blood & sweat [frisson]

"Pass five people within a mile, after you've run two."

I stared down at my food, pursing my lips. It was the same breakfast I got every morning: eggs, toast, and a fruit that varied from day to day. My mother stared me down as I slowly ate everything. She scrutinized me, made sure I ate everything off my plate until it was time to go. My hair was already styled up into a high, pinching pony tail, and my clothes consisted of a tank top and leggings.

Of course, I really didn't have to do any of the absurdly impossible tasks my mother set out for me each morning. I hated them. And yet I felt some strange, stupid loyalty to her, as if I was forced to make her proud. I didn't have to, is what I wanted to convince myself. I could tell her I did it. She wouldn't know any better, anyway.

But then, mother was always very good at knowing when I was lying. I guess that happens when you only have one person to love and obsess over in your life.

"Did you hear me, Kamber? I said-"

"I am well aware of what you said. I'll do it," I told my empty plate. When I looked up, she had conflicting emotions on her face. She was probably wondering if my rude interruption and my compliance balanced each other out.

"Alright. Off to training," she said curtly, hustling me from my seat and to the door. I pulled on my shoes and a sweatshirt and grabbed my bag, doing so as fast as I could. When I stepped outside, the air was warm and sticky compared to the inside of my house. With a sigh, I started my short walk to the center, adjusting my pack on my shoulder. By the time I reached it, I had concluded that I hated Cardiovascular Sundays.

I could run three miles. Not easily though. I was fine with two miles, but three almost made me throw up and pass out last time I tried it, which was a mere two weeks ago. Not to mention I had to pass five people, which meant going faster and harder than the careers that were in front of me. I chewed the inside of my cheek as I opened my locker and threw my bag in, after taking out my water bottle. It was a rushing relief not to have the sweatshirt on anymore.

I started jogging on the track, figuring the best strategy for the task was pacing myself. But I never had the best endurance, so by the time I got to half a mile, I wasn't doing so hot. My chest felt achy and my feet were burning as I padded around the track. I was never going to make it. And yet I kept pushing, ignoring every whining part of my body in practiced ease. It's not about you, Kamber. It's about winning.

When I finished my third mile, my legs felt like paper, weak and frail, and my mouth felt like parchment. Trails of sweat dripped over my skin, each one feeling uncomfortably wet and doing nothing to cool me down. I passed a girl who looked like she had been running longer than I have. One down.

Unfortunately, I was not so lucky with the rest in front of me. They all looked unfazed, not tired at the least. I cursed underneath my breath as a new boy joined in front of me, just close enough for me to have to pass. The next few minutes were torture as my whole body screamed at me to stop every time I sped up to pass someone. Breaths entered and exited embarrassingly loud through my mouth, making my presence known to whoever I was passing. The girls gave me odd looks, but let me pass. The boys, on the other hand, went faster, purposefully trying to stay ahead of me. I glared at them as I slowly, steadily picked up the pace.

Number five was jogging in front of me. He had a shock of dark hair and was relatively short, and yet he was much taller than me. A decent build. I looked in despair at the distance between him and me and started to run faster, despite how tired I felt. I had a half a lap to pass him. Quarter of a lap, I was even with him. At the end, I was maybe an inch or two ahead.

That counted, right?

I fought my instinct to stop right at the line, but instead broke into a walk. Putting my hands on top of my head to ease my heavy breathing, I tried to forget about the horrible feeling in my stomach and the pounding headache I had developed.

This is not about you Kamber, this is about winning. This is not about you.

I blacked out for second. Hitting the track with a loud thud, I felt a numb, subtle pain as I woke up again. Damnit, Kamber, look what you did. I returned, still light headed, to my feet as quickly as I could, hoping in vain that no one noticed.

This is not about you.

I then understood that faint yet consistent pain that was no only in my head, but in my side. I understood why there was something that hurt and it wasn't the bile in my stomach. It must have happened in the split moment when I was unconscious, before I sprung up again.

It was a person.

"For fuck sake," he spat in disgust. I glared at him and shifted on my feet. "Couldn't you have died anywhere else?"

This boy, the boy I must have raced to beat, was perhaps one of the most flawless creatures I had ever seen. His hair looked meticulously brushed, eyes a beautiful, dark color and an elegant shape. He was the dictionary definition of gorgeous. I guess his pretty face made up for what must be his hellish personality.

