You Can't Catch Me Read Free Page B

I’m going to die, and I haven’t reached the end of my driveway.
    I blame the bra—though my butt and thighs are a couple of other offenders—but this bra is going to take some getting used to. I feel like a couple sacks of volleyballs have been glued to my upper body, and they are determined to smack me in the nose with every step. It’s funny how just a few years ago, Tiff and I were talking about getting our first bras and how pointless it felt, but it was like “the thing to do” when you move into middle school. My first bra was a neon orange and blue print that my mom told me over and over that I should trade for one of the boring white ones. I didn’t listen—of course—and found out the hard way that I could only wear dark tops while most of my wardrobe was pretty pastel. Being a brilliant mother—her words—Mom bought a couple of white ones for backup after I finally caved and told her she was right.
    That was back when these gallon jugs were only pints.
    I pass Jamal’s house right at 6:45, and he sprints down his walkway, falling in line with me like he does every August when cross country starts back up. I bet he’s wondering why I’m taking it so slow.
    “Heya, second place,” he teases, and I pull out one of my earbuds so we can talk.
    “I kicked ultimate booty, and you know it.”
    “Then why you lagging today?” He grins, turning around so he can run backward, still keeping with my “leisurely” pace.
    I shove him. “Taking it easy. Had one too many cupcakes throughout the week.” Can anyone really blame me though? I rarely get cupcakes.
    I swear his eyes flick down to my bouncing bosom quick as lightning, but they’re back on my face before I can really tell if he was looking at them at all or if he just happened to blink.
    “Yeah…” He clears his throat and turns around so he’s running forward again. “Better run it out before the season starts. Who knows how hard our new coach’ll be.”
    He has a point. I force myself to pick up the pace, keeping my breathing as steady as I can as we round the corner and head toward the parkway that runs through our neighborhood.
    Coach Juniper, our last coach, transferred to another school at the end of track since her husband got a job farther south. She was amazeballs… always calling us out when we were slacking, but in an encouraging sort of way. She made me puke once. It was awesome.
    All I know about the new coach is that her last name is Fox, and she used to be a dance squad teacher. So I expect to see a woman dressed in a sparkly leotard with a whistle dangling from her glossy lips.
    Jamal accidentally bumps into me, and I move over on the path so he doesn’t do it again. I’m not a huge fan of physical contact. An occasional hug after not seeing someone for a while, and punching and wrestling and other very non-grazing type of things are okay with my guy friends. But other than that, I like my space.
    “So…” Jamal says through his hard breathing. “Drake… said… he had… a good time… last night.”
    My eyes narrow down at the path. There’s dog poop that I just barely miss.
    “He totally stuffed his face.” I breathe a few times. “You should’ve come.”
    “He said… you were… I mean… Tiffany and Marcus…”
    “Were exchanging saliva?” Few more breaths. “Um, yeah. And that description does not do the grossness of it justice.”
    He lets out a breathless laugh, his pace starting to slow. I’d give him crap about it, but I’m not up to my normal speed either. Man, I don’t run for a few days, and I go soft.
    Okay, a few weeks.
    Maybe months.
    I pick up speed again, just trying to prove something to myself.
    “So… you doing anything… later?” he asks, sweat starting to drip along his dark hairline.
    I shake my head. “Gonna go see Cayenne after our run, but then I’m pretty much open.” We cross the bridge over the small man-made river. “You wanna hang?”
    “Yeah!” he says a little