Not Exactly a Love Story by Audrey Couloumbis Page B

approve of?”
    “How can I know that you’re a person I wouldn’t date if I don’t meet you?”
    “Then you admit to discriminatory practices?”
    “I won’t deny I’d say no to some people, Caesaro. Everyone has someone they’d say no to.”
    She’d had plenty of chances to look interested in me andshe never had. “You’ll have to take my word for it. I’m the one.”
    “I don’t have to take your word for anything. You’re an anonymous caller.”
    “I’m an obscene caller.”
    “Why do you keep talking through that handkerchief?”
    “It’s how this sort of thing is done.”
    “What sort of thing? We’re talking, that’s all.”
    “That’s what you’re doing.”
    Sharp intake of breath.
    I waited a couple of beats. “What do you think obscene callers do wh—”
    Click.
    I hung up, my chest aching hollowly for—Patsy? I sighed. If this was love …

TWENTY-EIGHT
    The next morning, I made a simulated run.
    My eventual goal would be to run all the way to school and then run around the track a few times. I’d have to work up to it over two or three days. But I wanted to get the feel for it, run partway—three, four blocks. Then jog back and take the bus like any other morning. By next week, I’d be ready to do the run and start to work on speed.
    I set my clock for an hour earlier, for five-thirty. There is no way to simulate a five-thirty rising in winter. It’s still dark at five-thirty, and it is
cold
.
    It took me half an hour to do the warm-ups, but I reasoned that when I ran all the way to school, that would count toward the overall run.
    Right from the start, my jeans kept making this sound like a nail file. Half a block on, the bottoms of my pants feltlike they got caught on my ankles or wrapped around them. I had to walk part of the next block to catch my breath anyway. I started to run again, but this time I couldn’t go as far before I had to walk. I was wheezing.
    On the third block, I developed a stitch in my right side.
    It was a good thing I called this a simulated run. I turned around to go home, walking. I managed to avoid a face-to-face with Mr. B without actually hiding from him, which was a relief to me. I lay down for ten minutes, then took a hot shower and practiced breathing. It hurt.
    Mr. B had gone by the time I got downstairs, and Mom was on her way out. She was dressed for the office, wearing those stubby running shoes. She carried her chunky heels in a shopping bag. “Headed for work?” I asked her in a chatty way.
    “Of course. I’m still bringing in a paycheck,” she said. “Even if I’m not the only one.”
    Something had wound up her clock. I didn’t know what it was, and I didn’t want to find out. We left together. Mom went one way, heading for the train. I went the other.
    The day had a bright side. I got an A plus on my book report. Also, that was the last of the makeup homework having to do with changing schools in November.
    At first it just felt like my mood was lighter. But I soon saw the girls were all atwitter, making plans for the dance.
    That night I asked Mr. B about running clothes.
    “For the time being, you won’t need anything but a good pair of running shoes. Those sneakers you’re wearing won’tdo. And we’ll get you a sweat suit. I don’t guess you’ve got one.”
    “No, I guess not,” I said, to be agreeable.
    “Vinnie, you have a sweat suit,” Mom said irritably. She was right, but it was still in my closet, in a box I hadn’t unpacked since the move. I’d forgotten about it.
    Then, roused like a bear from hibernation, she turned on Mr. B. “Why wouldn’t he have a sweat suit?”
    Dad and I know enough never to answer Mom’s questions when they follow an indication that her fur’s been mussed. Mr. B didn’t understand this yet.
    “It’s only that he’s never been athletically inclined, Donna. I just assumed—”
    “The way you’re assuming he’s ‘never’ been athletically inclined?”
    “I’m talking