Page 5 of Run For Me
“As most people do,” I snap, feeling defensive over this now.
“Hey, I’m not saying anything is wrong with that, Sailor. I’m just trying to make you feel better.”
My bottom lip trembles and I glance around at the hundreds of students hanging with their friends, completely oblivious to what I’m going through. For the first time in a long time, I wish I had a friend that was close by. I could use a hug right now. My god, I don’t even remember the last time I hugged someone.
“Yeah,” I say as I hold back tears. “Thanks for that. I have to get to class.”
I end the call and shove the phone into my pocket, then turn and head back inside. I walk to the building where my last two classes were and walk up and down the hallway, trying to find a lost and found. Finally, at the end of one random hallway, I spot a beat-up cardboard box with Lost and Found written in thick, faded black marker. I dig through it, finding one pink glove, a few hats, some notebooks, a ridiculous amount of pencils—like someone would come back for a pencil—and a red thong that completely grosses me out when I accidentally touch it.
Disgusting.
I pull my hand back and shake my head, continuing to browse the halls for any other luxury lost and found boxes. I find none. I should check the other buildings, but I don’t have time. Walking to them will make me late for class.
With my hands trembling all over again, I make my way to my next class, that inner voice that never shuts up shouting at me to go home because I can’t get through the day without my journal. At the same time, Sam’s words ring through my head.
“…losing it doesn’t mean you love her any less.”
Why would he say that? Of course it doesn’t mean I love her any less; losing it was an accident! It’s not like I threw it away; I just misplaced it. My need to find it has everything to do with not wanting someone to read it, and maybe a little bit of superstition. I always have these four special things with me: the notebook, bag, necklace, and shoelaces. They’re charms thathelp me get through the day. They make me feel better, more at ease, and there is nothing wrong with that. There isn’t!
Why the hell would Sam say that?
As I make my way to class, I pass another Lost and Found box. This one is an old blue recycling bin, and it has a sign taped to it made from lined notebook paper, with bright red pen scratched over numerous times with the Lost and Found title.
This time, when I go through it, I use a pencil I find, not wanting to touch another pair of dirty underwear. Thankfully, this one doesn’t have any undergarments, but it also doesn’t have my journal.
With a sigh, I head up the flight of stairs. I find a seat in the back, at the end of the row.
Class goes by and I barely hear a word. Thankfully, the professor is only instructing how the semester will go and what the expectations are. He even lets us leave fifteen minutes early, which helps me get to my next class that is on the opposite end of campus. It’s my last class of the day—and the longest.
As I make my way through the building, passing student after student, I can’t help but wonder if they’re laughing at me after having read my journal and found out who I am. Will I come into school tomorrow and find photocopies of the pages hung up all over the place? Will I find pictures of myself being depicted in the way I described in the journal?
My deepest, darkest secrets are out in the world for anyone to see, read, and share.
My chest tightens all over again, and I have to take another bathroom break to splash water on my face before I can continue on.
“Hey, are you okay?” A soft, small voice sounds behind me, and I turn to find a girl about my height. She looks about my age too, big round glasses, short brown hair, and a round face.
“Yeah…” I say before grabbing a few paper towels to dry my face.
“Are you new to the area? Being away from home can be hard.” She moves up to the sink beside me and turns the faucets on.
“No, I’ve lived here my whole life.”
“Oh? Maybe you can show me around sometime then.” She brings her hand under the automatic soap dispenser, but frowns when it dispenses nothing. She pulls her hand away and tries again. Still nothing. She looks around and doesn’t find another, so she sighs and rinses her hands.
My muscles tense over her need to talk. I’ve never been a talker; I’m extremely awkward. I know this about myself and have accepted it—if accepting it means avoiding people.
“Sure,” I say, forcing a smile as I finish wiping my hands. I have no intention of talking to this girl again, so I turn to leave, and when I’m halfway to the door, she speaks.
“Can I have your name? Maybe your number?” I stop, my hands clenching by my sides. “I’m sorry if I’m being weird, but I moved here from Georgia, and I know absolutely no one. It’s kind of scary. Besides, I’ve been told my whole life I don’t understand boundaries, so...”
The fact she can admit that out loud to a perfect stranger has me turning all the way around to face her.
I let out a sigh. “I’m sorry, of course.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” She tilts her head to the side, studying me. Like maybe she can see through me and into my head and know what I’m thinking. The thought has me cringing.
“Just having a bad day.”
