I’ve been thinking about Daddy a lot more than usual too. There’s something about Torres that reminds me of my father. His harshness, criticism, and the I-am-not-pleased-with-your-effort demeanor. It’s a trigger and I don’t like it, but I’m stuck with him because he’s practically the expert when it comes to the meter sprints.
Mama tells me it’ll take time to adapt to my new life…but I didn’t expect my new life to be so…miserable. When I thought of college, I thought of how the real me would be able to come out. I’d be joyous and reborn and excited to practice and run alongside my teammates. Maybe even party here and there.
Instead, the only people on the team who like me are Kendall and Janine. All the other girls give me strange looks as if I’m some exotic creature that shouldn’t be touched, interacted with, or bothered. When I win the practice races, they glare at me, like they blame me for their slower paces.
Especially Melanie. I’ve heard her when she talks to Christa and Katie. She complains about how no one can keep up with the new girl and that it’s not fair to the girls who have been here. And sometimes it’s not just those two she talks to. There are others who absorb her gossip about me as well.
For some reason, she is the queen of the team. She’s the one all the girls aspire to be like, I suppose because she’s attractive and social and has had many boyfriends on campus. She was also team captain last year.
Normally, I can ignore the whispering and side-eyeing, but it’s depressing when it is your own teammates making you feel out of place. These are women who are supposed to be encouraging and uplifting one another, not talking shit behind your back.
My words of encouragement to Melanie always go ignored. Melanie doesn’t care what I think. In her eyes, I am beneath someone like her. She may not be faster, but she has more friends and gets away with a lot more than I do.
Still, I persevere. I have psychology class in the morning but have to meet Torres at Marble Hall, along with the other meter racers.
I curl up beneath my blanket, feeling soothed after eating some of the soup Mama brought to school for me and the shower that followed, and then I fall asleep.
The alarm on my phone blares to life and I slap a hand on the screen to stop the noise, groaning as I get up.
I’m dressed, teeth brushed, hair moisturized and pulled up into a bushy ponytail, and then out the door in no time. I have to be there by 7:00 a.m. I have exactly fifteen minutes to get there. I trek across campus, past trees bundled with orange and yellow leaves, and walk up a set of stairs that goes up to Marble Hall. I had no idea where it was last night, so while I heated up my leftover soup, I looked it up on the campus map on the wall.
The stairs are steep, and of course Torres would choose the building with the steepest stairs for us to meet at. No need for coffee. The stairs are your wake-up call.
I notice Torres standing beside one of the pillars, an iPhone in hand. The blue light of the screen illuminates his face, revealing his sharp nose, the scruff around his mouth and along his jaw, and even the length of his dark eyelashes. He’s wearing a black hoodie with black sweatpants and black and white running shoes. The hood of the hoodie is covering his head. He’s scrolling through his phone, resting one shoulder against the pillar.
No one else is here yet. Damn me and my promptness.
I step closer to him and he looks up, watching me approach. “Bright and early, aren’t you, Lakes?”
“What’s wrong with being early?”
He huffs a laugh. “Why do you always have to assume that I mean things in the wrong way?”
“Maybe it’s because of your passive-aggressive tone.” I roll my eyes and turn away, facing the staircase. I make out a pedicured green lawn from here, and a jam-packed parking lot. There’s a circled path and a sidewalk, and a statue in the middle of the circled path. I have no idea who the statue is of, but I feel like I was told during my campus tour this past spring. An old sailor of some kind.
“So, what are you majoring in?” Torres asks. I look over, and he’s still scrolling through his phone. It’s like he’s asking me this question to clear the silence.
“Psychology. I want to be a therapist one day.”
“A therapist?” One of his brows shoots up. He finally looks at me instead of his phone. “Don’t see you as the counseling type. What makes you want to do that?”