Girl on the Run

Chapter One

There's no such thing as a safe bet. You might be the fastest runner in the heat, but that doesn't mean you're going to win the final race. Even when the finish line is dead ahead, waiting at the end of that flat stretch of track, it can still seem like an uphill climb. But I knew that as long as I could see it, I could reach it first.

Crouching down, I'd wiggle the toe of my sneaker into the starters block. My splayed fingers stretched behind the chalk line as I inched forward, psyching out the runners beside me. Don't even bother, my body language warned them, I've already won this thing.

BANG! Jolted by the starters gun, I would surge forward with eyes wide open, targeting the finish, dead ahead.

But like I said, there's no such thing as a safe bet. Four months ago, my finish line disappeared, and along with it, my future.

Now, instead of early morning runs and sessions at the gym-instead of waiting eagerly for that gun to go off, I spend my time loafing around in my best friend's bedroom. Chloe's company was my refuge in our sleepy little town, where the whispers and glances still followed me. She was able to keep up the banter for both of us, and it helped me feel like I was almost normal again.

"It's a known fact," Chloe said, running a brush through her thick black hair, "the best looking guys are the best kissers." It was a topic she liked to analyze with great enthusiasm. She even had a theory.

"Something I'll have to take your word for," I answered. I sat sideways in her pink wing-back chair with my legs dangling over one armrest and my pony tail hanging down over the other.

"Practice makes perfect," Chloe recited, "and the cutest guys have ample opportunity to hone their craft."

She stood in front of the long antique mirror in the corner of her bedroom, admiring her image. Her new jeans were a birthday present from me (after she told me where to go and what to buy). With her exotic features and flawless brown skin, Chloe was cover girl material. And me? I was Jesse Collins; high school track and field star, carrying small town hopes for a future Olympian-or at least, I used to be.

"I know where you're going with this," I said. I looked up from the only book Chloe had in her room. Style magazines littered her bed, a shiny brochure for summer camp peeked out, the one I would be leaving for tomorrow. "This is about the dirty old Santa, isn't it?" I prodded.

"It's called the 'kissing clause!'" She stooped over and picked up a pair of wedge sandals from the array of designer shoes strewn on the floor.

"Oh right," I lay the romance book open on my chest, marking my spot. "The kissing clause," I said, making quotations around her phrase. "Remind me of the finer points of your master thesis."

She was on one knee, securing the sandal strap around her ankle. "First kisses are terrible. It doesn't matter how experienced you both are, the nervousness overrides the skill."

"Still sounds like a perverted holiday icon."

"I'm just trying to figure out why you didn't hit it off with Keith," she pouted. "I thought you guys would've been a perfect match." She straightened up and crossed her arms, staring at me, waiting for an explanation.

Even though I could care less, I had to admit, Chloe had a point. Keith was a really nice guy. He even showed up at the door with flowers. But after three dates there was no denying it, things weren't heating up. The kissing wasn't horrible-it was like celery; enjoyable if spread with cream cheese and roasted walnuts. But celery on its own just wasn't enough, even if it shows up with flowers.