Page 87 of Race to Me

She looks at me through her reflection, her back facing me. “Why?”

“My mom … she wanted me to cheer, and this would just be …” I stop talking, turning to walk away.

She nods, bending down to stretch. “Go on. You can talk to me about anything.”

I wring my hands nervously. “She forced me into cheer. I can’t be her porcelain doll of dreams anymore.” I admit.

“What you were doing just now?” Mrs. Parks begins. “That wasn’t cheer, darling. It was you. You wanted to be here. I can tell.”

She paces a bit, her stride is different here in her studio. The way she walks like a swan, the simple way her footsteps seem effortless and difficult all at once.

I wrap my fingers around the metal door frame. Turning my head back towards Grace, I say, “When do I need to come back?”

Thirty-three

Ilie in bed beside Kate, nervously strumming my fingers against the comforter. “I’m so worried about him.”

Kate nods, painting her pinky nail a faint blue hue. “I would be too.”

I sit up slowly, turning my head to look at her. “Wait, so Ryder isn’t racing?”

“No,” she replies quietly while a constant stream of heavy rain on the roof drowns the room in a deafening sound.

My heart flutters. “So, Foster isn’t?”

She looks out the rain-pelted window, avoiding my eyes. “No, he is.”

I lay back down slowly, the weight of it all pressing against my ribs. “How did you get Ryder to not go?” A crack of monstrous lightning follows my curiosity, sending chills down my spine.

“I just … asked him.” she replies, trying to hold back the relief in her worried, tilted smile.

“Oh,” I wish it were that easy for me.

Kate looks over at me hopefully. “So … you like the ballet studio? I miss dancing with you.” she asks. I told her about it earlier.

My heart bursts to life a little. Just a little. “Grace said to come back Tuesday. Do you want to go with me?”

“Absolutely!” she says in a sing-song voice.

The thought makes me smile, but it’s going to be a long night full of worry.

∞∞∞

“Kate?” I whisper, shaking her shoulder.

“Hm?” she mumbles, drooling from her open mouth, still out cold. I sneak out of the bed and grab the keys off the tray.

A heavy, constant gust of wind nearly tackles me when I climb into her mom’s car, but the storms are settling down now. Only wind and a little residual rainfall are left in its wake. Foster was right; the tropical storm didn’t turn into a hurricane. But still, it could have.

A pained sigh of relief escapes me as I pull into his driveway. The garage doors are open, and his bike is sitting inside.

There’s a party, of course. It’s two in the morning, but I couldn’t sleep without knowing if he was okay.Especially since I have an excuse to swing by.

Music bumps as I walk in and bypass all of the partygoers, trying to silently slip through the crowd. My eyes scan for Foster, but he’s not down here.

I tip-toe to his room, and I soon find my fingertips hovering above the knob of his closed door. Over the music that trickles down the hallway, I can’t hear what he’s doing on the other side. He may be asleep … or he may not be.

Gathering my courage, I twist the handle and step in to find him sitting on his bed in gray sweatpants and no t-shirt. He’s freshly showered with wet hair. Shit. He looks good.

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