Page 8 of A Class of Her Own

Adding to the annoyance of my unwanted dinner company was the fact that my inflatable turkey was a lost cause. At some point one of the sides had torn. Twerking Tom was no more. Hazel tried to comfort me about his demise. However, I found myself more relieved than upset when she pulled out her phone and started showing me how the pictures she’d taken of my twerking turkey were going viral along with the hashtag #letturkeysbeturkeys. There had been a disturbing upswing in the amount of applicants waiting for a home in our community to open up. I didn’t want to tell her that she probably wasn’t attracting the type of crowd she’d been going for with her marketing efforts.

I’d been only too happy to take the turkey down—well, more like roll up his pathetic carcass—and deposit him in the dumpster at the clubhouse. Hazel sympathetically looked the other way rather than ticketing me for dumping on private property, although she assured me the fine would have been steep had she chosen to write me up.

My salvation came in the form of the annual YMCA Turkey Trot held the Saturday before Thanksgiving, which was thankfully today. They used to do it on Thanksgiving morning, but it turns out that the people in my city would rather start stealing tastes of the stuffing and pie while watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade than run. That was fine by me because today I was in the mood to pound the pavement.

I arrived at precisely 8:45 a.m. at the lineup, ready with my number pinned to my black, long-sleeved athletic shirt and my running bag strapped across my hips. I had chapstick, water, sunscreen, bandaids, and some gum, although I didn’t often chew gum while running thanks to an unfortunate incident when I’d tried to both swallow and reject swallowing gum during a 10k. People had tried to save me from my non-choking, and it hadn’t been pretty.

The air was still chilly as I found a place to stand and tugged my foot up towards my bum to give my quads a good stretch while scoping out the competition. With my hair slicked back and my normal grumpy resting face, not many people were meeting my eyes. In the past I’d tried to look more friendly, but it didn’t come naturally and there was freedom in hitting my mid-thirties and learning to stop caring so much. Besides, I wouldn’t have known what to do with peppy women attempting to chat me up pre-run. It was best this way.

“You know that this is a relaxing family affair,” Aryn’s familiar voice had me looking over my shoulder. “You’re not supposed to stare them down like you’re about to enter the wrestling ring and settle for nothing less than total surrender.”

“Speaking of wrestling, I see the gladiators have arrived,” I replied as I glanced behind her to see her strapping brothers pinning their numbers to their chests.

She grinned. “Don’t worry, they’ll be running with the men in their age division.”

“I wasn’t worried.”

She tugged at the safety pin on the corner of her own number. “Makes sense. They may have a solid foot of height on you, but you’re spry and have that killer instinct.” I rolled my eyes but chuckled as she waved them over. “Sean, Rory, Patrick,” she said, pointing to each of her red-headed, muscled-up siblings, “you remember my good friend Meredith.”

Patrick and Rory grunted, offering me jock nods and almost smiles. Sean, the nicest of the bunch, held out his hand to shake mine. “Good morning for a race,” he said.

“Every morning is a good morning to race,” I replied, squeezing his hand in return. I’d go to my grave before admitting I squeezed it extra hard to see if there was any type of reaction. There wasn’t.

“Alright, place your bets before the races get started,” Sean said to his siblings.

When I’d first met the Murphy siblings, I couldn’t understand their bet-happy ways, but over the years Aryn had placed some pretty hysterical bets with our group of friends, and I’d revised my opinion. Betting, especially when the stakes were more about a good laugh than anything else, was kind of fun.

“Aryn is definitely losing to Meredith, but she’ll come in second in the women’s race,” I replied, even though it hadn’t been directed at me.

The three brothers all grinned, looking at me like I’d appeared out of nowhere and was suddenly interesting.

“I’d put money on that,” Rory chuckled.

“Don’t bother. This is a 10k and Meredith is a sprinter, not a marathoner,” Aryn teased.

“Loser buys lunch?” I pointed at her.

She nodded once, her ponytail swinging, and her brothers all clapped her on her back, wishing her luck as they moved on to placing bets about their own outcomes. Those claps would have thrown me to the pavement, but as the youngest sibling and only girl, Aryn was tough. I didn’t envy her that. It had been hard enough in a house of only girls, but at least the physical stuff had only consisted of throwing clothing at each other and name calling. Her brother’s voices faded as they moved to where the men were lining up, but I watched as they continued to push, elbow, and slap each other good-naturedly.

“I still don’t understand how your teeny, tiny parents produced you four. When I think of your poor mother and the childbirth she endured . . . ” I shook my head, and Aryn laughed.

“Mom says we’re all big and strong because there’s a secret ingredient in her shepherd’s pie. I’ve looked, and it’s not steroids.”

A sharp whistle blew, and we walked to line up with the other women in our age division. Now that we were in our thirties, it seemed like the numbers were smaller, but the women were more serious runners. I thought it made things more interesting, but Aryn always maintained an air of being out for a relaxing morning. Only her and her family would think of this the same way most people thought of teatime.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I said to her as I readjusted my running bag and stretched my arms. “I didn’t want to run alone this morning.”

She glanced down at me with a surprised look. “Really? I thought you preferred to pound the pavement solo.”

“Usually, yes.”

She studied my face, her blue eyes—a lighter shade than mine—were filled with a sympathy I only accepted from my closest friends. “Rough week?”

“Yes. With another one looming.”

“Yeah, the holidays aren’t your favorite, plus you’re meeting Ash’s boyfriend this year. I also know you’ve been fighting the HOA board again, but is something else going on?”

I shrugged. “Not really. Although Hazel has been feeding me dinner every night like I’m a stray cat.”

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