I'm still mulling over the woman in the shop's strange words the next afternoon when I let myself into the apartment, and like something out of a nightmare, my dad walks into the living room. We both stop like a pair of stupid animals caught in somebody's headlights, but he shakes it off first. He nods at me and then gestures to the sofa. "I'm glad I caught you."
I want to roll my eyes or yell or something, but I don't even feel like mustering the energy to hate him anymore. Instead, I drop my keys on the counter of the kitchenette, grab a bottle of kombucha from the fridge, and slowly make my way to the sofa. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye to see if my little performance is getting under his skin, but his face is irritatingly expressionless, and I flop onto the sofa with a muffled sigh.
He stares at me for a moment before sitting down in the chair across from me. The chair wasn't there when he first brought me here, but I'm glad that his decorator or whatever realized that there was no way in hell I would want to sit next to him on the sofa like some kind of sitcom family. Not that I even want to be in the same room as him, but still, it's the thought that counts.
"Are you ready for school next week?"
My old school doesn't start until after Labor Day, but evidently rich prep school kids are masochists, because our first day is in the middle of August. I shrug and take a swig straight from the bottle. "I don't really know. Do I need a uniform?"
For a minute, he looks discomfited, and then he pulls out his phone and types something. "I don't know. I'll check on that and get back to you."
"There's the orientation or whatever it is this week, right?" When his expression remains blank, I add, "the sticky note on the kitchen counter?"
His face clears. "Ah, that. No, that's not an orientation. That's the date for your entrance interview."
"I have to go to an interview?"
He nods firmly. "They just want an opportunity to get to know you, Atalanta."
"Lana."
"They're very selective," he says, talking over me like I haven't spoken. I slurp my kombucha and glare at him.
"But I'm already enrolled. Why do I have to do a stupid interview?"
"A formality, but we'll follow their rules. I doubt you'd want to start this year off on the wrong foot, considering you'll need all the faculty recommendations you can muster for your college applications."
Anger bubbles under my skin. "If you hadn't pulled me out of my old school, my old life, I wouldn't need to kiss ass this year to get good recommendations. My old teachers all loved me."
He narrows his eyes, so like my own that it's unnerving to look at him for very long. "Language, young lady."
I roll my eyes. "Right. Cause my fucking language matters so much."
He doesn't push back, but he doesn't stand up and leave, either, and I sink lower into the couch cushions. I'll just have to try harder, I think, sizing him up and trying to find a weak spot. Other than our silent car ride, this is really the first time I've spent any time alone with the man since he waltzed into my life and turned everything upside down, and I realize that my imagination has made him seem a lot more intense than he is in reality. In real life, he's practically unflappable...which, frankly, is creepier than if he'd explode at me and yell.
"I've already spoken to the track and field coach, and she's excited to have you on her team this year."
"What if I don't want to run track?" I fire back without thinking. The words hang in the air, and all I want to do is shove them back inside me; running is my life. Without that, who will I be? But the flicker of fear and frustration that I catch on my dad's face before he smooths his features again is enough to make me wonder if, for whatever reason, he's counting on me running.
"I would think an all-state athlete wouldn't just walk away her junior year," he says. "You could always switch to cross country, I suppose." His tone is light, but there's an undercurrent to his words, something I can't quite put my finger on, but it feels halfway between fear and a threat.
I eye him carefully and take another sip. "I don't know. I was actually thinking I'd go out for cheer. Fresh start and all that."
I'm just trying to get a rise out of him, but the moment the words leave my lips, I realize that I'm actually considering the idea. It is a fresh start; maybe, if I become a cheerleader, I can make a new place for myself. Nobody at the prep school is going to expect me to be an ass-kicking runner, and maybe that'll give me a chance to be normal for five seconds. And if I'm not beating everyone on the track and scaring all the boys away, maybe I'll have a chance to find somebody to date. Before that idea has time to settle, my dad lets out a strangled cough, and I swing my eyes back to him, enjoying his discomfort.
