to his approaching teammate.
“Huh?”
“I said, do you like my uniform?”
“Ignore him,” said Hayes Jones, a runner from Wesleyan on my left, his dark eyes on the track behind him. “He’s just trying to rile you.”
“What about you, Jones?” I asked. “Do you like my uniform?”
“Fuck off, Turner.”
We were all jogging now, arms reaching as our teammates closed in, their own arms out long.
“It’s a great uniform,” I said, running faster now as my teammate, Doug Bonham, stretched to hand off the baton. “Hold on, I’ll show you what it looks like from behind.”
I felt the baton hit my palm, wrapped my fingers around it and took off. Within seconds, I’d left Hayes, Jacobs, and the other runners in my rearview.
As I ran, I called upon reserves of energy in my legs and reignited the smoldering embers of pain in my memory. Anger at my asshole father. Anger at myself for not being able to leave him in my dust too. Anger that I still cared… I would turn it all into a fucking victory if it killed me.
That anger burned hot, and I pushed my body hard. Muscles screaming, lungs burning, stomach tightening in a thousand knots. I ran as if the rest of the racers were on my ass and not ten meters behind me, and crossed the finish line a good four seconds ahead of anyone else.
Win confirmed, I dropped the baton, slow-jogged to the nearest trashcan, and puked on the mound of empty paper water cups inside.
My post-race ritual: the carb-unload.
“Nice win, Wes,” Coach Braun said when I straightened and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. He pressed a cup of water at me and patted my shoulder. “You good?”
I nodded, still catching my breath. He opened his mouth to say something, maybe offer some advice, but opted for a clap on the back and leaving me alone. He’d learned in my freshman year that I showed up when he needed me to show up and I ran what he told me to run. But no one was allowed in my head.
The other racers paced to cool down, hands on hips and catching their breath as we waited for the times to post.
“You know what, Turner?” Hayes panted, his hands on his knees. “I’d admire you…if you weren’t such a prick.”
“Some day,” Jacobs said, between sucking breaths. “He’s going…to get his. I just hope I’m around to see it.”
I shrugged them off. I’d won. That’s all that mattered. And as I did after every won race, I waited for joy or elation to hit me.
It didn’t.
It never did.
Instead, I indulged my other post-race ritual, one I’d had since Sinclair Prep. While the other runners were intent on the scoreboard, my eyes scanned the bleachers for him.
Pathetic and futile and yet I couldn’t help it.
Give it up, Sock Boy. He’s not here, and he never will be.
My wandering gaze found Autumn sitting with Connor. His dark head and her flaming red hair close together. Just talking? Or was he sneaking a kiss? I doubted it. Connor was pretty good at reading women, and probably knew Autumn wouldn’t tolerate a move like that without an official first date.
A smile ghosted my lips. You can steal all the high-fives and hugs you want, but you have to earn a kiss from her.
The meet ended, and Amherst—thanks to me—destroyed the other teams. But even without my points, we had a deep roster of talent. The Mammoths were going to have a good year.
I walked past where the Tufts crew packed up their duffels. “See you next month, Jacobs,” I said with a wave.
“Suck it, Turner,” he snapped back.
Friends and family trickled onto the field now, and I braced myself as Connor and Autumn approached.
She came. Sure, so she could see Connor. Because she wanted to see him. But still, she came.
Connor and I clasped hands and he tried to give me a hug.
“Get off,” I said. “I stink and I’m not done puking.”
Connor laughed and ruffled my hair instead. “You kicked ass. But you and your puking. Maybe an antacid before the race?”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I muttered.
“That relay was incredible,” Autumn said, her eyes and smile wide. “All three races were incredible. You were amazing to watch. Congrats.”
She moved toward me and I took a step back, conscious of my breath. Her smile faltered. Hurt flickered across her eyes and I scrambled to think of a gracious reply to her compliment but came up empty.
Strike one.
Autumn retreated, and she said to no one in particular, “Look at Ruby.”
Ruby was over by the Wesleyan team, chatting up Hayes Jones. Both of them laughing with familiarity, as if they’d met in kindergarten.
“She’s really good at that,” Autumn said. “Meeting new people? I get butterflies at the thought of walking up to a stranger and starting a conversation.”
“But walking up to strangers in libraries and trashing their capitalist propaganda is no problem,” I said.
“I did not— shut up.” Laughing, she started to give me a shove. I was soaked with sweat and stepped back again, out of range. Her laughter died off, leaving that same hurt in its wake.
Strike two, idiot.
Autumn glanced at her watch, then looked up at Connor. “So…I had a great time. I’m glad I came. Thanks for the lemonade.”
“That was nothing,” he said. “How about dinner?”
I flinched. Christ, not like that, dummy. You can’t ask her on a first date like she’s any old nail and you’re the sledgehammer.
Autumn adjusted her bag. “Oh, thank you, but I—”
“There’s a great Thai place down the road,” Connor said. “Ever been to Boko 6?”
