Runner Girl

Chapter Nine

I lie on my bed and stare up at the ceiling, listless and miserable. Neon green fiberglass encases my left foot and reaches halfway up my shin, and the color hurts my eyes. My alarm went off fifteen minutes ago, but so far, I haven't moved, and I'm not sure if I want to.

There's a sharp knock on my bedroom door, and I sigh. "What?"

"Are you up?"

"No. You're talking to a zombie." I roll my eyes at my dad's question.

There's a pause, and I cross my fingers, hoping he'll give up and walk away. Instead, he asks, "Are you decent?"

What, does he think I'm naked or something? I usually sleep in a tank top and a pair of shorts, so I don't look much different than when I'm running, but last night, I'd skipped the shorts because of my cast and just curled up in an oversized T-shirt. I've got pretty good legs, but that doesn't mean I need him barging in here when I'm half-dressed. I glare at the stupid cast, thinking about the morning run I'm missing right now, and I feel a flicker of fear steal over me. I've never gone more than a couple of days between runs; I have no idea how I'm going to survive the four to six weeks the ER doctor said I'd have to be in this cast. Pushing those dark thoughts aside, I roll over onto my side, pulling the blanket over my hips and turning my back to the door. "Doesn't matter. I'm going back to sleep."

"You can't miss school."

I snort softly into my pillow. "I'm injured."

"It's just a broken ankle, Atalanta. You've got crutches and a cast; stop moping."

Doesn't he get it at all? It's not just a broken leg; it's the end of my life as I know it. And it's also the end of his endorsement deal, I realize with a sick sense of satisfaction. At least if I had to do something stupid, he'll be suffering right along with me.

When I don't answer, the handle of the door starts to turn, and I sit up fast. "Leave me alone!" I yell, throwing a pillow harmlessly at the door.

He doesn't finish opening the door, but he doesn't pull it closed, either. "I'll drive you to school. Be ready in ten minutes." His footsteps retreat down the hallway before I can think of something snappy to yell after him, and I sit on my bed for a moment, fuming. I don't want to spend any more time with him than I have to, but then again, do I really want to be cooped up in the apartment all day? It's not like I can go for a run if I cut classes, and if I might as well hobble through the school day, I'd rather get a ride than having to walk the few blocks with my crutches.

With a heavy sigh, I swing my feet around and reach for the ugly silver crutches leaning against the wall by the head of my bed. I didn't practice with them much last night after I got back from the hospital, so I'm a little worried I might face plant. Experimentally, I press the tops of the crutches under my armpits and lean forward, keeping the weight off my foot like the ER doctor told me I had to. "If you don't give yourself a chance to heal properly, you might end up needing surgery, and then your recovery time would be even worse," he'd said as he wrapped my cast. I swallow at the thought.

Hobbling around my room, I manage to get half dressed, but I'm standing there in my blue T-shirt and underwear when I realize I won't be able to fit my foot through the legs of any of my shorts or pants. My eyes dart around the room as I mentally flip through my minimal clothing collection, and finally I sit down at the desk with a defeated sigh and drop my head down onto my arms.

Something rustles next to me, and I look up, confused. A bright pink shopping bag, not the cheap plastic kind, but the kind with ribbons for handles that looks like it walked out of some fancy city boutique, sits on the desk next to me. I've never seen it before, and I could have sworn it wasn't there a minute ago, but then again, I'm hopped up on pain killers, so maybe I just missed it. Curious, I open the bag and push the tissue paper aside, pulling out a flowy pink and green skirt with an asymmetrical hem. It's not like anything I own, and I stare at it in confusion.