Craaazy

Well. I have to say, I've had more excitement the last four days than almost the last four months. Besides the entire XC team knowing I'm the young punk. And realizing Spanish will no longer be a fluff class, thanks to my former teacher who did not make us speak Spanish (what the heck?) I told one of the Spanish teachers here that.

Her first words: "Ay, Dios!" I thought that was kind of funny. She looked horrified.

And then a couple days ago I had dinner at my cross-country coach's house, and yes, something totally weird, cool, and out-of-the-blue happened. I'm starting to think anything is possible at this point. But instead of tell you, I'll just write about it. It' s just more fun that way.

(Most names altered for privacy J)

____________________________________________

I perch on the edge of the wooden seat, which I think was made for someone much larger than me. Granted, I’m a runner, so I have a relatively slim build. Nothing like Elise, who sits quietly at the opposite end of the table. She has such a sweet smile, but she’s sooo quiet. I’m not the chattiest person in the world, but I do talk in paragraphs when I get rolling.

A couple more people come in the door, a girl who looks vaguely familiar and a lanky guy. I guess they’re sophomores or juniors. Some of the older crew sitting on the couch exchange greetings. I check the open spaces around the table. There’s room for one-and-a-half people to my left, and if Briana scoots over, there’ll be room for both of them.

They eventually make their way over with plates loaded with barbecue. I scan both of them, which is automatic habit. (A girl I sat with at dinner a couple days ago told me that she noticed I was really observant, that my gaze kept flitting around. Obviously, this tells me something about her observation skills J)

The girl (this is one of my writing difficulties: I don’t like saying ‘girl’, because sometimes it sounds too young, but ‘lady’ or ‘woman’ is too old, so I’m sticking with girl) is wearing a plum camisole, which oddly is the same color as the square-neck shirt Zelda is wearing (she’s absurdly pretty). She smiles at me. “Hey, I’m Melanie. I think you’re the one I met at the running store I work at in The Woodlands.”

Cha-ching! I smile and nod. “Yeah, that was me.”

She slides onto the bench next to Briana, and the new guy sits directly to my left. Melanie waves to get the table’s attention. “Hey, you guys, this is...” The name is lost as a couple guys wince and groan at something on the TV.

We all introduce ourselves. Somehow the topic of ages comes up, possibly in relation to R-rated movies. Someone was kind enough to forget how old I was. That might have been fine, but John decided to remind everyone. He meant nothing by it, but I’ve been the young one for so long I’d like to shed the image at college. At least everyone (and I mean everyone) says I don’t look sixteen. That always makes me feel better.

The new guy looks at me. Sadly, his name is a distant memory, driven out by the occasional snatches of the Closing Ceremonies I see on Coach’s big TV. He also looks vaguely familiar, but most distance runners by nature of their sport share a lean build. There are a lot of tall, thin runner guys out there. And it’s possible I’ve seen him at a meet before. “So, wait, you’re only sixteen?”

Grin. Bear it. I don’t even sound like I’m talking through gritted teeth. “Yeah, but only until next Friday.” Conveniently the first cross-country meet.

“Cool,” he says. “So, did you graduate early, or were you homeschooled?”

We talk about that for a while. I find out he has a little sister, and he’s a sophomore transfer from Arkansas. The real surprise comes when I find out where he went to high school. “Seriously! My sister and I both ran summer track with Coach G. I thought it was hilarious how he could totally chew out the high school guys, turn around to the track kids and say ‘I’m sorry you had to hear that’.” I glance at one of the other girls, whose eyebrows are lifted. “I mean, he was totally sincere. It was just kind of scary. He’s the greatest guy. Just bipolar.”

Half the table cracks up at that.

He smiles, ruefully. He probably got the nice Coach G track-kid side and then upon turning fifteen, the much scarier high school coach side. “Yeah, that’s about right.”

Coach’s husband comes up with a couple DVDs and hands them to the new guy. (What was his name, dadgummit?) “These are copies of the Congress Mile. If you want to copy them, feel free. I have no idea how to.”

I sit straighter. I know how to work computers. Unless they know I’m coming and block me out, in which case I just post voy a pegarle un tiro a mi computadora on Facebook. “I can copy those on my computer.”

We work out the details, which takes thirty seconds, and I take the DVDs. I’m really curious now. I know one runner from New Kid’s school who ran the Congress Mile a couple times. This school is notorious (in the best way) for having super-fast runners, so this guy is probably one of them I didn’t know.

So we talk on and off for the next hour or so. It’s dark outside, and I’ve lost track of time. All I know is that I get to sleep in tomorrow, something that thrills me. I’m whooped.

The group migrates into the kitchen, just a circle of thin runner-people chatting about who knows what. I refill my cup with water and stand on the fringe of the group next to the new guy.

“So,” I say. “If you went to TWH High School, you’d know Aaron Nessick, right?” I ran summer track and some middle-school club cross-country with Aaron, obviously years ago. I doubt he remembers me, but I’m just looking for connection points with my new teammate.

He half turns, giving me this weird look like I just chanted a transfiguration spell.

In Sanskrit.

I feel as though I should say something, but I don’t know what to say. I don’t even think I muster an awkward smile.

Eyebrows half-lifted, he lifts one hand and points to himself.

This would make a great movie scene. I display all the stereotypical facial reactions. Like, my mouth falls open. That’s never actually happened before. It’s just something I write about. “You’re-”

He nods.

I’m too stunned to kick myself for not remembering his name. I clap both hands over my mouth (again, only book characters do this, right? It’s just an evening of firsts.) “Oh my gosh. I am such an idiot.” I mean this, too. All the puzzle pieces I didn’t realize were puzzle pieces snap into place. Sophomore transfer from Arkansas. Younger sister (who also ran). Ran the Congress Mile twice. It played out like a perfect scene from a mystery book. All the clues were there. I just didn’t realize it until it all fell together.

Realizing how stupid I must look, I drop my hands. I never expected to actually speak with Aaron again, much less be on the same freaking team. “No way. Wow.” Memories flood my mind. “Do you remember that time you and my little sister raced a two-mile time trial and you puked on the track?”

His eyebrows fold, and he shakes his head. “Not really. Was that in the fall?”

I seriously just asked if he remembered puking on the track? Yeah, baby. I am smooth. The queen of subtlety, the master of…I don’t know. I can’t think. I can’t believe I just said that. My brain synapses are spazzing on me.

Thankfully, I think he forgets I said that like a couple minutes later. Of course, with my luck, in a few years he’ll bring it up.

_____________________________________________

And once again, this is 100% truth (I was too dumbfounded to remember exact dialogue, FYI).