On the Road to Find Out by Rachel Toor Page B

skin.
    â€œYeah,” I said. “Quite a fashion show.”
    â€œI know, people spend a lot of time looking for the perfect red dress for this run. Did you find any scraps of clothing on the trees in those last two miles of trail? Someone always manages to get a piece of dress ripped off by a branch.”
    I’d been so busy concentrating on running that if Cinderella’s ball gown dyed red had been hanging from a low bough, I probably would have missed it.
    â€œDid you get along with Miles?” When she said this, she cocked her head slightly to the right.
    â€œUm, sure.”
    â€œHe’s a great kid. Oh, shoot,” she said. “I have to give him his workout for the week.” She pulled a sheet of paper from her jacket. “I can’t believe he doesn’t have e-mail. Can you give this to him?” She handed me the paper—on which was an incomprehensible script, things like 6 x 800 @ 2:20; 8 tempo; LR (12–13); 3 fartlek —gave me a hug, and told me to come by the store. Then she flitted off like a tiny running fairy.
    People continued to mill around, eating slices of oranges and chunks of bananas and drinking from the same paper cups we’d given out at our—I thought of it as “our”—water station. Everyone still had on their paper numbers and I wondered if any of them would end up on the wall at Joan’s store.
    It looked like the guys who had mobbed Miles were never going to leave, and I couldn’t figure out what to do and felt awkward standing by myself, so I walked over to Miles and shoved the paper at him.
    â€œThis is from Joan,” I said.
    â€œHey, thanks.” He didn’t introduce me to the guys he was talking to and I felt even more awkward.
    â€œShe still coaching you?” asked a dude in a shiny strapless prom dress that kept falling down to expose his nipples.
    â€œWouldn’t exactly call it coaching,” Miles said. “She writes out a weekly schedule for me. I usually end up doing more than she calls for, but it’s good to have a guide.”
    â€œYeah, well, take it with a grain of salt,” said the winner.
    â€œRemember the trials—didn’t have the guts,” chimed in the guy in the wardrobe-malfunctioning prom dress. “But I’m glad she’s taken up race directing.”
    Miles said nothing. He folded and unfolded the sheet of paper I’d given him.
    â€œGotta go,” I said, too loudly and too abruptly.
    They all looked at me and I wanted to die.
    â€œCool hanging with you. See you on the boulevard sometime,” Miles said.

 
    5
    I could not wait to tell Jenni about my morning activities.
    I called her and said, “Come. Over. Now.”
    â€œWhat time is it?” Her voice was soft. I’d probably woken her up.
    â€œTime for you to be up. And for you to get your little self over here.”
    â€œIs something wrong? Did you hear from another college?”
    Cripes. I’d managed to stop thinking about the whole thing for one morning. Most colleges wouldn’t make the decisions until April, or at the very end of March. I still had a lot of waiting to do.
    â€œNo, no,” I said. “It’s all good. Come over. Right. Now.” I added, “Please.”
    â€œI have to take a shower.” She sounded thick and blurry.
    â€œNo, no,” I said, “you can shower here. You can take a soak if you want.” Jenni loved the Jacuzzi tub. “I have something to tell you.”
    â€œOkay, okay.” She always relented.
    I knew Jenni, being Jenni, wouldn’t be over for at least forty-five minutes. I was going to burst.
    Walter had been awake when I got home. He stood on his back legs and shook the bars of his cage. “You look like a crazed prisoner,” I said as I unlatched his door. He climbed out and, as I walked away, ran after me. I waited for him to do what he normally does: make a flying leap and