Addicted (ongoing)

Four

My sneakers squeak as I make my way across the gym floor to where Coach Wally is keeping time as the rest of the class jogs the perimeter. He barely acknowledges me as I hand him my late pass. When he doesn't mark me present on the roster, I clear my throat and look pointedly at the clipboard. Coach Wally sighs, makes an exaggerated check, and tilts the board so I can see.

"Satisfied?"

"Thank you," I say.

Coach Wally just shakes his head and sighs again. "Go warm up with the rest of the class, Bishop."

One of the back doors is propped open several inches, and I shiver against the winter air seeping in. I fall in line as the group passes, keeping my head down and thoughts to myself. I count the steps as I jog, if only to take my mind off the test and the unfairness of it all, even though I know Mr. Jessup was right to count the problem wrong. I might be smart by high school standards, but the professors at Cornell won't show me any preferential treatment or think I'm special, not when everyone there is just as driven. All I can do is work better and try harder.

Somewhere around step one seventy-five, I notice another pair of legs matching my stride. I glance to my left to see who it is.

Chase.

He's looking at me.

"Hey," I say, although it comes out sounding more like a grunt.

He nods. "Do you always run with your head down? Kinda makes it hard to see where you're going."

I shrug in response and clutch at the stitch in my side, wishing Coach Wally would blow his whistle already and end my misery. Physical Education is my least favorite class.

"Your breathing's all wrong," Chase says as we round a corner.

"Huh?"

"It's all shallow and hyper-like. Breathe from your diaphragm, three counts in and two counts out."

I watch as he demonstrates the "correct" way to breathe, as if I haven't been doing it my entire life.

"Most people breathe from their chest, up here." He thumps his chest near his heart. "But you can't get enough oxygen to your muscles that way, so that's when you start panting and getting tired. It's just one vicious cycle."

Before I can comment, Coach Wally's whistle brings everyone to a sudden stop. I bend over and grab my thighs, embarrassed at how winded I am.

"You know what to do!" Coach hollers.

I straighten and stretch my arms over my head, the last pangs of the stitch finally melting away. Chase seems confused at everyone partnering up. I gesture at the rows of floor mats on the other side of the gym. "Follow me," I say.

I lay down on the mat and bend my legs at a forty-five-degree angle in front of me. When Chase continues to stand there, I wiggle my feet. "You have to hold them."

Chase eyes my sneakers. "Seriously?"

"You don't have a choice. Participation counts for half the total grade." I wiggle my feet again. Chase crouches and wraps his fingers around my ankles, pressing down with his palms to hold my feet firmly in place.

"These are one-minute drills," I explain, looking up at him. "At the end of my minute, we switch places."

Coach Wally blows his whistle, signaling the start of the first minute, and I begin a steady up-down rhythm. Though I keep my eyes on Chase, I notice he looks everywhere but at me.

"How do you know so much about running?" I ask.

The question gets his attention. He shrugs and shifts his weight on the balls of his feet. "I was in a running club."