All We Left Behind by Ingrid Sundberg Page B

announces, checking me. “I’ll get a ride home from Jen.” I nod for her to go and she squeezes me before leaving. “Later, Mr. President.”
    Abe jams his hands into his pockets as she stalks away, like this has turned into a much bigger moment than he intended.
    â€œHi,” I say again.
    â€œHi,” he repeats, and my stomach tickles, suddenly hoping he’s about to ask me out. Maybe that kiss has made him see me differently, as not that girl on the Ferris wheel saying terrible things.
    â€œI just, you know,” he says awkwardly, looking to make sure Lilith’s gone. “I know there was a bunch of us and all, but I want you to know you don’t have to do that.” He nods outside to the trail.
    Mud crawls through me, squeezing mush between my toes.
    â€œDo what?” I dig my fingernail into the cement to chip away the paint.
    â€œLet Lilith do that,” he says. “Kiss you.”
    My fingernail rams into a section of paint that’s stuck hard; it won’t flake off.
    â€œIt’s not a thing,” I say sharply. “We do it all the time. Plus, you all loved it?”
    His eyes go dark, like outside, but I can’t tell if that’s an act or if he really enjoyed watching.
    â€œYeah, but I don’t know if you like it,” he says.
    My insides squirm and I don’t want to be here. I pound the flat of my palm against the cement like it might ground me.
    â€œI’m not whoever you think I am,” I say. “I’m not who I was when we—” I hate this conversation. I hate that I kissed Lilith and he could see right through it. “Just forget it, all right? It was a stupid Lilith thing. Like always.”
    â€œSure.” He nods, and I hate the straightforwardness in him, like he doesn’t regret bringing this up and we’re allowed to go back to being candid with each other after two years of silence. Like that silence hasn’t changed me. “Hey.” He smiles, breaking the tension, tossing hair from his eyes. “All I meant is Lilith likes the attention, being the drama queen and all. You . . . you don’t have to do what she does.”
    â€œI’m not Lilith.”
    â€œExactly.”
    â€œShe’s my friend,” I say, looking for the exit. “It’s just fun. I don’t know why you’re making this a thing.”
    â€œI’m not,” he says quickly. Only, this is a thing. Nobody wants me to have this power. “You’re just better than that,” he says finally, and it feels like a slap.
    I can’t swallow and the air feels like it’s gone. Abe looks at his feet.
    â€œRight, so, I’ll see you tomorrow in class,” he mumbles awkwardly, before heading down the hall, and I want to scream as he goes. Doesn’t he get it? I’m not better than Lilith. Sure, I don’t have to be her, but I also can’t be me.
    Suddenly I wish it was Kurt in those woods watching me and Lilith, whooping with the others and playing along. Kurt, who doesn’t know me. Kurt, who will let me reinvent myself. Kurt, who isn’t afraid of this power.

Kurt
    Running at practice feels like freedom.
    We do drills. Then Coach splits the team in half and we scrimmage, like boys on the playground. Field slick with dew. Mud on our shins. Troy pops the ball, high, clearing it from one side to the next, and I speed to reach it.
    Sprint.
    Remembering what it is to want something, even if that wanting is to let go, trust my feet, and not think. It isn’t a choice. It’s instinct. And it only happens if I give in to it, if I commit. It’s the point when I accept that bones could break and shins could splint, and I don’t care, because that little bit of freedom is all mine and I’m going to take it.
    Hesitate and it’s over. One second and the other team gets the ball. Two seconds and your kneecaps tear off. Three, forget three,