I set a goal and reach it, day by day, bit by bit, whether it’s an extra rep or adding an extra pound to the workload. It was my mom who got me into weights. Her boss, Mr. McAllister, owns several businesses and gave his cleaning staff a one-year membership to Shreds when it first opened. She, in turn, gifted it to me. They made her sign a special waiver because I was underage back then. After that, I put the membership to good use and got shredded at Shreds. I don’t know what I’d do now without weightlifting.
After focusing on quads, calves, hams, and abs, I shower and head home. In my room I play Claire’s CD. Guitars riff, and I head-bob as I pick out something to wear. I end up trying three different shirts. The deep-ocean-blue one is myfavorite, but it fits too snug across the chest now, and my nips show when it gets cold. Plus, the tight sleeve cuffs leave red rings on my biceps. I can hear Viktor saying, Wear it! Wear it! , because the chicks will want to rip it off so they can jump my bones. While it’d blow my mind if Claire did that, I chicken out and choose something baggier in a steel gray.
I wolf down two postworkout peanut-butter-and-cherry protein bars, brush my teeth, and grab Mrs. A’s handout. I check the directions to Claire’s on my phone and send her a text saying I’m on my way. I figure it’s roughly a thirty-minute ride, so I hop on my bike and start pedaling.
Since hanging with Buddy in the backyard this morning, the temperature has dropped. There’s a crispness to the air that somehow makes everything sharper, more in focus. Fallen leaves gather along the edges of the streets and mask the white-lined curbs. While most people dread the oncoming winter, it fills me with anticipation—of blades hitting ice, and hockey sticks slapping pucks.
I ride no-hands style for a bit to zip up my varsity jacket and then shove my hands into my pockets. With each street I head down, the neighborhoods get better. I turn onto Landfair Crescent, toward Riverview Estates. Her dad’s French restaurant must do well if they live in this part of town. Huge maple trees line the sidewalks, and they’re so big, their branches touch the trees’ branches on the opposite sides of the street. It’s like riding inside a giant kaleidoscopeof leaves in rust reds, fiery oranges, and mustard yellows. I spot Claire’s house number and pull into the driveway. It’s a three-story home, so big it has front columns holding it up. My place could fit inside their triple-door garage.
I park my bike by the side of the house and let a winding cobblestone path lead me to the front door. Before ringing the bell I wipe my sweaty palms down the front of my jeans. Is the rest of me gross? Too late to do anything about it now. Seconds later the door opens, and one of those home alarm–motion sensors chirps in the background. Claire stands there, a full step higher than me, so that she’s at chin level. She’s wearing another dress, this time a dark purple one. My palms sweat.
“Hi, Kevin.”
“Hey.”
She opens the door wide, inviting me in.
I step inside and change my earlier thought; my place could fit inside her foyer. The ceiling’s so high you could install a rock-climbing wall.
“Brr,” she says, shutting the door and rubbing her arms. She makes a “follow me” motion as she walks away, her bare feet slapping against the tiles.
I go to kick off my shoes and am horrified by the surprise appearance of my big toe, poking out of my sport sock. I twist the fabric around, covering it up.
I hear Observer Effect in the background and enter thecoolest kitchen ever. It has not one but two refrigerators, and two ovens. Damn. Her dad doesn’t fool around when it comes to food. In the middle sits a massive marble island with its own sink, and a couple of cream-colored leather barstools. On the wall opposite hangs a honeycomb wine rack, the kind that are from high-end restaurants, and it’s packed with bottles. The
After focusing on quads, calves, hams, and abs, I shower and head home. In my room I play Claire’s CD. Guitars riff, and I head-bob as I pick out something to wear. I end up trying three different shirts. The deep-ocean-blue one is myfavorite, but it fits too snug across the chest now, and my nips show when it gets cold. Plus, the tight sleeve cuffs leave red rings on my biceps. I can hear Viktor saying, Wear it! Wear it! , because the chicks will want to rip it off so they can jump my bones. While it’d blow my mind if Claire did that, I chicken out and choose something baggier in a steel gray.
I wolf down two postworkout peanut-butter-and-cherry protein bars, brush my teeth, and grab Mrs. A’s handout. I check the directions to Claire’s on my phone and send her a text saying I’m on my way. I figure it’s roughly a thirty-minute ride, so I hop on my bike and start pedaling.
Since hanging with Buddy in the backyard this morning, the temperature has dropped. There’s a crispness to the air that somehow makes everything sharper, more in focus. Fallen leaves gather along the edges of the streets and mask the white-lined curbs. While most people dread the oncoming winter, it fills me with anticipation—of blades hitting ice, and hockey sticks slapping pucks.
I ride no-hands style for a bit to zip up my varsity jacket and then shove my hands into my pockets. With each street I head down, the neighborhoods get better. I turn onto Landfair Crescent, toward Riverview Estates. Her dad’s French restaurant must do well if they live in this part of town. Huge maple trees line the sidewalks, and they’re so big, their branches touch the trees’ branches on the opposite sides of the street. It’s like riding inside a giant kaleidoscopeof leaves in rust reds, fiery oranges, and mustard yellows. I spot Claire’s house number and pull into the driveway. It’s a three-story home, so big it has front columns holding it up. My place could fit inside their triple-door garage.
I park my bike by the side of the house and let a winding cobblestone path lead me to the front door. Before ringing the bell I wipe my sweaty palms down the front of my jeans. Is the rest of me gross? Too late to do anything about it now. Seconds later the door opens, and one of those home alarm–motion sensors chirps in the background. Claire stands there, a full step higher than me, so that she’s at chin level. She’s wearing another dress, this time a dark purple one. My palms sweat.
“Hi, Kevin.”
“Hey.”
She opens the door wide, inviting me in.
I step inside and change my earlier thought; my place could fit inside her foyer. The ceiling’s so high you could install a rock-climbing wall.
“Brr,” she says, shutting the door and rubbing her arms. She makes a “follow me” motion as she walks away, her bare feet slapping against the tiles.
I go to kick off my shoes and am horrified by the surprise appearance of my big toe, poking out of my sport sock. I twist the fabric around, covering it up.
I hear Observer Effect in the background and enter thecoolest kitchen ever. It has not one but two refrigerators, and two ovens. Damn. Her dad doesn’t fool around when it comes to food. In the middle sits a massive marble island with its own sink, and a couple of cream-colored leather barstools. On the wall opposite hangs a honeycomb wine rack, the kind that are from high-end restaurants, and it’s packed with bottles. The
Similar Books
