“So I see,” I say, embarrassed by how little it’s taken to get me panting.

  He takes the hint and doesn’t pick up the conversation again this time, instead letting me regain my breath. Which is nice of him. Except by the time the next run comes around, I haven’t actually gotten my breath back. This is just getting harder and harder! I thought I was doing so well with the first run!

  By the time we get to the last run, I’m properly finished. My calves are burning and I can hardly speak. But it’s over.

  Ollie claps me on the shoulder. “You did it! Your first run finished!”

  “It doesn’t really count, though, does it?”

  “Why not?”

  “It was mostly walking . . .” I say, panting from the effort.

  “It counts!”

  “If you insist . . .”

  I look at my phone as we’re heading out of the park on the way home. It’s only just after six o’clock! Including the walk there, we can’t have been in the park for more than twenty minutes! I thought he understood that time was very much of the essence on Operation Star Athlete! I mean, not that I would have been able to do much more than I did today anyway. This doesn’t bode well for the aforementioned Operation Star Athlete, does it?

  I’m about to say something to that effect when Ollie says, “I like Mayow Park, but let’s mix it up. It’s good not to get stuck doing the same route all the time.”

  “Variety is the spice of life,” I say, raising my eyebrows at him suggestively, although I’m not sure what I’m suggesting. And right now I must look like a tomato with eyebrows.

  “I couldn’t agree more. Ugh, these steps are a killer,” he says as we head back over the railway bridge.

  “I didn’t think fit people even noticed that,” I say, very sure of the fact that I will forever be an Unfit Person.

  “Ha! You’re funny,” he says.

  I wasn’t even trying to be funny.

  “So . . . are you, like” — I put my fingers up in air quotes — “‘sporty’?”

  He smiles again. “I guess so? I was on the rugby team at my old school and played hockey as well. And I like running.”

  “Well, I’m glad you like running because otherwise I would feel bad about dragging you out just to assist me in my little quest.”

  “I would be out running anyway. This just means I’m doing it a little bit differently than usual.” He shrugs like it’s nothing major when I’m clearly holding him back from his well-established schedule.

  “Well . . . I really appreciate it.”

  “Don’t thank me yet! This is just the beginning!”

  I see the screen of my phone illuminate. It’s a call from Dad. I just stare at the screen for a few seconds. I’ll call him back later. Or should I pick up now and tell him I’ll call back later? I’ll just call him back later. But talking to him is still so weird that I don’t know if I actually want to call him back later. And then I realize I’ve been silent for too long and Ollie is waiting for me to say something.

  “I’m up for the challenge,” I say quickly. “I’ve got to see this through. It’s a matter of principle.”

  “Principle, is it?”

  “Yep! What can I say, I’m a principled kinda gal!” Where did that come from?

  “Well.” We’ve arrived back at my house. “No point overdoing it, so let’s not go out again tomorrow, but is the day after OK?”

  I think about it for a second. “Yeah, that’s fine with me,” I say, shrugging.

  “See you then. Same time, same place.”

  “See you then!” I say, slipping my key into the door. “And thanks!”

  Extremely unfortunately for me, on the other side of the door is Jake, coming down the stairs. He takes one look at my pink face and matted hair and leggings.

  “Oh my God!” He bursts into laughter. “You’re really? You’re actually?” It’s like he literally cannot comprehend it.

  “Mmm-hmmm,” I say. “You’d better believe it.”

  “What?” shouts Mum from the living room.

  “Nothing!” I shout back.

  “Ruby’s been for a run!” Jake calls to her.

  “Oh!” she says, surprised.

  I walk in to see her. “Jake was being a dickhead, so I, once again, took things too far and told him I could win the Dawson Dash if I wanted to, and now I’m training.”

  “Good for you,” says Mum. Jake’s sloped in to join us.

  “I’ve just had a thought,” I say. “If I win, can I have your bedroom?”

