Second Helpings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [28]
“Moe’s the pick of the litter,” she confided. “ And the cat’s meow.” She purred for effect.
They sure know how to have a grand old time at Silver Meadows. I stayed through bingo, Wheelchair-obics, Music and Memories, and afternoon tea and cookies. This assisted-living facility seemed closer to my vision of college than SPECIAL turned out to be. You know, guys and girls hanging out, having fun, hormones flying. Only it’s even better because they don’t have to go to class or study or write papers or anything.
Jesus Christ. I’d rather be a senior citizen than a senior in high school. A new low.
the sixteenth
My mom won’t get out of bed today.
My dad disappeared at dawn, and won’t pedal into the driveway until after sundown.
My sister in California will go shoe shopping, blissfully oblivious of the date.
I will sit and think about how I am a pinprick in the condom. A forgotten Pill. A misplaced diaphragm. An accident. I am the second daughter they weren’t supposed to have after the first son that wasn’t supposed to die. I will contemplate how my very existence relied on his demise.
I will sit and say it silently, because no one will ever say it out loud:
Happy birthday, Matthew Michael Darling. Happy birthday to you.
the twentieth
I am trying to be nicer to my dad. Trying and failing.
I actually asked him if he wanted to follow me on his bike while I went on a five-mile run. If only he knew how much of a sacrifice this was for me. Not only have I always hated it when he rides along with me, but the sheer act of running has been pure torture lately.
Running used to be effortless, even when I hated it. I broke my leg last fall, but now my entire body feels like it needs to be fused back together. I feel like I’ve gained a hundred pounds, even though the scale hasn’t budged. Every breath is labored, as if I’m running in a biohazard suit but the oxygen tank isn’t working. I know I look as terrible as I feel, and I don’t need my dad to point that out.
“I told you to work out at that artsy-fartsy camp! Now look at you! Do you want to get beat by freshmen again?”
No, I most certainly do not. Last season’s “comeback” from my injury was a total failure. I’ve tried to let go of that humiliating track season, when I was beat by runners I had practically lapped the year before. I can’t. Still, nothing bothered me more than my inability to come within twenty seconds of my old PRs. The way I see it, if I can’t beat my former self, what’s the point? After being number one, it’s tough to settle for being just one of the pack.
I want to quit. If that makes me a sore loser, then so be it.
I’ve never quit anything in my life. Plus, I’m the captain, a senior, and a four-year varsity vet. And captains who are seniors and four-year varsity vets do not quit.
But I really want to quit.
In fact, the only real problem I have with the concept of quitting is that no more team means no more running—period. I’d miss those middle-of-the-night solo runs around my neighborhood. They were the only things that soothed my insomnia—well, besides those late-night phone conversations with He Who Shall Remain Nameless. I felt connected to something larger than my own sorry little suburban existence. It was the closest I’ve ever come to having religion. It’s too bad I never felt that sense of peace at practice, or at the meets—even when I won.
The other drawback to quitting would be my dad’s insistence that I see a surgeon. My mom hates hospitals, which is why she has supported my decision not to go under the knife. Or maybe she sees what my fanatical father can’t. She knows that an orthopedist won’t be able to fix the real source of my pain: my head.
the twenty-eighth
Ack. I was malled by the Clueless Two while back-to-school shopping.
I figured the