I’m in trouble. I’m standing on the regulation, approved-by-officials-and-the-wrestling-gods scale, and I am 4.2 pounds overweight. I wish I could say going out in a blaze of tryptophan glory was worth it, but really, I just feel guilty and kind of like a screw-up. I’m not the only one. Today’s tournament is the first one since Thanksgiving, and even though we’ve had nine whole days to burn off the sins of one afternoon of pie-filled bliss, and even though they give you a bonus pound because it’s post-holiday, people are struggling. Luckily, this is just the pre-official, how-am-I-doing weigh-in. The real weigh-in won’t take place for two more hours. Which means now is the time we step away from the judgment of the scale and choose our poison: running, stationary bike, or laxatives. (I do not recommend that last one.)
Me, I’m a runner. I put on two pairs of sweats, a smaller pair that really hugs me, and then a normal-size pair. I add a knit cap and a hoodie, too. And now, dressed like the kid from A Christmas Story and with my stomach completely empty of breakfast or even water, I will run until I sweat off 4.2 pounds.
I wait for a minute to see if any of my teammates will be running with me. Jackson walks over. No surprises there—the dude always has trouble making 160. But then . . . Paul?
I look at him in disbelief. “You’re over?”
I don’t think this has ever happened before.
He rolls his head around on his shoulders. “I know. I know. I may have eaten an entire honey-baked ham for Thanksgiving.”
“By yourself?”
“Well, my mom bought it for me, and she was like, ‘Just take a slice whenever you get hungry.’ So, I did. And then it was gone.”
I mean, what do you even say to that?
“I’m only two over. I got this,” says Paul defensively.
“Hey, I’m not judging. Just trying to figure out how someone your size put away an entire ham.”
The three of us go outside and take off running, and because tournament days always feel a little bit like Christmas morning, we are all acting like really big dorks. We talk about Thanksgiving-food binges and video-game binges and staying-up-late-talking-to-your-new-girlfriend binges. Well, actually, Paul is the only one who has anything to say about that last one.
“I still can’t believe you’re dating a girl as hot as Eva,” says Jackson.
“I know!” says Paul, with this ridiculous grin.
I force my legs to push harder even though my empty stomach is eating itself. My ankle twinges, but only a little. “I can’t believe you had the balls to ask her out when she was leaving in a few weeks.”
Paul puts a hand to his chest. “When you’ve got a chance at a girl like Eva, you have to seize the moment.” He says this like he is some kind of expert on love, and between the three of us, maybe he is.
“And speaking of.” He nudges me.
“What?”
“You know what.”
“She’s not even on this continent.”
“Wait. What?” Paul is breathing heavy and sweating like a fiend.
“She’s in South Africa.” I don’t have the breath to explain why. Running on an empty stomach is hard. Running on an empty stomach while talking is damn near impossible.
“No, she’s not. I saw her getting out of their van on my way to school just now.”
“She’s back?”
Ohmygosh, she’s back. I think about Paul and Eva and chances. I think about Hope. Every time I think it’s really over, every time I think we’ve had our last chance, we find one more last chance to give each other. Maybe love means never running out.
I don’t know if it’s because I’m light-headed from the run, but a plan starts to take shape. We’re not too far from our street. I could be there in a few minutes.
I sprint ahead and veer off to the left.
“Dude, where are you going?” yells Paul.
“To Hope’s,” I holler back. “I gotta seize my moment.”
They don’t say anything. Or laugh. I hear their footsteps behind me. Did they make the turn, too? I glance over my shoulder.
“We’re coming with you!” says Paul.
It should feel weird, maybe, that they’re coming. It doesn’t, though. It just feels really good.
I bolt up the stairs of Hope’s front porch like every second matters. I’m knocking on her door, and it is so, so urgent. Eponine barks shrilly from inside—dogs can sense these things.
Hope’s mom answers.
“Hi, Mrs. Birdsong. Is Hope here?”
“She just ran to the store to get some stuff to make cupcakes to bring over to Ashley’s.”
“Oh.” I shuffle my feet around on the welcome mat. It really didn’t occur to me that she might not be here. My friends have caught up and are doing jumping jacks in Hope’s front yard to keep their heart rates up. The weirdness? It has made an appearance. “Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“I don’t know. An hour, maybe?”
Crap. I can’t wait that long. I have to get back before weigh-ins.
Mrs. Birdsong cocks her head in concern. “Do you want me to give her a message for you?”
“Oh. Um.” I look over my shoulder like I can make her appear in the driveway through the very act of looking. (Spoiler alert: It doesn’t work.) “No, that’s okay. Thanks.”
I jog back to the guys, and they give me some super manly back claps, and we head back to school. Okay, so I can’t see her right now. But I can call her. Yeah, that’s a great idea. Almost as good as seeing her in person. But maybe I’ll wait until I’m not running full speed in three layers of sweaty clothes. Yep. That is probably a great idea, too.
We make it back in plenty of time. I would kill for a sip of water right now, but I have to wait. I think about waiting to call her until after the weigh-ins, too, so I won’t have a creepy, parched voice or whatever, but in the end, I simply don’t have the willpower. I whip out my phone and scroll for her name. My stomach flips when I press send. If that girl answers her phone right now, I’m going to marry her someday.
Except she doesn’t. So I leave her a message. Which, honestly? Kind of sucks. Because A) this is just not the kind of thing you want to pour out after a disembodied beep. And B) I’m going to sound like a complete tool, I just know it.
But this is too important to wait, and I need her to know RIGHT NOW, so message it is.
“Hey, Hope, it’s Spencer. Well, I guess you already know that. Anyway, I’m sorry. All that terrible stuff I said to you, well, I only said it because I saw you hugging Dean and got the wrong idea. I should have asked you what happened, and I didn’t. I was pissed off, and I acted like a total dick, and I’m sorry. Really sorry. Did I mention I’m sorry? I really hope you can forgive me. Actually, I’m hoping for a whole lot more than that.” I take a deep breath. Putting my entire heart on the line in three, two, one. “Because I like you. I really, really like you.” Love you. I am head over heels in love with you. “And I hope you like me. I mean, really like me and want to date me and stuff.” And by stuff, I mean spend every day together for the rest of our lives. “I understand if you don’t. There’s a lot that’s happened. It’s okay if you don’t want to talk to me anymore.” Except, no. Please, please, no. “So, okay. I want you. I’m in. And if you’re still in, could you maybe come to my wrestling tournament today? If you don’t show, I’ll know you’re not interested, but if you do? Um, well, that would be really great.” And we can make out until the sun comes up tomorrow. “So, okay, I guess I’ll talk to you later or something. Bye.” Somebody kill me before I die of embarrassment.
I hang up the phone just in time for weigh-ins to start. I wait my turn to get officially weighed and also to get officially inspected for ringworm/molluscum/shingles because that is a thing that happens before wrestling meets (the mats—they’re like petri dishes). I take off all my clothes because you never know when underwear could ruin everything, and then I step on the scale and close my eyes and think skinny thoughts and pray for 139.
The scale says 138.6.
I just lost 4.6 pounds in two hours. I made weight, people! But it’s not just my body. Everything else feels lighter, too.