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“I don’t know. Just drive, all right?”
The man turns to study us. He’s middle-aged, balding, not too tall and dressed in an Eagles jersey. “You need something?”
I’ve never seen him before. Maybe my mother has hired a handyman. More likely, she’s sold the house and moved away and this man is the new owner. I wave an apology and turn to Adrian. “If you don’t go right now, I am getting out of this truck and walking back to Spring Brook.”
He shifts into drive and we move through the green light. I direct him through traffic to FDR Park, South Philly’s go-to spot for picnics, birthdays, and wedding party photography. Growing up, we all called it “the Lakes,” because it’s speckled with ponds and lagoons. The largest one is Meadow Lake and we find a bench with a good view of the water. Off on the horizon, against the gray sky, we can see the elevated roadways of Interstate 95, six lanes of cars hurtling to and from the airport. And for a long time we don’t say anything, because neither of us knows where to start.
“I wasn’t lying about the scholarship,” I tell him. “In my junior year, I ran a 5K in seventeen minutes, fifty-three seconds. I was the sixth-fastest girl in Pennsylvania. You can google it.”
“I already googled it, Mallory. The first day we met, I ran home and searched for every Mallory Quinn in Philadelphia. I found all your high school stats. Just enough to make your story feel credible.” Then he laughs. “But nothing on Twitter, nothing on social media. I thought it was cool—this aura of mystery. The girls at Rutgers, they’re on Instagram twenty-four/seven, posting glamour shots and fishing for compliments. But you were different. I thought you were confident. I never imagined you were hiding something.”
“I was mostly honest.”
“Mostly? What does that mean?”
“I only lied about my past. Nothing else. Not the pictures from Anya. And definitely not the way I feel about you. I was going to tell you the truth last night, over dinner, I swear.”
He doesn’t say anything. He just stares out over the lake. Some nearby kids are playing with a drone; it looks like a miniature UFO with eight furiously spinning propellers, and every time it passes by, it sounds like a swarm of bees. I realize Adrian is waiting for me to continue, that he’s giving me the chance to come clean. I take a deep breath.
“All right, so—”
21
All my problems started with a simple sacral stress fracture—a tiny break in the triangle-shaped bone at the base of my spine. This was September of my senior year of high school, and the recommended treatment was eight weeks of rest—right at the start of cross-country season. It was bad news but not a complete disaster. The injury was common among young women runners, easily treatable, and wouldn’t impact my offer from Penn State. The doctors prescribed OxyContin for the pain—a single forty-milligram tablet twice a day. Everyone said I would be fine for winter track in November.
I still went to all the practices and I lugged around equipment and helped to tally everyone’s scores—but it was hard to watch my teammates from the sidelines, knowing I should be running alongside them. Plus, since I had more time on my hands, my mother expected me to do more around the house. More cooking and cleaning and shopping and looking after my sister.
Mom raised us single-handedly. She was short, overweight, and she smoked a pack a day—even though she worked at Mercy Hospital, as a billing administrator, so she knew all the health risks. Beth and I were always after her to quit, always hiding her Newports under the sofa or other places she would never look. She would just go out and buy new ones. She said they were her coping mechanism, that we needed to get off her case. She was always quick to remind us we had no grandparents, no aunts or uncles, and there was definitely no second husband on the horizon—so the three of us had to show up for each other. That was our big refrain growing up: showing up for each other.
Three or four Saturdays a year, the hospital would summon my mother for “Surprise Mandatory Overtime” to plow through all the outstanding billing disputes that nobody could make sense of. One Friday evening Mom got the call and told us she had to go to work the next day. Then she told me I had to drive my sister to Storybook Land.
“Me? Why me?”
“Because I promised I would take her.”
“Take her Sunday. You’re off Sunday.”
“But Beth wants to bring Chenguang, and Chenguang can only go Saturday.”
Chenguang was my sister’s best friend, a weirdo with pink hair who drew cat whiskers on her cheeks. She and Beth were in some kind of anime club.
“I’ve got a meet tomorrow! In Valley Forge. I won’t be back until three.”
“Skip the meet,” my mother said. “You’re not running. The team doesn’t need you.”
I tried explaining to my mother that my presence delivered a huge psychological boost to my teammates, but she wasn’t buying it. “You’re driving Beth and Chenguang.”
“They’re too big for Storybook Land! It’s a kiddie park!”
“They’re going ironically.” My mother opened the back door, lit a cigarette, and exhaled smoke through the screen. “They know they’re too big for it, that’s why they want to go.” She shrugged like this was a perfectly rational thing for people to do.
The next morning—Saturday, October 7—Chenguang arrived at our house wearing a yellow shirt with a glittery white unicorn and faded jeans. She was eating a bag of sour spaghetti gummy candy and she offered me some. I shook my head and said I would rather die. Beth came downstairs and she was wearing the same unicorn T-shirt and the same jeans. Apparently they had planned the matching outfits in advance, and it was all part of our weird freakish adventure.
I insisted on leaving the house at 9:00 A.M. My plan was to be on the highway while my teammates were running, and then call to hear the results as soon as we got to Storybook Land. But Chenguang had a spider bite that wouldn’t stop itching, so we had to stop at a Walgreens to get Benadryl. This set us back a half hour and we didn’t cross the Walt Whitman Bridge until nine thirty, didn’t merge onto the Atlantic City Expressway until nine forty-five. There were three lanes of cars hell-bent for the Jersey shore at eighty miles an hour. I had the windows rolled down and Q102 turned up loud so I wouldn’t have to hear Beth and Chenguang giggling in the backseat. They chattered nonstop, they were constantly interrupting and talking over each other. My phone was resting on the console between the front seats. I had it charging in the cigarette lighter adapter. Over the music, I could hear the chirp of an incoming text message—and then another and another. I knew it was likely my friend Lacey, who never sent one text when five would suffice. The lane ahead of me was clear. I looked down at my phone, at the incoming notifications scrolling up my screen:
HOLY SHIT
OMFG
