The Guardian Read Online Free Page A

skittering next to the baseboard. It disappears beneath the crack between the door and the floor, entering the hallway. I shudder, a chill flashing down my spine. I descend deeper into the tub, my broken wrist lifted high in the air as my head sinks completely underwater. My scalp stings where the gash is stitched. When I resurface, hundreds of tiny pieces of blonde hair are floating on top of the water. I skim my fingers across the top; the splashes of moving water echo off the still wa lls, shattering the silence.
    “Genesis?”
    I sigh. “What?”
    “Are you okay?”
    “I’m not drowning myself, if that’s what you mean,” I say, a note of exasperation filling my voice.
    “I’m just checking.” A pause. “I’m worried about you.”
    “I’m fine, Mom,” I say, exha ling a frustrated sigh. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
    Moments later I hear her retreating footsteps, and so I close my eyes again, feeling unsettled and broken to pieces, and focus on the voice— You’re going to be fine, Genesis. I promise —and try to belie ve it again.

 
     
     
    F OUR
     
     
     
     
    “Okay, ladies. Today we’re running a mile.”
    A collective groan rumbles through the gymnasium. 
    Our PE teacher, Mr. Collins, studies the clipboard tucked beneath his arm. “Run. Jog. Skip. I don’t recommend walking. The longer the time the lower the grade.”
    Selena and Vivian huddle together at the outer edge of the group. Selena catches my eye. She raises an eyebrow, purses her lips, and sneers. Only a few days back at school, and she’s still as hateful as ever. Witch. 
    Selena and Vivian are not my friends. They’re Carter’s friends. We are connected only by Carter Fleming, by a razor-thin thread that hangs lifelessly between us. In the past, this meant I was someone to be tolerated. Now that we’re broken up . . . on a bre ak . . . taking things slow . . . whatever, Selena has decided that I’m not even worth tolerating. I can’t say that I’m sorry.
    “All right. Let’s move out!” Mr. Collins shouts. The silver whistle hanging from the cord around his neck meets his lips. He tak es a deep breath and blows. I cringe.
    “Move it!” he repeats.
    We travel in a herd toward the double doors.
    “I can’t believe he’s making us do this today. It’s freezing out,” someone mutters. 
    I step through the steel door frame. A cold wind gnaws at my b are arms and legs. I hold my hand out, feeling tiny sprinkles as they hit my palm.
    “It’s a quick shower,” Mr. Collins declares, cutting us off at the argument. “A little rain never killed anyone.” He goes on, explaining which path around the school we’re s upposed to take. “I’m timing you. . . .” He glances at his watch. “Starting now.”
    A few of my more ambitious classmates immediately start running—these are the soccer players, the volleyball and basketball players, the coordinated, the girls who consider N ike athletic pants and wristbands couture.
    I begin to jog, trying to at least keep up with the girls lagging behind: the awkward, overweight, and out of shape. Within moments my lungs are burning, accompanied by a sharp pain jolting the organs behind my r ibs: a cramp. I hold my side and continue jogging. Push through it , I tell myself . But even the ungainly are passing me now. I slow my jog to a quick walk.
    With every few steps I take a new breath, each heavier than the last. To my right, further past the football field, those girls—the athletes—are still running, sticking together. In a different world—in a different time or place—I might have pulled off athletic pants and ponytails as wardrobe staples. I could’ve been jogging with them, leading the way fo r everyone else. Instead, I’m bringing up the rear, not even halfway done and already cramping—muscles aching—needing oxygen that, for some reason, I can’t find. Shivering as my bangs drip with cold rainwater.
    I am going to catch pneumonia, and I’m going