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By Root 308 0

circumstances that got her exiled to Pineville. Apparently, Hy used to go to some hoity-toity private school in Manhattan. ("You needed mad bank or mad brains to get in—I had the brains," said Hy.) Midway through her fall term the dean sent a letter saying that the school no longer had funding to continue her scholarship. ("They had to bounce the riffraff to make way for more trustafarians," Hy said.) Her mom couldn’t afford the tuition for the spring term. ("I never knew my dad," said Hy.) But there was no way she was going to put Hy in New York City’s public school system. ("With the chickenheads and thugs," Hy said.) So until her mom transfers to her company’s Jersey branch, Hy is living with her aunt and enrolled at PHS. ("With the Hoochies, Wiggaz, and Hicks," I said.)

Our convo wasn’t bad or anything. Hy’s history was fairly interesting. But the whole time I was talking to her, I was thinking about how sweet it would be when the clock read 9:27 P.M., which meant twenty minutes were up and I could end the conversation without seeming rude and I could try to get some sleep.

This is my new hobby. I watch my life depart minute by minute. I anticipate the end of everything and anything—a conversation, a class, track practice, darkness—only to be left with more clock-watching to take its place. I’m continually waiting for something better that never comes. Maybe it would help if I knew what I wanted.

Until I figure that out, I guess I’m waiting for the end of my sophomore year so summer can start, so I can wait for that to end so I can go back to school and do the waiting game for another two years until I graduate and finally escape to college, where I’m hoping to begin my "real life." Whatever that is.

I didn’t do this as much when you were here.

I really missed you tonight. I miss talking to you. Knowing that you get me. And every time I talk to someone else it just reminds me how much they don’t.

Tick-tockingly yours, J.

march

the fourth

My first spring track meet isn’t for another four weeks and already I wish the whole goddamn season were over.

Today I snuck out of the house so I could do my four-mile loop around the neighborhood all alone. When I’m out running by myself, without Kiley yelling out splits, or Paul Parlipiano distracting me with his God-like grace, my mind quiets. Clears.

Forgetting my locker combination was unsettling, sure. And I’m more than a little freaked about my non-period. But the whole Marcus incident had messed with my mind royally. I couldn’t stop thinking about him and what would happen if Sara started making her famous insinuations. You know, I think there’s something going on between—omigod!—Krispy Kreme and the Class Brainiac …

I really needed a half hour of not thinking about anything.

My father must have planted a homing device in the soles of my Sauconys because I was no farther than a half-mile from the house when I heard the whizzing wheels of his ten-speed. I should have known. My dad is always in one of two places: In front of his computer or on his bike. And when he’s not off on his solo Lance Armstrong adventures, he’s tailing me.

"Pick up the pace, Notso!" he yelled. "You think Alexis Ford runs this slow?"

Alexis Ford goes to Eastland High School. She beat me by four-tenths of a second in the 1600 meters at the freshman championships last year. My father analyzes the video of that race more than the Feds did the Zapruder film when Kennedy was shot. I’m not kidding. It usually goes like this:

"You lost the race right there," he says.

"Dad, the gun just went off. We weren’t even twenty-five meters into it."

Dad rewinds and freezes the tape. "Look right there," he says, pointing at the screen. "See how you had to go all the way into the third lane to get around that girl from Lacey? That was a waste of energy. Energy you needed for the sprint in the final straightaway. That’s why Alexis Ford beat you by four-tenths of a second."

A few weeks ago Dad spliced together an entire tape of these race-breaking moments to create a video montage I like to call "Notso