"At...Lana," he begins, leaning forward slightly. "I wasn't going to bring this up yet, but it sounds like we need to have a certain conversation."
I flash him my wickedest grin. "I already know about the birds and the bees, thanks."
He narrows his eyes at me, his careful veneer starting to crack. "Not what I want to discuss." He clears his throat again, and I try not to look interested when he finally says, "I'm an investor in a new brand of running shoe."
My ears kind of perk up, but I try really hard to shrug nonchalantly. "Good for you."
"And as the investor," he says, regaining his usual calm demeanor quicker than I would have thought possible, "I get certain perks. But I have to follow through, especially when those perks are, well, not what the company had in mind."
"Free shoes?" I ask hopefully.
"Of a sort. You're all set to be the spokesperson for Olympian Footwear."
I blink at him, not comprehending. "What, like an intern or something?"
"Like a paid professional sports endorsement."
The wheels in my head start turning, and I almost throw my drink in his face. "I'm just a high schooler! Sure, I'm fast, but I'm not that good." Actually, I am that good, but I hope he doesn't know it. Getting my face slapped all over some stupid shoe is not going to help me fit in at my new school. Besides, I'm terrible in front of cameras. "Why would they even want me?"
"You're fast. Surely you're aware of that," he says, a bit ironically, like he knows I fly when I'm on the track.
I shrug and look away. "But I'm not a professional athlete. Aren't there like, rules about stuff like that? I mean, I'm still in high school."
"You'll be seventeen before track season really kicks off, and since you've got parental consent, it's not a problem. They want to roll out the new line in the spring. The timing is perfect."
"But what if I don't want to?" I know I sound like a whiny brat, but I don't care. Who the hell is this guy to swoop in, kidnap me, and then force me into a spotlight I've never wanted?
He stands up like the discussion is over. "You can't pass up an opportunity like this. Your mother"—he stops and swallows. "Your mother would have killed for this chance."
I stare at him, not understanding. "What are you talking about?"
He waves his hand, not meeting my eyes. "It doesn't matter. We'll stop by and meet the board after your school interview." With that, he turns and leaves the room, heading down the hallway that I can only imagine leads to his lair.
I watch him go, completely flabbergasted, and then I stalk down the opposite hall. We'll just see about that.
As soon as I'm safe in my room, I grab a pillow off my bed and shove it into my face, and then I let loose with the most vibrant, colorful curses I can think of, happily stringing together words into one big ridiculous mess. Instead of being cathartic, it just makes me angrier, and I toss the pillow across the room in disgust.
Why is everything so complicated? I pull out my phone, and send a quick text to Kary.
"Tonight sucks."
She writes back immediately. "???"
I hesitate, my fingers paused over the keys. I want to dump everything, to tell her all the crap my dad is putting me through, but I can't help remembering the way she reacted when she first found out who he is. We've never talked about it, mainly because when I'm running or hanging out with her, I try to pretend that the man who destroyed my life doesn't exist, but a part of me wonders if bringing up the whole sponsorship thing will cause problems with her. We haven't discussed anything like career goals or aspirations, but Kary seems to like to run as much as I do, and professional sponsorship is a dream so many athletes aspire to but never reach. And now I'm basically going to be handed this laurel crown without having to do any work to earn it, just because Daddy's loaded. Finally, I text the phrase, "daddy issues," smiling grimly to myself.
She doesn't say anything for a long time, and I wonder if just the mention of my father was enough to drive a wedge between us, but finally, my phone buzzes, and I start to smile at her words: "Want to run?"
So we do. We don't talk while we're running, but she and Harold meet me at the park, and we pound away on the sidewalk, even though we already jogged two miles this morning. Sometimes, it's like the only thing that's right in my life is the feeling of speed, the sensation of the wind against my skin as the scenery blurs by. If I ever had to stop running, I don't know what I'd do; running is my oxygen.