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me worried eyes. Megan pretends we suddenly don’t exist and moves closer to a group of blond girls, the class cutie brigade, I figure. Nick and Ian eye each other, like dogs squaring off, measuring each other up. Ian looks away first, bending to tighten his laces.
    Nick smiles at me, a much nicer smile. A real smile? “You’ve already made friends.”
    “Good one,” I say, shifting my weight between my feet. “Ha-ha. Funny.”
    Issie perks up and locks her arm in mine. “That’s right, Nick. Zara’s doing fine. I’m her friend.”
    He nods. This time his smile seems even warmer, even more real. “Good, Issie. I should have known.”
    “Known what?” I ask, but nobody answers me. So I try a new tactic and whisper to Is, “Are you dating him?”
    Her head jerks up. “Devyn?”
    “No. Nick.”
    She starts laughing. “Nope. No interest there at all.”
    Devyn lifts his head to stare into Nick’s face. He drums his fingers against the armrests of the wheelchair. “You find out anything?”
    Nick shakes his head.
    The coach comes to the starting line and gives Devyn a stopwatch and clipboard. “You guys ready? This is serious stuff here. Run all-out. Do your best.”
    Nick leans toward me and whispers. His breath is warm against the side of my face. “He has a bet with all the other PE teachers in the county. If we don’t have the best average time, he has to buy everyone strudel.”
    “Strudel?”
    Nick raises his hands in the air. “I have no idea.”
    “The PE teachers are into strudel,” Issie says. “I’m not sure why. It’s so gooey.”
    “Gooey is good,” Nick says, “Seriously?” I ask him. “You like strudel.”
    “I like a lot of things that aren’t good for me.” He smiles slowly at me. My mouth must be hanging open because he starts laughing.
    “You made her blush!” Issie says. “Don’t blush, Zara. He’s just teasing.”
    Coach Walsh blows the whistle and we take off. A lot of the girls just jog, but Megan Crowley bolts, and I dash after her, hating how cute and long her legs look as she runs with a perfect stride, her feet swinging low and quick. Does Nick notice how perfect she is? Why do I even care? Megan turns her head and flashes a smile at me. It is not a friendly smile. What is wrong with that girl? What is wrong with me?
    “Go get her,” Issie huffs out. Her form is all off. She’s loping and too loose, her arms flapping everywhere. “Don’t wait for me.”
    “But…”
    “I’m not much of a distance runner, more of a sprinter.” She smiles apologetically. “More of a walker, really.”
    We haven’t even gone a quarter of a mile and lssie’s face is already red “Go. Catch her.”
    She smiles and waves me away.
    Then she adds, “You know you want to.”
    I pick up my pace, easily catching up to Megan. I flash her my own version of the evil-Megan, super-unfriendly smile and pass her at the quarter-mile mark.
    Let me just say that there’s nothing better than running fast. There’s nothing better than the way your legs feel when you stretch out to sprinting speed and you know that your lungs and heart can sustain it.
    My running shoes pound over the red track and I start to catch up to the leading boys.
    The gym teacher switches on some really ultra-urban hip-hop music, which almost breaks my stride because it has to be the strangest thing in the world listening to ultra-urban hip-hop in a gym in northern Maine. I swear, Maine is the whitest state in the nation.
    We went running the day my dad died, in Charleston My breath hiccups out of my mouth and I lose my breathing rhythm. Crap.
    “Don’t think about it. Go faster,” I am mumbling to myself. What is wrong with me? Running never makes me nervous. I lap the jogging girls. They’re singing,”
Whassup. Whassup with you
...”
    I lap sweet Issie. Her arms are still all loosey-goosey and she waves at me before she yells, “Watch out. She’s catching up.”
    I just run faster and hit the slowest of