False Start (9 page)

She took in the sight of him standing before her, all spiffed up and authoritative. When she spotted his smirk, the reporter in her suddenly felt compelled to interrogate him.

"Listen, if we're gonna do this I have to ask you a question."

No longer smiling, he pulled himself up tall and nodded.

Mattie fired away. "Why are you doing this?"

"I lost my job. Why are
you
doing this?"

"I need a raise. What was your job?"

He titled his head in the direction of the high school, a crease forming between his eyebrows. "Coaching boys' cross-country at Knollwood."

"How'd you lose it?"

"We didn't win."

"Do you miss it?"

Nick's entire forehead crinkled while he contemplated his response. "I miss the guys. I miss helping them get over stuff."

"What stuff?"

"Stuff. You know, high school stuff. Demanding parents. The pressure to be perfect. The bullying. High school can really suck."
Mattie let out a laugh. "You say that like it's news to you."

Nick folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. When he said nothing in reply, Mattie muttered to herself, "Oh, that's right. How could I forget? He
was
perfect in high school."

"Excuse me?"

After waiting for a woman pushing a baby stroller to pass by on the cracked, narrow sidewalk, she explained, "I used to see you all the time in the halls with groupie cheerleaders following you like you were a rock star."

Man, oh man, she had hated the jocks at her high school. They swaggered around like they owned the place, objectifying the more than willing cheer squad, and passing all of their classes without so much as picking up a book.

He scowled down at her. "I think you're confusing me with my brother. Again."

Feeling as if he had just shoved her backwards a few feet, she said, "I don't think so," and turned to walk away.

"Hey," he called after her. "High school was just as hard for me as it was for everybody else."

There was an edge to his voice that made her turn around. Marching right up to him, she asked, "Oh, really? Tell me, did anybody ever leave a dirty diaper in your locker?"

A look of disgust swept over Nick's face. "No."

"Anybody ever loosen the bolts in the chair they knew you'd be sitting in so when you did, it would break?"

Nick shifted his weight to his other foot and stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets. "No."

Her eyes welling up, she leaned closer, lowered her voice, and asked him one last question. "Anybody ever make you feel like you don't deserve to be loved? Ever? By anybody?"

Titling his head to one side, Nick looked at her, his eyes filled with compassion.

Mattie pressed her lips together and whispered, "I didn't think so."

She turned her back and walked several paces away from him before calling over her shoulder, "Thanks again for breakfast."

*  *  *

 Two hours, one hot shower, and three cups of strong black coffee later, Mattie had put her outburst with Nick behind her and stormed into Dianne's office. She was barely able to contain herself.

"I ran a whole lap without stopping."

But, Dianne wasn't there. Looking around, she noticed that the entire lifestyle department seemed to be missing.

What in the world…?

On her way back to her desk, she heard the sound of laughter spilling from a conference room. As she approached, she noticed the door was slightly ajar.

"Over four minutes to run a quarter mile? My grandmother can do better than that," said a voice belonging to Troy Baker, the new intern who made up for his lack of experience by inflating his own accomplishments at every turn.

"Is that the same grandmother who taught Martha Stewart how to use a glue gun?" retorted the unmistakable drone of Hugh Fink from classifieds, already tired of hearing Troy's tall tales.

"Check this out," said a man whose voice she didn't recognize. "This is the best part of the whole thing."

The room erupted with sounds of disgust. The intern exclaimed, "Hey, do you mind—I'm eating?"

"All right. That's enough." It was Dianne. She was in there with them.

Goosebumps crept over the surface of Mattie's arms, and the nausea threatened to return. She racked her brain trying to recall if she saw someone with a cell phone recording her every move.

As much as she wanted to slink away and hide in her cubicle, she felt compelled to stay and listen.

Dianne shot out, "We need a name for this feature and fast. What've you got so far?"

"Fat to fantastic?" one voice offered.

