I'm awake every day long before dawn so no one will see me. Not that I'm afraid of what people might think or anything, but because I have to get home quick to help get my sister ready for school. Single parent home and all that.
My muscles feel more awake than I do since that dream I had about Darla still fogs my brain. The picture she posted on Facebook on Saturday of her in that skimpy prom dress and shiny dark curls spiraling over the tops of her boobs begs me to revisit her behind closed eyelids. But I can't. If I want to earn a track scholarship by the time I'm a senior, I have to be “focused, sharp, keep your eyes on the prize, Travis.” God, I really hate Coach sometimes.
After a little more deep stretching, I turn myself around, Hokey-Pokey style, and step off the porch. Backward. Retro-jogging, Coach calls it. Running backward increases stamina, he says. Mom calls it trying to rewind time and then she sighs.
The problem with retro-jogging is that I can only see where I’ve been. It kind of sounds poetic. Coach says it’s like poetry in motion, whatever that means. I twist my head to look over my shoulder because the strong Kansas wind will dry out my eyeballs if I don't. It’s coming straight at me, but at least it's pushing me in the right direction.
I pick up my speed. A strange smell mixes through the cool morning air, almost like the time Mom left a hamburger casserole in the trunk of her car on a scorching day. Flies buzz over a brimming trash can someone left on the side of the road. I hurry past.
When I have found the perfect pace and my heart is tattooing my ribcage, my thoughts turn to Darla again. I wish she'd posted more pictures, but her Facebook status has been empty since Saturday pre-prom. That Cro-Magnon dude she'd gone with had better treated her right or else he’ll be retro-jogging too when I spin his head around. Yeah, right. That's the adrenaline coursing through me. I can't take him even if I juiced myself up on whatever he obviously takes.
Around the next corner, that same forgotten meat smell just about knocks me over. It's so strong, my stomach clenches and I fight off a gag. I listen for flies and think I hear them up ahead, or actually behind me. No trash can this time, but that doesn’t mean anything. Some people’s houses just reek. I pump my arms and pick up my speed.
The crunch of gravel and a rustle of wet grass sound behind me. I crane my neck around but don't see anything except a rectangle of light spilling onto someone's yard. And a single shadow slicing through it.
My heel catches on the uneven sidewalk. I windmill my arms, but it's too late. My landing shoots pain through my tail bone.
"Hey, you okay?" a female voice asks.
"Yeah. Great." I wiggle my legs to make sure they're still working. Thankfully, they are. I heave a sigh and look up at the concerned neighbor. Only she doesn't seem all that concerned anymore. She's squinting down the street in the direction I've been going. Dark shortish hair breezes over one eye, and she rakes it behind her ear. She’s older than me, like maybe Mom’s age, only she doesn’t wear the constant worry lines on her forehead. The sleeve of her flannel pajamas glides over the tablet-looking thing in her hand.
She flutters her free hand to her nose. “What is that smell?”
“Bad steak?” The blasts of wind have already faded it some.
"Did you hear anything a minute ago?" she asks.
"You mean other than me breaking my butt?"
"I mean the sound of Alexandra McNeil's metallic t-straps."
"Who's Alexandra?"
The girl sighs and bends to offer me a hand. "A designer. Of shoes. I swear I heard the click of heels on the sidewalk and the swish of chiffon against a Michael Kristy clutch."
