Teen Angst? Naaah ... by Ned Vizzini

quarter mile.”
    â€œA quarter mile?!” This was going to be much harder than I thought. The Walkman in my pocket was getting heavy; it hit my leg with every stride. My pants were soaked; I used one hand to keep them from falling down.
    I started walking fast instead of running. I wanted to give up and just sit down, but three things kept megoing. First, those fifty-something balding guys who were in better shape than me, making better time than me. Second, those damn Nike commercials, where the big athlete at the end says, “Believe in yourself.” They always emphasize the
self
, and I figured, hey, I can do this. And third, more than anything else, there was Erin. Was she somewhere in the race? She’d helped organize it; she must be somewhere nearby. Maybe she was waiting at the finish line, and if she was, I didn’t want to look like a tired, wet, sweaty idiot. I wanted to hold my head high and be a real man.
    So I kept running. When I got tired, I hawked up a loogie and smeared it all over my face, which really grossed out the other runners but kept me refreshed. Every time I got my hands on a cup of water, I poured it on my head. I stomped in every puddle. Halfway through the race, I was an orgy of spit, snot, and rainwater.
    To pass time, I sang the Doors’ * “L.A. Woman” as I ran. That song has the perfect runner’s beat; it was in sync with my slapping sandals. I found myself belting out the lyrics as I rounded corners, “L.A. woman! / You’re my woman!” I cut the volume occasionally, never sure when I’d run into Erin.
    Then, suddenly, I was at the finish line. It was asorry scene. Chase volunteer cheerleader-types patted me on the back, said “Good job,” gave me
another
T-shirt, and doled out generic soda and Power Bars. (If you can imagine a candy bar with all the good stuff—chocolate, caramel, peanuts—replaced by carob, you’ve got your Power Bar right there.)
    I looked around. Erin was nowhere in sight.
    I tried to convince myself that the Chase Corporate Challenge had been a good deal. I factored in the free T-shirts, running number, water, soda, Power Bars, and exercise, which was the best I’d received since routinely getting beaten up at Pure Energy Martial Arts. But who was I kidding? After leaving the park, I checked myself out in the mirror of a local Burger King: I was a soppy teenage Frankenstein—snot all over my face, sweat and rain mixed in the armpits of my shirt, socks and sandals covered in mud.
    The next day, of course, Erin was at work, all smiles. “So, Ned, how’d you do in the race?”
    â€œOkay, I guess.”
    â€œGreat, great! Did you hear how good Jack did?”
    Jack was Erin’s boyfriend, who also worked in the office. I tried not to think about him.
    â€œCome, look!” She led me over to the coffee machine, where she had posted a chart with the participants’ names and running times. The other runnershad kept track of how long they’d taken and reported to Erin. I guessed this chart was something she did every year.
    â€œThere’s Jack!” She pointed. Next to his name was, “27 minutes! WOW!”
    â€œHow long did you take, Ned?” Erin asked. “So I can put you on the chart.”
    I had probably run for an hour. “Forty minutes,” I said.
    â€œOh, great. Great job, and I hope you do it if you work here next summer, too.” She put my name on the chart, poured herself a cup of coffee, and sipped, leaving lipstick all over the rim.
    * My grandmother always bought me these sandals for Christmas, always a size too large, as if anticipating future foot growth.
    * My parents jointly run a family business. Every summer since I was fourteen, they’ve offered me a job at their office, and some years I’ve been so desperate for cash that I agreed to do it. That summer, I worked in research and development to get a little