"Forget it. First, she's not fat. Not by my definition anyway. Second, this isn't about losing weight. It's about training for a marathon. Focus."

"Rubenesque to ripped," offered another.

"Did you even hear what I just said? What else?" Dianne fired back.

"Plump to perfection?" This one actually got booed.

"Buxom to buff."

"Tubby to Terrif—"

Mattie laid her head against the corridor wall. Aside from Dianne, she associated with no one, fearful of exposing her charade. That, however, did not make her co-workers' jabs any less painful.

 "All right. That's it. This is a feature title, people. It will be plastered on billboards across the Chicago metro area and slapped on the side of CTA buses. Use your brains. I'm sure you can come up with something at least a little clever and far less insulting. Think of a working mother who's too busy to exercise, committing to train for this marathon. Think 'A Cinderella Story,' but with runners."

Mattie closed her eyes and pictured herself crossing the finish line, skinny and fit, waving to a mob of her adoring fans before accepting a giant bonus check from Lester.

Running down a dream…

An unrecognizable female voice asked, "So if she doesn't want to lose weight, why is she doing it?"

Dianne's heels click-clacked on the hardwood floor as she circled her team. "Excellent question, Nancy. For starters, she's doing it to inspire her readers, mostly working parents who don't make the time to take care of themselves. And, since they make up the majority of our subscription base these days, we're standing behind her a hundred percent."

Troy spoke up, his voice inappropriately bold. "It didn't look to me like this was her idea."

The click-clacking stopped and Dianne spoke. "I'm only going to say this once. If I see that video making the rounds, make no mistake—I'll fire the lot of you. Now get back to work."

Mattie had never heard Dianne threaten anyone before. She could picture her taking Troy by the ear as she led him out of the room sneering at him the entire time. Not wanting to find out if her vision was spot on, Mattie rushed back to her cubicle. It was the one place she could pretend she was someone else, someone better than everyone else, herself included, and get away with it.

She set Nick's list of rules to the right of her keyboard and got busy doing just that. Soon, her hands were flying, cranking out her very first "Running Down a Dream" column.

Dear Readers—I have often extolled the virtues of well-crafted to-do lists. They have the power to turn us from stressed, harried, unproductive working parents to efficient, productive, nurturing working parents. Often the goal of many a New Year's resolution, these lists are task-based and short-term. But ask yourself, what do you have to show for using them except a fleeting sense of accomplishment? Is your life better because you scratched off each item at the end of any given day? Does it make the next day's list any shorter? This year, why not create a list that will leave you better for having followed it? Or, should I say, better for not having followed it? I'd like to introduce you to the To-Don't list. Generated by an expert in his field, I intend to use this list to help me accomplish a long-held, though seemingly impossible goal—running the Chicago Marathon, and I invite you to follow along.

As she reread it, she felt like she was reading someone else's copy.

"Because I'm lying through my teeth," she muttered to herself as she saved the file.

"So, tell me. How'd it go, sweetie?"

Startled, Mattie spun around to face her only ally. She fought the urge to cover her earlobes.

"Fine. It went perfectly fine, thanks for asking."

Looking surprised, Dianne cocked her head and let out an awkward laugh. "I'm glad to hear it. Like I said, it's a simple business arrangement."

"Speaking of which, what's the publicity plan? No photos of me, right?"

Dianne folded her arms and looked down at her brand new Manolo Blahnik pumps.

When she didn't reply, Mattie repeated, "No pictures of me, right?"

Dianne took off her reading glasses and smiled. "Sweetie, what kind of piece would it be without photos?"

Mattie sat up straight and gripped the arms of her chair. "Dianne, the only saving grace to writing this column is the anonymity. If you take that away, everyone will know I'm a fraud. We'll both be out of a job."

With her heart thumping, she thought of the potential whistle blowers in her life—the cashiers at all of her favorite fast food places and grocery stores, and all of the pizza delivery guys. She saw them so often, she was on a first name basis with most of them. Then she thought about all of the readers she had ever riled. She imagined them organizing into a vigilante group bent on revenge, hunting her down like a third world dictator in a well-orchestrated working parent coup.

