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Fiona Hayes hugged him far too long.
Analise tracked Taylor’s legs as he dismounted the bleachers, the way his jeans tightened against his thighs, walking out to the center of the gym amongst cat calls and whistles, how he combed a humbled hand through his thick waves that any mother would argue needed a trim but curled at all the right places. He wore a buttoned plaid shirt, probably from Abercrombie, fashionably un-tucked and rolled to his elbows, revealing the flex of his muscles when he stuffed his hands in his pockets.
They called out the final name for the girls.
Taylor’s eyes landed on hers. His face broke into a wide grin.
Dave kissed her cheek. “You have to go down there!”
“What?” she asked.
“Are you deaf?”
Other students surrounded her with congratulations and claps. Analise stood. Her legs were like vibrating strings. How would she make it down the bleachers without another concussion?
Missy hugged her first when she arrived on level ground in one piece, followed by the other four senior queen nominees and junior court attendants. Analise folded her arms across her body, sunk her nails into her skin, and counted the rungs on the railings, every last one, fifty times over, waiting to be dismissed to go and cry in the privacy of a bathroom stall.
The neurologist said Analise could run again, but there were only two cross-country meets left before section championships, for varsity only. She was dispensable when it came to winning, but otherwise indispensable because she had her teammates’ birthdays memorized, even their personal race records, made Good Luck cards, and cheered the loudest.
She never ran to race. Running to Analise was cars to Ulla. Freedom. Freedom from the persistent yet unanswered questions about the past. Freedom from insecurity about the future.
The dark September morning was perfect running weather: thirty-five degrees. Analise brushed her hair into a ponytail, grabbed a granola bar, water bottle, and a change of clothes. She shimmied into her running tights, long sleeve racer, and laced her shoes.
Ulla was reading the paper and drinking her black coffee at the sink while finishing a burnt piece of toast. “Don’t you think you should take it easy?” she asked, appraising Analise.
Analise shook her head. “I’m gonna run to school.”
“That’s a ninety-minute run. One way.” Ulla dusted breadcrumbs from her uniform. “And with your backpack?”
“I don’t need my books.” Analise hesitated, and then said, “Yesterday they announced who’d be on Homecoming court. By some freak accident, or a cruel joke, I’m on it, so I really do need a dress. Everyone on the court rents white gowns, like wedding dresses, and I don’t want to be left out. I know the whole thing is bogus, but I can use my savings, I guess, and maybe if I run to school, I can save a little extra on bus fares.” She rushed over, kissed Ulla on the cheek, and ran out the door.
When Analise returned home from school that day, having completed a total of nineteen miles round trip, and was an injury waiting to happen, she collapsed onto her bed next to a bulging white envelope. Curious, she sat up and undid the flap.
Inside were twenty-dollar bills. Fifteen total.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Analise
The Pageant Shop was located in an upscale suburb, and it was part of the queen nominees’ shopping plans that Saturday before convalescing at the soccer match. Analise waded through dresses with price tags that could pay six months of rent.
“Oh, Ana, try this one!” Missy said.
Analise went straightaway for the price tag, but Missy slapped her hand. “Don’t. Try it on.”
She rolled her eyes and snatched the dress, gathering it along with the growing weight of cheaper ones in the crook of her arm. She tried on the others, leaving the untouchable one for last. Was it worth falling in love with something she could never have? Instead, she photographed it in her mind, memorized it with her touch, stroking the endless layers of clouds for a skirt, the V-neck bodice stitched with thousands of tiny, glittering pearls and sequins.
It wasn’t Dave Analise thought of just then, nor his eyes that she imagined absorbing her, should she wear something this beautiful for Homecoming.
Taylor scored a hattrick during the game to wild fanfare. But he looked miserable doing so.
At the end of the game, Dave badgered her to a pizza parlor with other players and their parents. But Analise wanted to go home and call Taylor. Ask him about his grumpy face. Pester him again for an answer about Stanford, as if that would loosen the knot inside her stomach. The one that tightened at the thought of him thousands of miles away. He said he’d been courted by several colleges and hadn’t made a decision. “Why don’t you play professionally?” she’d asked, and he laughed kindly, answering, “I’m good, Isa, but I’m not that good.”
At the restaurant, Dave’s parents joined them, and the hostess asked for a head count. Analise turned at the creak of the main doors opening with a gusty chill, and her cheeks warmed at the sight of Taylor walking through with his parents.
Taylor’s mom paused at the sight of Analise. She removed a hand from her designer puffer coat, brushing aside her stylish bangs as if to get a better look. Her scrutinizing eyes—Taylor’s eyes—were striking, and the giant diamond on her ring finger briefly distracted Analise. Taylor’s dad towered over his mom, and he shared his son’s nose and jawline.
Analise offered Taylor a closed-lipped smile. Taylor’s returning smile was stiff, not surprising, his usual range of facial expressions went from mildly intense to severely intense. The severe intensity he saved for soccer matches, but it also materialized at any mention of his father. The invisible barrier between father and son was palpable, easy to light on fire.
