I usually don’t mind the length. Back in Oklahoma, I switched between three different routes depending on what Coach ordered. However, I’m not in Oklahoma anymore. And the streets of Jameson, Massachusetts are unfamiliar and sometimes bricked. They are windy, confusing and different. But I like the change in scenery.
As I race through unfamiliar streets, the houses get more impressive and old, and I think about the surprising turn of events following Arcadia.
Not a week after the meet, I’d received a phone call from the Headmaster of Weis-Jameson Preparatory Academy. He had an offer that made my jaw drop. A full-ride scholarship if I attended my senior year at WJ Prep. A little digging and I was hooked; their track and field program was nationally ranked, and they churned out an Olympic athlete every couple years. Their coach, David Granger, was legendary. A former Olympian hurdler himself, he’d gotten bronze back in his heyday.
Mom couldn’t believe it. She’d grown up in Jameson when she was little – she hadn’t been back for twenty years. She’d actually attended WJ Prep herself, where she’d met my bio-dad.
It didn’t take a lot of convincing to move. Mom’s ties to Jameson plus my scholarship and the opportunity to train under a former Olympian… Fuck, I could be set for life with just this one year stint at WJ prep.
And now I’m here. A week before the semester starts. In a strange town with the opportunity of my life. Pre-season workouts would start a couple weeks in, but David had emailed a ‘suggested’ workout. He wasn’t technically able to supervise practice so early before the season starts in February.
Jameson is hilly, and I’m not used to hills. I push myself, feeling the remnants of my strength ebb as I struggle to put one leg in front of the other. With another right, I face an ornate gate: Crescent Hills, it reads. And holy fuck do these bitches have money.
I slow my pace, entering the community. The homes I pass get bigger and bigger as I go along. Immaculately landscaped yards feature fountains, perfect grass, trimmed hedges and sparkling driveways. Each one is breathtaking – clearly, this is the Mansion District. Many have gates across their drives, which lead up to columne
d porches framing massive wood or glass doors. Large stone potted plants decorate the porches, and I wonder what else these luxurious homes could be hiding behind their large windows and rooftop terraces.
As I run, each house rises into the backs of the mountain, and the road winds higher and higher. The steep elevation crucifies my legs. Jesus. My breath is painful, ripping an agonizing tear through my chest each time I inhale. What if I stopped here? I’m close enough to halfway.
I pause at a bend in the road. It overlooks the city before winding behind me, to further houses buried into the hills. Excuse me. Mansions.
Jameson sprawls below me. It is lit by the waning late summer light. I take a moment to bounce on my toes, feeling sweat dry on my calves as a cool breeze hit me. It’s a gorgeous place, that I can admit. My town back in Oklahoma was flat, with concrete buildings and concrete roads and concrete fences. It was a concrete jungle, with little style and no beauty points. Only in the spring months did the flowers contrast the gray.
Time to go.
I start down the hill, letting gravity doing most of the work. Ahead, the first car that I’ve seen emerges, slowly driving toward me. It’s a fucking fancy car. I stare at it. It glimmers a fire engine red, and as I get closer I notice the Lamborghini logo.
Fuck, these people are hella rich.
Suddenly, the car revs. It beelines toward me. A rush of red. The engine roars. A loud engine. It barrels down. Its lights aren’t on, I notice. I can barely register what’s happening before I dive out of the way. My foot dings the headlight as the car swerves just at the last second.
I land in the ditch. My feet are instantly soaked from the days-old water. Tremors shake my legs as I inch myself down to the sweet, sweet ground.
They just tried to run me over!
Cold adrenaline shocks my system.
I could have died.
“Oh my fucking gawd,” screams a high-pitched voice.
A wafer-thin girl appears above me. Her manicured nails are gripping her sharp hipbones, and she looks pissed. Her honey-blonde hair falls in heavy curls, and her face is Instagram-beautiful. Her pouty lips are curled into a sneer.
“You fucking dinged my car, bitch,” she says.
I frown. She’s wearing a pencil skirt and pink blouse. But she looks my age, around seventeen.
“Your car?” I ask. The red sports car is pulled over, idling. There’s another girl lounging on the trunk. Her red hair is pulled back into a severely high bun, her lips as red as blood. She’s also beautiful, but in a kinder, softer way. “The one that tried to run me over?”
“Don’t get smart with me, bitch.”
I start to stand up, but before I can even register movement, her platformed heel hits my shoulder. Hard. I tumble down, my butt landing in the water. A sharp pain radiates up my arm. A breath stills in my throat as I pull my hand up, cradling my wrist.
Great. Now I’m soaking wet and my wrist is sprained.
“What the fuck, bitch?” I snarl, pulling myself out of the ditch. She’s shorter than me by a couple inches, and I’ve got at least twenty pounds of muscle on her. She doesn’t look as intimidating now. Her blue eyes, still haughty, flash with momentary fear. “What’s your problem?”
“Vivian and I are just needing to clean up the white trash in the street,” she snaps. “So next time you go running, make sure to watch where you’re going.”