Eureka used to love locker-room gossip; it was as elemental to being on the team as running. Today she was relieved to change in an empty locker room, even if it meant she had to hustle. She dropped her bag and kicked off her shoes.
“Um, yeah, I want to know about the guy in the truck.”
Cat pulled Eureka’s running shorts and polo shirt out of her bag helpfully. “And what happened to your face?” She gestured at the airbag scrapes on Eureka’s cheekbone and nose. “You’d better get your story straight for Coach.”
Eureka flipped her head upside down to gather her long hair into a ponytail. “I already told her I had a doctor’s appointment and might be a little late—”
“A lotta late.” Cat extended her bare legs across the bench and reached for her toes, settling into a deep stretch. “Forget that. What’s the story with Monsieur Stud?”
“He’s a moron,” Eureka lied. Ander wasn’t a moron. He was unusual, hard to read, but not a moron. “He hit me at a stop sign. I’m fine,” she added quickly. “Just these scrapes.” She ran a finger along her tender cheekbone. “But Magda’s totaled. I had to get her towed.”
“Ew, no.” Cat scrunched up her face. “Cory Statutory?” She wasn’t from New Iberia; she’d lived in the same nice house in Lafayette her whole life. But she’d spent enough time in Eureka’s hometown to know the local cast of characters.
Eureka nodded. “He offered to give me a ride, but I wasn’t going to—”
“No way.” Cat understood the impossibility of riding shotgun in Cory’s truck. She shuddered, shaking her head so that her braids whopped her face. “At least Crash—can we call him Crash? Least he gave you a ride.”
Eureka tugged her shirt over her head and tucked it into her shorts. She started lacing up her running shoes. “His name is Ander. And nothing happened.”
“ ‘Crash’ sounds better.” Cat squirted sunscreen into her palm and brushed it lightly across Eureka’s face, careful of her scrapes.
“He goes to Manor, that’s why he drove me here. I’ll be racing against him in a few minutes, and I’ll probably suck because I’m not warmed up.”
“Ooh, it’s sooo race-y.” Suddenly Cat was in her own world, making big hand gestures. “I’m seeing the adrenaline high of the run transforming into burning passion at the finish line. I’m seeing sweat. I’m seeing steam. Love that ‘goes the distance’ ”—
“Cat,” Eureka said. “Enough. What is it with people trying to hook me up today?”
Cat followed Eureka toward the door. “I try to hook you up every day. What’s the point of calendars without dates?”
For such a smart, tough girl—Cat had a blue belt in karate, spoke non-Cajun French with an enviable accent, got a scholarship the previous summer to a molecular biology camp at LSU—Eureka’s best friend was also a horn-dog romantic. Most kids at Evangeline didn’t know how smart she was because her boy-craziness tended to obscure it. She met guys on her way to the bathroom at the movies, didn’t own a bra that wasn’t full-on lace, and really was trying to fix up everyone she knew all the time. Once, in New Orleans, Cat had even tried to put two homeless people together in Jackson Square.
“Wait”—Cat stopped and tilted her head at Eureka—“who else was trying to set you up? That’s my specialty.”
Eureka pressed on the metal bar to open the door and stepped out into the humid late afternoon. Low, green-gray clouds still coated the sky. The air had the smell of aching to be a storm. To the west was an alluring pocket of clearness where Eureka could see the sun sneaking lower, turning the sliver of cloud-bare sky a deep shade of violet.
“My wonderful new shrink thinks I have the hots for Brooks,” Eureka said.
At the far end of the field, Coach’s whistle drew the rest of the team together under the rusted football upright. The visiting team from Manor was gathering in the other end zone. Eureka and Cat would have to pass them, which made Eureka nervous, though she didn’t see Ander yet. The girls jogged toward their team, aiming to slide in unnoticed at the back of the huddle.
“You and Brooks?” Cat feigned amazement. “I’m shocked. I mean, I’m just—well, stunned is what I am.”
“Cat.” Eureka used her serious voice, which made Cat stop jogging. “My mom.”
“I know.” Cat enveloped Eureka and squeezed. She had skinny arms, but her hugs were mighty.
They’d paused at the bleachers, two long rows of rusty benches on either side of the track. Eureka could hear Coach talking about pacing, the regional meet next month, finding the right position at the starting arc. If Eureka were captain, she’d be talking the team through these topics. She knew prerace drill backward in her sleep, but she couldn’t imagine standing up there anymore, saying anything with certainty.
“You’re not ready to think about boys yet,” Cat said into Eureka’s ponytail. “Stupid Cat.”
“Don’t you start crying.” Eureka squeezed Cat harder.
“Okay, okay.” Cat sniffed and pulled away. “I know you hate it when I cry.”
Eureka flinched. “I don’t hate it when you—” She broke off. Her eye caught Ander’s as he was coming out of the visitors’ locker room on the other side of the track. His uniform didn’t quite match the other kids’—his yellow collar looked bleached; his shorts were shorter than those worn by the rest of the team. The uniform seemed dated, like the ones in the fading photographs of cross-country teams of yesteryear that lined the walls of the gym. Maybe it was a hand-me-down from an older brother, but it looked like the kind of thing you picked up at the Salvation Army after some kid graduated and his mom cleaned out his closet so she’d have more room for shoes.
Ander watched Eureka, oblivious to all else around him: his team in the end zone, pregnant clouds pressing closer in the sky, how peculiar it was to stare like that. He didn’t seem to realize it was unusual. Or maybe he didn’t care.
Eureka did. She dropped her eyes, blushing. She started to jog again. She remembered the sensation of that tear gathering in the corner of her eye, the astonishing touch of his finger against the side of her nose. Why had she cried on the road that afternoon when she hadn’t been tempted to cry at her own mother’s funeral? She hadn’t cried when they’d kept her locked up in that asylum for two weeks. She hadn’t cried since … the night Diana had slapped her and moved out of the house.
“Uh-oh,” Cat said.
“Don’t stare back at him,” Eureka muttered, certain Cat was referring to Ander.
“Him who?” Cat whispered. “I’m talking about Sorceress over there. Don’t engage and she might not see us. Don’t look, Eureka, don’t—”
You can’t not look when someone tells you not to, but one swift glance made Eureka regret it.
“Too late,” Cat mumbled.
“Boudreaux.”
Eureka’s last name seemed to shudder like a shock wave across the field.
Maya Cayce had a voice as deep as a teenage boy’s—it could fool you until you caught a glimpse of her face. Some never fully recovered from that first glimpse. Maya Cayce was extraordinary, with thick, dark hair that hung in loose waves all the way down to her waist. She was notorious for her fast clip down the hallways at school, her surprising, slender grace thanks to legs that stretched for decades. Her smooth, bright skin bore ten of the most intricately beautiful tattoos Eureka had ever seen—including a braid of three different feathers running down her forearm, a small cameo-style portrait of her mother on her shoulder, and a peacock inside a peacock feather underneath her collarbone—all of which she’d designed herself and had done at a place called Electric Ladyland in New Orleans. She was a senior, a roller-skater, a rumored Wiccan, a transcender of all cliques, a contralto in the choir, a state-champion equestrian, and she hated Eureka Boudreaux.