The Jungle Girl

18-The Pacer

 It's storming and I love it. I love the tapping of the rain and the whistle of the wind. I love the heaviness in the air and the crackling of the thunder. But, the thing I love most about this storm is that we get to stay inside for gym class today.

We were scheduled to run the mile today, but that clearly won't happen unless they want their students to smell like wet dogs and drag in ten pounds of mud. So I'm happy. I'm happy until I see Mr.Dolly bringing in a speaker and laptop. Oh no... oh hell no.

He claps his hands and the room goes silent. He tells us to stand and we obey his command like a bunch of lab rats. We're half a step away from saluting him.

Kids start to notice the speaker and I see the realization hit. Faces fall, eyes widen, legs wobble. The pacer... We're going to do the pacer.

Now, I'm convinced that the pacer test was created for military torture training because

there is no way in hell a sane person would want children to go through this. Running back and forth, back and forth, faster and faster, faster and faster. You want to stop but you can't. No one's out yet and you don't want to be the weakest link. You don't want those soccer players to laugh and whisper about you. So you keep going. You feel like you're dying, but you keep going. Then, finally, someone's out. You push yourself and keep going. A few more go out. You continue to push. Just three more, you think to yourself. Three more and then you can stop. It'll be all over and you can sit down with the other non-athletes. Everything is burning. You can't do it anymore. You have to sto-

"Bindi?" It's Angela.

I try to give her a smile. "Hey. Are you ready?"

"Yeah," she replies. "Are you, though? You look like you're gonna vomit."

I give her a smile, a real one this time. "I'm fine. I just hate this so much. Running is not my thing."

She pats my back. "You'll be fine. Just don't push yourself too hard. Trust me, I know from experience."

I wrinkle my nose. "Should I even ask?"

"Please don't."

"Got it."

We all go to the back of the gym and stand in a line. Everyone's basically fighting for space and it's hard for me to even lift up my arms to tie my hair back. Mr.Dolly hits a button on his laptop. The FitnessGram pacer test is a multistage... An audible groan fills the gym. I can't help but laugh despite the fact that I'm probably about to meet my demise. Right after I have that thought I begin to understand why Zenny always tells me I'm dramatic.

I look left and right and see some people wiping the bottom of their shoes which makes me want to wash my hands and some people shaking their legs out. I probably look like an idiot standing still with my hands folded behind my back. I start to stretch half heartedly, meaning I lift my legs behind me for two seconds each. That should be enough to not get a cramp, right?

The beep goes off, we start walking. Start slow, save your energy. But, these motherfuckers must have extra long legs because I'm running to keep up by the fifth round. I think I'm one of the shortest people in the entire school. Apparently 5'1 isn't average like I thought, it's really fucking short. I don't know what happened. I used to always be one of the tallest people in elementary school and then puberty hit everyone else but me. Boys got taller, girls got curvier, and I stayed the same. I try to convince myself that I don't care, but I definitely do. Whatever. At least I can still sleep on my stomach.

We're on round thirty-five when the first person goes. I really want to join them, but I don't. Round forty. I keep going and try to draw strength from every fictional character that's ten times more badass than me. Inej is rooting for you. You think Kaz would stop so soon? Anne didn't hit Gilbert in the face for nothing. But, thinking about people who don't actually exist only gets you so far. I stop at fifty-five, which, believe it or not, is the best I've ever gotten. I'm stupidly proud of myself. Kind of like that one time I got an eleven minute mile and rewarded myself with a bag of sour patch kids.

My stomach hurts, my eyes are watery, and my nose is running. I probably look amazing. I sit down on the bleachers with the others and wait for everyone else to finish, and since I'm one of the first fifteen to finish, it'll probably take awhile. Angela's still going strong and gives me a wave when I catch her eye. She really is a good friend, but everytime I talk to her I'm reminded of the shit she said before. I don't want to be friends with someone like that, but at the same time, what can I do about it? I don't want to turn this into a huge thing. I've only known her for a little bit. What if I'm judging her too quickly?

I'm interrupted mid-thought when Angela plops down beside me. She throws her arm around my shoulder. "I'm dying! Bindi, please help me!"

I take her sweaty arm of my shoulder. "I would say you're being dramatic, but I was thinking the same thing just a few minutes ago."

Angela looks at me. "You know, I think that's the longest sentence you've ever said to me. I should write that down."

I smile at her. I just love when people comment about how little I talk! Just makes me want to talk more and more! *insert rolling eyes emoji her*

Before it gets too awkward she grabs my arm and drags me off the bleachers. My legs whine in protest, but when I see that we're going to the hallway for a drink of water, I bite my tongue. I try not to drink from water fountains because I have an irrational fear of getting sick from them. Actually, this very school was shut down for a few days because they found lead in the water... it's a very rational fear. But, I'll make an exception today since my tongue feels like cotton.

There's a pretty long line for the water fountain, so we have to stand in the hallway in our uniforms, sweaty as hell, and with our hair probably looking like a dog just sat on it. Is that even a phrase idk. Angela keeps up a steady stream of chatter as always, and I nod or smile when appropriate. We finally get to the front of the line and I realize we're one of the last ones in line. I look back at the gym and see that some kids are still running. Round 160. Pfft, that's only, like, 105 more than I did. Yikes... maybe I should actually start working out.

Angela finishes drinking and tells me she'll save me a seat on the bleachers. I nod and go to the fountain. I let the water run for a few seconds to let it filter and take a sip. I don't trust these enough to take more than that. Someone walks out of the bathroom next to the fountain, but I don't really pay much attention.

"Hey, Bindi."

I pause. Please don't let it be Ryan, please don't let it be Ryan. I look up.

"Hi." It's Ryan, in case you were wondering.

There's a few seconds where no one says anything and I can just feel the cringy flashbacks I'm going to have of this moment later.

"So," Ryan says. "You were in gym class?"

I look down at my uniform. "Yep."

"Oh, well duh," Ryan says with a sheepish grin and looks down while rubbing the back of his neck.

I smile but on the inside I'm screaming. Why is he talking to me, why does he look nervous, how does he know my name, why does his hair look so good today...

"You did the pacer?" he asks.

I nod.

"What'd you get?"

I freeze. Do I tell him my pathetic score or do I lie? "Um.."

"Ryan! My man! How're you doing?"

I turn my head and see a guy coming towards us. He passes by me like he doesn't even see me and shakes hands with Ryan. He starts talking about some game that's happening this weekend. I notice Ryan trying to catch my eye, but I take my opportunity and walk away.

Thank you nameless jock that just saved me from a conversation with Ryan Katsumata. But, also fuck you. But, mostly thank you.

I get to the bleachers and sit by Angela. I remember that my eyes are red from the wind and my hair is sticking up like I just rubbed a balloon on my head. And Ryan saw me like that. Cool.

I let out a breath and put my head in my hands. Angela takes that as a cue to start massaging my back. Which, I hate to admit, feels really fucking good.

"Why are you actually good at massaging?" I ask her.

"My grandma was a masseuse. She taught me a few things," she explains. "Ooh do you wanna hear a story about how a customer asked my grandma to massage her-"

"No, I'm good."