Natalie

My eyes flash to the puff-filled South Carolinian sky in a lame attempt to weld blockers to my senses. My hands latch themselves across the back of my head, where I proceed to tighten my elastic. Logically, it would be senseless of me to believe I could eradicate my ability to hear. A scowl crosses my face. Curling my tongue to the roof of my mouth, I force myself to lane two and stare at two of the coaches, debating with myself.

"Aaron is so cute! I can't believe he, the flipping quarterback, asked me to the dance!" The tail end of the junior's blabbing clouds as my gaze drifts past the yellow goalpost and beyond the middle school group practicing handoffs. Ninety degrees to my figure, the locker room of sweat hogs, or rather the football troop, resides, renowned for its unique fragrance of bodily fluids.

She could do much better than that lying, cheating, self-righteous pig.

He could do much better than a stuck-up, pick-me girl with lies as white as her teeth.

Yet, the two will likely stay hooked until a birthday or Christmas when commitment issues become evident. Crushes don't work. High school sweethearts can't coexist with sanity. True love can't draw a breath of oxygen. If anything, true love breathes methane and nitric oxide. The concept parallels the instant microwavable properties of popcorn, casting char in the air after a hot manifestation and creation, meaning that carbon dioxide and monoxide have been produced in this radioactive environment. Now, the popcorn absorbs energy, this so-called love. While there isn't any water anymore, the hearts present.

The predicament is startling and perhaps disgusting. No, not my nuclear wasteland. Theirs. My teammates and their infatuations of "love". People haven't mastered decency yet. Whatever that's supposed to mean.

Studying the blue and orange-painted locker room is a world of entertainment compared to buzzing in on the four chattering away. The practice has never worked well for me. Maybe I would stand oblivious as my two siblings do if I hadn't committed that felony.

"Hey, Nat!" My name is Natalie. Not Nat like a gnat. I compel myself to acknowledge the shrill voice, engaging her with an insipid nod. "What do you think about me and Aaron? He's so sweet."

Aaron and me, Lacey. Pursing my lips, I glance at the coaches for rescue. Has it not been a minute thirty? "He is a pompous buffoon who will shatter your heart," I answer, saving the cushion. He didn't even notice you until Scramble. Which, in itself, makes a dissatisfying case. Curse that scandalous dating app of the century.

"He is not!" Lacey huffs, throwing her hands up. "He's a gentleman, opening doors for the ladies." She accompanies her statement with an upturned nose and increasingly colored cheeks. "He's real special."

OCD and germophobia exist, you bonehead. "Right." I give a curt nod. "Prince charming isn't a hopeless flirt and a double-crossing friend."

"It wasn't his fault that Ted's secret got out!" The Lacie with red hair joins the junior Lacey.

No, Aaron couldn't help opening his big, fat chomper. Curse people and their gossip-deprived souls.

"She's just jealous she doesn't have a boyfriend," Lacie mutters while junior Lacey's eyes coat in a shiny glaze. Why haven't the cheerleading fanatics quit yet?

It's simply too easy to deny your proposal, Lacie. The male species is overrated, along with your unconscionable gossip and social bullying. No crush will last, you boneheads. If you believe love will prevail, you haven't had your heart mutilated. You don't know what it's like. That, or you are insane.

Insanity is repeating the same mistakes and expecting different results. That's what Narcotics Anonymous stated in their 1981 pamphlet. I have to agree.

My expression falls flat as I search for a semi-noninsulting reply to the boneheads. Because, of course, they know I can hear. What to say to the half-wit redhead?

Thankfully, Coach Trent comes to my aid. He motions the other two sprinters, twins, forward, directing them to lanes five and six. He sends an Aaron stan a pointed look while she continues loitering in lane one, the long-distance shoot. "Righty." Trent nods, adjusting his stopwatch. "Y'all can move over after the one hundred." Trent glances up, his right brow quirking. "Ready? On your mark." My gaze is lateral. Focused. This is the last four hundred of the day. "Get set. Go!"

The tap of my spikes on the turf reigns my head in, closer and more concentrated. The Aaron stans sprint ahead of me, exerting their energy at the wrong point. They're first-timers, so I shouldn't be stunned. Slacking my jaw, I track in front of the red-headed Lacie. She's panting and breathing incorrectly, suggesting that she has either eaten a surplus supply of trash foods or is hanging around vaporesso. If she throws up, I guess we'll know.

My mind seems to take a spin on a scrambler after rounding the straight, reminding me of how much I despise half of Scramble. Yet, I'm meeting Winn anyway.

Why did I take that yellow flyer? My face contorts as I breeze past the twins who are neck and neck. It's as if I wish to curse myself.

