#16, Kate

My shopping trip with my mother was a success. I found several items we both agreed on, a feat worth celebrating, and so when we stop for gelato on the way home, I order a double scoop.

“Two scoops please, one lemon, one pistachio.” I smile as I think of the fact that these flavors don’t mix well, but I have always loved both, and can never quite decide what I want when faced with two great options. My mother orders chocolate hazelnut, and I swipe a spoonful, thinking maybe I should have opted for that flavor instead. I can be indecisive.

I have had this trouble since childhood. My dad tells me I often wore two dresses, layered on top of one another, when I could not chose which to wear. This is a habit I have since grown out of, but I am no better at making a choice when faced with two good options. Even now, I layer, only instead of things like clothes, it is classes responsibilities, and more. I have a very hard schedule of classes because choosing between AP chemistry or AP biology was simply not an option. I love them both. I wanted to take both, so I did. That in addition to AP English, AP Statistics, and the rest of my course load makes free time a luxury I don’t always have.

When we return home I change into running clothes, hoping to sneak out before my dad hears me, otherwise he will want to go. I really do love to run with him, but tonight I want to get the miles done, then spend some time at the river. I have no homework, I finished it during lunch and in the car on the way to shop. I used homework as a good excuse to not force a conversation with my mom. After the initial pleasantries, and updates on the day, I think we were both happy to just drive in peace. My mother listened to a book on her iPod, and I solved equations, and read chapters, and remembered why I am so grateful I don’t get car sick like Riley does. So tonight I get to spend time the way I want to, after I get a run in, since I missed practice.

I lace up my Aasics and put my ear to the door. If my dad is in the hall, on the stairs, or in the kitchen, he will want me to wait for him to change so he can join me. I have always had a love hate relationship with running. I love how it clears my head, and makes me so sure about things. I love how exhilarating it is to feel my body, my muscles moving, stretching, and pushing. I even like the sweating and heavy breathing, as it reminds me I am alive, and healthy. Usually I enjoy the company of my teammates, and the social aspects of running. I hate how hard it can be, and how it is one more thing to tick off my to do list. I hate how I work so hard, and some girls seem to be so much better, without half the effort. I hate how I will never be as good as my family wants me to be, and I hate that it doesn’t bother me as much as I know it should.

I don’t hear anything, so I grab a notebook and pen off my desk, tuck them into a running backpack, and open my bedroom door. I traverse the hallway quickly, and make it down the stairs, and out the back door without seeing anyone else. My mom knows I will be out for a run, so no one will worry.

Once outside, I start to head north, then remember that some of the cows are in the pasture near the river on the north side of the property, and while I don’t mind cows, I know I will be somewhat distracted tonight, and don’t want to risk stepping in fresh dung, so I head south instead.

It is a crisp, cool evening, winter is getting closer, and while it hasn’t snowed yet, I can see my breath, and feel the burn in my chest that comes from sucking such cold air into my hot lungs. I adjust my headband over my ears to provide some protection from the cold, and take off at a slow jog, waiting to pick up my pace until hit the hard packed dirt trails a little further ahead, not wanting to risk injury in this rugged, uneven, terrain.

Running gives me time to think. Today at school I had seen the boy whose shoe was graced with a snot covered noodle, courtesy of my nose, and he seemed not to recognize me. That was fine with me. I did not introduce myself or try to make him notice me, as the situation would be better forgotten, at least for me. I admit to myself that I am curious about him though. He seems different from most the boys in our grade. He has a self-awareness, or confidence, that is not typically so pronounced, as most of us are still trying to figure out who we are, and what we want out of life. I don’t really think about it in such concrete terms as this, but as I run, I know that this is what made him seem different, more aloof, and more…experienced. Riley told me he was new, and from somewhere out East, a senior like us, and an only child. I guess not growing up in Salmon would account for the experience, and being an only child could account for him seeming somewhat aloof, after all, he was probably used to the solo act. However, my curiosity is not quite satisfied.

I had only seen him for a few moments, before the first bell, and watched him discreetly from behind my locker door, he turned and caught my eye for the briefest of moments, and smiled, sort of a half smile, not of recognition, just acknowledgment. I gave a slight lift of my chin, with a small smile, then turned back to my locker to grab the right binder and books for my first class. Because I spent lunch in the library, working on my assignments, and had left early to shop with my mom, that was all I had seen of him.

“Good” I pant out, thinking if he doesn’t recognize me, then there is no need for me to try and craft an awkward apology. I did not feel like trying to explain my reasons that night for my actions, not to a complete stranger, especially one as attractive as him.

