None of the Above (11 page)

When Faith called later that afternoon, she was totally shocked when I told her about my surgery.

“Oh my God, was it something serious?”

“It was just a hernia,” I said, which wasn't exactly a lie.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

I had no excuse, and I knew it. But Faith forgave me, as always.

“You know I'm the chair of the Sunshine Club,” she said. “We should at least throw together a care package for you. My mom just got some of those almond cookies you love so much. I'll send around a card tomorrow.”

And what would people write in it? “No. Please don't make a big deal. I should only be out a few days.” Dr. Cheng had actually said that I might not have to miss any school at all, but no one needed to know that.

“I'm pretty sure they covered ‘Making a big deal about having a surgery' in Friendship 101. I'll stop by tomorrow to give you my bio notes,” she said. “I can't promise that I won't bring brownies, too.”

I really hoped she wouldn't send around that card. Could I tell her not to ask anyone who had liked that picture on Facebook? After we got off the phone, I turned on my computer.

I had untagged myself in the photo, but I couldn't help myself from going back to it like a moth to a flame. Pat's picture was up to 132 “likes.”

Once again, seeing the profile picture of me and Sam together took my breath away, the reminder of old happiness cutting like a razor blade. I deleted the picture but couldn't bring myself to find another one, and left the generic drawing of an androgynous blue silhouette in its place.

Fitting.

That's when I noticed that just underneath my empty profile picture, where it said “In a relationship,” Sam's name was missing. When I searched for his name in my friends list he was gone, too. I couldn't find him on Facebook at all.

I'd been blocked.

We were officially over.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise to me; it shouldn't have reduced me to a crying, shaking ball of misery. But there you have it: the power of the internet.

I cried at the memory of how warm and safe I'd felt when
he hugged me. I cried because I blamed myself for not telling him as soon as I got my diagnosis. But mostly I cried because I missed everything about him—his grin, his quiet sense of humor, and the steadiness of his footsteps as they kept pace beside me.

I knew I wasn't supposed to run yet. But my whole body itched for it, craved it like a junkie: the feel of muscles pulling, heart thumping, lungs filled to the brim with fresh air and
life
. I couldn't stay in my room any longer, couldn't sit still while the world crumbled around me. I pulled on my workout clothes. At the bottom of the stairs, I peeked into the living room, where Aunt Carla was ensconced on the couch.

“I'm just going out for a second,” I told her, standing out of sight so she couldn't see my blotchy face.

“Make sure to be back in time for dinner,” she said, barely looking up from her crossword puzzle. “I've got a roast in the oven.”

I decided to run my three-mile loop, which took me through the older part of our development, the one with fewer kids in high school. As soon as I felt the pavement under my feet the cloud in my mind lifted, and my legs took over.

My incisions pulled as I ran, but the soreness was a sweet kind of pain, reminding me that I wasn't the same person—the same
thing
—that I had been the day before. The wonderful
tangibility
of it struck me for the first time. I would have scars to prove what I had done.

What I had done for Sam. Surely he would be able to see that?

With a subconscious eagerness, I found myself turning onto my five-mile loop. My eyes had dried; my nose no longer felt like a cherry tomato. In my mind, I ticked off the landmarks at each half mile:

The library.

The old farmhouse with the barn, once red, that had faded to a light pink.

Sam's house.

With a jolt of recognition, I stopped. The world spun.

The light in his room was on, a shining beacon. Was I imagining it, or could I almost make out the shadow of a person? Who knew how long I would've stood on the sidewalk in front of the Wilmingtons' house with a staccato heart and gasping breath, if a car hadn't pulled up into his driveway and brought me to my senses.

I turned to flee back the way I'd come. But then a door slammed, and I heard a woman shouting behind me.

“Kristin! Hey, Kristin!”

I turned around. Sam's mom walked down the driveway to meet me, her wide grin so similar to her son's it made me want to cry. As much I wanted to run, I couldn't.

“Kristin,” she said, holding out her arms. “I haven't congratulated you yet for Homecoming! Tell me, have you come back to earth yet?”

As I sank into Mrs. Wilmington's hug, I realized that Sam must have been too embarrassed to tell his mom. It was almost worse than her running me off the property.

I plastered a pleased look onto my face, praying that it would be convincing. “Nope, it's still sinking in.”

“Please tell me you'll come in and have something to drink. Sam's been holed up in his room the past couple of days. He and Bruce must've had some sort of spat.”

“Oh, I'm only halfway through my run,” I said, jogging back a couple of steps.