Why did I take that flyer? I already knew about the job opening, the multiple self-help articles, and their goal of connectivity. I didn't need the flyer to remind me of that escape. I didn't need the flyer to spark a plan. I don't need Scramble in my life. I don't want their mantra stuck in my head...Spirited Connectivity Reaching Anywhere, fostering Meaningful bonds, Bigger comebacks, and lots of Love. This community is for Everyone! The phrase now seems to age me. I don't want to be Secretly Crafting a Revolutionary Avoidance plan Made to Bewilder a Ludicrus Earthling. But that's exactly what I'm doing. The rocket launches at 4:40.

I'm the one who chopped myself down to that love level. That's how weak I am.

The last two hundred set in front of me. Opening my stride and using the momentum of my arms, I fly faster. Junior Lacey becomes a speck trailing behind me.

I wouldn't be in this quandary if it weren't for my mother. I wouldn't have been at the fair yesterday. I wouldn't have gotten Winn's job offer.

My momentum ceases. I lock my fingers at the base of my scalp as I shuffle toward Coach Trent. A grin plays on his crinkled features as he raises his right palm. "You got a PR! Forty-nine point fifty-one seconds, track star!"

Clapping his hand, the corner of my mouth turns upwards. I bend down, placing my palms against my knees as I stare at Coach Trent. He has an identical personality to my dad. Competitive, peppy, and able to see potential in every trash-ridden person or thing. Except for each other in their former years. Now, they've got their story of rival athletes turned best buds. It's something I've never and will never experience.

"I've got to go at 4:30 sharp," I inform in spurts, still catching my breath while the other four trickle in. From the corner of my eye, I spot Lacie throwing up. So, it was trash food.

"What for?" Trent questions while waving at the boy's coach on the opposite side of the track.

"I'm an opportunist." I flick my watch, noting that it's after 4:30. Curse you, time. "I'll stay after for hurdles on Monday. I've got to go."

"Don't forget to stretch!" Trent calls after me.

A buzz in my ear growls louder while I sling my bags across my shoulders, stride into the restroom, and ignore the turbulent muffles of gossip.

Spoiler alert, it is impossible to deflate senses. I can't ignore how my name takes a spin on their tongues. The voices echo from the far end of the restroom where the showers are. Where faces are hidden. "Don't invite Natalie." It's one of the long-distance runners. Immediately, I have a face but no name, brown hair, blue eyes, and symmetrical features, mostly. Her nose is crooked.

"Why not?" It's definitely the long-distance crew. This one is a middle schooler. "She isn't bad company."

"What world you livin' in? That girl's a livin' terror," comes the crooked nose girl. "You heard what she told Aaron to his face? Didn't you? When he asked her why she wouldn't go to the spring dance with him, she said, and I quote, 'I personally prefer dates who value honor, wit, and truth'."

"So? That's a bad thing?"

"That's basically her way of tellin' him to go to hell."

Their conversation doesn't stop when I bang the stall door into place. This is a get-in and get-out procedure. Just ignore them.

I can't turn my ears off.

"She's never dated," a new voice points out.

"Exactly. Natalie doesn't understand," crooked nose emphasizes her words, adding, "Don't invite her."

"That defeats the purpose. It's for the entire track and field team. Two wrongs don't make a right," the middle schooler exclaims.

"Stop with the BS, Lindsey. We aren't inviting the twins either," crooked nose grumbles.

It's silent when I remove myself from the restroom in a fresh set of leggings and a t-shirt. I'm halfway through the door when the grand pause breaks. A soft voice announces, "I'm uninviting myself too." It's a shame the voice belongs to my younger sister.

If I were strong enough, my chest wouldn't burn, and my eyes wouldn't blur as I storm out. If only, like my athletic build, I was frozen as Kratos. But I'm not, and I never will be.

I flee the crime scene, my motions becoming a rocky shadow of a memory. My vision now focuses on a picture-perfect stage as I practically rip the library door off its hinges, jogging in. Despite my change of clothes, my skin remains slick with sweat, and my heart thuds erratically in my chest.

The library is quiet, comfortably quiet. Windows of glass paint rays of white on the oak shelves and blue and orange carpet. The only sound emanates from a rectangle table where Winn tosses a pen and catches it between his thumb and forefinger. He almost doesn't grasp it. When he does, his hand shakes in a spasm.

Winn's hazel eyes trail to mine, his right-hand shifts to the back of his buzzed head, and his left drags into a wave, beaconing me over.

A sensation of unease leaks through my body, starting at my stomach with a sick convulsion and seeping outward, making me shiver. Blowing a piece of my chestnut hair opposite my sightline and squaring my shoulders, I resist darting from this meeting.

This is a bad idea. Why did I take the flyer? There has to be another way. But there isn't.

This plan works without fail, unlike the others.

Winn grins at me, welcoming me in like I'm not an "insensitive and detached" stranger. "What's hopping, Natalie?"

Here's to hoping plan (a) works. If not, I'm the next bonehead shooting flaming arrows of love.

I'm no cupid, Winn.