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the lead boys. I wink and race by him. He smells like onions and he has big, wet circles in the pits of his shirt. He speeds up, but can only stay with me for a tenth of a mile before he drops back. Then it’s Nick.
    I cruise next to him. He’s some sort of running god, because he isn’t close to being winded. His stride is long, powerful, and quick.
    “Hi.”
    Why I said this, I do not know. He’s cute. Okay. I am a sucker for cute boys and he [_was _]nice to Issie. Plus, he has good hair and he isn’t as pale as most Maine males. He looks like he works in the sun, or at least has seen the sun once, maybe many weeks ago. Plus, life is all supposed to be about making love, not war. My dad listened to John Lennon: I know this stuff.
    “You’re fast,” he says, easy. No huffing. No puffing. No blowing the house down. “So are you.”
    We run together, keeping pace. The only one ahead of us is Ian, who is loping around the track as if it’s nothing.
    Nick shrugs at me while he runs, which is really something, because when I’m running full tilt it’s hard for me to speak, let alone break form to shrug.
    “You can go faster, can’t you?” I huff out.
    He just gives a little smile again and then his eyes shift into something cold, like gravestones with just the barest information about a life etched onto them.
    “Zara,” he whisper-says.
    I lean in closer to hear him. “What?”
    My voice is not a whisper. It matches the thudding beat of my heart, the bass of the music that blares out of the speakers. “Awesome job, new girl!” Devyn yells, clapping.
    Nick locks his eyes into mine. “You should stay away from Ian.”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t know. He’s just… he’s a user.”
    “A user?”
    We thunder past the jogging/singing girls.
    “What do you mean, a user?” I ask again.
    We flash by some unhealthy boys, including the onion-smell guy.
    Nick sniffs the air. “Smells like they might not make it.” Might not make it. Like my dad.
    I gulp and turn my head to look at him. He is oblivious. My dad’s face flashes into my head, the water bottle on the floor, the way I couldn’t do anything to help him. I ache, just ache, and it makes me mad. I start kicking. It’s way too early, but I have to get ahead and get away, like I can outrun death somehow, like I can run away from what’s real.
    Might not make it.
    Every muscle rebels but I ignore them and push past Mick, closing the distance between Ian and me in the final lap. I pass people but don’t really notice who. Some yell, but I don’t really hear them. With every footfall I increase the distance between me and Nick, between me and bad memories.
    Might not make it.
    Just Run. Run. Run.
    I halve the distance between Ian and me. I quarter the distance.
    People yell, I think. People holler. My red running shoes blur as they move over the grainy track. My arms pump. Kicking high to catch up, all power, all speed, and I get so close I can smell Ian, cold and icy like my windowpane this morning. He turns and looks at me.
    He isn’t even concerned. A runner never turns to look back unless he knows he can’t be beat.
    He smiles kindly-amused, I think-and picks up his pace. No sweat soaks his shirt, no beads on his forehead. Nothing.
    God, that’s incredible, to be able to run like that.
    He crosses the line three strides ahead of me, standing up, smiling.
    I stumble across the line and fall to the ground, gasping for air, clutching my cinched-up stomach, and suppressing the urge to vomit, which is what happens sometimes when I run hard.
    “You were great.” Ian bends over me and reaches a hand out to help me up.
    I grab his hand, stagger, and the world dizzies around me. Ian wraps his arm around my waist, steadying me. My dad used to put his arm around me like that and I liked it, liked the comfortable feeling. Some part of me notices that his arm isn’t even warm. It’s cold. It makes no sense.
    “You’re amazing,” I tell him. “I’ve