Drowning Instinct(47)
Author: Ilsa J. Bick

Click.

The room went black. I heard him breathing. My heart was pounding. He was so close we could‘ve touched in that trembling darkness, but I couldn‘t move. A moment later, I felt his fingers thread through mine and my pulse jumped.

His voice drifted out of the dark. ―Come with me. I know the way.‖

I did. My head was buzzing. He moved easily through the storage room, past the hulking shelves of chemicals so carefully arranged and cataloged, and then down the short hall to the old forgotten darkroom he‘d shown me in what seemed like another century. The door was open, but he didn‘t step inside. Instead, he paused, my hand still in his—and waited.

In the ruddy blush of the emergency exit sign, I spied that cot where he must sometimes take a nap or rest after a run. The air smelled different, though: still Dove and him but, also, the round warm scent of vanilla.

Now was the moment to decide which rules mattered. There were choices. I had the power. I could turn around. I could leave. There was no mystery here. Once I stepped into that room, I would be crossing a line.

―I haven‘t been able to stop thinking about you.‖ When I turned, he cupped my face in his hands. ―I thought I was helping only you, but now I think I‘ve been struggling to help myself, too. But you have to understand how serious this is, Jenna. No one can know. You can‘t tell anyone. I could end up in jail.‖

―We‘ve been out together. We‘ve been places together.‖ I realized, belatedly, that after Adelaide, Mr. Anderson had been careful to go where no one would know either of us.

―We run together.‖

―And we can keep doing those things, within reason. I‘m your teacher. Your parents know me. I‘ve been to your house. I‘m no different from any other adult. Or . . . we don‘t have to do anything. We can be friends and that would be fine. I . . . I care about you, Jenna. The last thing I want is to hurt you. I won‘t force you. I want you to want me.‖

They felt like words I’d wanted—waited for—my whole life. ―I do want you.‖ My body was liquid, my skin so hot I thought that one more degree and I would burst into flame. ―And I know how to keep a secret, Mr. Anderson, I promise.‖ He nearly, nearly smiled. ―I think that when it‘s just the two of us . . . you can call me Mitch.‖

i

We didn‘t talk after that. Not with words, anyway.

37: a

― Where is Danielle?‖ Mr. Anderson planted his fists on his hips. His words rode on breath clouds the wind tore away. ―We start in five. Don‘t tell me she‘s still suiting up.‖

The rest of us knotted together, jamming our hands in the pockets of our warm-up jackets, doing the cold-girl two-step. We were in Wausau on a Tuesday and a week before Thanksgiving for the last cross-country meet of the season. Regionals would be the week after Thanksgiving, with state the week after that. The weather was crap, the temperature a degree above freezing—kind of typical for north-central Wisconsin this time of year. A thin salting of snow filmed the frozen ground. The weatherman was talking six, eight inches on the way, and everyone was saying that winter was going to be early, long, and hard.

The wind was steady. The air smelled like crushed aluminum. Every gust whistled through my warm-up jacket and sweatpants, slicing straight to the bone. I‘d tried to keep as warm as I could, but I could feel my muscles stiffening up. I needed to be running already.

―I‘ll get her.‖ When Mr. Anderson gave a curt nod, I jogged past the clutches of parents huddling together in the cold (not mine; Dad would never come and Mom was working maniac hours). David and a couple other stalwart boyfriend-types were there, too; when I trotted by on my way to the visitors‘ locker room, David looked the question, but I only shrugged and—

b

Oh, what‘s the matter? Is widdle Bobby mad? Like, wait a minute, she skipped a month? Well, what were you expecting, Bobby-o, a blow-by-blow? Every minute? God, you are a perv.

Oh, all right, short and sweet: yes, this meet was about a month later. I‘d run in three meets since . . . since before. (I‘m not being coy here; I just don‘t see that it‘s any of your business.) I‘d done okay: third in my first meet and second in the two after that. My joining the team seemed to have lit a fire under Danielle. Maybe that‘s what Mr. Anderson had counted on. If so, it had worked. She‘d poured it on the last three races.

But I would catch her soon, and I knew it. Her splits were way off, and when we did flat courses on the treadmill, I could punch up a six-minute mile for five and she couldn‘t.

She‘d gotten surlier and more withdrawn, too. In the locker room—yes, I still changed in the handicapped shower—I overheard how she and David might be splitting up; how her older brother, who was in the local university extension and had suddenly taken to showing up to take her home from practice, had gotten in David‘s face the other week. I could believe it. The way her brother acted—wedging himself between her and any other guy, even Mr. Anderson when he was just coaching—you‘d have thought he was her boyfriend.

Stuff like that.

But with me coming on board, we‘d done well enough. My teammates were pumped because we might make regionals after all, even state. Mr. Anderson—Mitch—was psyched. Me, too. I knew it was only a matter of time until I really came in first—not just first on our team, but for the race.

For him.

Which didn‘t exactly endear me to Danielle, who had even more reason to hate my guts and . . .

c

Oh, wait. I know. You don‘t care about Danielle, do you, Bob? Why is she wasting time with Danielle, you‘re saying; why isn‘t she getting down to the nitty-gritty, what‘s really important. Where‘s the good stuff?

Well, know what I say to that, Bobby-o? Screw you. This is my story, so get over it.

Oh, okay, I‘ll cut you a break. I mean, since you asked.

Yes, Mitch and I saw one another almost every day and I don‘t mean just in that way, although . . . yes, in that way, too. And you know what, Bobby-o?

It was wonderful. It was magic. It was a fairy tale come true and the best thing that ever happened to me, and you can‘t take that away. I know that‘s killing you. You want this to be a different kind of story, but it‘s not and . . .

d

Okay, deep breath.

Mitch and I were together nearly every day, most mornings and after school but very, very late, after everyone else had gone home. I studied in the library, or we set up labs for the next day. Yes, we really did work, shocker there. There was also practice, conditioning work, stuff like that. We were extremely careful and always made sure that doors were open and there was music and, usually, other kids. Like we had nothing to hide.