Try Not to Breathe by Jennifer R. Hubbard Page A
Authors: Jennifer R. Hubbard
Tags: Narmeen
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and not asking for it? It’s like—”
She stopped, and her words hung in the air. Maybe she was starting to guess that my whole life was about wanting and not asking. Wanting and not doing. Holding back.
TEN
A thudding woke me in the middle of the night. I turned over, willing it to stop, but it didn’t. Layer after layer of sleep peeled off until finally I was staring at the ceiling. The noise was familiar but I couldn’t place it, and I didn’t know why I would be hearing it at—I rolled over to look at the glowing numbers on my clock—1:12 in the morning.
I climbed out of bed and followed the noise out of my room, down the hall, down the stairs. I paused in the living room, where moonlight poured in the giant windows and silvered the furniture. The noise was below me, and louder, coming from the workout room. My dad was snoring away upstairs, so I knew who must be down there. I asked myself if I really wanted to know why she was jogging in the middle of the night, and then I took the stairs down.
Mom pounded away on the treadmill, sweat shining on her skin, earbuds blocking out everything around her. She must have felt my eyes on her, because she glanced back at me and pulled one ear free. “What are you doing up at this hour?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“I didn’t get my workout in yet today. Long day.”
I didn’t ask why she hadn’t just gone to bed, said screw the treadmill. My mother worked out on her workout days, no matter what. If it took her until 1:12 in the morning to reach that item on her to-do list, then she ran at 1:12. She didn’t even break stride as she looked at me.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
Other than my mother exercising like a maniac in the middle of the night? “No.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yeah, I just got up to see what the noise was.” I realized the longer I stayed down here, the more she would worry, and she’d snare me in an endless loop of are you really okay questions. “Good night,” I said and went back upstairs.
• • • • •
It was chokingly hot the next morning, but I ran anyway. Heat rash speckled my arms, and I kept running. When you start training, it’s too easy to find excuses not to do it. The trick is to forget about excuses and decide to run no matter what.
On the other hand, maybe you can take “no excuses” too far—since it’s probably the same attitude that puts people on treadmills in the middle of the night.
I ran to the quarry and walked along its edge, kicking a few stones into the pit below. I thought about falling, flying through the air. Landing, of course, was the problem. If only I could have that drop, the wind against my skin, without the splat at the bottom. It reminded me of a T-shirt Jake used to wear sometimes: GRAVITY’S A BITCH.
I’d read books about people who flew small planes and gliders and hot-air balloons, but none of those things would give me exactly what I wanted. Maybe bungee jumping? Parachuting?
Back home, I got online and started looking up skydiving places. There were a few not too far away; they let you make tandem jumps with only one day’s training.
I sent Jake a message (“You there?”) because I wanted to kick around the skydiving idea, but he didn’t answer. Which was strange, because Jake was always there. On the other hand, maybe it was good that he wasn’t. Maybe he’d finally left his room.
I had one message from Nicki: details of our trip to Val’s, which she wanted to do tomorrow. I dialed Val’s number. My finger hovered over the Send button as if the way I pushed it would determine how the call went, as if I had to touch it in exactly the right way.
• • • • •
“Really? You’re going to be here tomorrow?” Val said.
“Yeah, a friend of mine is driving there. Visiting her cousin.” That was the cover story. I couldn’t tell Val we were coming all the way to Brookfield to see her. Not until I knew whether she
She stopped, and her words hung in the air. Maybe she was starting to guess that my whole life was about wanting and not asking. Wanting and not doing. Holding back.
TEN
A thudding woke me in the middle of the night. I turned over, willing it to stop, but it didn’t. Layer after layer of sleep peeled off until finally I was staring at the ceiling. The noise was familiar but I couldn’t place it, and I didn’t know why I would be hearing it at—I rolled over to look at the glowing numbers on my clock—1:12 in the morning.
I climbed out of bed and followed the noise out of my room, down the hall, down the stairs. I paused in the living room, where moonlight poured in the giant windows and silvered the furniture. The noise was below me, and louder, coming from the workout room. My dad was snoring away upstairs, so I knew who must be down there. I asked myself if I really wanted to know why she was jogging in the middle of the night, and then I took the stairs down.
Mom pounded away on the treadmill, sweat shining on her skin, earbuds blocking out everything around her. She must have felt my eyes on her, because she glanced back at me and pulled one ear free. “What are you doing up at this hour?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“I didn’t get my workout in yet today. Long day.”
I didn’t ask why she hadn’t just gone to bed, said screw the treadmill. My mother worked out on her workout days, no matter what. If it took her until 1:12 in the morning to reach that item on her to-do list, then she ran at 1:12. She didn’t even break stride as she looked at me.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
Other than my mother exercising like a maniac in the middle of the night? “No.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yeah, I just got up to see what the noise was.” I realized the longer I stayed down here, the more she would worry, and she’d snare me in an endless loop of are you really okay questions. “Good night,” I said and went back upstairs.
• • • • •
It was chokingly hot the next morning, but I ran anyway. Heat rash speckled my arms, and I kept running. When you start training, it’s too easy to find excuses not to do it. The trick is to forget about excuses and decide to run no matter what.
On the other hand, maybe you can take “no excuses” too far—since it’s probably the same attitude that puts people on treadmills in the middle of the night.
I ran to the quarry and walked along its edge, kicking a few stones into the pit below. I thought about falling, flying through the air. Landing, of course, was the problem. If only I could have that drop, the wind against my skin, without the splat at the bottom. It reminded me of a T-shirt Jake used to wear sometimes: GRAVITY’S A BITCH.
I’d read books about people who flew small planes and gliders and hot-air balloons, but none of those things would give me exactly what I wanted. Maybe bungee jumping? Parachuting?
Back home, I got online and started looking up skydiving places. There were a few not too far away; they let you make tandem jumps with only one day’s training.
I sent Jake a message (“You there?”) because I wanted to kick around the skydiving idea, but he didn’t answer. Which was strange, because Jake was always there. On the other hand, maybe it was good that he wasn’t. Maybe he’d finally left his room.
I had one message from Nicki: details of our trip to Val’s, which she wanted to do tomorrow. I dialed Val’s number. My finger hovered over the Send button as if the way I pushed it would determine how the call went, as if I had to touch it in exactly the right way.
• • • • •
“Really? You’re going to be here tomorrow?” Val said.
“Yeah, a friend of mine is driving there. Visiting her cousin.” That was the cover story. I couldn’t tell Val we were coming all the way to Brookfield to see her. Not until I knew whether she
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