Mrs. Wilmington clicked her tongue and grabbed my hand. “Don't be ridiculous, Kristin. The season hasn't even started yet, and Madison misses you. She hasn't seen you in weeks.” I allowed her to pull me toward their driveway, partly because I didn't want to be rude, but mostly because I couldn't help but dream that being brought in by Mrs. Wilmington would put me under a spell of protection. Sam would have to listen to me if I was with his mother.

Walking into the Wilmingtons' felt like coming home, right down to the spot in the shoe rack for my sneakers.

“Sam! You've got company,” his mother yelled. When he didn't respond, she shooed me toward the stairs as she went into the kitchen. “I'll get you some Gatorade. Blue, right? You know where to go.”

I hadn't even gotten to the bottom step when the door to the basement rec room flew open and a twelve-year-old
whirling dervish flew out.

“Hey, who's here? Krissy, is that you?” Sam's little sister, Madison, threw herself at me with such force that I almost lost my balance.

“You never emailed me the pictures of your dress,” she said reproachfully when she let go. “Sam just had one little teeny shot on his phone and the lighting sucked.” I had to laugh at how stern she looked, even with her curly brown hair frizzing out in all directions from her run up the stairs. “And why aren't you wearing your ring?”

My grin froze on my face. “I had to get it sized a little. It was a bit too small. But it was beautiful. Sam said you helped him pick it out?”

“I did,” she said proudly. “Sam wanted to get you this awful gold thing but I told him that silver and green would be better colors for you. Did he tell you about our Christmas pageant? I got the part of an angel. Promise you'll come to opening night?”

I tried so hard to keep smiling that it hurt. “Congratulations, sweetie! You know I'll do my best to make it.”

“Okay. I'm going to look beautiful. Want to see a picture of my costume?” She was tugging me toward the rec room when her mom came in.

“Maddie, I know you're excited to see Kristin, but why don't you let her go up and talk to Sam for a little while?” Mrs. Wilmington handed me a cup of Gatorade.

Madison pouted. “But it's not going to take a
little while
. It always takes
forever
!”

“Then maybe you should think of something to do that'll take a long time,” said her mom. “Why don't you give Allison a call?”

“Okay
.
”
Madison slumped. “See you soon,” she told me.

I nodded wordlessly as she went back downstairs.

My hand only shook a bit as I drank the blue Gatorade. “Thanks so much,” I said, handing the cup back to Mrs. Wilmington.

She smiled. “Madison really thinks of you as her playmate first, and Sam's girlfriend second. Why don't you go upstairs? I'm going to start some dinner.”

I took the first step cautiously, as if I were scaling a cliff. Though I'd barely broken a sweat in the cool autumn air, someone had cranked the heat up in the house. At the top of the stairs, I stopped to wipe off a thin sheen of sweat from my forehead. I redid my ponytail in a mirror on the landing, thinking about how I always used to make fun of the girls on my track team who ran with makeup in their little armbands instead of iPods.

Silently, I walked to the second room on the right, and listened at Sam's door to the strains of Eminem. As I raised my hand to knock, a track ended, and I could hear the faint sound of a keyboard clattering. I wondered if he was doing homework or IM'ing. Or posting on Facebook.

With a flash, I came to my senses. My hand dropped. What in God's name was I doing? What could I possibly say that would change his mind? I would never be able to take back his humiliation, or restore his ruined reputation.

I deserved nothing. Not his forgiveness, and certainly not his love. And he'd already made his wishes clear:
Stay away.

I took a step back. Turned around.

But just before I reached the top of the stairwell, his door opened.

“Hey, Mom,” he yelled. “Do you know where my—”

Sam caught sight of me and stopped midsentence. His mouth gaped open slightly for a moment, then snapped shut into a thin, pursed line.

We stared at each other.

I noticed Sam's stubble first—about a day and a half's worth, I figured. When we were going out, for him to skip a day of shaving was unusual. He knew I liked him smooth.

Sam broke the silence. “What the
hell
are you doing here?” His voice was oddly subdued, and he pulled nervously at the white V-neck undershirt he wore over his sweatpants. Maybe he only kept his voice down because he didn't want his mom to hear, but it was better than him shouting like he had in the hallway at school.

“I was running. Your mom invited me in.” I could've told
him that I was just about to leave, but I didn't. Because as much as I wanted to go before, now I wanted to stay. I took a step toward him.

But there was more to it than that—somehow I sensed something . . .
open
about the wariness of his blue-eyed gaze. A willingness, now that we were away from teammates and A-listers and teachers alike.

“You haven't told her yet?” I asked.