I crossed my arms in contempt, looking at him with a stony stare. It was hard not to show the extreme discomfort from my gut on my face. I looked at him for a second, contemplating my answer and regaining my composure.

Once, my sister, before she died, kept on pounding on my door and running away, a ball of laughter. At that point in my very short life, a lot of things could easily set me off, and my younger sister’s existence was almost enough to do that. I asked to stop. She didn’t. I told my parents to ask her to stop. They told it was immature and to just ignore it. It got to the point where I hid in the room across from mine, and when she came up to do the crime, I tackled her and clawed at her until her crying and wailing called enough attention for my parents to check on us. They shouted at me for what I did, and made me apologize to her.

This is the exact absurd situation, give or take a few variables. But the song remains the same; I am victim to someone who doesn’t know who to blame.

I could lose my temper, shout at him. That would be perceived as childish. No on screaming. I could say nothing, just walk away from the track. But that would ruin the stubborn reputation I've been slowly trying to build up, and would also make me look weak and vulnerable. No on silence. Calmly telling him off, maybe. My best option.

Try not to swear, Kamber.

"Oh, dear, I'm sorry," I say with fake and superficial sincerity, and then tear it off my face. "I didn't realize you fainted voluntarily. I guess I'll just have to work on moving somewhere before I pass out. Do forgive me, asshole."


Eh, one expletive won't hurt.


A few younger kids shuffled and weaved through us, faces looking slightly uncomfortable. Let them pass, the new ones. They'll get used to it in later years. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if a few punches were thrown at this moment. It was just what happened at career centers, especially with an overbearing, cocky, testosterone filled boy.

I throw my attention back on this boy, this embarrassment, this nuisance. “Suck it up, buttercup. If you want to whine like a toddler, go join them,” I pointed to the pack of twelve year olds making their way around.

Out of pretty boy's mouth popped out what was probably the most half-assed comeback I had he in my relatively short and ultimately meaningless life.

"Oh fucking whatever."

I stood still as he walked over to a bench on the side of the track and sat down, the old hunk of wood whining under the gain of sudden weight. The pain in my stomach and head had subsided a little, but were still consistent and pounding. My heart pumping made a heavy, resonating sound in my ears. As the boy took out a small water bottle from his pocket, I realized my mouth felt parched and uncomfortably dry. I zeroed in on my water bottle, which was, unfortunately, sitting right at the base of said bench. My shoulders sagged as I wondered how much I really wanted that water.
 
Sauntering over, I studied him quietly. Was he not smart enough to come up with an answer? He didn't look like a brainless meathead, but I wouldn't know. Was he avoiding a fight? Respectable, although I wasn't sure why he'd think I'd pick a fight. He was taller, and probably stronger. The only things in my artillery were speed and witty comebacks. A smart career would realize that with enough analysis.

So maybe he's dumb. Maybe I'm wrong.

Whichever one it was, it did not lessen the awkwardness of my retrieving my water bottle. I took a long, slow sip, enjoying the rush of cool water running over my mouth. With a sigh, I lowered the bottle down, my breathing no longer ballooning my chest. Although the aching in my stomach had left, my legs started to feel weak and thin, like anything could push me over with just one tap. I drank more water at the thought.

I wasn't going to apologize to him. To be technical, I already did, but I'm not sure that counted. He didn't deserve the apology. Rude, cursing. Although, to be fair, I was also rude and cursing. I didn't expect an apology from this boy either, I concluded. Not with the giant plume of pride he seemed to be maintaining.

I didn't enjoy the palpable tension pretty boy and I had. I assumed his silence was some sort of childish defense mechanism. In these situations you can tell I didn't get out much, because I didn't know what to do. Talking might have med him more aggravated, while shutting up would just make the high strung feeling in the air build. I looked over at him, admiring the overall neatness of his persona and the undeniable beauty I am reluctant to admit is there.

Maybe an ally would be nice after training alone for years on end.

"You seem new. I've never seen you before," I said, infringing on the silence. My eyes changed from looking at him to looking at the track in front of us. "Probably not used to butting heads. Just stay away from the steroid jacked maniacs and you'll be good. Those boys have too much testosterone." I huffed out the last sentence with an edge of annoyance, then swished a swig of water around in my mouth.

A few other people passed by, running and puffing. I glanced back over at pretty boy, waiting expectantly for a response, whatever it was. It could be yelling at me, it could be calm. It could be nothing at all. I didn't care. I was ready, I decided, and took a last drink of water before bracing myself.