RUNNING BACK

Chapter 5: Yes Sir, I Do in Fact Have Ovaries

When she gets in the car, Emma's frowny face tells me she's had a rough day.

"What's wrong, Chickenpock?" I ask.

"Nothing." Her little brow is furrowed.

"Come on, you can tell me."

She inhales deeply, huffing out unidentified frustrations. She's not going to give me the satisfaction of admitting things went awry. Finally, she turns and looks at me as I'm driving out of the parking lot. "Sweet Jesus, Peyton, are you having a heat stroke? What the hell have you been doing?"

"What?" I ask, innocently.

"You look like a human tomato," she says.

"Thanks. You hungry?" I snap back, trying to evade explaining why.

She stares at me for a couple more beats. "A little. Is there a Subway here? I need something low-calorie."

"We're not in suburbia anymore, Toto. I think our options are limited."

We end up in the Whataburger parking lot. "Seriously? Whataburger? How is this healthy?"

"It's that or Dairy Queen. You could get one of those Whata-Salads. Besides, wouldn't hurt you to eat a burger. You can't weigh more than eighty-five pounds soaking wet right now."

We walk inside and Emma wrinkles her nose as she scans the area. It's a little worn and smells like old French fry grease. The floors are made of cheap linoleum tiles that peel away from the wall, and dirt has collected in the crevices. The framed posters of various Texas locales–a field of bluebonnets, the Sam Houston Statue, a horse standing beside an old barn–all hang slightly askew with fingerprint smears on the glass.

"Yep," she says, sighing, "this is definitely not a suburban paradise."

"Just order something," I say, nudging her to the counter. "I'm sure it's delish." I get a number two: a double with cheese, a large fry, large lemonade, and a chocolate shake. The lady behind the counter doesn't know quite what to make of me—a bald bean-pole with a tomato face probably doesn't place an order with her every day.

I ease my tired frame down across from my sister, unwrap the burger, and tear into it like I haven't eaten in days. "I was right," I mumble, mouth full of food, "deeee-lish." 

"God, Peyton." Emma carefully dips her lettuce into her vinaigrette. "You're going to super-size yourself."

"I have a freakish metabolism. That's what happens when you're five foot ten and a buck forty. There's a lot of me to maintain."

"You're basically skeletal, so I guess you can eat whatever..." She trails off and looks past me out the window into the parking lot. "Seems like the football team got out of practice."

I choke on a French fry. Between coughs I manage to ask, "How can you tell?"

"There's a whole posse of them in football pants walking towards the door."

Crap. I'm not exactly inconspicuous with this haircut. I don't know what I was thinking. What I need is a hat. I get up and run into the bathroom.

"Think, Peyton, think!" I mutter to myself. I'm pacing back and forth in front of the row of mirrors, my stupid bald head following me wherever I go.

I glance into the stalls. "Maybe I could fashion a cap out of toilet paper."

Yeah. Because that won't attract attention.

"That's not helping, Pax."

After about five minutes Emma comes in to check on me. "What's wrong? You make yourself sick or something?"