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Maybe that’s why something had to go wrong. I was only about a tenth of a mile away from my house when it happened: I tripped over an exposed tree root in the sidewalk and twisted into the pavement, ankle first. It was exactly how I had tried to orchestrate it last spring, only my dad wasn’t there to hit me with his bike.

Or help me.

The pain in my right ankle was blindingly immediate. No way hydrogen peroxide would fix me up this time.

I literally baby-hopped home on my left foot. I cried every inch of the way. When I hopped through the back door of my house, I called out for help. My parents stumbled down the stairs in their pajamas and freaked out when they found me on the floor of the kitchen, my ankle blown up like a purple balloon. They thought I had been kidnapped and beaten or something. When I explained through my tears that no, I had snuck out in the middle of the night to go running all on my own, they really freaked out.

They rushed me to the ER. I was given a major painkiller that made me feel like I was moving in syrup. I don’t remember much about getting X rays or my cast.

Later at home, my mom read the doctor’s word-for-word diagnosis, as she had transcribed it on a yellow legal pad in the ER: I fractured both my tibia and fibula bones where they join at the ankle. This requires complete immobilization in a cast for six weeks, and it will take months of physical therapy and maybe even surgery to heal properly. My stability will never be the same.

My mom told me all this because my dad isn’t speaking to me.

I can hear him ranting and raving to my mother behind their closed bedroom door, though. How could she be so careless? This is the year college coaches look at for awarding athletic scholarships! She’s blown it! She could have been a superstar! What a waste of talent!

So it looks like my dream has come true. I ended my running career. Of course now that it’s happened, I can’t believe I ever wanted it in the first place.

the eleventh

I knew my parents were taking this all too well. Mom had been too quiet and concerned for my health. Even Dad’s rant was nowhere near as intense as I thought it would be. It turns out they were just waiting for the heavy narcotics to wear off so they could inflict some major parental pain on me when they got home from work today.

I was in my room, listening to the Pretty in Pink soundtrack, when I heard three short, sharp knocks on my door. They came in. Dad told me to shut off the stereo. They sat down on the bed, flanking me on either side. The wrinkle in Mom’s forehead was more pronounced than usual. My dad’s hands were tightly clasped, barely containing his anger, his bald head gleaming with sweat.

The interrogation was long, and relentless: How long have you been sneaking out behind our backs? Who were you meeting? Where were you going? Why in God’s name would you go running in the middle of the night? Is your coach not training you hard enough? Why don’t we see any of your old friends? What’s wrong with you?

I answered each question honestly, because it seemed to be the path of least resistance. But they weren’t the answers my parents wanted to hear. Sneaking out to meet a boy was something they could understand. Bethany had done that. Sneaking out to go to a rave, they could understand. They’d read about that in the Asbury Park Press. But sneaking out to go running because I couldn’t sleep, that they couldn’t understand. So they grounded me for a month. Total overkill since it’s not like I can go anywhere anyway.

When they left, I put my CD back on and skipped to my favorite track. Please, Please, Please. I sang along with Morrissey, the depressed pop star of choice for melancholic music lovers in the UK and beyond:

For once in my life, let me get what I want

Lord knows it would be the first time.

At least he knew what he wanted.

the fifteenth

Grounded Gimphood

I. The best things about it.

A. I get to limp out of class five minutes early to ensure safe passage through the otherwise treacherously bottlenecked PHS