Runner Girl

Chapter Five

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.