  Jake laughs. “Er, yeah, you can have my bedroom and you can have my first student loan installment of next term as well.”

  I hold out my hand to shake his.

  “You’re serious?” he asks.

  “I’m serious. The question is, Are you?”

  He furrows his brow. “All right, then.” He grips my hand like I’m a walnut and he’s a nutcracker and stalks into the kitchen. Do they teach brutal handshakes at Oxford?

  Mum sighs, long used to refereeing between Jake and me. “As long as you two sort it out between yourselves, I don’t care how you do it.”

  When I’m sitting on my bed post-shower with a hairdryer pointed directly at my thick hair, all I can think is I need to call Dad back. But I don’t. And I don’t call him back before dinner. Or after dinner. Or before bed. I’ll do it in the morning. Won’t I?

  In the end, I don’t call him back, but I do text him. Calling him just feels too weird. Having to tell him about my day because he’s not there to talk to in person? Weird. Decidedly weird. Texting feels slightly more normal, but I know I won’t be able to avoid properly speaking to him sometime soon. His texts are cheery, but so are mine, I guess. I don’t tell him about running. I mean, I’ve only gone once so there isn’t much to tell. I suppose what I mean is that I don’t tell him that I’m entering the Dawson Dash. It would feel too awkward — maybe because I don’t want to have to go over why I’m doing it (because Jake is a dick, because Jake thinks I can’t do it, because I want to prove to Sasha that she doesn’t have to let other people limit her beliefs). Those reasons feel private to me.

  Two days after my first meeting with Ollie, I’m back at it again. When I leave my house that evening, I half expect Ollie not to be there. But there he is in those micro blue shorts and a T-shirt with a hole in the hem.

  “You came back!” he says.

  “I was thinking the same thing about you,” I say, smiling.

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because it’s tedious.” I sigh.

  “No way. It’s a fun challenge for me. I’ve never done something like this before!”

  “Why would you? Most people can just sort of . . . do it. No help required.”

  He shakes his head. “Nah, everyone’s different. And it’s good to ask for help sometimes.”

  Personally I’m not a fan, but I don’t tell him that.

  We set off in the opposite direction, and Ollie clearly has a destination in mind.

  “Where to today?” I ask him.

  “Wells Park,” he says, which immediately strikes fear into my heart.

  “I hate to break it to you,” I say, “but Wells Park is on a hill.”

  “Yeeeees?” he says, looking at me sideways.

  “Do I look like I can run up a hill?”

  “You look like you can do anything you want, but since we’re only doing short bursts, we can always have you run down the slopes, then walk back up in your rest period,” he says, shrugging.

  “OK, I like the sound of that. Or at least I don’t hate the sound of that.”

  “Good! Because you’re not meant to hate this, you know?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like . . . this is completely optional . . . so if you really hate it, you don’t have to do it, right?”

  I blush, feeling a little stupid. “No, I know that. But the same goes for you.”

  He holds up his hands defensively. “This is fun for me! But if you’re going to dread it every time we go out, then . . .”

  I clear my throat decisively. “No, it’s fine. I don’t dread it. I’m looking forward to giving it another go.” That’s a lie, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

  When we get to Wells Park, two guys are playing table tennis on the public table on the corner. Why couldn’t the Dawson Dash be a table-tennis tournament instead of a five-kilometer run? Now, that’s a sport I can get behind. We walk to the top of the park and then set off.

  “Let’s go!” he says, and I trot along just behind him. True to his word, we go down the hill. “Stop!”

  I slow to a walk. “That wasn’t very long,” I say, a mixture of surprised and grateful.

  “It’s the same as we did the other day,” he says, turning us back around and heading up the slope again.

  “Oh . . .” I say. I guess I thought we would be making progress, rather than repeating the same thing.

  “That’s how this is going to work! Repetition until you find it easy enough to move on!”

  “Got it,” I say.

  We’ve barely made it back to the top when it’s time to run again, and, once again, it feels almost too easy.