Dianne picked up the picture of Tom and said, "Maybe it's time you take your sister up on her offer to move in with them."

A sickening feeling washed over Mattie. "Why?"

"So the illusion is complete."

"With who? Nick?"

"No. With you."

Before she could reply, a clerk from the mailroom appeared, holding a package.

"Mattie Ross?"

The two women exchanged glances. Packages never came addressed to her by name.

"See who it's from before you open it," Dianne cautioned. She held her hand to her chest as she peered at it. "It's too big to be from Benziger's. And I call dibs if they send truffles at Christmas again this year."

"Deal," Mattie laughed. "I'll need all the help I can get staying away from chocolate for the next ten months.

Turning the package over in her hands, she announced, "No return address," and after giving it a quick shake, added, "And it's not ticking."

Tearing away the plain brown paper, she exposed a shoebox emblazoned with an athletic manufacturer's name on the side and a note taped to the lid.

Mattie plucked off the piece of paper. In hard-pressed print, it read, "Tomorrow morning. Same time, same place—N."

After sneering at the note, she slowly lifted the lid, afraid of what she might find.

"Oh my."

She pulled out a pair of silver running shoes with hot pink trim by its laces. Dangling them in front of her like puppets, she examined them from all angles.

"Oh my, indeed. Do you know how much those things cost?" Dianne exclaimed to Mattie who was already easing them onto her blistered feet.

After jogging in place a bit, she announced with no small measure of curiosity, "They fit perfectly. And they're so bouncy."

Dianne was intrigued. "Why did he buy you new running shoes? And how did he know your shoe size?"

Assuming her plaid gym shoes were not the focal point of her first and already-banned workout video, Mattie thought it best to retain the last shreds of her dignity. Instead, she shrugged and said, "I have no idea, but I can't accept these. It would be like I'm signing a deal with the devil."

Dianne laughed, "Trust me. If the devil looked anything like Nick DeRosa, I'd sign a deal with him in a heart beat."

And, with that, she was gone.

Mattie took off the shoes and hugged them close to her chest. Nick's gift couldn't have come at a better time, providing just the shot of encouragement she needed.

Whether she planned on letting him know that, though, was another matter entirely.

After morphing Nick's list of rules into a palatable New Year's resolution column for her readers, Mattie headed home. She taped the list to her refrigerator door, making sure it was at eye level. The words leapt off the page like a nightmarish, post-apocalyptic rationing mandate.

No junk food.

No coffee.

No refined sugar.

No processed foods.

No carbonated drinks.

Disgusted, she flung open her refrigerator door and took out the only item not on the list—a half-gallon of whole milk that she had purchased to wash down a package of Oreos a few days before. When she slammed the door closed, the list of rules, secured in one corner by a "World's Best Aunt" magnet, wafted upwards, revealing a second list on the back.

Mattie set the milk on the counter and flipped the list. The first thing that caught her eye was, "No selling yourself short."

She stared at the words, letting them sink in.

"If I had a dime for every time I sold myself short, I'd be a wealthy woman," she mused.

Her whole life, she made excuses for people. By all accounts, she was a seasoned enabler.

Dad left because we were too much responsibility. Mom let herself go because she was too busy supporting me to take care of herself. Eddie used me because
—

Feeling as if a bolt of lightning had just taken aim at her chest, she took a deep breath and whispered, "Because I let him."

She took the list with her into the living room and curled up in a chair. Her lips moved as she held the paper in front of her face and read the rest.

"No disrespecting yourself, physically or mentally. No underestimating your awesomeness. No negativity. No thinking that you're in this alone."

A strange sensation, starting at the top of her head and working its way down to her toes, gave her the distinct feeling that she had just been hugged.

She closed her eyes and let the piece of paper fall into her lap.

Holy crap.