I turn my thoughts away from the new kid, and back to the things that have plagued me of late. Senior year is underway, and I am applying for colleges all over the country. One benefit of a well to do family is not worrying about the fees associated with college applications. Not that I thought of this on my own. It took Braden pointing it out to me before I felt any gratitude for my own situation.

Braden’s family makes due, but never has extra, so he had to be so careful about which colleges he applies to, as the $50-$100 fees add up fast, and he can’t afford to apply somewhere he really doesn’t want to go. Last weekend, we were filling out applications together and he said, “If I don’t get accepted I am screwed, since I am only applying to two places.” Not thinking about what I was saying, I replied, “Why? That seems stupid, don’t you at least want a few safety nets?” Braden is a planner, so I was very confused by his limiting himself to only two schools. He furrowed his brow, and looked at me, and simply said, “I can’t afford to apply anywhere else.” That is when I realized what he meant. He was probably paying the application fees himself, and between school classes, extra curricular activities, and his family responsibilities, he only had a few hours a week to work. So, while he had a job, the money he earned was not much, and most of it went directly into his college fund, so that when he did get accepted, he would be able to pay for his schooling, housing, etc. He had been saving for as long as I could remember. He did not want to leave college with a mountain of debt, as so many other people do. I reassured him that he would get in, he is a straight A student, class president, scored well on his SAT, and is the kind of person that is always going above and beyond, any college would be happy to have him. Even as I said it though, I felt my face grow hot with the embarrassment that washed over me, not that he was poorer than I, but that it never occurred to me that others might have to be more selective due to finances.   

I reach the five-mile point in my loop, and so I stop, and stretch my muscles. My lower calves are a little tight, so I find a tree and prop my foot up and stretch. I put the running pack on the ground, pull out my water bottle and drink a few sips, then pull out the small mat I carry rolled up in my bag, so I can sit on the river bank and write in my journal. I stretch for a few more minutes, making sure I hit every muscle group, and test for any soreness or discomfort. I feel great.

I plop down and start writing out all the things I had been thinking as I ran. It helps me to do this. It is my system for sorting my thoughts, and finding my true opinions and feelings amidst the jumble of conflicting emotions and ideas. I have always been better at writing out my feelings than speaking them, but did not start using the method regularly until recently.

Riley is the one who helped me discover how useful it was for me to write it out. It took me getting really angry with him to figure it out. We fight, all siblings do, but not regularly, and not ever seriously. However, six months ago we had our biggest blow up ever. He had been dating one of my closest friends, Candice. I thought he really liked her, and so did she. She of course, was totally taken by him. One night, his buddies were over, and I happened to walk in on the tail end of a conversation they were having. As it turns out, he had been toying with her feelings, pretending more interest in her than he actually felt. It had started out as a sort of joke or game to him, and had gone too far, with her having real feelings for him. I was furious. I knew he sometimes did this. He had a reputation for being a bit of a “player”, and while we had talked about it before, it had never been more than an irritation. But messing with the emotions of one of my best friends was too close to home.

He saw my reaction, and knew he was in deep with me, so after his friends left he came to my room and tried to talk. I tried to talk to him about it, I really did, but I just became a jumbled mess. So, after ten minutes of him making excuses, and then waiting for me to come up with a reply that never came, he handed me a piece of paper and a pen, and said, “Here, write it out.” That is when it began. When I realized something he already knew about me, that my thoughts organize themselves far better on paper than they do anywhere else. And so I did, I wrote, and wrote. I told him how I felt, how it was wrong, how it preys on our (meaning all girls) insecurities, and how I expected more from him, especially after he had seen how badly I had been hurt just a few months earlier by Ethan doing the same thing to me. I expressed my disappointment, and made it clear to him that I would never be okay with that. He would talk, and I would write, and we carried on our conversation like this for several hours. Eventually we made up, and ever since, I have turned to pen and paper when my emotions cloud my ability to think and express myself clearly. About a week after the incident, Riley came home with a case of lined paper notebooks for me to use as journals, thought pads, or “conversation tools”, as he called them. I have filled several, and make a point of writing in them nightly to get my feelings and thoughts out so I can sleep in peace.

I finish writing, roll up my mat, return everything to my pack, and start the slow half mile jog back down the rugged, rocky path, to my back door. Even though it is dark, I am familiar with the trail enough not to worry. I have two spots on the river I like to sit and write, one to the North, one to the South of my home. I guess you could say I am a creature of habit, but I prefer to think of it as I have a system, and order to my life.