  Ollie senses it too. “OK, no more running downhill for you.” He gestures upward. “There’s a path that cuts through the middle of the park, so we’ll stick to that. It’s a compromise.”

  I sigh theatrically. “I suppose.”

  And, yes, running on the flat ground rather than down the hill is a little more challenging, but by the end of the session, I’m surprised to find that I’m not panting quite so much as I was at the end of the first. Huh! Maybe he’s onto something!

  “You feeling good?” he asks as we slow down to a walk after the last run.

  “Ish,” I say. I still feel stupid about how unfit I am in front of him. He doesn’t even break a sweat doing what we’re doing! I just can’t imagine ever being at that level, like running is natural rather than something my body is shocked and appalled by.

  “You should bring water with you,” he says. “Your body needs water. Everyone’s body needs water! Plus it’s something to do with your hands while you run.”

  “I was wondering about that,” I say. “It felt excessive to be, like . . . aggressively pumping my arms like I’m in the Olympics or something. But if I didn’t do anything, I thought it probably looked weird.”

  “I like the combination of water in one hand and phone in the other. But you don’t need to be holding your phone, so water will have to do!”

  “Got it.” He’s right. I don’t want to dehydrate like a raisin in the sun. Gotta keep this skin hydrated and bouncy like a little peach. Also I guess it must be good for my internal organs.

  We head out of the park and down toward the main road, through the estate that’s built on either side of the street.

  “Ruby!” I hear someone call, and I know without even looking up that it’s Jessica.

  “Hey!” I wave back.

  She’s leaning over the wall of the walkway out the front of their first-floor flat, eating a blue Popsicle.

  “What are you up to?” she shouts.

  “Running, of course!” I shout back.

  “Of course! Who’s your friend?”

  “This is Ollie,” I say, reddening, although you probably wouldn’t be able to tell under my pink sweaty-face situation.

  “Hi, Ollie!” She waves.

  He squints up at her and waves back.

  “Well, I’ll text you,” I say.

  “You’d better,” she shouts.

  We continue our walk home, but seeing Jessica while I’m out with Ollie has poked at that little insecure place inside me. Like, Oh, that’s what a pretty girl looks like. Like, Oh, how mortifying to fancy someone who wouldn’t look twice at me.

  “Friend of yours?” he says, smiling, interrupting the thought and bringing me back to the moment.

  “One of my best friends, Jessica.” Now, she’s probably the kind of girl Ollie wants. Pretty, relaxed. And, crucially, thin. Wanting to change the subject, I say, “Are any of your friends coming to Dawson?”

  He clears his throat and looks around at the street, like he’s concentrating very intently. “Uh, no, I don’t think so.”

  It must be weird moving to somewhere as big and chaotic as Dawson. I’ve been there since I was eleven, so I’m used to it, but it can’t be easy for the people who join for sixth form. “Well, you’ll meet enough people on day one, so I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  I go home and shower, and by the time I come out, the group chat is already aflame.

  Jessica: Ruby got a man and didn’t tell anyone

  Salma: Oh my days who

  Jessica: Ginger boy. Tall and skinny one

  Salma: Idk

  April: Ollie Cowan, blast from her past, p sure he’s not her man . . . yet

  Jessica: What’s all this about

  April: Dawson Dash isn’t it

  Salma: Is it!

  Jessica: Sick! So you’re my competition now Ruby

  Salma: You running it, April or nah? I can’t decide

  April: It’s a no from me dawg but you do you

  Ruby: HELLO I AM HERE no he is not my man yes I am doing Dawson Dash please keep me accountable don’t let me flake I have to do this to show my dickhead brother who’s boss

  Salma: Your fit brother

  Ruby: Gross

  Jessica: Why are you booing her she’s right

  Ruby: Gross

  When I’m pulling out some clothes to wear at dinner, I think of Sasha on the sofa the other day, asking if her arms were “too squishy.” I yank a white vest out of my drawer and put it on. I’ve still got insecurities of my own, but I still want to do what I can for hers.