Of course she had. There were only ten restaurants in town. I walked away, hands on my hips as if I were still winded, but really, I needed to get away from Connor’s ham-fisted invitation. Autumn needed a light touch and romance. A few seconds ago I couldn’t manage a “thank you,” but I suddenly knew exactly how I’d ask her to go out with me.
Have you been to the Emily Dickinson Museum? Maybe we could check it out, then try to cheer ourselves up over coffee after.
Would you like to have dinner with me at the Rostand? Or just drinks. Even if it’s only for a glass of water, I need you to see the sunset from the top deck.
Have you been to the Orchard Hill Observatory? We could bring a picnic up there at dusk and watch the stars come out…
But it looked as if Connor was doing just fine after all. He had his phone out and appeared to be plugging in Autumn’s number.
Strike three. I’m out.
I must not have been recovered from the race, because the urge to puke came over me again.
Ruby joined them, stuffing her own phone in her back pocket. A few more words exchanged, and then the girls headed off across the field. But after a few steps, Autumn turned back and waved at me.
“Bye, Weston. Congratulations on your wins.”
“Yep,” I said, and Connor joined me to watch them go. In the falling twilight, Autumn’s hair was gold and fire, falling down her back in long curls. I stared until Connor elbowed my side.
“Digits secured,” he said. “But man, that girl makes you work for it. I’m not even guaranteed a date.”
I glanced at him as we walked to where my duffel lay on the grass in my team’s huddle. “No?”
“She keeps telling me how busy she is, and has a double-major, and who knows what else,” Connor said. “She gave me her number but then said, ‘We’ll see.’ What does that mean?”
“It means, dumbass, she’s going to wait to see what you do with it. What you say when you ask her out. How you ask.”
Connor frowned. “I already asked her out.”
“And she didn’t say yes.” I pulled on my track pants and sweatshirt. “She’s not a Netflix-and-chill. She wants romance.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “How do you know?”
“She told me. But I think she likes you,” I added.
“She does?” His eager smile melted into a grin. “Yeah, I think she does.”
“She might,” I said. “But you should know…”
“Should know what?”
I scrubbed my chin. “I think she’s been burned recently, so take it easy, okay?”
“Did she tell you that, too?”
“No. Just a hunch.”
Connor slapped me in the middle of the back. “Look at you, giving me woman advice. I think your racing wins are going straight to your head.”
“Yeah,” I muttered. “That must be it.”
I rummaged through my bag for my phone and found a voice message from Ma sent this morning.
Hey baby boy, I just wanted to wish you luck today at your races. You take all that God-given talent and go kick some ass, okay?
I turned my face away from Connor to conceal a small smile. Miranda Turner had her own way with words.
I heard her puff a cigarette and exhale.
Oh, and did I tell you? Your genius sister, Kimberly, dropped her phone in the toilet. How many times I tell her to get off that damn thing while she’s in the mirror putting on her makeup? Too much makeup, by the way. She’s getting bad skin, but does she listen to me? God forbid. So that’s a few hundred bucks I don’t have. Down the toilet. Literally.
She cackled her loud, infectious laugh, which degenerated into a barking cough.
But honestly, things is tight enough and I know Paul would help but I’m trying not to start down that road already, you know? Oh jeez, I haven’t told you about Paul! I met him at the salon while he was waiting for his sister to get done, and we hit it off. His name is Paul Winfield and he’s not like nobody I been with. Just you wait ‘til you meet him. Come back home, baby, first chance you get, okay? You can meet him and maybe talk some sense into your sister’s empty head.
Love you. Felicia sends her love too. Be good, but not too good, and give that sweet Connor a kiss on the cheek for me, you hear? Okay, love you, baby boy. Bye.
I turned back around, dropped the phone in my bag and hoisted it onto my shoulder. “Sorry. Miranda had some things to say.”
“How is she?”
“Okay,” I said, as we headed off the track. “Money’s tight, as usual. She’s seeing some new guy, as usual.”
“Could be good,” Connor said, scrolling his phone as we walked.
“If he’s like any of her other boyfriends, he’s going to bum what he can off her and she’s got nothing to bum.” I gazed around at the sprawling grounds of Amherst, green and gold in the dusky light, while my mother was cramped in that tiny apartment in Southie. “I should get a job.”
“You have no time for a job. That’s why you have a scholarship.”
“I could squeeze it in,” I said, mentally trying to figure out where. Hoping for an early graduation, I’d loaded up my schedule with as many classes as my counselor would let me take. Between course work and track, my days were packed. “I could work a nightshift somewhere.”
“And be too tired to study or run,” Connor said, putting his phone away. “Dude, why not try for the big show? The Olympics? You’re so fucking fast. You’d get in, easy.”
“Because training for the Olympics isn’t cheap and it’s a full-time job. I’d need a coach. And there’re no guarantees. One snapped ligament and my career is over. I wouldn’t be any good to Ma.”
“My parents are always there, you know,” Connor said in a low voice.
