You Can't Catch Me Read Free

all the junk Dad thought was “so cool” but Mom finds an “eyesore.”
    I move past the cardboard standup of Jabba the Hutt and thumb through the bills and magazines sitting on top of the beat-up filing cabinet.
    “Success!” I call out, holding up the envelope addressed to “The Parents of Ginger Silverman.” I rip into it before Dad gives me the spiel about how it’s technically his mail and not mine.
    The half sheet of paper maps out my sophomore year… which I forgot until now is going to be kind of crappy. I don’t get many electives, and I thought I’d be smart and get all the required stuff out of the way so that my senior year is cake. Only the super sucky thing is all the boring classes are mashed together. Like they are purposely trying to torture me because being sixteen with a whole new body isn’t hard enough.
    I do have gym last, praise the sweat gods. Gym is a lot like my warm-up for cross country, which is right after school.
    I crease the paper, folding it so it fits in my pocket, and then salute Jabba on my way out. The noise increases every step I make upstairs, and when I swing the basement door open, I nearly knock my buddy Drake on his butt.
    “Whoa!” He tips back, his mile-high legs wobbling, trying hard as they can to keep him upright. I grab his arm with a laugh and catch him before he tumbles into Uncle George.
    “I thought you were bailing!” I grin, pulling him in for a giant bear hug. Drake is about eight feet tall, so I have to jump a little to get my arms over his shoulders.
    Oy… my gosh. Hugs are certainly different now in a D cup. Good thing I’m not a huge hugger.
    “Heard the party from two blocks away,” he says after spitting out some of my hair that thwacked him in the face. His arms loosen, and he gives my hoodie a funny look before shaking his shaggy head and continuing. “And I smelled food.”
    “Free loader.” I sock him a good one in his bony arm. “But eat as much as you want.”
    “You got it.”
    He tosses an arm over my shoulder and leads me into my own kitchen.
    “Did you get your schedule?” I ask him as he dumps a blob of jelly onto one of Mom’s freshly baked rolls. His brown eyes don’t leave his plate as he answers.
    “Yeah. Got calculus first thing in the morning. What a bust.”
    “That’s what happens when you’re a genius.”
    His bushy eyebrow lifts, but he still doesn’t move his gaze from the parade of pastries resting on his plate. Algebra 2 is the highest math requirement, and thank heavens I’m done with it this year. But Drake, he’s a math super nerd, and he took Algebra 2 back in eighth. He didn’t have to take calc, but for some reason he likes math. Crazy pants.
    “What’s your first class?” he asks.
    “English 10.” Basic, boring English class every sophomore is required to take.
    “When do you have gym?” he asks, then pushes a piece of honey-glazed ham into his mouth with his thumb and forefinger. The guy eats like a lion devouring a wildebeest, yet he’s still the fastest runner in our grade—he did win the gold at State in the boys division. I secretly rub my hands together as I watch him eat and eat. Yes… fatten up, my pretty. Soon I shall outrun you and your insane legs.
    Well, once I stop eating so much myself.
    “Last period,” I answer. “I scored .”
    “Hey, we have that one together.”
    “Sweet.”
    We high-five, and he gets ham juice all over me. We both wrinkle our noses and wipe our hands off on our shirts.
    Drake gets an already-filled cup of juice and slides over to the crowded table. There are two seats open at the end because Mom and Frankie moved to the backyard to pass out ice cream sandwiches to the two-year-olds. Because they totally need more sugar.
    “So how was State for you ?” Drake asks then stuffs his face. His hair’s gotten so long since I last saw him. Crazy what two months will do.
    “Sha-mazing.” Ah crap… Tiff . My eyes jump away from Drake’s ravenous