After the Wreck, I Picked Myself Up, Spread My Wings, and Flew Away by Joyce Carol Oates

after me, surprised and hurt. I’m feeling too emotional, just want to be alone. The buzzer bell is ringing for one-o’clock classes, and in the commotion in the hall I can be alone, huddling into my locker I can be alone, invisible. In the midst of a classroom I can be alone huddling into my desk. As long as I don’t have to see Crow, and think about Crow, and how it would feel sliding my arms around Crow’s waist on the back of that motorcycle, I can be alone…and safe.
    When I set my tray onto the cafeteria counter, I glance back to see Ryan Moeller still staring out the window, greedily lifting leftovers to her mouth from somebody’s plate.

17
    Here’s why it’s crucial to stay alone.
    Some stranger crowds in, starts to suck away your oxygen.
    Like the Yarrow High girls’ gym instructor, Dara Bowen. A dark Indian look, loud lilting voice, loud laughter, a way of clapping her hands like a young girl when somebody sinks a basket, skillfully volleys the volleyball, executes a pretty good dive into the swimming pool.
    Bowen is a popular teacher. Popular track/field sports coach.
    Not with me, though. Immediately I was wary of Bowen.
    Half the girls imitate Bowen’s infectious laughter. Not me.
    It is said of Dara Bowen she came close to qualifying for the U.S. Olympic team when she played field hockey for U-Mass. She runs every year in the Boston Marathon and has placed among the first twenty women runners.
    In Yarrow Lake, population 11,300, that is impressive. An aura about Dara Bowen.

    “Jen—is that what people call you?”
    People? My shoulders lift in a neutral shrug.
    Maybe yes. Maybe no. My wan weak smile suggests Who cares?
    “Jen. Well. I’ve heard…my friend from college Meghan Ryder…your track team coach at…”
    Meghan Ryder. I’m not prepared to hear this name. I feel like I’ve been tricked, Ms. Bowen is watching my face for a reaction.
    Ms. Ryder. Staring at me from beside my hospital bed. Gripping my hand in her strong fingers, urging me to believe I will walk again, I will run again, physiotherapy can work miracles.
    Urging me to believe what her damp pitying eyes seemed not to believe.
    “…on the team, Meghan says…until you had, until the accident, then of course, then…but still…if ever you’d like to talk to me about it, Jen, I’d be happy to…do what I can. Also, if you’d like to drop by track practice some afternoon. See how you feel. Meghan recently e-mailed me saying what a terrific team player you were at Tarrytown, how reliable—”
    Quickly I say, “I was okay, Ms. Bowen. I wasn’t the best.”
    “You don’t have to be the best, Jen. Okay is more than enough.”

    “At meets, in competition, okay isn’t enough.”
    “Don’t think about competition, Jen. Just come out with us sometime. We could use another girl on our team, frankly. How about tomorrow afternoon? Of course, no pressure, you could maybe just hang out a little…”
    I can’t believe this exchange. That I’ve exposed myself so.
    Can’t believe I would speak so openly to a stranger who has no right to intrude into my life.
    I guess I’m rude, turning to walk away from Ms. Bowen. Not a backward glance. Not a word of apology. Just a wave of my hand, signaling maybe yes, maybe no, maybe Who cares?

18
    Two days later, something happens.
    On the Sable Creek trail crusted with snow something happens. Something doesn’t happen. Something that should happen, doesn’t. The railroad trestle bridge above the creek. My legs give out, I’m panicked. I can’t cross it.
    An old wooden trestle bridge. A bridge with a narrow walkway for pedestrians. A smell of wet iron, rotted wood. A smell of winter cold. A smell of snow. A smell of dark churning water rushing beneath the bridge. A smell of froth on the water. A smell of ice at the rocky shore. A smell of sick, sweaty panic. A smell of my body in panic inside my clothes.

    This is the first time. This is the first time I have tried to cross any bridge