I swallowed down the bitterness, because I knew. “Anyway, Ma wants me to come to Boston and meet this new guy, Paul, but I’m not in a fucking hurry to meet the latest bum who’s probably leeching off her, just like every other guy she hooks up with.”
“If they’re still together at Thanksgiving, you can meet him then.”
“That works.”
Every year, the Drakes invited my sisters and my mother—with her cigarettes and too-loud laugh—to Thanksgiving dinner at their gigantic row house. Every year, my mother drank too much, no matter how many times I told her to take it easy. They’d call a car for her—a sedan, not an Uber—to take her home, with Mrs. Drake making sure Ma had a week’s worth of leftovers with her and an invitation to Christmas Eve dinner a few weeks later.
The Drakes were good people.
“It would be awesome if things were good with me and Autumn by then,” Connor said. “And I know what you’re going to say, but I like her. She’s beautiful. And super smart.”
“Did you guys talk a lot at the meet?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said with a one-shoulder shrug, which meant he was full of shit. They hadn’t gone below surface topics.
“Maybe you should get to know her a little bit better before you start weaving her into your grand plans to please your parents.”
“I’m not planning anything, except for a first date. I’ve never hung out with a girl more than twice and not gotten to first base.” He grinned. “I like a challenge.”
I rolled my eyes, ready to tell him that Autumn was a human being, not a challenge, but he held up a silencing palm.
“I’m kidding,” he said. “Autumn is…I don’t know. Different. She’s kind of shy, but she stands her ground. I like that about her.”
“Yeah, I like that too,” I said quietly.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
Later that night, Connor lay sprawled on the couch with SportsCenter blaring, scrolling his phone. I sat at the kitchen table, tapping my pen against an empty page in my notebook and contemplating running as my Object of Devotion. I couldn’t muster the blood and guts to put it to paper. I liked running. It served a purpose, but did I want to make it my life?
“Oh shit,” Connor cried from behind me.
“What is it?”
“I accidentally texted her.”
“Who?” I said, knowing damn well who.
“Autumn. I was fucking messing around and I hit that stupid predictive text thing, then panicked and hit send.”
“So what?”
“I don’t text or call a girl until at least three days have passed.”
I set down my pen and turned around. “Are you serious?”
“Of course I’m serious. It looks desperate to text her the same day.”
I hid a smile. “What did you text?”
“Just ‘yes.’” His eyes widened. “Shit. She’s texting me back.”
Connor jumped up from the couch and came to where I sat, standing next to my chair as we both watched his phone.
Yes…? :)
Connor typed, Hey.
I smirked. “Really?”
“Yeah, so?”
A pause, then a new text bubbled up. What’s up?
“Now she’s annoyed,” I said. “Or impatient.”
Connor looked to me. “What do I say?”
“Why are you asking me?”
“You’re good at this shit. How many papers did you write for me at Sinclair?”
“This is not the same thing.”
“Ballpark.” Connor made a face. “Dude, she’s waiting.”
I frowned, thought for a moment. “Tell her the truth.”
“Hell no—”
“Tell her the truth but make it better. Tell her you were messing with your phone while thinking about her. Tell her that you wanted to talk to her so badly, your subconscious made it happen.”
“Oh, that’s good.”
Connor’s fingers flew, and then he hit send.
There was a pause and no answer.
Connor frowned. “What’s this mean?”
“It’s good. I mean she’s thinking about what you said.”
The rolling dots of Autumn’s reply came in.
The old ‘accidental text’ move? I feel like I’ve seen that before… ;-)
“She’s not letting you off the hook so easily,” I said, smiling despite myself. “Don’t deny. Tell her she’s one hundred percent right. You’ll make any excuse to talk to her.”
“That’s perfect, man.” Connor typed and hit send.
I like your honesty, came the reply.
“Hey, it’s working.” Connor beamed. “Now what?”
It was working, and I didn’t like what it was.
“I don’t know, man,” I said, waving a hand. “Type something. Whatever you’re thinking.”
“I want her to go out with me.”
“Then ask.”
With a horrible fascination, I watched Connor type, So, dinner?
“Jesus, dude,” I said.
“What? That’s exactly what you told me to do.”
“Not like that,” I said. “I told you she needs romance.”
I don’t know, she wrote. I have so much work to do already.
“Fuck,” Connor said. He nudged me with his phone. “Wes, man, you do it.”
I blinked. “Do what now?”
“Ask her out for me. The right way.”
I stared.
“Look, this girl is special. I’m not too proud to admit I need back-up getting things rolling with her.” He grinned that winning smile. “C’mon. Just this once.”
“But…”
Connor shoved his phone into my hand. “Come on, man. Do what you do. Write something witty and poetic. Something that’ll impress her enough to get me another text. Another…anything.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Write something that knocks her on her ass and gets me in the door. That’s all I ask.”
I looked at Connor’s phone in my hand and Autumn Caldwell’s text, waiting for an answer. I felt my best friend’s expectations literally breathing down my neck as he leaned over me.
Ignoring the small ache in my heart, I thought about what I would’ve said to Autumn had it been my phone in my hand and began to type.