logic. But something inside me questions if Sammie left because I wasn’t good enough, because I’m a loser with no friends who gets beat up. And if I can only prove myself worthy, prove I can be somebody, she’ll come dropping onto my carpet. So instead of reading the words on the page of my microbiology textbook, I imagine answering interview questions. I picture myself in a crisp white shirt, sitting up straight, speaking confidently and intelligently.
The morning of the interview, my eyes are already open as the sun peeks over the horizon. I have been awake all night, kept alert by the anxiety streaming through my veins, both about the interview and Sammie. The two stressors seem to have meshed into one solid ball of panic, pulsing in the center of my chest. I sit up and stretch my arms over my head. I cannot stay in bed another second.
I pull on a pair of jogging shorts and slip into my sneakers. Silently, I tiptoe down the stairs. Seated at the table, my parents sip mugs of coffee and do crossword puzzles.
“Going for a run,” I cough, before slipping out the front door.
The morning is cool. The sun has barely risen, casting orange light against the fronts of houses and long shadows in the streets. I set off at a brisk pace, working out the tension in my legs as my feet slap the pavement. I breathe deeply and regularly. Dad ran cross country in college, and the running gene seems to have passed to me. I run almost effortlessly, the discomfort confined to a slight burning in my lungs, easy to push through. I shut my eyes and sniff at the dewy grass. I open them and gaze at the reddening sky.
By the time I return to the front porch, my chest feels easy, my muscles loose. I enter the house and smell something sweet.
“Waffles, Damien?” Mom pops her head out of the kitchen.
I nod.
Mom and Dad are happier than ever during breakfast, wishing me “a whole lot of luck" on my interview later. They’re good parents, really. They’ve never pushed me to excel in my classes, or to do sports (obviously), or to go out with people. They’ll be happy whether I get into GLOBE or not, and would probably be thrilled if I decided to pursue garbage-man-hood. The desire to be great, to make something of myself, comes entirely from me. It began far before I met Sammie, but has been exacerbated by her entrance into my life.
The day slugs by. Perhaps because I am not as prepared as usual for my classes, they drag on, as my teachers spout facts and formulas I will have to memorize later. At fourth block, I set my pink excusal slip on my teacher’s desk and hurry out the door.
I go to the bathroom and change into a dress shirt, black pants, shiny shoes, and a tie, then head down the hallway toward the parking lot. I am crossing the C- and D-wing intersection when I hear a loud voice.
“Looking fancy, Savage! Where you going?” cries Joe Butt, swaggering toward me with a hall pass in his hand. He wears a red shirt that makes his hair look orange and his face even pinker.
I turn and bolt, flying down the hall like a grizzly bear is chasing me. I glance back and see that this is almost true: Butt barrels after me, his big muscles pumping at his sides. I thwack open a side door and sprint across the lawn toward the parking lot. Still, Butt hurls himself after me, grunting and screaming.
“Get back here, Savage! I just want to admire your pretty outfit!”
I hit the pavement at a good clip. My sneakers smack the ground, and the sun burns brightly. I take another glance backwards. Butt is still chasing me, but I’m losing him. Another fifty feet and I will leap into my car, slam the door shut, and lock it. I may not be stronger than Butt, but I am faster.
My foot catches on some broken pavement and I soar through the air. I land on my stomach and slide across the cement. I not only hear the fabric of my shirt rip, but
The morning of the interview, my eyes are already open as the sun peeks over the horizon. I have been awake all night, kept alert by the anxiety streaming through my veins, both about the interview and Sammie. The two stressors seem to have meshed into one solid ball of panic, pulsing in the center of my chest. I sit up and stretch my arms over my head. I cannot stay in bed another second.
I pull on a pair of jogging shorts and slip into my sneakers. Silently, I tiptoe down the stairs. Seated at the table, my parents sip mugs of coffee and do crossword puzzles.
“Going for a run,” I cough, before slipping out the front door.
The morning is cool. The sun has barely risen, casting orange light against the fronts of houses and long shadows in the streets. I set off at a brisk pace, working out the tension in my legs as my feet slap the pavement. I breathe deeply and regularly. Dad ran cross country in college, and the running gene seems to have passed to me. I run almost effortlessly, the discomfort confined to a slight burning in my lungs, easy to push through. I shut my eyes and sniff at the dewy grass. I open them and gaze at the reddening sky.
By the time I return to the front porch, my chest feels easy, my muscles loose. I enter the house and smell something sweet.
“Waffles, Damien?” Mom pops her head out of the kitchen.
I nod.
Mom and Dad are happier than ever during breakfast, wishing me “a whole lot of luck" on my interview later. They’re good parents, really. They’ve never pushed me to excel in my classes, or to do sports (obviously), or to go out with people. They’ll be happy whether I get into GLOBE or not, and would probably be thrilled if I decided to pursue garbage-man-hood. The desire to be great, to make something of myself, comes entirely from me. It began far before I met Sammie, but has been exacerbated by her entrance into my life.
The day slugs by. Perhaps because I am not as prepared as usual for my classes, they drag on, as my teachers spout facts and formulas I will have to memorize later. At fourth block, I set my pink excusal slip on my teacher’s desk and hurry out the door.
I go to the bathroom and change into a dress shirt, black pants, shiny shoes, and a tie, then head down the hallway toward the parking lot. I am crossing the C- and D-wing intersection when I hear a loud voice.
“Looking fancy, Savage! Where you going?” cries Joe Butt, swaggering toward me with a hall pass in his hand. He wears a red shirt that makes his hair look orange and his face even pinker.
I turn and bolt, flying down the hall like a grizzly bear is chasing me. I glance back and see that this is almost true: Butt barrels after me, his big muscles pumping at his sides. I thwack open a side door and sprint across the lawn toward the parking lot. Still, Butt hurls himself after me, grunting and screaming.
“Get back here, Savage! I just want to admire your pretty outfit!”
I hit the pavement at a good clip. My sneakers smack the ground, and the sun burns brightly. I take another glance backwards. Butt is still chasing me, but I’m losing him. Another fifty feet and I will leap into my car, slam the door shut, and lock it. I may not be stronger than Butt, but I am faster.
My foot catches on some broken pavement and I soar through the air. I land on my stomach and slide across the cement. I not only hear the fabric of my shirt rip, but
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