  By the time we do our same little routine for a third time, I feel, dare I say it, like I’ve actually made some progress. Not as much as I would like, but, to be honest, my standards are so high that I would ideally like to be able to run the race by now — even though we’re only one week in. Progress nonetheless. Is it easy? No. But do I feel different after doing it for a third time than I felt after doing it for the first time? Yes.

  I’m almost a bit sad when it’s the weekend and I have two days off in a row, but Monday comes around again quickly enough.

  “Crystal Palace Park OK with you?” Ollie asks when we convene outside our front doors on Monday evening.

  “Fine with me,” I tell him. “I can be one of the joggers I look at while I’m skating and thinking, How are they doing that? And more importantly . . . why?”

  He laughs. “Do you skateboard? That’s cool.”

  “No, I’m in a little roller-skating crew with my three best friends. April — the goth one from your future maths class; Jessica, who you met the other day; and my friend Salma. She’s, like, a science genius but also a makeup genius. Oh, and a video genius too — her transitions are insane. Hey, Crystal Palace is another one with tons of hills!” I exclaim, realizing I have been played.

  “I’ll find us a nice flat bit.”

  “Promise?” I ask.

  “Promise,” he says, rolling his eyes.

  “I’m sorry! I just have needs!”

  “I see that,” he says, smiling.

  I wonder what it would have been like if we’d gone to the same primary school and then he’d gone to Dawson and we’d known each other the whole time. I wonder if we’d be friends now. I wonder if I would even fancy him or if the friendship would have neutralized that a bit. Who knows, maybe we wouldn’t be friends at all.

  “Hey,” I say, seizing the moment since the walk to Crystal Palace Park is a bit longer. “How come you moved house? And how come you’re coming to Dawson for sixth form?”

  He sighs. And then he swallows. “Well,” he says. “It’s all part of the same thing really.”

  “Yeah?”

  “So my parents had this restaurant. I don’t know if you remember her at all from when we were at nursery school, but my mum’s Italian, and she and my dad had this Italian restaurant. In Crystal Palace. It was called Zanetti’s — that was her maiden name. Anyway, it was really popular, really successful, brought in loads of money and all that.”

  “Yeah,” I say, nodding. I sense a fall is coming.

  “So they opened a second restaurant in Dulwich. And that was sort of the beginning of the end really. The first restaurant worked because my parents were able to keep an eye on everything, stay on top of everything, do quality control, all of that. And then splitting their attention between two locations was just too much, and then there was some stuff with their accountant that made it all worse, and it was like all at once people sort of stopped coming because the quality went downhill, and they had this big tax bill to pay.” He shrugs. “And that was that. Both restaurants gone.”

  I don’t want to interrupt him, but I can’t stop myself from saying, “I’m sorry.”

  “So . . . I used to go to St. Alfred’s,” he says, looking at me out of the corner of his eye.

  “Fancy,” I say. St. Alfred’s is definitely the fanciest school around here.

  “Yeah, well, it’s all a load of bollocks anyway,” he says bitterly. “So I went to the prep school and I went to the secondary school, but obviously when the restaurant closed and there was, like . . . no more money, I wasn’t going to be able to stay on for the sixth form. No great loss to me, though. But my parents had pumped basically all their money into keeping the business afloat, keeping people employed, even when it was clear it just wasn’t working anymore. It was like they just couldn’t give up the dream.” I’m slightly surprised by how much he’s talking. It makes me wonder if he doesn’t usually have a place to put all these thoughts.

  “So that’s why you’re at Dawson.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “And then we had to move because my parents needed to . . . Well, they basically had to sell the house to clear their debts.”

  I think of my mum taking the brownies next door, how cagey his dad was about the neighborhood. “Where did you live before?”

  “Dulwich,” he says, sighing.

  “Again, I say to you, fancy.” I smile.

  “If you like that sort of thing.”

 

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