Parallel

aren’t exactly qualities admissions officers look for. The worst part is, I have no backup plan. I’m on crutches for three weeks, so every other sport is out, and it’s not like I can just join some random club three weeks into the semester. I mean, I’m sure I can , but it’ll seem like I’m just doing it for my college applications. Which I am, but it’s not supposed to look that way.
    My dad was right. This sucks.
    To their credit, my parents leave me alone. They know me well enough to know that I am not in the mood to hear how it could have been worse or why having four nail-sized holes in my foot isn’t the end of the world. No doubt they’ll lay it on thick tomorrow, but tonight they’re kind enough to hold off. I spend the duration of the car ride glowering at the cocoon of pink gauze on my foot and wishing I could rewind my life.
    As we’re pulling into the driveway, my phone rings. JOSH—CELL.
    “You answered,” he says when I pick up. “I figured I’d get your voicemail. Are you still at the hospital?”
    “Nope. Just pulled into my driveway.”
    “What’s the damage?”
    “Eight stitches. Crutches for three weeks. No cross-country for the rest of the season.” I say this mechanically, as if the diagnosis belongs to someone else.
    “Oh, no. Really? You’re out for the whole season?”
    The sympathy in his voice pushes me over the edge. Blinking back tears, all I can do is nod.
    “Abby?”
    I cough. I read somewhere that coughing physically prevents you from crying. Is once enough, or do you have to keep doing it? I don’t want to take any chances, so I cough a few more times for good measure. My mom glances back at me, eyebrows raised. I wave her away.
    “Are you okay?” Josh asks.
    “Fine,” I say, relieved that the coughing seems to have done the trick. “Bummed. But fine. I’ll get over it.” As untrue as this may be, it sounds good. “Well, I guess I should probably go,” I tell him. “My parents are sitting in the car, waiting to help me into the house since we don’t have my crutches yet.”
    “Okay, well . . . I’m really sorry about tonight. I feel like it’s my fault. I never should’ve let—I just should’ve known better.” He sounds annoyed. I can’t tell whether it’s with me or himself.
    “Next time we’ll stay indoors,” I say.
    Josh is quiet on the end of the line. No suggestion for when “next time” might be. No offer to stop by tomorrow to check on me. Just an awkward two seconds while I absorb the fact that any interest Astronomy Boy had in me evaporated along with my cross-country career.
    “I should go,” I tell him. My voice sounds flat. My parents look at each other, no doubt noticing my abrupt change in tone.
    “See you Monday?” he says.
    “Yep,” I say dully and hang up on him.
    “Everything okay?” Mom asks.
    “You mean other than the fact that I spent the last three years busting my butt to be captain, only to have it snatched away by a stupid nail?”
    “Technically it was four nails,” my dad points out.
    I glare at him. “Thank you. Can we go inside now?”
    Dad sighs. “Sure.” He gets out of the car and opens the back door.
    “I know you’re upset,” my mom says sympathetically. “But things’ll look better in the morning. They always do.”
    Yeah. Except when they don’t.

5
    HERE
SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 27, 2009
(two weeks and four days later)
    Daylight is pressing against my eyelids, but I resist the urge to open them. Not yet. Not until—
    BEEEEP. BEEEEP. BEEEEP. BEEEEP.
    Like clockwork: the campus garbage truck, backing up to the bins on the other side of the courtyard wall. The sound I wait for every morning. I won’t open my eyes until I hear it.
    It’s a ritual that serves no purpose. Just my way of preserving the illusion that I am exactly where I was the night before. As long as my eyes are closed, I can assume that reality hasn’t changed again. And once I hear the garbage truck’s now-familiar beep, I know for certain that it hasn’t. I haven’t thought through what would happen if I were to wake up somewhere other than this room. How long would I keep my eyes shut, waiting for that sound?
    Let’s hope I never have to find out.
    I open one eye and look around. The photograph Marissa gave me for my birthday is on the wall. The jacket I wore last night is slung over my desk chair. There is a tiny mound of crust crumbs on my floor. In other words, my room looks exactly the way it did five