He looked away, picking at the paint on the doorjamb with a fingernail. The muscles in his jaw spasmed, and he seemed to come to a decision. Stepping back, he waved me into his room. Heart pounding, I followed.

The smell of boy made me ache; funny how you can be nostalgic for the scent of deodorant mixed with sweat. Sam's room looked exactly like I remembered, with one exception. Before, there'd been a ring of pictures circled around his desk. Now, the wall was blank. I didn't think it was possible for my heart to sink any further, but it did.

Sam straddled his desk chair, and waved me to the armchair by his stereo without looking at me.

“What was I supposed to tell her? Not just my mom—everyone? My sister? My
dad
?” His voice broke, and I understood. Mr. Wilmington's favorite nickname for Sam was “stud.”

“I don't know. . . . That it's a medical condition.” A wave of grief and anger overwhelmed me. “God damn it, Sam. It's not
like I am what I am out of spite.”

“I know, I know,” he moaned. He put his hands over his face. His beautiful hands. I couldn't help it—I reached out and brushed his knuckles with my fingertips.

He flinched, and I closed my eyes at the sudden pain in my chest.

I retreated, and told him, “I had surgery. You don't have to worry about . . . my having boy parts anymore.” I pulled down my tracksuit to show him my scars, two puckered-up pink lines running just below the level of my underwear.

I tried to explain to him about mixed signals and testosterone deafness, but the more I talked, the more his eyes glazed over. Finally he just raised his hand. Gave a long blink. And looked at me with clear eyes.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

My turn to look away.

“Why do you
think
? Because I was scared.”

“You . . . you didn't trust me.”

I shook my head. “Should I have?” I stood up and paced around, needing to move, needing to feel brave. “Show me that I should've trusted you. Show me that you don't care about these scars. That all you care about is who I am, not what I am.” I stopped in front of Sam's chair and sank to the ground in front of him. I looked up at him, our faces inches apart.

Sam bowed his head so that it rested against the back of
the chair. He stayed there a long time, breathing heavily as the clock ticked. Behind him, his computer pinged two, three times with message alerts.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” I asked him.

“Wasn't it at some track meet or something?”

“Yeah. I was all gross from my race and had this awful jog bra on that made me flat as a pancake. I thought for sure that when Vee got you to come out on a double date you'd remember me as a total train wreck and run in the opposite direction. But you came.”

Sam lifted his head. Our gazes met, and I felt it—that magnetism, that connection that we'd always had. Slowly I moved in closer until I could feel his uneven breath on my face. “You saw me for who I was,” I whispered. “Can't you see it's the same thing now?”

Just as our lips were about to touch, Sam pulled back and shook his head with a faraway look. He turned to me. His eyes hardened.

“I'm gonna say this once, and only once,” he said, his words brittle. “I. Don't. Date. Men.”

I gasped as if he'd struck me, and I couldn't stop the tears from brimming.

“I am
not
a man.” Why couldn't he see? Hopelessness burned into frustration. “You've seen me . . .
all of me
. How can you not accept that?”

Sam wiped his hand down his face with frustration, and shook his head. When he spoke, his voice had thawed a little. But not enough.

“Maybe someone else can, Krissy. But not me.”

He got up from his chair and stared down at me, really looked at me, and the revulsion and pity in his eyes only made my tears come quicker.

“I'm sorry,” he said, not offering me a hand up.

Somehow I made it to my feet on my own. I dried my eyes with my sweatband and sniffled to clear my nose. As he held his door open, Sam stared down at the worn patch of carpet at the entrance. “I promise I won't tell my sister if you don't want me to.”

I paused at the threshold, and wondered if it'd be possible to shield a twelve-year-old from the truth, or if she'd hear the malice behind the whispers. It hurt to think of her blaming me for staying away, but so did the idea that she could hate me for what I was.

“You can tell her that we got into a fight over going to different colleges. Tell her that high school romances never last,” I said, allowing a sliver of bitterness to creep into my voice.

“Whatever.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I said, as my last figment of hope shriveled up and died.

I turned to shuffle down the hallway. When I didn't hear Sam's door click, I turned around once at the top of the stairs.
He still stood there, leaning against the doorjamb, staring down at the carpet. I felt sure he could feel my eyes on him, but he didn't look up.

Halfway down the stairs, the door shut.

I let myself out of the house without saying good-bye to Mrs. Wilmington, who was still in the kitchen, humming show tunes.

Dusk had fallen, and I ran home in the twilight.

I welcomed the darkness.

Because really, at this point, being anonymous was what I wanted more than anything.