Run, Benji, Run

The heat was...bearable. The humidity, however, was not. It clung to her like a satin shirt straight from the dryer. Running had already made her skin glisten with sweat, and the humid air wasn't much of a help. She paid no attention to it, though. She just pushed herself further around the track, silencing everything around her except the thumping of her feet-left, right, left, right-on the asphalt, the beat of her heart-bump, bump, bump, bump-against her rib cage, and her own breath-inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale-in her lungs. She didn't hear them as they actually were, though. To her they were whispering one word, over and over.

Run, run. Run, run.

They would be there, her peers, when she came in from the track. Hey, Benji, they'd ask, How come you never go out for track, girl? You run like a cheetah. She'd shake her head in response, her chocolate brown braid swinging. I run when I need to think, she'd tell them, or when I just feel the need to run, not when a coach tells me to. They'd laugh at that. That's Benji, for you, they'd say later to their friends over their lunches. Benji. She hated that name; why her parents had to name their daughter Benjamin Georgie Turner, she did not know. Maybe it was because they had a thing for important American figures, but who knows? Everyone called her Benji, for short.

Run, run. Run, run.

Run, Benji, run.

She listened to her thoughts, too. This may have been her free period, but she couldn't think very well in those hard, silent wooden library chairs as she could out here, in her blue running shorts and her red tank top (blue and red were her favorite colors), running to the rhythm of her feet, heart, breath, feet, heart, breath.

Run, run. Run, run.

Run, Benji, run.

She could have been studying for the History test she had the next period, but it wouldn't help her much; her dad was a history professor at the community college, so she already knew all of the information. Maybe that was why they named her Benjamin, because the guy was such an important historical figure. Actually, it was more likely that her mom came up with the name-considering that there was a portrait of Benjamin Franklin in every room of their house.

Run, run. Run, run.

Run, Benji, run.

Lots of people have weird parents, Benji thought, mine are just really weird. They'd really liked her last boyfriend, Frankie Thompson, just because they liked the sound of ''Benji and Frankie." She'd ended it last week; she didn't think that he was right for her. Her thoughts were confirmed when he started freaking out, coming to school either drunk, high, or both, and just wouldn't plain leave her alone. Forget him, she thought. She didn't need someone like that. She just needed to run.

Run, run. Run, run.

Run, Benji, run.

Frankie was on the verge of getting over it; he was already making goo-goo eyes at other people, and he didn't come to school high anymore, but every once in while he'd have a hangover. Frankie had never liked the fact that she'd spent more time running than she had with him. She had tried to explain to him what she felt when she ran, but he didn't understand the rhythm of her feet versus her heart versus her breath, or what it sounded like to her.

Run, run. Run, run.

Run, Benji, Run.

She fished her phone out from the pocket of her shorts to check the time. Danget, she thought. She had thirty minutes to hit the showers and get dressed before the bell rang.

Run, run. Run...run.

Stop, Benji, stop.